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THE 


POEMS    AND    DRAMAS 


LORD    BYRON 


WITH   BIOGRAPHICAL   MEMOIR,    EXPLANATORY 
NOTES,    ETC. 


»J«<c 


NEW   YORK 

THOMAS    Y.    CROWELL    &    CO. 

PUBLISHERS 


LIFE    OF  LORD  BYRON. 


keenly  felt  the  loneliness  of  his  position.  He  was  almost  unknown  to  society  at  large;  there  was  no 
peer  to  introduce  him;  and  his  mortification  led  him  to  receive  with  ungracious  coldness  the  welcome 
of  the  lord-chancellor.  His  unfriended  situation  inspired  him  with  disgust,  and  chilled  his  incipient 
longing  for  parliamentary  distinction;  and  even  a  few  days  after  taking  his  seat  he  retired  to  Newstead 
Abbey,  and  engaged  with  his  friend  Mr.  (now  Sir  J.  C.)  Hobhouse  to  travel  together  on  the  Continent. 
About  the  end  of  June  the  friends  sailed  together  from  Falmouth  to  Lisbon;  travelled  through  part  of 
Portugal  and  the  south  of  Spain  to  Gibraltar;  sailed  thence  to  Malta  and  afterwards  to  Albania,  in  which 
country  they  landed  on  the  29th  of  September.  From  this  time  till  the  middle  of  the  spring  of  1811, 
Lord  Byron  was  engaged  in  visiting  many  parts  of  Greece,  Turkey,  and  Asia  Minor;  staying  long  at 
Athens,  Constantinople,  and  Smyrna.  He  touched  again  on  his  return  at  Malta,  quitted  it  on  the  2d 
of  June,  and  early  in  July,  after  two  years  absence,  landed  in  England.  His  affairs  during  this  period 
had  fallen  into  disorder,  and  it  became  advisable  to  sell  either  Rochdale  or  Newstead.  The  latter  he 
was  then  most  anxious  to  retain,  and  professed  that  it  was  his  "  only  tie  "  to  England,  "  if  he  parted  with 
that  he  should  remain  abroad."  In  a  letter  to  a  friend,  written  during  his  homeward  voyage,  he  thus 
expresses  his  melancholy  sense  of  his  condition:  "Embarrassed  in  my  private  affairs,  indifferent  to 
public,  —  solitary  without  a  wish  to  be  social,  —  with  a  body  a  little  enfeebled  by  a  succession  of 
fevers,  but  a  spirit  I  trust  yet  unbroken,  —  I  am  returning  home,  without  a  hope  and  almost  without  a 
desire."  This  gloom  was  still  deepened  by  numerous  afflictions.  His  mother  died  on  the  1st  of  August, 
without  his  having  seen  her  again  since  his  return  to  England,  and  he  was  deprived  by  death  of  five 
other  relatives  and  friends  between  that  and  the  end  of  August.  "  In  the  short  space  of  one  month,"  he 
says,  "  I  have  lost  her  who  gave  me  being,  and  most  of  those  who  made  that  being  tolerable."  Amongst 
the  latter  were  Wingfield,  and  Matthews,  the  brother  of  the  author  of  The  Diary  of  an  Invalid.  At 
this  period  of  distress,  he  was  approaching  unsuspectingly  a  remarkable  epoch  of  his  fame.  He  had 
composed  while  abroad  two  poems,  very  different  in  character,  and  which  he  regarded  with  strangely 
misplaced  feelings;  the  one  called  Hints  from  Horace,  a  weak  imitation  of  his  former  satire;  the 
other,  the  first  two  cantos  of  Childe  Harold.  The  former  he  intended  to  publish  immediately;  but  the 
latter  he  thought  of  so  disparagingly  (owing  probably  to  tWe,  injudicious  comments  of  the  single  friend 
who  had  hitherto  seen  it) ,  that  it  might  probably  have  never  become  known  to  the  public  but  for  the 
wise  advice  of  Mr.  Dallas.  In  compliance  with  the  request  of  that  gentleman,  he  withheld  the  Hints 
from  Horace,  which  would  have  been  injurious  rather  than  beneficial  to  his  fame;  and  allowed 
Childe  Harold  to  be  offered  for  publication.  He  received  from  his  publisher,  Mr.  Murray,  £600  for 
the  copyright,  which  he  gave  to  Mr.  Dallas.  The  publication  was  long  delayed;  for,  though  placed  in 
the  publisher's  hands  in  August,  it  did  not  appear  till  the  beginning  of  March,  1812.  It,  however, 
received  during  this  interval  considerable  improvements ;  and  the  fears  of  the  author  were  allayed  by 
the  approbation  of  Mr.  Gifford,  the  translator  of  Juvenal,  and  then  editor  of  the  Quarterly  Review. 
The  success  of  the  poem  exceeded  even  the  anticipation  of  this  able  critic;  and  Lord  Byron  emerged 
at  once  from  a  state  of  loneliness  and  neglect,  unusual  for  one  in  his  sphere  of  life,  to  be  the  magnet 
and  idol  of  society.  As  he  tersely  says  in  his  memoranda,  "  I  awoke  one  morning  and  found  myself 
famous."  A  few  days  before  the  publication  of  Childe  Harold,  he  attracted  attention,  but  in  a  minor 
degree,  by  his  first  speech  in  the  House  of  Lords  on  the  subject  of  the  housebreaking  bill.  He  opposed 
it,  and  with  ability;  and  his  first  oratorical  effort  was  much  commended  by  Sheridan,  Sir  F.  Burdett,  and 
Lords  Grenville  and  Holland.  He  had  prepared  himself,  by  having  committed  the  whole  of  his  speech 
to  writing.  It  was  well  received,  and  he  was  extremely  gratified  by  its  success.  He  might  perhaps 
have  been  incited  by  the  praises  it  received  to  seek  political  distinction;  but  the  greater  success  which 
attended  his  poem  turned  his  ambitious  feelings  into  a  different  channel.  He  nevertheless  spoke  again 
about  six  weeks  afterwards,  on  a  motion  of  Lord  Donoughmore,  in  favor  of  the  claims  of  the  Roman 
Catholics,  but  less  successfully  than  before.  Less  clearness  was  displayed  in  the  matter  of  his  speech, 
and  his  delivery  was  considered  as  theatrical.  In  the  autumn  of  this  year  he  wrote  an  address,  at  the 
request  of  the  Drury  Lane  Committee,  to  be  spoken  at  the  reopening  of  the  theatre;  and  not  long  after- 
wards he  became  a  member  of  that  committee.  The  same  autumn  he  engaged  to  sell  Newstead  for  • 
£140,000,  of  which  £60,000  was  to  remain  in  mortgage  on  the  estate  for  three  years;  but  this  purchase 
was  never  completed.  In  May,  1813,  appeared  his  Giaour,  a  wildly  poetical  fragment,  of  which  the 
story  was  founded  on  an  event  that  had  occurreu  at  Athens  while  he  was  there,  and  in  which  he  was 


LIFE    OF  LORD  BYRON. 


personally  concerned.  It  was  written  rapidly,  and  with  such  additions  during  the  course  of  printing  as 
to  be  more  than  trebled  in  length,  and  swelled  from  about  four  hundred  lines  to  upwards  of  fourteen 
hundred.  On  the  2d  of  June  in  this  year  he  spoke  for  the  last  time  in  the  House  of  Lords,  on  pre- 
senting a  petition  from  Major  Cartwright.  He  had  now  apparently  ceased  to  regard  parliamentary  dis- 
tinction as  a  primary  object  of  ambition. 

In  his  journal  of  November,  1813,  is  the  following  entry :  "  I  have  declined  presenting  the  debtors' 
petition,  being  sick  of  parliamentary  mummeries.  I  have  spoken  thrice,  but  I  doubt  my  ever  becoming 
an  orator;  my  first  was  liked,  my  second  and  third,  I  don't  know  whether  they  succeeded  or  not;  I  have 
never  set  to  it  con  amore."  In  November  he  had  finished  his  Bride  of  Abydos  (written  in  a  week), 
and  it  was  published  the  following  month.  The  Corsair,  a  poem  of  still  higher  merit  and  popularity, 
appeared  in  less  than  three  months  afterwards ;  it  was  written  in  the  astonishingly  short  space  of  ten  days. 
During  the  year  1813  he  appeared  to  have  first  entertained  a  serious  intention  of  marriage,  and  became  a 
suitor  to  Miss  Milbanke,  only  daughter  and  heiress  of  Sir  Ralph  Milbanke.  His  first  proposal  was 
rejected;  but  the  parties  continued  on  the  footing  of  friendship,  and  maintained  a  correspondence,  of 
which,  and  of  that  lady,  he  thus  speaks,  and  it  may  be  presumed  with  the  most  perfect  sincerity,  in  his 
private  journal:  "Yesterday  a  very  pretty  letter  from  Annabella,  which  I  answered.  What  an  odd 
situation  and  friendship  is  ours!  without  one  spark  of  love  on  either  side,  and  produced  by  circumstances 
which  in  general  lead  to  coldness  on  one  side  and  aversion  on  the  other.  She  is  a  very  superior  woman, 
and  very  little  spoiled,  which  is  strange  in  an  heiress  —  a  girl  of  twenty,  —  peeress,  that  is  to  be  in  her 
own  right,  —  an  only  child,  and  a  savante,  who  has  always  had  her  own  way.  She  is  a  poetess,  a  math- 
ematician, a  metaphysician,  and  yet  withal  very  kind,  generous,  and  gentle,  with  very  little  pretensions: 
any  other  head  would  be  turned  with  half  her  acquisitions  and  a  tenth  of  her  advantages."  In  Septem- 
ber, 1814,  he  made  a  second  proposal  by  letter,  which  was  accepted;  and  on  the  2d  of  January,  1815,  he 
was  married  to  Miss  Milbanke,  at  Seaham,  the  country-seat  of  her  father.  The  only  issue  of  this  mar- 
riage, Augusta  Ada,  was  born  on  the  10th  of  December,  of  that  year.  We  cannot  lift  the  veil  of  their 
domestic  life;  we  can  only  state  the  unfortunate  results.  On  the  15th  of  January,  1816,  Lady  Byron 
left  London  for  Kirkby  Mallory,  the  residence  of  her  parents,  whither  Lord  Byron  was  to  follow  her. 
She  had,  with  the  concurrence  of  some  of  Lord  Byron's  relatives,  previously  consulted  Dr.  Baillie 
respecting  the  supposed  insanity  of  her  husband,  and  by  the  advice  of  that  gentleman  had  written  to  him 
in  a  kind  and  soothing  tone.  Lady  Byron's  impressions  of  the  insanity  of  Lord  Byron  were  soon 
removed,  but  were  followed  by  a  resolution  on  her  part  to  obtain' a  separation.  Conformably  to  this 
resolution,  Sir  Ralph  Milbanke  wrote  to  Lord  Byron  on  the  2d  of  February,  proposing  such  a  measure. 
This  proposal  Lord  Byron  at  first  rejected,  but  afterwards  consented  to  sign  a  deed  to  that  effect.  Dr. 
Lushington,  the  legal  adviser  of  Lady  Byron,  has  stated  in  a  published  letter,  that  he  "  considered 
reconciliation  impossible."  Of  the  circumstances  which  led  to  such  an  event,  and  on  which  Dr.  Lush- 
ington founded  such  an  opinion,  the  public  is  at  present  uninformed.  We  are,  therefore,  in  absence  of 
full  and  satisfying  evidence,  bound  to  suspend  our  judgment  on  the  merits  of  this  melancholy  case,  and 
dismiss  it  with  the  foregoing  statement  of  the  leading  facts. 

In  the  course  of  the  spring  he  published  The  Siege  of  Corinth,  and  Parisina.  He  also  wrote  two 
copies  of  verses,  which  appeared  in  the  public  papers,  Fare  thee  well,  and  A  Sketch, from  Private  Life: 
of  which  his  separation  from  his  wife,  and  the  instrumentality  which  he  imputes  to  an  humble  individual 
in  conducing  to  that  separation,  were  the  themes.  This  private  circumstance  had  become  the  subject  of 
general  comment.  The  majority  of  those  who  filled  the  circles  in  which  Lord  Byron  had  lately  lived 
declared  against  him,  and  society  withdrew  its  countenance.  Lord  Byron,  deeply  stung  by  its  verdict, 
hastily  resolved  to  leave  the  country;  and  on  the  25th  of  April,  1816,  he  quitted  England  for  the  last 
time.  His  course  was  through  Flanders  and  along  the  Rhine  to  Switzerland,  where,  at  a  villa  called 
Diodati,  in  the  neighborhood  of  Geneva,  he  resided  during  the  summer.  From  thence  he  made  two 
excursions,  one  in  the  central  part  of  Switzerland  in  company  with  Mr.  Hobhouse,  and  another  shorter 
excursion  with  a  celebrated  poetical  compeer,  Mr.  Shelley,  with  whom  he  became  acquainted  soon  after 
his  arrival  at  Geneva.  He  remained  in  Switzerland  till  October,  during  which  time  he  had  composed 
some  of  his  most  powerful  works,  the  third  canto  of  Childe  Harold,  The  Prisoner  of  Chilian,  Dark- 
ness, The  Dream,  part  of  Manfred,  and  a  few  minor  poems.  In  October,  he  quitted  Switzerland  in 
company  with  Mr.  Hobhouse,  and  proceeded  by  Milan  bad  Verona  to  Venice.     Here  he  resided  from  the 


LIFE    OF  LORD  BYRON. 


middle  of  November,  1816,  to  the  middle  of  April,  1817.  During  this  period  his  principal  literary  occu- 
pation was  the  completion  of  Man/red,  of  which  he  rewrote  the  third  act.  He  visited  Rome  for  about 
r.  month  in  the  spring,  and  then  returned  to  Venice,  at  which  city,  or  at  La  Mira,  in  its  immediate  vicinity> 
he  resided  almost  uninterruptedly  from  this  time  till  1819.  He  wrote  during  this  period  The  Lament  of 
Tasso,  Beppo,  the  fourth  canto  of  Childe  Harold,  Marino  Faliero,  The  Foscari,  Mazeppa,  and  part  of 
Don  yuan.  The  licentious  character  of  his  life  while  at  Venice  corresponded  but  too  well  with  the  tone 
of  that  production.  His  able  biographer  and  friend,  Mr.  Moore,  after  adverting  to  his  liaison  with  a 
married  Italian  woman,  says:  "  Highly  censurable  in  point  of  morality  and  decorum  as  was  his  course 
of  life  while  under  the  roof  of  Madame ,  it  was  (with  pain  I  am  forced  to  confess)  venial  in  com- 
parison with  the  strange  headlong  career  of  license  to  which,  when  weaned  from  that  connection,  he  sc 
unrestrainedly,  and,  it  may  be  added,  defyingly,  abandoned  himself."  This  course  of  unbridled  liber- 
tinism received  its  first  check  from  the  growth  of  an  attachment,  which,  as  it  was  still  unhallowed,  not 
even  the  good  which  it  may  seem  to  have  done,  in  the  substitution  of  a  purer  sentiment,  will  enable  us  to 
regard  with  satisfaction.  In  April,  1819,  he  first  became  acquainted  with  the  Countess  Guiccioli,  the 
young  and  newly  married  wife  of  an  elderly  Italian  nobleman.  A  mutual  attachment,  which  appears  to 
have  commenced  on  the  part  of  the  lady,  soon  arose  between  Lord  Byron  and  the  Countess  Guiccioli.  Their 
passion  was  augmented  by  occasional  separation,  the  interest  excited  by  her  severe  illness  during  one  of 
their  forced  absences,  and  the  imprudent  complaisance  of  the  husband  in  leaving  them  much  in  the  society 
of  each  other.  They  long  lived  together  in  a  half-permitted  state  of  intimacy,  the  lady  appearing  with 
the  consent  of  her  husband  to  share  his  protection  with  that  of  Lord  Byron.  But  this  equivocal  position 
soon  terminated  in  the  separation  of  the  Count  and  Countess  Guiccioli.  The  lady  then  went  to  reside 
with  her  father;  and  under  his  sanction,  during  the  next  three  or  four  years,  she  and  Lord  Byron  enjoyed 
the  intimate  possession  of  each  other's  society.  In  December,  1819,  Lord  Byron  quitted  Venice  for 
Ravenna,  where  he  remained  till  the  end  of  October,  1821.  During  this  period  he  wrote  part  of  Don 
yuan.  The  Prophecy  of  Dante,  Sardanapalus,  a  translation  of  the  first  Canto  of  Puici's  Morgante 
Maggiore,  and  the  mysteries,  Heaven  and  Earth,  and  Cain  ;  the  latler  of  which  may  be  justly  con- 
sidered as  among  the  most  faulty  in  principle,  and  powerful  in  execution,  of  the  productions  of  his 
genius.  He  also  wrote  a  letter  on  Mr.  Bowles's  strictures  on  Pope,  dated  7th  February,  1821,  in  which 
he  defends  the  poet  against  his  commentator;  and  an  answer  to  an  article  in  Blackwood's  Magazine, 
entitled  "  Remarks  on  Don  Juan;  "  but  this  was  never  published. 

During  this  period  an  insurrectionary  spirit  broke  out  in  Italy;  the  Carbonari  appeared;  and  secret 
societies  began  to  be  formed.  The  brother  of  the  Countess  Guiccioli,  Count  Pietro  Gamba,  espoused 
the  cause  of  the  insurgents,  and  through  his  means  Lord  Byron  became  implicated  in  the  proceedings  of 
that  party.  In  his  private  journal  of  16th  February,  1821,  Lord  Byron  complains  of  the  conduct  of  that 
gentleman  and  others,  in  sending  to  his  house,  without  apprising  him,  arms,  with  which  he  had  a  short 
time  previously  furnished  them  at  their  request,  and  thereby  endangering  his  safety,  and  exposing  him 
to  the  vengeance  of  the  government,  which  had  lately  issued  a  severe  ordinance  against  all  persons  hav- 
ing arms  concealed.  In  July,  1821,  the  father  and  brother  of  Madame  Guiccioli  were  ordered  to  quit 
Ravenna,  and  repaired  with  that  lady  first  to  Florence,  and  afterwards  to  Pisa,  where  they  were  joined  in 
October  by  Lord  Byron.  He  remained  at  Pisa  till  September,  1822,  Madame  Guiccioli  still  living  with 
him  under  the  sanction  of  her  father,  who,  in  consequence  of  one  of  the  conditions  of  her  separation 
frcm  her  husband,  was  always  to  reside  with  her  under  the  same  roof.  While  here  he  lost  his  illegitimate 
daughter  Allegra,  and  his  friend  Shelley,  who  was  drowned  in  July,  1822,  in  the  Bay  of  Spezzia.  The 
body  was  burned,  and  Lord  Byron  assisted  at  this  singular  rite.  His  principal  associates  during  this 
time  had  been  the  Gambas,  Shelley,  Captain  Medwyn,  and  Mr.  Trelawney.  He  had  also  become  asso. 
ciated  with  the  brothers  John  and  Leigh  Hunt,  in  a  periodical  paper  called  The  Liberal ;  a  transaction 
certainly  disinterested,  inasmuch  as  it  does  not  appear  that  he  expected  either  profit  or  fame  to  accrue  to 
himself  from  the  undertaking;  and  he  seems  to  have  allowed  his  name  to  be  connected  with  it  from  a  de-  1 
sire  to  serve  the  Hunts,  of  whom  Leigh  Hunt  with  his  wife  and  family  received  an  asylum  in  his  house. 
An  affray  with  a  serjeant-major  at  Pisa  rendered  his  residence  in  that  city  less  agreeable;  and  his  re- 
moval from  it  was  at  length  determined  by  an  order  from  the  Tuscan  government  to  the  Gambas  to  quit 
the  territory.  Accordingly,  in  September,  1822,  he  removed  with  them  to  Genoa.  While  at  Pisa  he  had 
written,  besides  his  contributions  to  The  Liberal,  Werner,  The  Deformed  Transformed,  and  the 
remainder  of  Don  Juan.  " 


LIFE    OF  LORD  BYRON.  Til 

In  April,  1823,  he  commenced  a  correspondence  with  the  Greek  committee,  through  Messrs.  Bla- 
quiere  and  Bowring,  and  began  to  interest  himself  warmly  in  the  cause  of  the  Greeks.  In  May  he  de- 
cided to  go  to  Greece;  and  in  July  he  sailed  from  Genoa  in  an  English  brig,  taking  with  him  Count 
Gamba,  Mr.  Trelawney,  Dr.  Burns,  an  Italian  physician,  and  eight  domestics;  five  horses,  arms,  ammu- 
nition, and  medicine.  The  money  which  he  had  raised  for  this  expedition  was  50,000  crowns;  10,000  in 
specie;  and  the  rest  in  bills  of  exchange.  In  August  he  arrived  at  Argostoli,  the  chief  port  of  Cephalo- 
nia,  in  which  island  he  established  his  residence  till  the  end  of  December.  His  first  feelings  of  exagger- 
ated enthusiasm  appear  to  have  been  soon  cooled.  Even  as  early  as  October  he  uses,  in  letters  to 
Madame  Guiccioli,  such  expressions  as,  "  I  was  a  fool  to  come  here;  "  and,  "  Of  the  Greeks  I  can't  say 
much  good  hitherto;  and  I  do  not  like  to  speak  ill  of  them,  though  they  do  of  one  another."  During  the 
latter  part  of  this  year  we  find  him  endeavoring  to  compose  the  dissensions  of  the  Greeks  among  them- 
selves, and  assisting  them  with  a  loan  of  ^4,000.  About  the  end  of  December,  1823,  he  sailed  from 
Argostoli  in  a  Greek  mistico,  and,  after  narrowly  escaping  capture  by  a  Turkish  frigate,  landed  on  the 
5th  of  January,  1824,  at  Missolonghi.  His  reception  here  was  enthusiastic.  The  whole  population 
came  out  to  welcome  him;  salutes  were  fired;  and  he  was  met  and  conducted  into  the  town  by  Prince 
Mavrocordato,  and  all  the  troops  and  dignitaries  of  the  place.  But  the  disorganization  which  reigned 
in  this  town  soon  depressed  his  spirits,  which  had  been  raised  by  this  reception,  and  filled  his  mind 
with  reasonable  misgivings  of  the  success  of  the  Greek  cause.  Nevertheless  his  resolution  did  not  seem 
to  fail,  nor  did  he  relax  in  his  devotion  to  that  cause,  and  in  his  efforts  to  advance  it.  About  the  end  of 
January,  1824,  he  received  his  commission  from  the  Greek  government  as  commander  of  the  expedition 
against  Lepanto,  with  full  powers,  both  civil  and  military.  He  was  to  be  assisted  by  a  military 
council,  with  Bozzari  at  its  head.  Great  difficulties  attended  the  arrangement  of  this  expedition, 
arising  principally  from  the  dissensions  and  jealousies  of  the  native  leaders,  and  the  mutinous  spirit  of 
the  Suliote  troops;  with  which  latter,  on  the  14th  of  February,  Lord  Byron  came  to  a  rupture,  in  conse- 
quence of  their  demand,  that  about  a  third  part  of  the  number  should  be  raised  from  common  soldiers 
to  the  rank  of  officers.  Lord  Byron  was  firm,  and  they  submitted  on  the  following  day.  Difficulties  in 
the  civil  department  harassed  him  at  the  same  time,  aggravated  by  a  difference  of  opinion  between  him- 
self and  Colonel  Stanhope,  on  the  subject  of  a  free  press,  which  the  latter  was  anxious  to  introduce,  and 
for  which,  on  the  other  hand,  Lord  Byron  considered  that  Greece  was  not  yet  ripe.  On  the  15th  of  Feb- 
ruary, the  day  of  the  professed  submission  of  the  Suliotes,  he  was  seized  with  a  convulsive  fit,  and  for 
many  days  was  seriously  ill.  While  he  was  on  a  sick-bed,  the  mutinous  Suliotes  burst  into  his  room,  de- 
manding what  they  called  their  rights;  and,  though  his  firmness  then  controlled  them,  it  soon  after- 
wards became  necessary  to  get  rid  of  these  lawless  soldiers,  by  a  bribe  of  a  month's  pay  in  advance, — 
and  with  their  dismissal  vanished  the  hopes  of  the  expedition  against  Lepanto.  After  this  he  turned  his 
mind  chiefly  to  the  fortification  of  Missolonghi,  the  formation  of  a  brigade,  and  the  composition  of  the 
differences  among  the  Greek  chieftains.  Since  his  attack  in  February  he  had  never  been  entirely  well. 
Early  in  April,  he  caught  a  severe  cold,  through  exposure  to  rain.  His  fever  increased,  and,  in  conse- 
quence of  his  prejudice  against  bleeding,  that  remedy  was  delayed  till  it  was  too  late  to  be  effectual. 
On  the  17th,  (the  second  day  after  he  had  been  bled,)  appearances  of  inflammation  in  the  brain  pre- 
sented themselves.  The  following  day  he  became  insensible,  and,  about  twenty-four  hours  afterwards, 
at  a  quarter  past  six  in  the  evening  of  the  19th  of  April,  1824,  Lord  Byron  breathed  his  last.  Public 
honors  were  decreed  to  his  memory  by  the  authorities  of  Greece,  where  his  loss  was  deeply  lamented. 
The  body  was  conveyed  to  England,  and  on  the  16th  of  July  was  deposited  in  the  family  vault,  in  the 
parish  church  of  Hucknell,  near  Newstead,  in  the  county  of  Notts.  By  his  will,  dated  29th  July,  1815, 
Lord  Byron  bequeathed  to  his  half-sister,  Mrs.  Leigh,  during  her  life,  and  after  her  death  to  her  children, 
the  moneys  arising  from  the  sale  of  all  such  property,  real  and  personal,  as  was  not  settled  upon  Lady 
Byron  and  his  issue  by  her.  The  executors  were  Mr.  Hobhouse,  and  Mi.  Hanson,  Lord  Byron's  solici- 
tor. 

The  personal  appearance  of  Lord  Byron  was  prepossessing.  His  height  was  five  feet  eight  and  a 
half  inches;  his  head  small;  his  complexion  pale;  hair  dark  brown,  and  curly;  forehead  high;  features 
regular  and  good,  and  somewhat  Grecian ;  eyes  light  gray,  but  capable  of  much  expression.  He  was 
lame  in  the  right  foot,  owing,  it  is  said,  to  an  accident  at  his  birth;  which  circumstance  seems  always  to 
have  been  to  him  a  source  of  deep  mortification,  little  warranted  by  its  real  importance.     It  did  not  pre- 


LIFE    OF  LORD  BYRON. 


▼ent  him  from  being  active  in  his  habits,  and  excelling  in  various  manly  exercises.  He  was  a  very  good 
swimmer;  successfully  crossed  the  Hellespont  in  emulation  of  Leander;  swam  across  the  Tagus,  a  still 
greater  feat;  and,  greatest  of  all,  at  Venice,  in  1818,  from  Lido  to  the  opposite  end  of  the  grand  canal, 
having  been  four  hours  and  twenty  minutes  in  the  water  without  touching  ground.  In  his  younger  days 
he  was  fond  of  sparring;  and  pistol  shooting,  in  which  he  excelled,  was  his  favorite  diversion  while  in 
Italy.  In  riding,  for  which  he  professed  fondness,  he  did  not  equally  excel.  He  was  nervous,  both  on 
horseback  and  in  a  carriage,  though  his  conduct  in  Greece,  and  at  other  times,  proved  his  unquestionable 
courage  on  great  occasions.  He  had  always  a  fondness  for  animals,  and  seemed  to  have  preferred  those 
which  were  of  a  ferocious  kind.  A  bear,  a  wolf,  and  sundry  bull-dogs,  were  at  various  times  among  his 
pets.  The  habits  of  his  youth,  after  the  period  of  boyhood,  were  not  literary  and  intellectual ;  nor  were 
his  amusements  of  a  refined  or  poetical  character.  He  was  always  shy,  and  fond  of  solitude;  but  when 
in  society,  lively  and  animated,  gentle,  playful,  and  attractive  in  manner;  and  he  possessed  the  power  of 
quickly  conciliating  the  friendship  of  those  with  whom, he  associated.  He  was  very  susceptible  of  at- 
tachment to  women.  The  objects  of  his  strongest  passions  appear  to  have  been  Miss  Chawortlv  after- 
wards Mrs.  Musters,  and  the  Countess  Guiccioli.  His  amours  were  numerous,  and  there  was  in  his 
character  a  too  evident  proneness  to  libertinism.  His  constitution  does  not  seem  ever  to  have  been 
strong,  and  his  health  was  probably  impaired  by  his  modes  of  life.  He  was  abstemious  in  eating,  some- 
times touching  neither  meat  nor  fish.  Sometimes  also  he  abstained  entirely  from  wine  or  spirits,  which 
at  other  times  he  drank  to  excess,  seldom  preserving  a  wholesome  moderation  and  regularity  of  system. 
His  temper  was  irascible,  yet  placable.  He  was  quickly  alive  to  tender  and  generous  emotions,  and  per- 
formed many  acts  of  disinterested  liberality,  even  toward  those  whom  he  could  not  esteem,  and  in  spite 
of  parsimonious  feelings,  which  latterly  gained  hold  upon  him.  He  was  a  man  of  a  morbid  acuteness  of 
feeling,  arising  partly  from  original  temperament,  and  partly  from  circumstances  and  habits.  He  had 
been  ill  educated;  he  had  been  severely  tried;  his  early  attachments,  and  his  first  literary  efforts,  had 
equally  been  unfortunate;  he  had  encountered  the  extremes  of  neglect  and  admiration;  pecuniary  dis- 
tresses, domestic  afflictions,  and  the  unnerving  tendency  of  dissipated  habits,  had  all  conspired  to 
aggravate  the  waywardness  of  his  excitable  disposition.  It  is  evident,  that,  in  spite  of  his  assumed 
indifference,  he  was  always  keenly  alive  to  the  applause  and  censure  of  the  world;  and  its  capricious 
treatment  of  him  more  than  ordinarily  encouraged  that  vanity  and  egotism  which  were  conspicuous  traits 
in  his  character. 

The  religious  opinions  of  Lord  Byron  appear,  by  his  own  account  of  them,  to  have  been  "  unfixea;  " 
but  he  expressly  disclaimed  being  one  of  those  infidels  who  deny  the  Scriptures,  and  wish  to  remain  "  in 
unbelief."  In  politics  he  was  liberal,  but  his  opinions  were  much  influenced  by  his  feelings;  and,  though 
professedly  a  lover  of  free  institutions,  he  could  not  withhold  his  admiration  even  from  tyranny  when  his 
imagination  was  wrought  upon  by  its  grandeur.  He  would  not  view  Napoleon  as  the  enslaver  of  France: 
he  viewed  him  only  as  the  most  extraordinary  being  of  his  age,  and  he  sincerely  deplored  his  fall. 

Lord  Byron's  prose  compositions  were  so  inconsiderable  that  they  may  almost  be  oveilooked  in  the 
view  of  his  literary  character.  His  letters,  nevertheless,  must  not  pass  wholly  unnoticed.  Careless  as 
ihey  are,  and  hastily  written,  they  are  among  the  most  lively,  spirited,  and  pointed  specimens  of  epistolary 
riting  in  our  language,  and  would  alone  suffice  to  indicate  the  possession  of  superior  talent.  The 
ritical  theories  of  Lord  Byron  were  remarkably  at  variance  with  his  practice.  The  most  brilliant  sup- 
porter of  a  new  school  of  poetry,  he  was  the  professed  admirer  of  a  school  that  was  superseded.  The 
most  powerful  and  original  poet  of  the  nineteenth  century,  he  was  a  timid  critic  of  the  eighteenth.  In 
theory  he  preferred  polish  to  originality  or  vigor.  He  evidently  thought  Pope  the  first  of  our  poets;  he 
defended  the  unities;  praised  Shakspeare  grudgingly;  saw  little  merit  in  Spenser;  preferred  his  own 
Hints  from  Horace  to  his  Childe  Harold's  Pilgrimage;  and  assigned  his  contemporaries,  Coleridge 
and  Wordsworth,  a  place  far  inferior  to  that  which  public  opinion  has  more  justly  accorded  to  them. 

The  poetry  of  Lord  Byron  produced  an  immediate  effect  unparalleled  in  our  literary  annals.  Of 
this  influence  much  may  be  attributed,  not  only  to  the  real  power  of  his  poetry,  but  also  to  the  impressive 
identification  of  its  principal  characteristics  with  that  which,  whether  truly  or  falsely,  the  world  chose  to 
regard  as  the  character  of  the  author.  He  seemed  to  have  unbosomed  himself  to  the  public,  and  admitted 
them  to  view  the  full  intensity  of  feelings  which  had  never  before  been  poured  forth  with  such  eloquent 
directness.    His  poems  were  as  tales  of  the  confessional,  portraitures  of  real  passion,  not  tamely  leignsd. 


LIFE    OF  LORD   BYRON. 


but  fresh  and  glowing  from  the  breast  of  the  writer.  The  emotions  which  he  excelled  in  displaying  were 
those  of  the  most  stormy  character,  —  hate,  scorn,  rage,  despair,  indomitable  pride,  and  the  dark  spirit  ol 
misanthropy.  It  was  a  narrow  circle,  but  in  that  he  stood  without  a  rival.  His  descriptive  powers  were 
eminently  great.  His  works  abound  with  splendid  examples;  among  which  the  Venetian  night-scene 
from  Lioni's  balcony,  Terni,  the  coliseum  viewed  by  moonlight,  and  the  shipwreck  in  Don  Juan  will 
probably  rise  foremost  in  the  memories  of  many  readers.  In  description  he  was  never  too  minute.  He 
selected  happily,  and  sketched  freely,  rapidly,  and  bodily.  He  seized  the  most  salient  images,  and  brought 
them  directly  and  forcibly  to  the  eye  at  once.  There  was,  however,  in  his  descriptive  talent,  the  same 
absence  of  versatility  and  variety  which  characterized  other  departments  of  his  genius.  His  writings  do 
not  reflect  nature  in  all  its  infinite  change  of  climate,  scenery,  and  season.  He  portrayed  with  surprising 
truth  and  force  only  such  objects  as  were  adapted  to  the  sombre  coloring  of  his  pencil.  The  mountain, 
the  cataract,  the  glacier,  the  ruin,  —  objects  inspiring  awe  and  melancholy,  —  seemed  more  congenial  to 
his  poetical  disposition  than  those  which  led  to  joy  or  gratitude. 

His  genius  was  not  dramatic ;  vigorously  as  he  portrayed  emotions,  he  was  not  successful  in  drawing 
characters;  he  was  not  master  of  variety;  all  his  most  prominent  personages  are  strictly  resolvable  into 
one.  There  were  diversities,  but  they  were  diversities  of  age,  clime,  and  circumstance,  not  of  character. 
They  were  merely  such  as  would  have  appeared  in  the  same  individual  when  placed  in  different  situa- 
tions. Even  the  lively  and  the  serious  moods  belonged  alike  to  that  one  being;  but  there  was  a  bitter 
recklessness  in  the  mirth  of  his  lively  personages,  which  seems  only  the  temporary  relaxation  of  that 
proud  misanthropic  gloom  that  is  exhibited  in  his  serious  heroes;  and  each  might  easily  become  the 
other.  It  may  also  be  objected  to  many  of  his  personages,  that,  if  tried  by  the  standard  of  nature,  they 
were  essentially  false.  They  were  sublime  monstrosities; — strange  combinations  of  virtue  and  vice, 
such  as  had  never  really  existed.  In  his  representations  of  corsairs  and  renegades,  he  exaggerates  the 
good  feelings  which  may,  by  a  faint  possibility,  belong  to  such  characters,  and  suppresses  the  brutality 
and  faithlessness  which  would  more  probably  be  found  in  them,  and  from  which  it  is  not  possible  that 
they  should  have  been  wholly  exempt.  His  plan  was  highly  conducive  to  poetical  effect;  but  its  incor- 
rectness must  not  be  overlooked  in  an  estimate  of  his  delineation  of  human  character.  In  his  tragedies 
there  is  much  vigor ;  but  their  finest  passages  are  either  soliloquies  or  descriptions,  and  their  highest 
beauties  are  seldom  of  a  strictly  dramatic  nature.  Many  of  his  dialogues  are  scarcely  more  than  inter- 
rupted soliloquies;  many  of  his  arguments  such  as  one  mind  would  hold  with  itself.  In  fact,  in  his 
characters,  there  is  seldom  that  degree  of  variety  and  contrast  which  is  requisite  for  dramatic  effect. 
The  opposition  was  rather  that  of  situation  than  of  sentiment;  and  we  feel  that  the  interlocutors,  if 
transposed,  might  still  have  uttered  the  same  things. 

It  is  to  be  deplored  that  scarcely  any  moral  good  is  derivable  from  the  splendid  poetry  of  Lord 
Byron.  The  tendency  of  his  works  is  to  shake  our  confidence  in  virtue,  and  to  diminish  our  abhorrence 
of  vice;  — to  palliate  crime,  and  to  unsettle  our  notions  of  right  and  wrong.  Even  many  of  the  virtuous 
sentiments  which  occur  in  his  writings  are  assigned  to  characters  so  worthless,  or  placed  in  such  close 
juxtaposition  with  vicious  sentiments,  as  to  induce  a  belief  that  there  exists  no  real,  definable  boundary; 
and  it  may  perhaps  be  said  with  truth,  that  it  would  have  been  better  for  the  cause  of  morality  if  even 
those  virtuous  sentiments  had  been  omitted.  Our  sympathy  is  frequently  solicited  in  the  behalf  of  crime. 
Alp,  Conrad,  Juan,  Parisina,  Hugo,  Lara,  and  Manfred  may  be  cited  as  examples.  They  are  all  inter- 
esting and  vicious.  In  the  powerful  drama  of  Cain,  the  heroes  are  Lucifer  and  the  first  murderer;  and 
the  former  is  depicted,  not  like  the  Satan  of  Milton,  who  believes  and  trembles,  but  as  the  compassionate 
friend  of  mankind.  Resistance  to  the  will  of  the  Creator  is  represented  as  dignified  and  commendable; 
obedience  and  faith  as  mean,  slavish,  and  contemptible.  It  is  implied  that  it  was  unmerciful  to  have 
created  such  as  we  are,  and  that  we  owe  the  Supreme  Being  neither  gratitude  nor  duty .  Such  senti- 
ments are  clearly  deducible  from  this  drama.  Whether  they  were  those  of  Lord  Byron  is  not  certain; 
but  he  must  be  held  accountable  for  their  promulgation. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

Life  of  Lord  Byron    ........  iii 

Hours  of  Idleness i 

Preface  to  the  First  Edition I 

On  the  Death  of  a  Young  Lady       ...  3 

ToE 3 

ToD 3 

Epitaph  on  a  Friend 4 

A  Fragment 4 

On  leaving  Newstead  Abbey 4 

Lines  written  in  Rousseau's  "  Letters  of 

an  Italian  Nun  " 5 

Answer  to  the  Foregoing 5 

Adrian's  Address  to  his  Soul 5 

Translation  from  Catullus.  Ad  Lesbiam,  6 
Translation  of  the  Epitaph  on  Virgil  and 

Tibullus 6 

Imitation  of  Tibullus 6 

Translation  from  Catullus 6 

Imitated  from  Catullus 6 

Translation  from  Horace 6 

From  Anacreon 7 

From  Anacreon 7 

From   the    Prometheus  Vinctus   of  Ms- 

chylus        .....     7 

To  Emma 8 

To  M.  S.  G 8 

To  Caroline 8 

To  Caroline 9 

To  Caroline       .     . 9 

To  a  Lady,  with  the  Poems  of  Camoens  .  9 

The  First  Kiss  of  Love 10 

On  a  Change  of  Masters  at  a  Great  Public 

School 10 

To  the  Duke  of  Dorset 10 

Fragment  —  the  Marriage   of  Miss  Cha- 

worth 12 

Granta.     A  Medley 12 

On  a  Distant  View  of  Harrow    ....  13 

To  M 14 

To  Woman 14 


ToM.  S.  G 15 

To  Mary,  on  receiving  her  Picture  .  15 

To  Lesbia *     .     .     .  15 

Lines  addressed  to  a  Young  Lady   ...  16 

Love's  Last  Adieu 16 

Damaetas 17 

To  Marion 17 

To  a  Lady 17 

Oscar  of  Alva 18 

Nisus  and  Euryalus 21 

Translation  from  the  Medea  of  Euripides,  25 
Thoughts  suggested  by  a  College  Exami- 
nation    26 

To  a  Beautiful  Quaker 27 

The  Cornelian 28 

An  Occasional  Prologue 28 

On  the  Death  of  Fox 29 

The  Tear 29 

Reply  to  some  Verses  of  J.  M.  B.  Pigot   .  30 

To  the  Sighing  Strephon 30 

To  Eliza 31 

Lachin  y  Gair 31 

To  Romance 32 

Answer  to  some  Verses 33 

Elegy  on  Newstead  Abbey 33 

Childish  Recollections 36 

Answer  to  "  The  Common  Lot  "...  42 

To  a  Lady 42 

Remembrance 43 

Lines  to  the  Rev.  J.  T.  Becher   ....  43 

The  Death  of  Calmar  and  Orla   ....  43 

L'Amiti^  est  T  Amour  sans  Ailes.     ...  45 

The  Prayer  of  Nature 46 

To  Edward  Noel  Long 47 

To  a  Lady 48 

I  would  I  were  a  Careless  Child       ...  48 

When  I  roved  a  Young  Highlander     .     .  49 

To  George,  Earl  Delawarr 50 

To  the  Earl  of  Clare 51 

Lines  written  beneath  an   Elm   at  Har- 
row   5a 


CONTENTS. 


Occasional  Pieces,  1807-24. 

The  Adieu 53 

To  a  Vain  Lady 54 

To  Anne 54 

To  the  Same 54 

To  the  Author  of  a  Sonnet 55 

On  finding  a  Fan 55 

Farewell  to  the  Muse 55 

To  an  Oak  at  Newstead 56 

On  revisiting  Harrow 56 

Epitaph    on    John    Adams     of    South- 
well         57 

To  my  Son 57 

Farewell!   if  ever  fondest  Prayer      ...  57 

Bright  be  the  Place  of  thy  Soul  ....  57 

When  we  two  parted 58 

To  a  Youthful  Friend 58 

Lines     upon     a     Cup     formed     from     a 

Skull 59 

Well!   thou  art  happy 59 

On   the   Monument   of  a   Newfoundland 

Dog 59 

To  a  Lady,  on  being  asked  my  reason  for 

quitting  England 60 

Remind  me  not,  remind  me  not  ....  60 

There  was  a  time,  I  need  not  name      .     .  61 

And  wilt  thou  weep  when  I  am  low      .     .  61 

Fill  the  Goblet  again 61 

Stanzas    to    a    Lady,   on    leaving    Eng- 
land        62 

Lines  in  an  Album  at  Malta 62 

To  Florence 62 

Stanzas    composed    during    a    Thunder- 
storm      63 

Stanzas  written  in  passing  the  Ambracian 

Gulf 64 

The  spell  is  broke,  the  charm  is  flown      .  64 

After  swimming  from  Sestos  to  Abydos    .  64 

Maid  of  Athens,  ere  we  part 65 

My  Epitaph 65 

Substitute  for  an  Epitaph 66 

Lines  in  the  Traveller's  Book  at  Orcho- 

menus 66 

Translation    of   the    Greek    War    Song, 

"  AeOre  irai&es,"  etc 66 

Translation  of  a  Romaic  Song     ....  66 

Lines  written  beneath  a  Picture  ....  67 

On  Parting  ...........  67 

Epitaph  for  Joseph  Blackett 67 

Farewell  to  Malta 67 

To  Dives 68 

On  Moore's  last  Operatic  Farce  ....  68 


PAGB 

Epistle  to  a  Friend 68 

To  Thyrza 69 

Away !  away !  ye  Notes  of  Woe      ...  70 

One  struggle  more  and  I  am  free     ...  70 

Euthanasia 70 

And  thou  art  dead,  as  young  and  fair  .     .  71 

If  sometimes  in  the  haunts  of  men  ...  71 

From  the  French 72 

On  a  Cornelian  Heart 72 

Lines  to  a  Lady  weeping 72 

The  Chain  I  gave 72 

Lines     written     in     the     "  Pleasures     of 

Memory " 72 

Address  at  the  Opening  of  Drury  Lane 

Theatre 73 

Parenthetical  Address,  by  Dr.  Plagiary    .  74 
Verses    found     in    a    Summer-House    at 

Hales-Owen 75 

Remember  Thee !   remember  Thee!      .     .  75 

To  Time 75 

Translation  of  a  Romaic  Love  Song     .     .  75 

Thou  art  not  false,  but  thou  art  fickle .     .  76 

On  being  asked  the  Origin  of  Love      .     .  76 

Remember  him  whom  Passion's  power     .  76 

On  Lord  Thurlow's  Poems 77 

To  Lord  Thurlow 77 

/To  Thomas  Moore 77 

Impromptu,  in  reply  to  a  Friend      ...  78 

Sonnet,  to  Genevra    .     , 78 

Sonnet,  to  the  Same 78 

From  the  Portuguese  (Tu  me  chamas)     .  78 

Another  Version 78 

The  Devil's  Drive:  An  Unfinished  Rhap- 
sody        78 

Windsor  Poetics.  Lines  composed  on  the 
Occasion  of  His  Royal  Highness  the 
Prince  Regent  being  seen  standing  be- 
tween the  Coffins  of  Henry  VIII.  and 

Charles  I.,  at  Windsor 80 

Stanzas  for  Music.     "  I  speak  not,"  etc   .  80 
Address  intended  to  be  recited  at  the  Cale- 
donian Meeting 80 

Fragment  of  an  Epistle  to  Thomas  Moore,  81 
Condolatory  Address  to  Sarah,  Countess 

of  Jersey 81 

To  Belshazzar 82 

Elegiac  Stanzas  on  the  Death  of  Sir  Peter 

Parker,  Bart 82 

Stanzas  for  Music.    "  There's  not  a  Joy," 

etc 82 

Stanzas  for  Music.     "  There  be  none  of 

Beauty's  Daughter?,"  etc 83 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

Occasional  Pieces  (continued). 

On  Napoleon's  Escape  from  Elba    ...      83 
Ode  from  the  French.    "  We  do  not  curse 

thee,  Waterloo " 83 

From  the  French.     "Must  thou  go,  my 

glorious  Chief  ?" 84 

On  the  Star  of  "  The  Legion  of  Honor." 

From  the  French 85 

Napoleon's  Farewell.     From  the  French  .       85 
Endorsement  to  the  Deed  of  Separation, 

in  the  April  of  1816 86 

Darkness 86 

Churchill's   Grave :   a  fact   literally  ren- 
dered         ...       87 

Prometheus 88 

A  Fragment.     "  Could  I  remount,"  etc.       88 

Sonnet  to  Lake  Leman 89 

Stanzas  for  Music.   "  Bright  be  the  Place 

of  thy  Soul!  " 89 

A  very  mournful  Ballad  on  the  Siege  and 

Conquest  of  Alhama 89 

Sonetto  di  Vittorelli 92 

Translation  from  Vittorelli 92 

On  the  Bust  of  Helen  by  Canova    ...      92 
Stanzas  for  Music.  "  They  say  that  Hope," 

etc 92 

Song  for  the  Luddites 93 

Versicles 93 

"  So  we'll  go  no  more  a-roving  "...      93 
To  Thomas  Moore.     "  What  are  you  do- 
ing now?"     93 

To  Mr.  Murray.  "  To  hook  the  Reader," 

etc 93 

To  Thomas  Moore.    "  My  Boat  is  on  the 

Shore,"  etc 94 

Epistle  from  Mr.  Murray  to  Dr.  Polidori,      94 
Epistle  to  Mr.  Murray.     "  My  dear  Mur- 
ray," etc 95 

To    Mr.    Murray.      "  Strahan,   Tonson, 

Lintot,"  etc 95 

On   the   Birth    of  John    William    Rizzo 

Hoppner •    .      95 

Stanzas  to  the  Po 95 

Epigram.     From  the   French  of   Rulhi- 

eres 96 

Sonnet  to  George  IV.,  on  the  Repeal  of 

Lord  Edward  Fitzgerald's  Forfeiture  .  96 
Stanzas.  "  Could  Love  forever,"  etc.  .  97 
On  my  Wedding  Day     .......      98 

Epitaph  for  William  Pitt 98 

Epigram.     "  In  digging  up  your  Bones," 
etc 98 


PAGB 

Stanzas.    "  When  a  Man  hath  no  Free- 
dom," etc 98 

Epigram.     "  The  World  is  a  Bundle  of 

Hay,"  etc ^ 

The  Charity  Ball :     .    .  98 

Epigram  on  the  Brazier's  Company  hav- 
ing resolved  to  present  an  Address  to 

Queen  Caroline 98 

Epigram    on     my   Wedding     Day.      To 

Penelope .  98 

On  my  Thirty-Third  Birthday     ....  98 

Martial,  Lib.  i.,  Epig.  i 99 

Bowles  and  Campbell     .......  99 

Epigrams  on  Castlereagh 99 

Epitaph  on  the  Same 90 

John  Keats 99 

The  Conquest 99 

To  Mr.  Murray.     "  For  Orford   and   for 

Waldegrave " 99 

The  Irish  Avatar 100 

Stanzas  written   on    the    Road    between 

Florence  and  Pisa 102 

Stanzas  to  a  Hindoo  Air 102 

Impromptu 103 

To  the  Countess  of  Blessington  ....  103 
On  this  Day  I  complete  my  Thirty-Sixth 

Year 103 

English  Bards  and  Scotch  Reviewers:  A 

Satire 104 

Hints  from  Horace:   Being  an  Allusion 
in  English  Verse  to  the  Epistle  "  Ad 

Pisones,  de  Arte  Poetica  " 126 

The  Curse  of  Minerva 141 

The  Waltz 145 

Ode  to  Napoleon  Bonaparte 151 

Hebrew  Melodies 154 

•*  She  walks  in  beauty  " 154 

"  The  Harp  the  Monarch  Minstrel  swept,"  154 

"  If  that  high  World  " 155 

"  The  wild  Gazelle  "      .......  155 

"  Oh  weep  for  those  " 155 

"  On  Jordan's  Banks  "  .     ......  155 

Jephtha's  Daughter 156 

"Oh  snatch'd  away  in  Beauty's  Bloom"  156 

"  My  Soul  is  dark" 156 

"I  saw  thee  weep" .156 

"  Thy  days  are  done  " 156 

Song  of  Saul  before  his  last  Battle  .    .    .  157 

Saul 157 

All  is  Vanity,  saith  the  Preacher    ...  157 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

Hebrew  Melodies  {continued). 

"  When    Coldness    wraps    this  suffering 

Clay" 158 

Vision  of  Belsha7zar 158 

"  Sun  of  the  Sleepless  " 158 

**  Were  my  Bosom  as  false  as  thou  deem'st 

it  to  be" 159 

Herod's  Lament  for  Mariamne   ....  159 
On  the  Day  of  the  Destruction  of  Jerusa- 
lem by  Titus 159 

By  the  Rivers  of  Babylon  we  sat  down 

and  wept 160 

The  Destruction  of  Sennacherib      .     .     .  160 

A  spirit  passed  before  me.     From  Job      .  160 

Domestic  Pieces 161 

"  Fare  thee  well  " 161 

A  Sketch.  "  Born  in  the  Garret,"  etc.  .  162 
Stanzas  to  Augusta.   "  When  all  around," 

etc 163 

To  the  same.    "  Though  the  Day  of  my 

Destiny's  over " 164 

Epistle  to  the  same.    "  My   Sister,  my 

sweet  Sister " 164 

Lines  on  hearing  that  Lady  Byron  was 

ill 166 

Monody  on  the  Death  of  the  Right  Hon. 

R.  B.  Sheridan 167 

The  Dream 169 

The  Lament  of  Tasso 172 

Ode  on  Venice 176 

Beppo.    A  Venetian  Story 178 

The  Prophecy  of  Dante 190 

Canto  the  First      • 192 

Canto  the  Second  .........  194 

Canto  the  Third    .........  196 

Canto  the  Fourth  .........  198 

Francesca  of  Rimini.  From  Dante  .  .  201 
The  Morgante  Maggiore  of  Pulci.  Canto 

First 204 

The  Blues:  A  Literary  Eclogue    .    .    .221 

The  Vision  of  Judgment 228 

The  Age  of  Bronze:    or,  Carmen  Secu- 

lare  et  Annus  haud  Mirabilis     .    .    .  246 

Uhilde  Harold's  Pilgrimage 956 

To  Ianthe 258 

Canto  the  First 358 

Canto  the  Second      ........  276 

Appendix  to  Canto  the  Second    ....  292 

Canto  the  Third 301 


PAGl 

Canto  the  Fourth 32' 

Historical  Notes  to  Canto  th«  Fourth  .    .  349 

The  Giaour 374 

The  Bride  of  Abydos 390 

Canto  the  First     .........  391 

Canto  the  Second  .........  397 

The  Corsair 406 

Canto  the  First 408 

Canto  the  Second ....415 

Canto  the  Third    ........  422 

Lara 432 

Canto  the  First 433 

Canto  the  Second 439 

The  Siege  of  Corinth 447 

Parisina 460 

The  Prisoner  of  Chillon 46S 

Mazeppa 474 

The  Island 483 

Canto  the  First 483 

Canto  the  Second 487 

Canto  the  Third 493 

Canto  the  Fourth 496 

Manfred:   A  Dramatic  Poem 501 

Merino    Faliero,  Doge  of  Venice:    An 

Historical  Tragedy 524 

Sardanapalus:   A  Tragedy 580 

The  Two  Foscari  :  An  Historical  Tragedy,  622 

Cain  :  A  Mystery 653 

Heaven  and  Earth  :  A  Mystery     .    .    .  682 
The  Deformed  Transformed:   A  Drama,  697 
Werner;  or,  The  Inheritance:   A  Trag- 
edy  .    ■ 716 

Don  Juan 761 

Canto  the  First 763 

Canto  the  Second 776 

Canto  the  Third 790 

Canto  the  Fourth 798 

Canto  the  Fifth 807 

Canto  the  Sixth 812 

Canto  the  Seventh 8i<= 

Canto  the  Eighth 821. 

Canto  the  Ninth 826 

Canto  the  Tenth 830 

Canto  the  Eleventh  ........  833 

Canto  the  Twelfth 83s 

Canto  the  Thirteenth 838 

Canto  the  Fourteenth      • 843 

Canto  the  Fifteenth 846 

Canto  the  Sixteenth 851 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS  : 

A  SERIES   OF  POEMS,   ORIGINAL  AND   TRANSLATED. 

[first  published  in  1807.] 

**  M7jt'  ap  /j.6  fj.d\'  aluee  /urJTe  Tt  veueei." — Homer,  Iliad,  x.  249. 
"  He  whistled  as  he  went,  for  want  of  thought." —  Drvden. 
"  Virginibus  puerisque  canto."  —  Horace,  lib.  3,  ode  1. 


TO  THE   RIGHT   HONORABLE 

FREDERICK,    EARL   OF    CARLISLE, 

KNIGHT  OF  THE  GARTER,    ETC.,    ETC., 

THE   SECOND    EDITION   OF  THESE   POEMS   IS   INSCRIBED, 

BY  HIS 

OBLIGING  WARD  AND  AFFECTIONATE  KINSMAN,1 

THE  AUTHOR. 


PREFACE   TO   THE   FIRST  EDITIONS 

In  submitting  to  the  public  eye  the  following  collection,  I  have  not  only  to  combat  the  difficulties 
that  writers  of  verse  generally  encounter,  but  may  incur  the  charge  of  presumption  for  obtruding  myseli 
on  the  world,  when,  without  doubt,  I  might  be,  at  my  age,  more  usefully  employed. 

These  productions  are  the  fruits  of  the  lighter  hours  of  a  young  man  who  has  lately  completed  his 
nineteenth  year.  As  they  bear  the  internal  evidence  of  a  boyish  mind,  this  is,  perhaps,  unnecessary 
information.  Some  few  were  written  during  the  disadvantages  of  illness  and  depression  of  spirits;  under 
the  former  influence,  "  Childish  Recollections,"  in  particular,  were  composed.  This  consideration, 
though  it  cannot  excite  the  voice  of  praise,  may  at  least  arrest  the  arm  of  censure.  A  considerable 
portion  of  these  poems  has  been  privately  printed,  at  the  request  and  for  the  perusal  of  my  friends.  I 
am  sensible  that  the  partial  and  frequently  injudicious  admiration  of  a  social  circle  is  not  the  criterion  by 
which  poetical  genius  is  to  be  estimated,  yet  "to  do  greatly,"  we  must  "dare  greatly;  "  and  I  have 
hazarded  my  reputation  and  feelings  in  publishing  this  volume.    "  I  have  crossed  the  Rubicon,"  and  must 

1  Isabel,  daughter  of  William,  fourth  Lord  Byron  (great-great  uncle  of  the  Poet),  became,  in  1742, 
the  wife  of  Henry,  fourth  Earl  of  Carlisle,  and  was  the  mother  of  the  fifth  Earl,  to  whom  this  dedication 
was  addressed.  The  lady  was  a  poetess  in  her  way.  The  Fairy's  Answer  to  Mrs.  Greville's  "Prayer 
of  Indifference,"  in  Pearch's  Collection,  is  usually  ascribed  to  her. 

2  This  preface  was  omitted  in  the  second  edition. 


HOURS   OF  IDLENESS. 


stand  or  fall  by  the  "  cast  of  the  die."  In  the  latter  event,  I  shall  submit  without  a  murmur;  for,  though 
not  without  solicitude  for  the  fate  of  these  effusions,  my  expectations  are  by  no  means  sanguine.  It  u 
probable  that  I  may  have  dared  much,  and  done  little;  for,  in  the  words  of  Cowper,  "  it  is  one  thing  to 
write  what  may  please  our  friends,  who,  because  they  are  such,  are  apt  to  be  a  little  biased  in  our  favor, 
and  another  to  write  what  may  please  everybody;  because  they  who  have  no  connection,  or  even  knowl- 
edge, of  the  author,  will  be  sure  to  find  fault  if  they  can."  To  the  truth  of  this,  however,  I  do  not 
wholly  subscribe:  on  the  contrary,  I  feel  convinced  that  these  trifles  will  not  be  treated  with  injustice. 
Their  merit,  if  they  possess  any,  will  be  liberally  allowed:  their  numerous  faults,  on  the  other  hand, 
cannot  expect  that  favor  which  has  been  denied  to  others  of  maturer  years,  decided  character,  and  fa* 
greater  ability. 

I  have  not  aimed  at  exclusive  originality,  still  less  have  I  studied  any  particular  model  for  imitation; 
some  translations  are  given,  of  which  many  are  paraphrastic.  In  the  original  pieces,  there  may  appeal 
a  casual  coincidence  with  authors  whose  works  I  have  been  accustomed  to  read;  but  I  have  not  been 
guilty  of  intentional  plagiarism.  To  produce  anything  entirely  new,  in  an  age  so  fertile  in  rhyme,  would 
be  a  Herculean  task,  as  every  subject  has  already  been  treated  to  its  utmost  extent.  Poetry,  however,  is 
not  my  primary  vocation;  to  divert  the  duli  moments  of  indisposition,  or  the  monotony  of  a  vacant 
hour,  urged  me  "  to  this  sin  : "  little  can  be  expected  from  so  unpromising  a  muse.  My  wreath,  scanty 
as  it  must  be,  is  all  I  shall  derive  from  these  productions;  and  I  shall  never  attempt  to  replace  its  fading 
leaves,  or  pluck  a  single  additional  sprig  from  groves  where  I  am,  at  best,  an  intruder.  Though  accus- 
tomed in  my  younger  days  to  rove,  a  careless  mountaineer,  on  the  Highlands  of  Scotland,  I  have  not, 
of  late  years,  had  the  benefit  of  such  pure  air  or  so  elevated  a  residence,  as  might  enable  me  to  enter  the 
lists  with  genuine  bards,  who  have  enjoyed  both  these  advantages.  But  they  derive  considerable  fame, 
and  a  few  not  less  profit,  from  their  productions;  while  I  shall  expiate  my  rashness  as  an  interloper, 
certainly  without  the  latter,  and  in  all  probability  with  a  very  slight  share  of  the  former.  I  leave  to 
others  "  virum  volitare  per  ora."  I  look  to  the  few  who  will  hear  with  patience  "  dulce  est  desipere  in 
loco."  To  the  former  worthies  I  resign,  without  repining,  the  hope  of  immortality,  and  content  myself 
with  the  not  very  magnificent  prospect  of  ranking  amongst  "  the  mob  of  gentlemen  who  write;  " — my 
readers  must  determine  whether  I  dare  say  "  with  ease,"  or  the  honor  of  a  posthumous  page  in  "  The 
Catalogue  of  Royal  and  Noble  Authors,"— a  work  to  *hich  the  Peerage  is  under  infinite  obligations, 
inasmuch  as  many  names  of  considerable  length,  sound,,  and  antiquity,  are  thereby  rescued  from  the 
obscurity  which  unluckily  overshadows  several  voluminous  productions  of  their  illustrious  bearers. 

With  slight  hopes,  and  some  fears,  I  publish  this  first  and  last  attempt.  To  the  dictates  of  young 
ambition  may  be  ascribed  many  actions  more  criminal  and  equally  absurd.  To  a  few  of  my  own  age  the 
contents  may  afford  amusement:  I  trust  they  will,  at  least,  be  found  harmless.  It  is  highly  improbable, 
from  my  situation  and  pursuits  hereafter,  that  I  should  ever  obtrude  myself  a  second  time  on  the  public, 
nor  even,  in  the  very  doubtful  event  of  present  indulgence,  shall  I  be  tempted  to  commit  a  future  tres- 
pass of  the  same  nature.  The  opinion  of  Dr.  Johnson  on  the  Poems  of  a  noble  relation  of  mine,1  "  That 
when  a  man  of  rank  appeared  in  the  character  of  an  autnor,  he  deserved  to  have  his  merit  handsomel; 
ailowed,"  can  have  little  weight  with  verbal,  and  still  less  with  periodical,  censors;  but  were  it  otheiwise. 
I  should  be  loth  to  avail  myself  of  the  privilege,  and  would  rather  incur  the  bitterest  censure  of  anony 
mous  criticism,  than  triumph  in  honors  granted  solely  to  a  title. 

1  The  Earl  of  Carlisle,  wnose  works  have  long  received  the  meed  of  public  applause,  tc  which,  Dv 
their  intrinsic  worth,  they  were  well  entitled. 


HOURS    OF   IDLENESS. 


>N  THE  DEATH  OF  A  YOUNG  LADY, 

COUSIN  TO  THE  AUTHOR,  AND  VERY 
DEAR  TO   HIM.1 

Iush'd  are  the  winds,  and  still  the  evening 
gloom, 

Not  e'en  a  zephyrwanders  through  the  grove, 
Vhilst  I  return,  to  view  my  Margaret's  tomb, 

And  scatter  flowers  on  the  dust  I  love. 

Vithin  this  narrow  cell  reclines  her  clay, 
That    clay,   where    once    such    animation 
beam'd; 
The  King  of  Terrors  seized  her  as  his  prey, 
Not  worth,  nor  beauty,  have  her  life   re- 
deem'd. 

i  3h  !  could  that  King  of  Terrors  pity  feel, 

Or  Heaven  reverse  the  dread  decrees  of  fate  ! 

Not  here  the  mourner  would  his  grief  reveal, 

Not  here  the  muse  her  virtues  would  relate. 

But  wherefore  weep?      Her  matchless  spirit 
soars 
Beyond  where  splendid  shines  the  orb  of 
day; 
And  weeping  angels  lead  her  to  those  bowers 
Where  endless  pleasures  virtue's  deeds  re- 
pay. 

And  shall  presumptuous  mortals  Heaven  ar- 
raign, 

And,  madly,  godlike  Providence  accuse  ? 
Ah  !  no,  far  fly  from  me  attempts  so  vain ;  — 

I'll  ne'er  submission  to  my  God  refuse. 

Yet  is  remembrance  of  those  virtues  dear, 
Yet  fresh  the  memory  of  that  beauteous  face  ; 

Still  they  call  forth  my  warm  affection's  tear, 
Still  in  my  heart  retain  their  wonted  place. 

1802.= 


1  The  author  claims  the  indulgence  of  the  reader 
more  for  this  piece  than,  perhaps,  any  other  in  the 
collection;  but  as  it  was  written  at  an  earlier  period 
than  the  rest  (being  composed  at  the  age  of  four- 
teen), and  his  first  essay,  he  preferred  submitting  it 
to  the  indulgence  of  his  friends  in  its  present  state, 
to  making  either  addition  or  alteration. 

•  ["  My  first  dash  into  poetry  was  as  early  as  1800. 
It  was  the  ebullition  of  a  passion  for  my  first  cousin, 
Margaret  Parker  (daughter  and  grand-daughter  of 
the  two  Admirals  Parker),  one  of  the  most  bcauti- 


Let  Folly  smile,  to  view  the  names 
Of  thee  and  me  in  friendship  twined ; 

Yet  Virtue  will  have  greater  claims 
To  love,  than  rank  with  vice  combined 

And  though  unequal  is  thy  fate, 
Since  title  decked  my  higher  birth  ! 

Yet  envy  not  this  gaudy  state  ; 
Thine  is  the  pride  of  modest  worth. 

Our  souls  at  least  congenial  meet. 
Nor  can  thy  lot  my  rank  disgrace ; 

Our  intercourse  is  not  less  sweet, 
Since  worth  of  rank  supplies  the  place. 
November,  1802. 


TO    D . 

In  thee,  I  fondly  hoped  to  clasp 

A  friend,  whom  death  alone  could  sever; 
Till  envy,  with  malignant  grasp, 

Detached  thee  from  my  breast  for  ever. 


ful  of  evanescent  beings.  I  have  long  forgotten  the 
verse;  but  it  would  be  difficult  for  me  to  forget  hei 
—  her  dark  eyes  —  her  long  eye-lashes  —  her  com- 
pletely Greek  cast  of  face  and  figure !  I  was  then 
about  twelve  —  she  rather  older,  perhaps  a  year.  She 
died  about  a  year  or  two  afterwards,  in  consequence 
of  a  fall,  which  injured  her  spine,  and  induced  con- 
sumption. Her  sister  Augusta  (by  some  thought 
still  more  beautiful)  died  of  the  same  malady;  and 
it  was,  indeed,  in  attending  her,  that  Margaret  met 
with  the  accident  which  occasioned  her  death.  My 
sister  told  me,  that  when  she  went  to  see  her,  shortly 
before  her  death,  upon  accidentally  mentioning  my 
name,  Margaret  colored,  throughout  the  puleness  of 
mortality,  to  the  eyes,  to  the  great  astonishment  of 
my  sister,  who  knew  nothing  of  our  attachment,  nor 
could  conceive  why  my  name  should  affect  her  at 
such  a  time.  I  knew  nothing  of  her  illness  —  being 
at  Harrow  and  in  the  country  —  till  she  was  gone. 
Some  years  after,  I  made  an  attempt  at  an  elegy  — 
a  very  dull  one.  I  do  not  recollect  scarcely  any  thing 
equal  to  the  transparent  beauty  of  my  cousin,  or  to 
the  sweetness  of  her  temper,  during  the  short  period 
of  our  intimacy.  She  looked  as  if  she  had  been  made 
out  of  a  rainbow  —  all  beauty  and  peace."  —  Byron's 
Diary,  1821.] 

3  [This  little  poem,  and  some  others  in  the  collec- 
tioo,  refer  to  a  boy  of  Byron's  own  age,  son  of  one 
of  his  tenants  at  Newstead,  for  whom  he  had  formed 


HOURS   OF  IDLENESS. 


True,  she  has  forced  thee  from  my  breast, 
Yet,  in  my  heart  thou  keep'st  thy  seat ; 

There,  there  thine  image  still  must  rest, 
Until  that  heart  shall  cease  to  beat. 

And,  when  the  grave  restores  her  dead, 
When  life  again  to  dust  is  given, 

On  thy  dear  breast  I'll  lay  my  head  — 

Without  thee,  where  would  be  my  heaven  ? 
February,  1803. 


EPITAPH    ON   A   FRIEND. 

"  'Aottjp  irp'iv  fxev  e\afj.nes  evi  £woiaiv  euios." 

Laektius. 

Oh  Friend  !  for  ever  loved,  for  ever  dear! 
What  fruitless  tears  have  bathed  thy  honored 

bier  ! 
What  sighs  re-echoed  to  thy  parting  breath, 
Whilst  thou  wast  struggling  in  the  pangs  of 

death ! 
Could  tears  retard  the  tyrant  in  his  course ; 
Could  sighs  avert  his  dart's  relentless  force ; 
Could  youth  and  virtue  claim  a  short  delay, 
Or  beauty  charm  the  spectre  from  his  prey ; 
Thou  still  hadst  lived  to  bless  my  aching  sight, 
Thy  comrade's  honor  and  thy  friend's  delight1 
If  yet  thy  gentle  spirit  hover  nigh 
The  spot  where  now  thy  mouldering  ashes  lie, 
Here  wilt  thou  read,  recorded  on  my  heart, 
A  grief  too  deep  to  trust  the  sculptor's  art. 
No  marble  marks  thy  couch  of  lowly  sleep, 
But  living  statues  there  are  seen  to  weep ; 
Affliction's  semblance  bends  not  o'er  thy  tomb, 


a  romantic  attachment,  previous  to  any  of  his  school 
intimacies.] 

1  From  this  point  the  lines  in  the  private  edition 
were  entirely  different: 

"  Though  low  thy  lot,  since  in  a  cottage  born 
No  titles  did  thy  humble  name  adorn, 
To  me,  far  dearer  was  thy  artless  love 
Than  all  the  joys  wealth,  fame,  and  friends 

could  prove: 
For  thee  alone  I  lived,  or  wished  to  live; 
Oh  God!   if  impious,  this  rash  word  forgive! 
Heart-broken  now,  I  wait  an  equal  doom, 
Content  to  join  thee  in  thy  turf-clad  tomb; 
Where,  this  frail  form  composed  in  endless  rest, 
I'll  make  my  last  cold  pillow  on  thy  breast; 
That  breast  where  oft  in  life  I've  laid  my  head, 
Will  yet  receive  me  mouldering  with  the  dead; 
This  life  resigned,  without  one  parting  sigh, 
Together  in  one  bed  of  earth  we'll  lie! 
Together  share  the  fate  to  mortals  given; 
Together  mix  our  dust,  and  hope  for  heaven." 
The  epitaph  is  supposed   to   commemorate   the 
youth    who    is    the    subject    of   the    verses    "  To 

E ."        The   latter  piece   was   omitted    in    the 

published  volume,  which,  coupled  with  the  oblit- 
eration of  erery  allusion  to  his  humble  origin  in 
the  epitaph,  led  Moore  to  infer  that  growing  pride 
of  rank  made  Byron  ashamed  of  the  plebeian 
friendship.] 


Affliction's  sell  deplores  thy  youthful  doom. 
What  though  thy  sire  lament  his  failing  line, 
A  father's  sorrows  cannot  equal  mine! 
Though  none,  like  thee,  his  dying  hour  will 

cheer, 
Yet  other  offspring  soothe  his  anguish  here : 
But,  who  with  me  shall  hold  thy  former  place? 
Thine  image,  what  new  friendship  can  efface? 
Ah,  none! — a  father's  tears  will  cease  to  flow, 
Time  will  assuage  an  infant  brother's  woe ; 
To  all,  save  one,  is  consolation  known, 
While  solitary  friendship  sighs  alone. 

1802. 


A   FRAGMENT. 

WHEN,  to  their  airy  hall,  my  fathers'  voice 
Shall  call  my  spirit,  joyful  in  their  choice ; 
When,  poised  upon  the  gale,  my  form  sha'.i  ride, 
Or,  dark  in  mist,  descend  the  mountain's  side ; 
Oh  !  may  my  shade  behold  no  sculptured  urns 
To  mark  the  spot  where  earth  to  earth  returns  ! 
No  lengthened  scroll,  no  praise-encumbered 

stone ; 
My  epitaph  shall  be  my  name  alone  : 2 
If  that  with  honor  fail  to  crown  my  clay, 
Oh  !  may  no  other  fame  my  deeds  repay ! 
That,  only  that,  shall  single  out  the  spot ; 
By  that  remembered,  or  with  that  forgot. 

1803 


ON    LEAVING   NEWSTEAD   ABBEY.3 

"  Why  dost  thou  build  the  hall,  son  of  the  winged 
days?  Thou  lookest  from  thy  tower  to-day:  yet  a 
few  years,  and  the  blast  of  the  desert  comes,  it  howls 
in  thy  empty  court."  —  OssiAN. 

Through    thy  battlements,   Newstead,  the 
hollow  winds  whistle ; 
Thou,  the  hall  of  my  fathers,  art  gone  to 
decay ; 
In  thy  once  smiling  garden,  the  hemlock  and 
thistle 
Have    choked    up    the    rose    which    late 
bloomed  in  the  way. 


2  [By  his  will,  drawn  up  in  1811,  Byron  directed, 
that  "  no  inscription,  save  his  name  and  age,  should 
be  written  on  his  tomb;"  and,  in  1819,  he  wrote 
thus  to  Mr.  Murray:  —  "  Some  of  the  epitaphs  at 
the  Cartosa  cemetery,  at  Ferrara,  pleised  me  more 
than  the  more  splendid  monuments  at  Bologna; 
for  instance  — 

'  Martini  Luigi 
Implora  pace.' 
Can  any  thing  be  more  full  of  pathos?    I  hope  who- 
ever may  survive  me  will  see  those  two  words,  and 
no  more   put  over  me."] 

3  [The  priory  of  Newstead,  or  de  Novo  Loco,  in 
Sherwood,  was  founded  about  the  year  1170,  by 
Henry  II.    On  the  dissolution  of  the  monasteries,  it 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 


Of  the  mail-covered  Barons,  who  proudly  to 
battle 
Led  their  vassals  from  Europe  to  Palestine's 
plain,1 
The  escutcheon  and  shield,  which  with  every 
blast  rattle, 
Are  the  only  sad  vestiges  now  that  remain. 

No  more  doth  old  Robert,  with  harp-stringing 
numbers, 
Raise    a   flame   in  the  breast  for  the  war- 
laurelled  wreath ; 
Near  Askalon's  towers,  John  of  Horistan 2 
slumbers, 
Unnerved  is  the  hand  of  his  minstrel  by 
death. 

Paul  and  Hubert,  too,  sleep  in  the  valley  of 
Cressy ; 3 
For  the  safety  of  Edward  and  England  they 
fell; 
My  father !  the  tears  of  your  country  redress 
ye; 
How  you  fought,  how  you  died,  still  her 
annals  can  tell. 

On    Marston,4  with    Rupert,   'gainst   traitors 
contending, 
Four  brothers  enriched  with  their  blood  the 
bleak  field ; 
For  the   rights  of  a  monarch  their  country 
defending, 
Till  death  their  attachment  to  royalty  sealed. 

Shades  of  heroes,  farewell !  your  descendant 
departing 
From  the  seat  of  his  ancestors,  bids  you 
adieu ! 
Abroad,  or  at  home,  your  remembrance  im- 
parting 
New  courage,  he'll  think  upon  glory  and 
you. 

Though  a  tear  dim  his  eye  at  this  sad  separa- 
tion, 
'Tis  nature,  not  fear,  that  excites  his  regret ; 


was  granted  by  Henry  VIII.  to  "  Sir  John  Byron 
the  Little,  with  the  great  beard,"  whose  portrait  is 
Still  preserved  at  Newstead.] 

1  [There  is  no  record  of  the  Byrons  having  been 
»ngaged  in  the  Holy  Wars,  and  Moore  conjectures, 
that  the  only  authority  for  the  notion  was  some 
groups  of  heads,  which  appear  to  represent  Chris- 
tian soldiers  and  Saracens  on  the  old  panel-work  at 
Newstead.] 

2  [Horistan  Castle  in  Derbyshire  was  an  ancient 
seat  of  the  Byrons.  Some  ruins  of  it  are  yet  visible 
in  the  park  of  Horseley.] 

3  [Two  of  the  family  of  Byron  are  enumerated  as 
serving  with  distinction- in  the  siege  of  Calais,  under 
Edward  III.,  and  as  among  the  knights  who  fell  on 
the  glorious  field  of  Cressy.] 

'•  The  battle  of  Marston  Moor,  where  the  adhe- 
rents of  Charles  I.  were  defeated. 


Far  distant  he  goes,  with   the  same   emu 
lation, 
The    fame   of   his    fathers    he    ne'er    can 
forget. 

That  fame,  and   that  memory,  still  will  he 
cherish ; 
He  vows  that  he  ne'er  will  disgrace  your 
renown ; 
Like  you  will  he  live,  or  like  you  will  he  perish  : 
When  decayed,  may  he  mingle  his  dust  with 
your  own !  l8o3. 


LINES, 

WRITTEN  IN  "  LETTERS  OF  AN  ITALIAN  NUN 
AND  AN  ENGLISH  GENTLEMAN  :  BY  J.  J. 
ROUSSEAU  :    FOUNDED  ON  FACTS." 

"  AWAY,  away,  your  flattering  arts 
May  now  betray  some  simpler  hearts ; 
And  you  will  smile  at  their  believing, 
And  they  shall  weep  at  your  deceiving." 

ANSWER    TO    THE    FOREGOING,    ADDRESSED 
TO   MISS   . 

Dear,  simple  girl,  those  flattering  arts, 
From    which    thou'dst    guard    frail    female 

hearts, 
Exist  but  in  imagination, — 
Mere  phantoms  of  thine  own  creation; 
For  he  who  views  that  witching  grace, 
That  perfect  form,  that  lovely  face, 
With  eyes  admiring,  oh  !  believe  me, 
He  never  wishes  to  deceive  thee  : 
Once  in  thy  polished  mirror  glance, 
Thou'lt  there  descry  that  elegance 
Which  from  our  sex  demands  such  praises, 
But  envy  in  the  other  raises : 
Then  he  who  tells  thee  of  thy  beauty, 
Believe  me,  only  does  his  duty  : 
Ah  !  fly  not  from  the  candid  youth ; 
It  is  not  flattery,  —  'tis  truth. 

July,  1804. 


ADRIAN'S    ADDRESS    TO    HIS   SOUL 
WHEN    DYING. 

[Animula!  vagula,  blandula, 
Hospes,  comesque  corporis, 
Quae  nunc  abibis  in  loca  — 
Pallidula,  rigida,  nudula, 
Nee,  ut  soles,  dabis  jocos?] 

AH  !  gentle,  fleeting,  wavering  sprite, 
Friend  and  associate  of  this  clay ! 

To  what  unknown  region  borne, 
Wilt  thou  now  wing  thy  distant  flight? 
No  more  with  wonted  humor  gay, 

But  pallid,  cheerless,  and  forlorn. 


HOURS   OF  IDLENESS. 


TRANSLATION    FROM    CATULLUS. 

AD   LESBIAM. 

Equal  to  Jove  that  youth  must  be  — 
Greater  than  Jove  he  seems  to  me  — 
Whi ',  free  from  Jealousy's  alarms, 
Securely  views  thy  matchless  charms. 
That  cheek,  which  ever  dimpling  glows, 
That  mouth,  from  whence  such  music  flows 
To  him,  alike,  are  always  known, 
Reserved  for  him,  and  him  alone. 
Ah  !  Lesbia !  though  'tis  death  to  me, 
I  cannot  choose  but  look  on  thee ; 
But,  at  the  sight,  my  senses  fly ; 
I  needs  must  gaze,  but,  gazing,  die; 
Whilst  trembling  with  a  thousand  fears, 
Parched  to  the  throat  my  tongue  adheres, 
My  pulse  beats  quick,  my  breath  heaves  short, 
My  limbs  deny  their  slight  support, 
Cold  dews  my  pallid  face  o'erspread. 
With  deadly  languor  droops  my  head, 
My  ears  with  tingling  echoes  ring, 
And  life  itself  is  on  the  wing; 
My  eyes  refuse  the  cheering  light, 
Their  orbs  are  veiled  in  starless  night: 
Such  pangs  my  nature  sinks  beneath, 
And  feels  a  temporary  death. 


TRANSLATION    OF  THE   EPITAPH 
ON    VIRGIL  AND   TIBULLUS. 

BY  DOMITIUS   MARSUS. 

He  who  sublime  in  epic  numbers  rolled 
And  he  who  struck  the  softer  lyre  of  love, 

By  Death's  i  unequal  hand  alike  controlled, 
Fit  comrades  in  Elysian  regions  move ! 


IMITATION    OF  TIBULLUS. 

"  Sulpicia  ad  Cerinthum."  —  Lib.  4. 

CRUEL  Cerinthus !  does  the  fell  disease 
"Which  racks  my  breast  your  fickle  bosom 

please? 
Alas  !  I  wished  but  to  o'ercome  the  pain, 
That  I  might  live  for  love  and  you  again; 
But  now  I  scarcely  shall  bewail  my  fate : 
By  death  alone  I  can  avoid  your  hate. 


TRANSLATION  FROM  CATULLUS. 

[Lugete,  Veneres,  Cupidinesque,  etc.] 

YE  Cupids,  droop  each  little  head 
Nor  let  your  wings  with  joy  be  spread, 


1  [The  hand  of  Death  is  said  to  be  unjust  or 
unequal,  as  Virgil  was  considerably  older  than 
Tibullus  at  his  decease.] 


My  Lesbia's  favorite  bird  is  dead, 
Whom  dearer  than  her  eyes  she  loved; 

tor  he  was  gentle,  and  so  true, 

Obedient  to  her  call  he  flew, 

No  fear,  no  wild  alarm  he  knew, 
But  lightly  o'er  her«bosom  moved: 

And  softly  fluttering  here  and  there, 
He  never  sought  to  cleave  the  air, 
But  chirrupped  oft,  and,  free  from  care, 

Tuned  to  her  ear  his  grateful  strain. 
Now  having  passed  the  gloomy  bourne 
From  whence  he  never  can  return. 
His  death  and  Lesbia's  grief  I  mourn. 

Who  sighs,  alas !  but  sighs  in  vain. 

Oh  !  curst  be  thou,  devouring  grave  ! 
Whose  jaws  eternal  victims  crave, 
From  whom  no  earthly  power  can  save, 

For  thou  hast  ta'en  the  bird  away  : 
From  thee  my  Lesbia's  eyes  o'erflow, 
Her  swollen  cheeks  with  weeping  glow; 
Thou  art  the  cause  of  all  her  v 

Receptacle  of  life's  decay. 


IMITATED    FROM   CATULLUS. 

TO  ELLEN. 

Oh  !  might  I  kiss  those  eyes  of  fire, 
A  million  scarce  would  quench  desire : 
Still  would  I  steep  my  lips  in  bliss, 
And'dwell  an  age  on  every  kiss  : 
Nor  then  my  soul  should  sated  be ; 
Still  would  I  kiss  and  cling  to  thee  : 
Nought  should  my  kiss  from  thine  dissever- 
Still  would  we  kiss,  and  kiss  for  ever ; 
E'en  though  the  numbers  did  exceed 
The  yellow  harvest's  countless  seed. 
To  part  would  be  a  vain  endeavor : 
Could  I  desist?  —  ah!  never  —  never  1 


TRANSLATION   FROM   HORACE. 

[Justum  et  tenacem  propositi  virum,  etc.] 

The  man  of  firm  and  noble  soul 
No  factious  clamors  can  control, 
No  threat'ning  tyrant's  darkling  brow 

Can  swerve  him  from  his  just  intent: 
Gales  the  warring  waves  which  plough, 

By  Auster  on  the  billows  sent 
To  curb  the  Adriatic  main, 
Would  awe  his  fixed  determined  mind  in  vain. 

Ay,  and  the  red  right  arm  of  Jove, 
Hurtling  his  lightnings  from  above, 
With  all  his  terrors  there  unfurled, 

He  would,  unmoved,  unaw:ed  behold. 
The  flames  of  an  expiring  world, 


HOURS   OF  IDLENESS. 


Again  in  crashing  chaos  rolled, 
In  vast  promiscuous  ruin  hurled, 
Might  light  his  glorious  funeral  pile  : 
Still  dauntless  'midst  the  wreck  of  earth  he'd 
smile. 


FROM   ANACREON. 

[fce'Aw  Aeyeiv  'AjpeiSas,  K.  T.  A.] 

I  WISH  to  tune  my  quivering  lyre 
To  deeds  of  fame  and  notes  of  fire ; 
To  echo,  from  its  rising  swell, 
How  heroes  fought  and  nations  fell, 
When  Atreus'  sons  advanced  to  war, 
Or  Tyrian  Cadmus  roved  afar ; 
But  still,  to  martial  strains  unknown, 
My  lyre  recurs  to  love  alone. 
Fired  with  the  hope  of  future  fame, 
I  seek  some  nobler  hero's  name ; 
The  dying  chords  are  strung  anew, 
To  war,  to  war,  my  harp  is  due : 
With  glowing  strings,  the  epic  strain 
To  Jove's  great  son  I  raise  again  : 
Alcides  and  his  glorious  deeds, 
Beneath  whose  arm  the  Hydra  bleeds. 
All,  all  in  vain  ;   my  wayward  lyre 
Wakes  silver  notes  of  soft  desire. 
Adieu,  ye  chiefs  renowned  in  arms ! 
Adieu  the  clang  of  war's  alarms  ! 
To  other  deeds  my  soul  is  strung, 
And  sweeter  notes  shall  now  be  sung ; 
My  harp  shall  all  its  powers  reveal, 
To  tell  the  tale  my  heart  must  feel ; 
Love,  Love  alone,  my  lyre  shall  claim, 
In  songs  of  bliss  and  sighs  of  flame. 


FROM  ANACREON. 

[3Ie(TOi'UKTCcus  tto9'  wpat;,  k.  t.  A.] 

Tvvas  now  the  hour  when  Night  had  driven 

Her  car  half  round  yon  sable  heaven ; 

Bootes,  only,  seemed  to  roll 

His  arctic  charge  around  the  pole; 

While  mortals,  lost  in  gentle  sleep, 

Forgot  to  smile,  or  ceased  to  weep : 

At  this  lone  hour,  the  Paphian  boy, 

Descending  from  the  realms  of  joy, 

Quick  to  my  gate  directs  his  course, 

And  knocks  with  all  his  little  force. 

My  visions  fled,  alarmed  I  rose, — 

"  What  stranger  breaks  my  blest  repose?  " 

"  Alas  !  "  replies  the  wily  child 

In  faltering  accents  sweetly  mild, 

"A  hapless  infant  here  I  roam, 

Far  from  my  dear  maternal  home. 

Oh1!  shield  me  from  the  wintry  blast! 

The  nightly  storm  is  pouring  fast. 

No  prowling  robber  lingers  here. 


A  wandering  baby  who  can  fear?  " 

I  heard  his  seeming  artless  tale, 

I  heard  his  sighs  upon  the  gale  : 

My  breast  was  never  pity's  foe, 

But  felt  for  all  the  baby's  woe. 

I  drew  the  bar,  and  by  the  light 

Young  Love,  the  infant,  met  my  sight; 

His  bow  across  his  shoulders  flung, 

And  thence  his  fatal  quiver  hung 

(Ah  !  little  did  I  think  the  dart 

Would  rankle  soon  within  my  heart). 

With  care  I  tend  my  weary  guest, 

His  little  fingers  chill  my  breast; 

His  glossy  curls,  his  azure  wing, 

Which  droop  with  nightly  showers,  I  wrings 

His  shivering  limbs  the  embers  warm ; 

And  now  reviving  from  the  storm, 

Scarce  had  he  felt  his  wonted  glow, 

Than  swift  he  seized  his  slender  bow  :  — 

"  I  fain  would  know,  my  gentle  host," 

He  cried,  "  if  this  its  strength  has  lost; 

I  fear,  relaxed  with  midnight  dews, 

The  strings  their  former  aid  refuse." 

With  poison  tipt,  his  arrow  flies, 

Deep  in  my  tortured  heart  it  lies; 

Then  loud  the  joyous  urchin  laughed  :  — 

"  My  bow 'can  still  impel  the  shaft : 

'Tis  firmly  fixed,  thy  sighs  reveal  it ; 

Say,  courteous  host,  canst  thou  not  feel  it?  " 


FROM  THE  PROMETHEUS  VINCTUS 
OF  yESCHYLUS. 

[M7)8<in.'  o  -troLi/To.  ve'/iun',  k.  t.  A.] 

GREAT  Jove,  to  whose  almighty  throne 
Both  gods  and  mortals  homage  pay. 

Ne'er  may  my  soul  thy  power  disown, 
Thy  dread  behests  ne'er  disobey. 

Oft  shall  the  sacred  victim  fall 

In  sea-girt  Ocean's  mossy  hall; 

My  voice  shall  raise  no  impious  strain 
'Gainst  him  who  rules  the  sky  and  azure  maint 

How  different  now  thy  joyless  fate, 

Since  first  Hesione  thy  bride, 
When  placed  aloft  in  godlike  state, 
The  blushing  beauty  by  thy  side, 
Thou  sat'st,  while  reverend  Ocean  smiled, 
And  mirthful  strains  the  hours  beguiled, 
The  Nymphs  and  Tritons  danced  around, 
Nor  yet  thy  doom  was  fixed,  nor  Jove  relent- 
less frowned.i 

Harrow,  Dec.  i,  1804. 


1  ["  My  first  Harrow  verses,  (that  is,  English,  as 
Exercises,)  a  translation  of  a  chorus  from  the  Pro- 
metheus of  yEschylus,  were  received  by  Dr.  Drury, 
my  grand  patron  (our  head-master),  but  coolly .  No 
one  had,  at  that  time,  the  least  notion  that  I  should 
subside  into  poesy."  — Byron's  Diary.] 


HOURS   OF  IDLENESS. 


TO  EMMA. 

Since  now  the  hour  is  come  at  last, 

When  you  must  quit  your  anxious  lover; 

Since  now  our  dream  of  bliss  is  past, 
One  pang,  my  girl,  and  all  is  over. 

Alas  !  that  pang  will  be  severe, 

Which  bids  us  part  to  meet  no  more ; 

Which  tears  me  far  from  one  so  dear, 
Departing  for  a  distant  shore. 

Well !  we  have  passed  some  happy  hours, 
And  joy  will  mingle  with  our  tears  ; 

When  thinking  on  these  ancient  towers, 
The  shelter  of  our  infant  years ; 

Where  from  this  Gothic  casement's  height, 
We  viewed  the  lake,  the  park,  the  dell, 

And  still,  though  tears  obstruct  our  sight, 
We  lingering  look  a  last  farewell, 

O'er  fields  through  which  we  used  to  run, 
And  spend  the  hours  in  childish  play ; 

O'er  shades  where,  when  our  race  was  done, 
Reposing  on  my  breast  you  lay; 

Whilst  I,  admiring,  too  remiss, 
Forgot  to  scare  the  hovering  flies*, 

Yet  envied  every  fly  the  kiss 

It  dared  to  give  ycur  slumbering  eyes  : 

See  still  the  little  painted  bark, 

In  which  I  rowed  you  o'er  the  lake ; 

See  there,  high  waving  o'er  the  park, 
The  elm  I  clambered  for  your  sake. 

These  times  are  past  —  our  joys  are  gone, 
You  leave  me,  leave  this  happy  vale ; 

These  scenes  I  must  retrace  alone : 
Without  thee  what  will  they  avail  ? 

WTho  can  conceive,  who  has  not  proved, 
The  anguish  of  a  last  embrace  ? 

When,  torn  from  all  you  fondly  loved, 
You  bid  a  long  adieu  to  peace. 

This  is  the  deepest  of  our  woes. 
For  this  these  tears  our  cheeks  bedew : 

This  is  of  love  the  final  close, 
Oh,  God!  the  fondest,  last  adieu! 


TO   M.   S.   G. 

Whene'er  I  view  those  lips  of  thine, 
Their  hue  invites  my  fervent  kiss  ; 

Yet,  I  forego  that  bliss  divine, 
Alas  !  it  were  unhallowed  bliss. 

Whene'er  I  dream  of  that  pure  breast, 
How  could  I  dwell  upon  its  snows! 

Yet  is  the  daring  wish  represt, 

For  that,  —  would  banish  its  repose. 

A  glance  from  thy  soul-searching  eye 
Can  raise  with  hope,  depress  with  fear ; 


Yet  I  conceal  my  love,  —  and  why  ? 
I  would  not  force  a  painful  tear. 

I  ne'er  have  told  my  love,  yet  thou 
Hast  seen  my  ardent  flame  too  well; 

And  shall  I  plead  my  passion  now, 
To  make  thy  bosom's  heaven  a  hell  ? 

No  !  for  thou  never  canst  be  mine, 
United  by  the  priest's  decree: 

By  any  ties  but  those  divine, 

Mine,  my  beloved,  thou  ne'er  shalt  be. 

Then  let  the  secret  fire  consume, 

Let  it  consume,  thou  shalt  not  know : 

With  joy  I  court  a  certain  doom, 
Rather  than  spread  its  guilty  glow. 

I  will  not  ease  my  tortured  heart. 

By  driving  dove-eyed  peace  from  thine ; 

Rather  than  such  a  sting  impart, 
Each  thought  presumptuous  I  resign. 

Yes!  yield  those  lips,  for  which  I'd  brave 
More  than  I  here  shall  dare  to  tell ; 

Thy  innocence  and  mine  to  save, — 
I  bid  thee  now  a  last  farewell. 

Yes !  yield  that  breast,  to  seek  despair, 
And  hope  no  more  thy  soft  embrace ; 

Which  to  obtain  my  soul  would  dare 
All,  all  reproach,  but  thy  disgrace. 

At  least  from  guilt  shalt  thou  be  free, 
No  matron  shall  thy  shame  reprove ; 

Thcyigh  cureless  pangs  may  prey  on  me, 
No  martyr  shalt  thou  be  to  love. 


TO   CAROLINE. 

THINK'ST  thou  I  saw  thy  beauteous  eyes, 
Suffused  in  tears,  implore  to  stay, 

And  heard  unmoved  thy  plenteous  sighs, 
Wbich  said  far  more  than  words  can  say  ? 

Though  keen  the  grief  thy  tears  exprest, 
When  love  and  hope  lay  both  o'erthrown  ; 

Yet  still,  my  girl,  this  bleeding  breast 

Throbbed  with  deep  sorrow  as  thine  own. 

But  when  our  cheeks  with  anguish  glowed, 
When  thy  sweet  lips  were  joined  to  mine, 

The  tears  that  from  my  eyelids  flowed 
Were  lost  in  those  which  fell  from  thine. 

Thou  could'st  not  feel  my  burning  cheek, 
Thy  gushing  tears  had  quenched  its  flame 

And  as  thy  tongue  essayed  to  speak, 
In  sighs  alone  it  breathed  my  name. 

And  yet,  my  girl,  we  weep  in  vain, 
In  vain  our  fate  in  sighs  deplore; 

Remembrance  only  can  remain, — 
But  that  will  make  us  weep  the  more. 


HOURS   OF  IDLENESS. 


Again,  thou  best  beloved,  adieu! 

Ah  !  if  thou  canst,  o'ercome  regret, 
Nor  let  thy  mind  past  joys  review,— 

Our  only  hope  is  to  forget ! 


TO   CAROLINE. 

WHEN  I  hearyou  express  an  affection  sowarm, 

Ne'er  think,  my  beloved,  that   I    do   not 

believe ; 

For  your  lip  would  the  soul  of  suspicion  disarm , 

And  your  eye  beams  a  ray  which  can  never 

deceive. 

Yet,  still,  this  fond  bosom  regrets,  while  adoring, 
That  love,  like  the  leaf,  must  fall  into  the 
sear; 
That  age  will  come  on,  when  remembrance, 
deploring, 
Contemplates  the  scenes  of  her  youth  with 
a  tear ; 

That  the  time  must  arrive,  when,  no  longer 
retaining 
Their  auburn,  those  locks  must  wave  thin 
to  the  breeze, 
When  a  few  silver  hairs  of  those  tresses  re- 
maining, 
Prove  nature  a  prey  to  decay  and  disease. 

'Tis  this,  my  beloved,  which  spreads  gloom 
o'er  my  features, 
Though    I  ne'er  shall  presume  to  arraign 
the  decree 
Which  God  has  proclaimed  as  the  fate  of  his 
creatures, 
In  the  death  which   one  day  will  deprive 
you  of  me. 

Mistakenot,  sweet  sceptic,  the  cause  of  emotion, 
No  doubt  can  the  mind  of  your  lover  in- 
vade ; 
He  worships  each  look  with  such  faithful  de- 
votion, 
A  smile  can  enchant,  or  a  tear  can  dissuade. 

But  as  death,  my  beloved,  soon  or  late  shall 
o'ertake  us, 
And   our  breasts,  which   alive  with   such 
sympathy  glow, 
Will  sleep  in  the  grave   till  the  blast   shall 
awake  us, 
When  calling  the  dead  in  earth's  bosom 
laid  low, — 

Oh!  then  let  us  drain,  while  we  may,  draughts 
of  pleasure, 
Which   from   passion   like   ours   may  un- 
ceasingly flow ; 
Let  us  pass  round  the  cup  of  love's  bliss  in 
full  measure, 
And  quaff  the  contents  as  our  nectar  below. 

1805. 


TO   CAROLINE. 

OH !  when  shall  the  grave  hide  for  ever  my 
sorrow? 
Oh !    when  shall   my  soul  wing  her  flight 
from  this  clay? 
The  present  is  hell,  and  the  coming  to-morrow 
But  brings,  with  new  torture,  the  curse  of 
to-day. 

From  my  eye  flows  no  tear  from  my  lips  flow 
no  curses, 
I  blast  not  the  fiends  who  have  hurled  me 
from  bliss ; 
For  poor  is  the  soul  which  bewailing  rehearses 
Its  querulous  grief,  when  in  anguish  like 
this. 

Was  my  eye,  'stead  of  tears,  with  red  fury 
flakes  bright'ning, 
Would  my  lips  breathe  a  flame  which  no 
stream  could  assuage, 
On  our  foes   should  my  glance    launch   in 
vengeance  its  lightning, 
With  transport  my  tongue  give  a  loose  to 
its  rage. 

But  now  tears  and  curses,  alike  unavailing, 
Would  add  to  the  souls  of  our  tyrants  de- 
light ; 
Could  they  view  us  our  sad  separation  be- 
wailing, 
Their  merciless  hearts  would  rejoice  at  the 
sight. 

Yet  still,  though  we  bend  with  a  feigned  resig- 
nation, 
Life  beams  not  for  us  with  one  ray  that  can 
cheer; 
Love  and  hope  upon  earth  bring  no  more 
consolation, 
In  the  grave  is  our  hope,  for  in  life  is  our 
fear. 

Oh !  when,  my  adored,  in  the  tomb  will  they 
place  me, 
Since,  in  life,  love  and  friendship  for  ever 
"are  fled? 
If  again  in  the  mansion  of  death  I  embrace 
thee, 
Perhaps   they  will   leave   unmolested    the 
dead.  1805. 


STANZAS   TO   A   LADY, 

WITH   THE   POEMS   OF  CAMOENS.l 

This  votive  pledge  of  fond  esteem. 

Perhaps,  dear  girl !  for  me  thou'lt  prize  , 

It  sings  of  Love's  enchanting  dream, 
A  theme  we  never  can  despise. 


1  [Lord  Strangford's  translation  of  Camoens's 
Amatory  Poems  was  at  this  period  a  favorite  study 
with  Byron.] 


.«() 


HOURS   OF  IDLENESS. 


Who  blames  it  but  the  envious  fool, 
The  old  and  disappointed  maid; 

Or  pupil  of  the  prudish  school, 
In  single  sorrow  doomed  to  fade? 

Then  read,  dear  girl !  with  feeling  read. 
For  thou  wilt  ne'er  be  one  of  those  ; 

To  thee  in  vain  I  shall  not  plead 
In  pity  for  the  poet's  woes. 

He  was  in  sooth  a  genuine  bard; 

His  was  no  faint,  fictitious  flame: 
Like  his,  may  love  be  thy  reward, 

But  not  thy  "hapless  fate  the  same.1 


THE   FIRST   KISS   OF   LOVE. 


'A  £dp/3tTos  6e  xop&o 
'Epiora.  ixovvov  >JX"- 


■  Anacreon. 


AWAY  with  your  fictions  of  flimsy  romance  ; 
Those  tissues  of  falsehood  which  folly  has 
wove ! 
Give  me  the  mild  beam  of  the  soul-breathing 
glance. 
Or  the  rapture  which  dwells  on  the  first  kiss 
of  love. 

Ye  rhymers,  whose  bosoms  with  phantasy  glow, 
Whose  pastoral  passions  are  made  for  the 
grove ; 
From   what   blest    inspiration    your   sonnets 
would  flow, 
Could  you  ever  have  tasted  the  first  kiss  of 
love! 

If  Apollo  should  e'er  his  assistance  refuse, 
Or  the  Nine  be  disposed  from  your  service 
to  rove, 

Invoke  them  no  more,  bid  adieu  to  the  muse, 
And  try  the  effect  of  the  first  kiss  of  love. 

I  hate  you,  ye  cold  compositions  of  art : 
Though  prudes  may  condemn  me,  and  big- 
ots reprove, 
I  court  the  effusions  that  spring  from  the  heart, 
Which  throbs  with  delight  to  the  first  kiss 
ot  love. 

Your  shepherds,  your  flocks,  those  fantastical 
themes, 
Perhaps   may  amuse,  yet  they  never  can 
move : 
Arcadia  displays  but  a  region  of  dreams  ; 
What  are  visions  like  these  to  the  first  kiss 
of  love  ? 

Oh !  cease  to  affirm  that  man,  since  his  birth, 
From  Adam  till  now,  has  with  wretchedness 
strove ; 

Some  portion  of  paradise  still  is  on  earth, 
And  Eden  revives  in  the  first  kiss  of  love. 


When  age  chills  the  blood,  when  our  pleas- 
ures are  past  — 
For  years  fleet  away  with  the  wings  of  the 
dove  — 
The  dearest  remembrance  will  still  be  the  last, 
Our  sweetest  memorial  the  first  kiss  of  love. 


- 


ON   A   CHANGE  OF   MASTERS  AT  A 
GREAT   PUBLIC   SCHOOL.* 

Where  are  those  honors,  Ida!   once  your 

own, 
When  Probus  filled  your  magisterial  throne  ? 
As  ancient  Rome,  fast  falling  to  disgrace, 
Hailed  a  barbarian  in  her  Ccesar's  place, 
So  you,  degenerate,  share  as  hard  a  fate, 
And  seat  Pomposus  where  your  Probus  sate. 
Of  narrow  brain,  yet  of  a  narrower  soul, 
Pomposus  holds  you  in  his  harsh  control ; 
Pomposus,  by  no  social  virtue  swayed, 
With  florid  jargon,  and  with  vain  parade ; 
With  noisy  nonsense,  and  new-fangled  rules, 
Such  as  were  ne'er  before  enforced  in  schools, 
Mistaking  pedantry  for  learning's  laws, 
He  governs,  sanctioned  but  by  self-applause. 
With  him,  the  same  dire  fate  attending  Rome, 
Ill-fated  Ida!  soon  must  stamp  your  doom  : 
Like  her  o'erthrown,  for  ever  lost  to  fame, 
No  trace  of  science  left  you,  but  the  name. 
July,  1805. 


TO   THE   DUKE  OF   DORSET.8 

Dorset!  whose  early  steps  with  mine  have 

strayed, 
Exploring  every  path  of  Ida's  glade; 
Whom  still  affection  taught  me  to  defend, 
And  made  me  less  a  tyrant  than  a  friend, 


1  [Camoens  ended  in  an  alms-house  a  life  of  mis- 
fortunes.] 


2  [In  March,  1805,  Dr.  Drury,  the  "  Probus  "  of 
this  piece,  retired  from  his  situation  of  head-master 
at  Harrow,  and  was  succeeded  by  Dr.  Butler,  the 
"  Pomposus."  Of  the  former  Byron  says  in  his 
Diary,  "  Dr.  Drury,  whom  I  plagued  sufficiently, 
was  the  best,  the  kindest  (and  yet  strict,  too)  friend 
I  ever  had;  and  I  look  upon  him  still  as  a  father." 
Of  Dr.  Butler  he  says,  — "  I  treated  him  rebel- 
liously,  and  have  been  sorry  ever  since."] 

3  In  looking  over  my  papers  to  select  a  few  addi- 
tional poems  for  this  second  edition,  I  found  the 
above  lines,  which  I  had  totally  forgotten,  composed 
in  the  summer  of  1805,  a  short  time  previous  to  my 
departure  from  Harrow.  They  were  addressed  to  a 
young  schoolfellow  of  high  rank,  who  had  been  my 
frequent  companion  in  some  rambles  through  the 
neighboring  country  :  however,  he  never  saw  the 
lines,  and  most  probably  never  will.  As,  on  a  re- 
perusal,  I  found  them  not  worse  than  some  other 
pieces  in  the  collection,  I  have  now  published  them, 
for  the  first  time,  after  a  slight  revision. 

[George-John-Frederick,  fourth  Duke  of  Dorset, 
6orn  November  15,  1793,  was  killed  bv  n  fall  from 
his  horse,  while  hunting  near  Dublin,  FeDruary  89 
1815.] 


HOURS   OF  IDLENESS. 


1; 


Though  the  harsh  custom  of  our  youthful  band 
Bade  thee  obey,  and  gave  me  to  command  ; l 
Thee,  on  whose  head  a  few  short  years  will 

shower 
The  gift  of  riches  and  the  pride  of  power; 
E'en  now  a  name  illustrious  is  thine  own, 
Renowned  in  rank,  not  far  beneath  the  throne. 
Yet,  Dorset,  let  not  this  seduce  thy  soul 
To  shun  fair  science,  or  evade  control, 
Though  passive  tutors,2  fearful  to  dispraise 
The  titled  child,  whose  future  breath  may  raise, 
View  ducal  errors  with  indulgent  eyes, 
And  wink  at  faults  they  tremble  to  chastise. 

When  youthful  parasites,  who  bend  the  knee 
To  wealth,  their  golden  idol,  not  to  thee, — 
And  even  in  simple  boyhood's  opening  dawn 
Some  slaves  are  found  to  flatter  and  to  fawn, — ■ 
When  these  declare,  "that  pomp  alone  should 

wait 
On  one  by  birth  predestined  to  be  great ; 
That  books  were  only  meant  for  drudging 

fools, 
That  gallant  spirits  scorn  the  common  rules  ;  " 
Believe  them  not; — they  point  the  path  to 

shame, 
And  seek  to  blast  the  honors  of  thy  name. 
Turn  to  the  few  in  Ida's  early  throng, 
Whose   souls   disdain   not   to   condemn  the 

wrong ; 
Or  if,  amidst  the  comrades  of  thy  youth, 
None  dare  to  raise  the  sterner  voice  of  truth, 
Ask  thine  own  heart ;  'twill  bid  thee,  boy,  for- 
bear; 
For  well  I  know  that  virtue  lingers  there. 
Yes !   I  have  marked  thee  many  a  passing 

day, 
But  now  new  scenes  invite  me  far  away ; 
Yes  !  I  have  marked  within  that  generous  mind 
A  soul,  if  well  matured,  to  bless  mankind. 
Ah  !  though  myself,  by  nature  haughty,  wild, 
Whom  Indiscretion  hailed  her  favorite  child  ; 
Though  every  error  stamps  me  for  her  own, 
And  dooms  my  fall,  I  fain  would  fall  alone ; 
Though  my  proud  heart  no  precept  now  can 

tame, 
I  love  the  virtues  which  I  cannot  claim. 

'Tis  not  enough,  with  other  sons  of  power, 
To  gleam  the  lambent  meteor  of  an  hour; 
To  swell  some  peerage  page  in  feeble  pride, 
With  long-drawn  names  that  grace  no  page 

beside ; 
Then  share  with  titled  crowds  the  common 

lot  — 


1  At  every  public  school  the  junior  boys  are  com- 
pletely subservient  to  the  upper  forms  till  they  attain 
a  seat  in  the  higher  classes.  From  this  state  of  pro- 
bation, very  properly  no  rank  is  exempt;  but  after 
a  certain  period,  they  command  in  turn  those  who 
succeed. 

-  Allow  me  to  disclaim  any  personal  allusions, 
even  the  most  distant.  I  merely  mention  generally 
what  is  too  often  the  weakness  of  preceptors. 


In  life  just  gazed  at,  in  the  grave  forgot ; 
While  nought  divides  thee  from  the  vulgar 

dead 
Except  the  dull  cold  stone  that  hides  thy  head, 
The  mouldering  'scutcheon,  or  the  herald's 

roll, 
That  well-emblazoned  but  neglected  scroll, 
Where  lords,  unhonored,  in  the  tomb  may  find 
One  spot,  to  leave  a  worthless  name  behind. 
There  sleep,  unnoticed  as  the  gloomy  vaults 
That  veil  their  dust,  their  follies,  and  their 

faults, 
A  race,  with  old  armorial  lists  o'erspread, 
In  records  destined  never  to  be  read. 
Fain  would  I  view  thee,  with  prophetic  eyes, 
Exalted  more  among  the  good  and  wise, 
A  glorious  and  a  long  career  pursue, 
As  first  in  rank,  the  first  in  talent  too: 
Spurn  every  vice,  each  little  meanness  shun; 
Not  Fortune's  minion,  but  her  noblest  son. 

Turn  to  the  annals  of  a  former  day ; 
Bright  are  the  deeds  thine  earlier  sires  dis- 
play. 
One,  though  a  courtier,  lived  a  man  of  worth, 
And  called,  proud  boast !   the  British  drama 

forth.s 
Another  view,  not  less  renowned  for  wit ; 
Alike  for  courts,  and  camps,  or  senates  fit; 
Bold  in  the  field,  and  favored  by  the  Nine; 
In  every  splendid  part  ordained  to  shine; 
Far,    far    distinguished    from    the    glittering 

throng, 
The  pride  of  princes,  and  the  boast  of  song.4 
Such  were  thy  fathers ;    thus  preserve  their 

name; 
Not  heir  to  titles  only,  but  to  fame. 
The  hour  draws  nigh,  a  few  brief  days  will 

close, 
To  me,  this  little  scene  of  joys  and  woes  ; 
Each  knell  of  Time  now  warns  me  to  resign 
Shades  where  Hope,  Peace,  and  Friendship  ail 

were  mine : 
Hope,  that  could  vary  like  the  rainbow's  hue, 
And  gild  their  pinions  as  the  moments  flew ; 
Peace,  that  reflection  never  frowned  away, 
By  dreams  of  ill  to  cloud  some  future  day; 
Friendship,  whose  truth  let  childhood  only  tell -, 


3  ["  Thomas  Sackville,  Lord  Buckhurst,  created 
Earl  of  Dorset  by  James  I.,  was  one  of  the  earliest 
and  brightest  ornaments  to  the  poetry  of  his  coun- 
try,  and  the  first  who  produced  a  regular  drama." — • 
Anderson's  Poets. .] 

4  ["Charles  Sackville,  Earl  of  Dorset,  born  in 
1637,  and  died  in  1706,  esteemed  the  most  accom- 
plished man  of  his  day,  was  alike  distinguished  in 
the  voluptuous  court  of  Charles  II.  and  the  gloomy 
one  of  William  III.  He  behaved  with  great  gal- 
lantry in  the  sea-fight  with  the  Dutch  in  1665;  on 
the  day  previous  to  which  he  composed  his  cele- 
brated song,  '  To  all  you  Ladies  now  at  Land.' 
His  character  has  been  drawn  in  the  highest  colors 
by  Drvden,  Pope,  Prior,  and  Congreve."  —  Ander- 
son's Poets.\ 


11 


HOURS   OF  IDLENESS. 


Alas !  they  love  not  long,  who  love  so  well. 
To  these  adieu!  nor  let  me  linger  o'er 
Scenes  hailed,  as  exiles  hail  their  native  shore, 
Receding  slowly  through  the  dark-blue  deep, 
Beheld  by  eyes  that  mourn,  yet  cannot  weep. 
Dorset,  farewell !   I  will  not  ask  one  part 
Of  sad  remembrance  in  so  young  a  heart ; 
The  coming  morrow  from  thy  youthful  mind 
Will  sweep  my  name,  nor  leave  a  trace-  be- 
hind. 
And  yet,  perhaps,  in  some  maturer  year, 
Since  chance  has  thrown  us  in  the  self-same 

sphere, 
Since  the  same  senate,  nay,  the  same  debate, 
May  one  day  claim  our  suffrage  for  the  state, 
We  hence  may  meet,  and  pass  each  other 

by 
With  faint  regard,  or  cold  and  distant  eye. 
For  me,  in  future,  neither  friend  nor  foe, 
A  stranger  to  thyself,  thy  weal  or  woe, 
With  thee  no  more  again  I  hope  to  trace 
The  recollection  of  our  early  race; 
No  more,  as  once,  in  social  hours  rejoice, 
Or  hear,  unless  in  crowds,  thy  well-known 

voice : 
■Still,  if  the  wishes  of  a  heart  untaught 
To  veil   those   feelings   which    perchance    it 

ought, 
If    these,  —  but  let  me  cease  the  lengthened 

strain, — 
Oh  !  if  these  wishes  are  not  breathed  in  vain, 
The  guardian  seraph  who  directs  thy  fate 
Will   leave  thee  glorious,  as  he  found  thee 

great.l  l8os. 


FRAGMENT. 

WRITTEN  SHORTLY  AFTER  THE  MARRIAGE 
OF    MISS    CHAWORTH.2 

HILLS  of  Annesley,  bleak  and  barren, 
Where  my  thoughtless  childhood  strayed, 

How  the  northern  tempests,  warring, 
Howl  above  thy  tufted  shade  ! 

Now  no  more,  the  hours  beguiling, 

Former  favorite  haunts  I  see ; 
Now  no  more  my  Mary  smiling 

Makes  ye  seem  a  heaven  to  me.         1805. 


1  [I  have  just  been,  or  rather  ought  to  be,  very 
much  shocked  by  the  death  of  the  Duke  of  Dorset. 
We  were  at  school  together,  and  there  I  was  pas- 
sionately attached  to  him.  Since,  we  have  never 
met,  but  once,  I  think,  since  1805  —  and  it  would 
be  a  paltry  affectation  to  pretend  that  I  had  any 
feeling  for  him  worth  the  name.  But  there  was  a 
time  in  my  life  when  this  event  would  have  broken 
my  heart;  and  all  I  can  say  for  it  now  is.  that  —  it 
•s  not  worth  breaking.  —  Byron's  Letters,  1815.] 

a  [Miss  Chaworth  was  married  to  John  Musters, 
Esq.,  in  August,  1805.] 


GRANTA.    A  Medley. 

"Apyupeais  Aoy^aiai  jmd^ov,  Acai   navra  KpaTijreift 

Oh  !  could  Le  Sage's3  demon's  gift 

Be  realized  at  my  desire, 
This  night  my  trembling  form  he'd  lift 

To  place  it  on  St.  Mary's  spire. 

Then  would,  unroofed,  old  Granta's  halls 

Pedantic  inmates  full  display  ; 
Fellows  who  dream  on  lawn  or  stalls, 

The  price  of  venal  votes  to  pay. 

Then  would  I  view  each  rival  wight, 

Petty  and  Palmerston  survey ; 
Who  canvass  there  with  all  their  might, 

Against  the  next  elective  day.4 

Lo  !  candidates  and  voters  lie, 
All  lulled  in  sleep,  a  goodly  number : 

A  race  renowned  for  piety, 

Whose     conscience    won't     disturb    theii 
slumber. 

Lord  Hawke,  indeed,  may  not  demur; 

Fellows  are  sage  reflecting  men  : 
They  know  preferment  can  occur 

But  very  seldom,  —  now  and  then. 

They  know  the  Chancellor  has  got 

Some  pretty  livings  in  disposal : 
Each  hopes  that  one  may  be  his  lot, 

And  therefore  smiles  on  his  proposal. 

Now  from  the  soporific  scene 

I'll  turn  mine  eye,  as  night  grows  later. 
To  view,  unheeded  and  unseen, 

The  studious  sons  of  Alma  Mater. 

There,  in  apartments  small  and  damp, 
The  candidate  for  college  prizes 

Sits  poring  by  the  midnight  lamp; 
Goes  late  to  bed,  yet  early  rises. 

He  surely  well  deserves  to  gain  them, 
With  all  the  honors  of  his  college, 

Who,  striving  hardly  to  obtain  them, 
Thus  seeks  unprofitable  knowledge  ■ 

Who  sacrifices  hours  of  rest 

To  scan  precisely  metres  attic ; 
Or  agitates  his  anxious  breast 

In  solving  problems  mathematic 

Who  reads  false  quantities  in  Seale,- 
Or  puzzles  o'er  the  deep  triangle ; 


3  The  Diable  Boiteux  of  Le  Sage,  where  Asmo- 
deus,  the  demon,  places  Don  Cleofas  on  an  elevated 
situation,  and  unroofs  the  houses  for  inspection. 

4  [On  the  death  of  Mr.  Pitt,  in  January,  1806. 
Lord  Henry  Petty  and  Lord  Palmerston  were  can- 
didates to  represent  the  University  of  Cambridge 
in  Parliament.] 

•    5  Seale's  publication  on  Greek   Metres  displays 
considerable  talent  and  ingenuity,  but,  as  might  be 


HOURS   OF  IDLENESS. 


13 


Deprived  of  many  a  wholesome  meal ; 
In  barbarous  Latin  l  doomed  to  wrangle  : 

Renouncing  every  pleasing  page 

From  authors  of  historic  use  ; 
Preferring  to  the  lettered  sage, 

The  square  of  the  hypothenuse.2 

Still,  harmless  are  these  occupations, 
That  hurt  none  but  the  hapless  student, 

Compared  with  other  recreations, 
Which  bring  together  the  imprudent ; 

Whose  daring  revels  shock  the  sight, 
When  vice  and  infamy  combine, 

When  drunkenness  and  dice  invite, 
As  every  sense  is  steeped  in  wine. 

Not  so  the  methodistic  crew, 

Who  plans  of  reformation  lay  : 
In  humble  attitude  they  sue, 

And  for  the  sins  of  others  pray : 

Forgetting  that  their  pride  of  spirit, 

Their  exultation  in  their  trial, 
Detracts  most  largely  from  the  merit 

Of  all  their  boasted  self-denial. 

'Tis  morn  :  —  from  these  I  turn  my  sight. 

What  scene  is  this  which  meets  the  eye  ? 
A  numerous  crowd,  arrayed  in  white,3 

Across  the  green  in  numbers  fly. 

Loud  rings  in  air  the  chapel  bell ; 

'Tis  hushed: — what    sounds   are   these   I 
hear? 
The  organ's  soft  celestial  swell 

Rolls  deeply  on  the  listening  ear. 

To  this  is  joined  the  sacred  song, 
The  royal  minstrel's  hallowed  strain  ; 

Though  he  who  hears  the  music  long 
Will  never  wish  to  hear  again. 

Our  choir  would  scarcely  be  excused, 
Even  as  a  band  of  raw  beginners  ; 

All  mercy  now  must  be  refused 
To  such  a  set  of  croaking  sinners. 

If  David,  when  his  toils  were  ended, 
Had   heard  these  blockheads  sing  before 
him, 

To  us  his  psalms  had  ne'er  descended, — 
In  furious  mood  he  would  have  tore  'em. 

The  luckless  Israelites,  when  taken 
By  some  inhuman  tyrant's  order, 


expected  in  so  difficult  a  work,  is  not  remarkable 
for  accuracy. 

1  The  Latin  of  the  schools  is  of  the  canine  species, 
and  not  very  intelligible. 

2  The  discovery  of  Pythagoras,  that  the  square 
of  the  hypothenuse  is  equal  to  the  squares  of  the 
other  two  sides  of  a  right  angled  triangle. 

3  On  a  saint's  day,  the  students  wear  surplices  in 
chapel. 


Were  asked  to  sing,  by  joy  forsaken, 
On  Babylonian  river's  border. 

Oh !  had  they  sung  in  notes  like  these, 

Inspired  by  stratagem  or  fear, 
They  might  have  set  their  hearts  at  ease, 

The  devil  a  soul  had  stayed  to  hear. 

But  if  I  scribble  longer  now, 

The  deuce  a  soul  will  stay  to  read : 

My  pen  is  blunt,  my  ink  is  low ; 
'Tis  almost  time  to  stop,  indeed. 

Therefore,  farewell,  old  Granta's  spires  i 

No  more,  like  Cleofas,  I  fly ; 
No  more  thy  theme  my  muse  inspires  : 

The  reader's  tired,  and  so  am  I.        Igo0; 


ON  A  DISTANT  VIEW  OF  THE  VIL- 
LAGE AND  SCHOOL  OF  HARROW 
ON  THE  HILL. 

Oh!   mihi  praeteritos    referat   si  Jupiter   annos. 

Virgil. 

Ye   scenes   of  my  childhood,   whose    loved 
recollection 
Embitters  the  present,  compared  with  the 
past; 
Where  science  first  dawned  on  the  powers  of 
reflection, 
And  friendships  were  formed,  too  romantic 
to  last ; * 

Where  fancy  yet  joys  to  retrace  the  resem- 
blance 
Of  comrades,  in   friendship  and   mischief 
allied ; 
How  welcome  to  me  your  ne'er  fading  re- 
membrance, 
Which  rests  in  the  bosom,  though  hope  is 
denied ! 

Again  I  revisit  the  hills  where  we  sported, 
The   streams  where    we    swam,   and    the 
fields  where  we  fought ;  5 
The  school  where,  loud  warned  by  the  bell, 
we  resorted, 
To  pore  o'er  the  precepts  by  pedagogues 
taught. 

Again  I  behold  where  for  hours  I  have  pon- 
dered, 
As  reclining,  at  eve,  on  yon  tombstone  6  I 
lay; 


*  ["  My  school-friendships  were  with  mepassions 
(for  I  was  always  violent),  but  I  do  not  know  that 
there  is  one  which  has  endured  (to  be  sure  some 
have  been  cut  short  by  death)  till  now."  — Byron's 
Diary,  1821.] 

5  ["  At  Harrow  I  fought  my  way  very  fairly.  I 
think  I  lost  but  one  battle  out  of  seven." —  Ibid-~\ 

6  A  tomb  in  the  churchyard  at  Harrow  was  so 


14 


HOURS   OF  IDLENESS. 


Or  round  the  steep  brow  of  the  churchyard  I 
wandered, 
To  catch  the  last  gleam  of  the  sun's  setting 
ray. 

I  once  more  view  the  room,  with  spectators 
surrounded, 
Where,  as  Zanga,1  I  trod  on  Alonzo  o'er- 
thrown  ; 
While,  to  swell  my  young  pride,  such   ap- 
plauses resounded, 
I   fancied  that   Mossop  -  himself  was  out- 
shone : 

Or,  as  Lear,  I  poured  forth  the  deep  impre- 
cation, 
By  my  daughters,  of  kingdom  and  reason 
deprived  ; 
Till,  fired  by  loud  plaudits3  and  self-adulation, 
I  regarded  myself  as  a  Garrick  revived. 

Ye  dreams  of  my  boyhood,  how  much  I  re- 
gret you ! 
Unladed  your  memory  dwells  in  my  breast ; 
Though  sad  and  deserted,  I  ne'er  can  forget 
you: 
Your  pleasures  may  still  be  in  fancy  possest. 

To  Ida  full  oft  may  remembrance  restore  me, 
While  fate  shall  the  shades  of  the  future 
unroll ! 
Since  darkness  o'ershadows  the  prospect  be- 
fore me, 
More  dear  is  the  beam  of  the  past  to  my  soul. 

But  if,  through  the  course  of  the  years  which 
aw. lit  me, 
Some  new  scene  of  pleasure  should  open  to 
view, 
I  will  say,  while  with  rapture  the  thought  shall 
elate  me, 
"  Oh  !  such  were  the  days  which  my  infancy 
knew."  ,806. 


TO  M . 

Oh!  did  those  eyes,  instead  of  fire, 
With  bright  but  mild  affection  shine, 

Thowjpl  they  might  kindle  less  desire, 
Love,  more  than  mortal,  would  be  thine. 


well  known  to  be  his  favorite  resting-place,  that  the 
boys  called  it  "Byron's  Tomb;"  and  here,  they 
say,  he  used  to  sit  for  hours,  wrapt  up  in  thought.  — 
Moore .] 

1  [For  the  display  of  his  declamatory  powers,  on 
the  speech-days,  he  selected  always  the  most  vehe- 
ment passages ;  such  as  the  speech  of  Zanga  over 
the  body  of  Alonzo,  and  Lear's  address  to  the  storm. 
—  Moore.~\ 

2  Mossop,  a  contemporary  of  Garrick,  famous  for 
his  performance  of  Zanga. 

3  "My  grand  patron,  Dr.  Drury,  had  a  great 
notion  that  I  should  turn  out  an  orator,  from  my 


For  thou  art  formed  so  heavenly  fair, 
Howe'er  those  orbs  may  wildly  beam, 

We  must  admire,  but  still  despair; 
That  fatal  glance  forbids  esteem. 

When  Nature  stamped  thy  beauteous  birth, 
So  much  perfection  in  thee  shone, 

She  feared  that,  too  divine  for  earth, 
The  skies  might  claim  thee  for  their  own ' 

Therefore,  to  guard  her  dearest  work, 
Lest  angels  might  dispute  the  prize, 

She  bade  a  secret  lightning  lurk 
Within  those  once  celestial  eyes. 

These  might  the  boldest  sylph  appall, 
When  gleaming  with  meridian  blaze; 

Thy  beauty  must  enrapture  all ; 

But  who  can  dare  thine  ardent  gaze? 

'Tis  said  that  Berenice's  hair 

In  stars  adorns  the  vault  of  heaven  ; 

But  they  would  ne'er  permit  thee  there, 
Thou  wouldst  so  far  outshine  the  seven. 

For  did  those  eyes  as  planets  roll, 
Thy  sister-lights  would  scarce  appear  : 

E'en  suns,  which  systems  now  control, 
Would  twinkle  dimly  through  theii 

1 800. 


TO  WOMAN. 

Woman  !  experience  might  have  told  me 

That  all  must  love  thee  who  behold  thee : 

Surely  experience  might  have  taught 

I  hy  firmest  promises  are  nought ; 

But,  placed  in  all  thy  charms  before  me, 

All  I  forget,  but  to  adore  thee. 

Oh  memory !  thou  choicest  blessing 

When  joined  with  hope,  when  still  possessing; 

But  how  much  cursed  by  every  lover 

When  hope  is  fled  and  passion's  over. 

Woman,  that  fair  and  fond  deceiver, 

How  prompt  are  striplings  to  believe  her! 

HoWjthrobs  the  pulse  when  first  we  view 

The  eye  that  rolls  in  glossy  blue, 

Or  sparkles  black,  or  mildly  throws 

A  beam  from  under  hazel  brows  ! 

How  quick  we  credit  every  oath, 

And  hear  her  plight  the  willing  troth  ! 

Fondly  we  hope  'twill  last  for  aye, 

When,  lo!  she  changes  in  a  day. 

This  record  will  for  ever  stand, 

"  Woman,  thy  vows  are  traced  in  sand."5 


fluency,  my  turbulence,  my  voice,  my  copiousness 
of  declamation,  and  my  action."  —  Diary. 
4  "  Two  of  the  fairest  stars  in  all  the  heaven, 
Having  some  business,  do  intreat  her  eyes 
To  twinkle  in  their  spheres  till  they  return." 
Shaicsfeare. 
■  The  last  line  is  almost  a  literal  translation  from  i 
Spanish  proverb. 


HOURS   OF  IDLENESS. 


15 


TO  M.  S.  G. 
WHEN  I  dream  that  you  love  me,  you'll  surely 
forgive ; 
Extend  not  your  anger  to  sleep  ; 
For  in  visions  alone  your  affection  can  live, — 
I  rise,  and  it  leaves  me  to  weep. 

Then,  Morpheus!  envelop  my  faculties  fast, 
Shed  o'er  me  your  languor  benign  ; 

Should  the  dream  of  to-night  but  resemble  the 
last, 
What  rapture  celestial  is  mine ! 

rhey  tell  us  that  slumber,  the  sister  of  death, 

Mortality's  emblem  is  given ; 
To  fate  how  I  long  to  resign  my  frail  breath, 

If  this  be  a  foretaste  of  heaven  ! 

Ah !  frown  not,  sweet  lady,  unbend  your  soft 
brow, 

Nor  deem  me  too  happy  in  this ; 
If  I  sin  in  my  dream,  I  atone  for  it  now, 

Thus  doomed  but  to  gaze  upon  bliss. 

Though  in  visions,  sweet  lady,  perhaps  you 
may  smile, 
Oh  !  think  not  my  penance  deficient ! 
When  dreams  of  your  presence  my  slumbers 
beguile, 
To  awake  will  be  torture  sufficient. 


TO   MARY, 

ON   RECEIVING   HER   PICTURE.l 

THIS  faint  resemblance  of  thy  charms, 
Though  strong  as  mortal  art  could  give, 

My  constant  heart  of  fear  disarms, 
Revives  my  hopes,  and  bids  me  live. 

Here  I  can  trace  the  locks  of  gold 

Which  round  thy  snowy  forehead  wave, 

The  cheeks  which  sprung  from  beauty's  mould, 
The  lips  which  made  me  beauty's  slave. 

Here  I  can  trace  —  ah,  no  !  that  eye, 
Whose  azure  floats  in  liquid  fire, 

Must  all  the  painter's  art  defy, 
And  bid  him  from  the  task  retire. 

Here  I  behold  its  beauteous  hue ; 

But  where's  the  beam  so  sweetly  straying 
Which  gave  a  lustre  to  its  blue, 

Like  Luna  o'er  the  ocean  playing  ? 

Sweet  copy !  far  more  dear  to  me, 
Lifeless,  unfeeling  as  thou  art, 


1  [Of  this  "  Mary,"  who  is  not  to  be  confounded 
with  the  heiress  of  Annesley,  or  "  Mary  "  of  Aber- 
deen, all  I  can  record  is,  that  she  was  of  an  humble, 
if  not  equivocal,  station  in  life,  —  and  that  she  had 
long  light  golden  hair,  of  which  he  used  to  show  a 


Than  all  the  living  forms  could  be, 

Save  her  who  placed  thee  next  my  heart. 

She  placed  it,  sad,  with  needless  fear, 

Lest  time  might  shake  my  wavering  soul, 

Unconscious  that  her  image  there 
Held  every  sense  in  fast  control. 

Through  hours,  through  years,  through  time 
'twill  cheer; 

My  hope,  in  gloomy  moments,  raise ; 
In  life's  last  conflict  'twill  appear, 

And  meet  my  fond  expiring  gaze. 


TO   LESBIA. 

Lesbia!  since  far  from  you  I've  ranged, 
Our  souls  with  fond  affection  glow  not; 

You  say  'tis  I,  not  you,  have  changed, 
I'd  tell  you  why,  —  but  yet  I  know  not. 

Your  polished  brow  no  cares  have  crostr 
And,  Lesbia !  we  are  not  much  older 

Since,  trembling,  first  my  heart  I  lost. 
Or  told  my  love,  with  hope  grown  bolder. 

Sixteen  was  then  our  utmost  age, 

Two  years  have  lingering  past  away,  iove ! 
And  now  new  thoughts  our  minds  engage, 

At  least  I  feel  disposed  to  stray,  love  ! 

'Tis  I  that  am  alone  to  blame, 

I,  that  am  guilty  of  love's  treason ; 

Since  your  sweet  breast  is  still  the  same, 
Caprice  must  be  my  only  reason. 

I  do  not,  love !  suspect  your  truth, 
With  jealous  doubt  my  bosom  heaves  not 

Warm  was  the  passion  of  my  youth, 
One  trace  of  dark  deceit  it  leaves  not. 

No,  no,  my  flame  was  not  pretended  ; 

For,  oh  !  I  loved  you  most  sincerely ; 
And  —  though  our  dream  at  last  is  ended — ■ 

My  bosom  still  esteems  you  dearly. 

No  more  we  meet  in  yonder  bowers ; 

Absence  has  made  me  prone  to  roving ; 
But  older,  firmer  hearts  than  ours 

Have  found  monotony  in  loving. 

Your  cheek's  soft  bloom  is  unimpaired, 
New  beauties  still  are  daily  bright'ning, 

Your  eye  for  conquest  beams  prepared, 
The  forge  of  love's  resistless  lightning. 

Armed  thus,  to  make  their  bosoms  bleed, 
Many  will  throng  to  sigh  like  me,  love ! 

More  constant  they  may  prove,  indeed ; 
Fonder,  alas  !  they  ne'er  can  be,  love  ! 


lock  as  well  as  her  picture,  among  his  friends 
Moore.~i 


16 


HOURS   OF  IDLENESS. 


LINES  ADDRESSED   TO  A  YOUNG 
LADY. 

[As  the  author  was  discharging  his  pistols  in  a  gar- 
den, two  ladies  passing  near  the  spot  were  alarmed 
by  the  sound  of  a  bullet  hissing  near  them;  to  one 
•f  whom  the  following  stanzas  were  addressed  the 
next  morning.]  l 

Doubtless,  sweet  girl !  the  hissing  lead, 
Wafting  destruction  o'er  thy  charms, 
I     And  hurtling  o'er  thy  lovely  head, 
:         Has  filled  that  breast  with  fond  alarms. 

\     Surely  some  envious  demon's  force, 
Vexed  to  behold  such  beauty  here, 
Impelled  the  bullet's  viewless  course, 
Diverted  from  its  first  career. 

Yes  !  in  that  nearly  fatal  hour 

The  ball  obeyed  some  hell-born  guide ; 
But  Heaven,  with  interposing  power, 

In  pity  turned  the  death  aside. 

Yet,  as  perchance  one  trembling  tear 
Upon  that  thrilling  bosom  fell ; 

Which  I,  th'  unconscious  cause  of  fear, 
Extracted  from  its  glistening  cell : 

Say,  what  dire  penance  can  atone 
For  such  an  outrage  done  to  thee  ? 

Arraigned  before  thy  beauty's  throne, 
What  punishment  wilt  thou  decree? 

Might  I  perform  the  judge's  part, 
'I  lie  sentence  I  should  scarce  deplore; 

It  only  would  restore  a  heart 
Which  but  belonged  to  thee  before. 

The  least  atonement  I  can  make 

Is  to  become  no  longer  free ; 
Henceforth  I  breathe  but  for  thy  sake, 

Thou  shalt  be  all  in  all  to  me. 

But  thou,  perhaps,  may'st  now  reject 

Such  expiation  of  my  guilt : 
Come  then,  some  other  mode  elect; 

Let  it  be  death,  or  what  thou  wilt. 

Choose  then,  relentless !  and  I  swear 
Nought  shall  thy  dread  decree  prevent; 

Yet  hold  — one  little  word  forbear! 
Let  it  be  aught  but  banishment. 


LOVE'S   LAST  ADIEU. 

'Aei,  &'  aei  jae  $eiiyei.  —  AnaCREON. 

THE  roses  of  love  glad  the  garden  of  life, 
Though  nurtured  'mid  weeds  dropping  pes- 
tilent dew, 


1  [The  occurrence  took  place  at  Southwell,  and 
the  beautiful  lady  to  whom  the  lines  were  addressed 
was  Miss  Houson.l 


Till  time   crops  the  leaves  with  unmerciful 
knife, 
Or  prunes  them  for  ever,  in  love's  last  adieu ! 

In  vain  with  endearments  we  soothe  the  sad 

heart, 

In  vain  do  we  vow  for  an  age  to  be  true ; 

The  chance  of  an  hour  may  command  us  to 

part, 

Or  death  disunite  us  in  love's  last  adieu ! 

Still  Hope,  breathing  peace  through  the  grief- 
swollen  breast, 
Will  whisper,  "  Our  meeting  we  yet  may 
renew : " 
With  this  dream  of  deceit  half  our  sorrow's 
represt. 
Nor  taste  we  the  poison  of  love's  last  adieu ! 

Oh !  mark  you  yon  pair :  in  the  sunshine  oi 
youth 
Love   twined   round   their    childhood    his 
flowers  as  they  grew; 
They  flourish  awhile  in  the  season  of  truth, 
Till  chilled  by  the  winter  of  love's  last  adieu ! 

Sweet  lady !  why  thus  doth  a  tear  steal  its  way 
Down  a  cheek  which  outrivals  thy  bosom  in 
hue? 
Yet  why  do  I  ask  ?  —  to  distraction  a  prey 
Thy  reason  has  perished  with  love's  last 
adieu ! 

Oh  !  who  is  yon  misanthrope,  shunning  man- 
kind? 
From  cities  to  caves  of  the  forest  he  flew ; 
There,  raving,  he  howls  his  complaint  to  the 
wind ; 
The  mountains  reverberate  love's  last  adieu! 

Now  hate  rules  a  heart  which  in  love's  easy 
chains 
Once  passion's  tumultuous  blandishments 
knew ; 
Despair  now  inflames  the  dark  tide  of  his 
veins ; 
He  ponders  in  frenzy  on  love's  last  adieu  ! 

How  he  envies  the  wretch  with  a  soul  wrapt 
in  steel ! 
His  pleasures  are  scarce,  yet  his  troubles  are 
few, 
Who  laughs  at  the  pang  that  he  never  ca"  feel, 
And  dreads  not  the  anguish  of  love's  last 
adieu ! 

Youth  flies,  life  decays,  even  hope  is  o'ercast; 

No  more  with  love's  former  devotion  we  sue : 
He  spreads  his  young  wing,  he  retires  with 
the  blast ; 

The  shroud  of  affection  is  love's  last  adieu! 

In  this  life  of  probation  for  rapture  divine, 
Astrea  declares  that  some  penance  is  due.: 


HO  UBS   Ofi    IDLENESS. 


17 


From  him  who  has  worshipped  at  love's  gen- 
tle shrine, 
The  atonement  is  ample  in  love's  last  adieu  ! 

Who  kneels  to  the  god,  on  his  altar  of  light 
Must  myrtle  and  cypress  alternately  strew : 

His  myrtle,  an  emblem  of  purest  delight ; 
His  cypress  the  garland  of  love's  last  adieu ! 


DAM.ETAS. 

IN  law  an  infant, l  and  in  years  a  boy, 
In  mind  a  slave  to  every  vicious  joy; 
From  every  sense  of  shame  and  virtue  weaned ; 
In  lies  an  adept,  in  deceit  a  fiend; 
Versed  in  hypocrisy,  while  yet  a  child ; 
Fickle  as  wind,  of  inclinations  wild  ; 
Woman  his  dupe,  his  heedless  friend  a  tool ; 
Old  in  fhe  world,  though  scarcely  broke  from 

School ; 
Damsetac  ran  through  all  the  maze  of  sin, 
And  founr1  the  goal  when  others  just  begin  : 
Even  still  conflicting  passions  shake  his  soul, 
And  bid  him  drain  the  dregs  of  pleasure's 

bowl " 
But,  palled  w>th  vice,  he  breaks  his  former 

chain, 
And  what  was  once  his  bliss  appears  his  bane.2 


TO   MARION. 

Marion  !  why  that  pensive  brow? 
What  disgust  to  life  hast  thou? 
Change  that  discontented  air ; 
Frowns  become  not  one  so  fair. 
'.Tis  not  love  disturbs  thy  rest, 
Love's  a.  stranger  to  thy  breast ; 
He  in  dimpling  smiles  appears, 
Or  mourns  in  sweetly  timit  tears, 
Or  bends  the  languid  eyelid  down, 


1  In  law  every  person  is  an  infap*  who  has  not 
attained  the  age  of  twenty-one. 

2  ["  When  I  went  up  to  Trinity,  in  1805,  at  the 
age  of  seventeen  and  a  half,  I  was  miserable  and 
untoward  to  a  degree.  I  was  wretched  «t  leaving 
Harrow  — wretched  at  going  to  Cambridge  instead 
of  Oxford  —  wretched  from  some  private  domestic 
circumstances  of  different  kinds;  and,  consequently, 
about  as  unsocial  as  a  wolf  taken  from  the  troop." 
—  Diary.  Moore  adds,  "The  sort  of  life  which 
young  Byron  led  at  this  period,  between  the  dissi- 
pations of  London  and  of  Cambridge,  without  a 
home  to  welcome,  or  even  the  roof  of  a  single  rela- 
tive to  receive  him,  was  but  little  calculated  to  ren- 
der him  satisfied  either  with  himself  or  the  world- 
Unrestricted  as  he  was  by  deference  to  any  will  but 
his  own,  even  the  pleasures  to  which  he  was  natu' 
rally  most  inclined  prematurely  palled  upon  him, 
for  want  of  those  best  zests  of  all  enjoyment  —  rarity 
and  restraint."  Byron  evidently  meant  Damaetas 
for  \  portrait  of  himself.] 


But  shuns  the  cold  forbidding  frown. 

Then  resume  thy  former  fire, 

Some  will  love,  and  all  admire; 

While  that  icy  aspect  chills  us, 

Nought  but  cool  indifference  thrills  us. 

Wouldst  thou  wandering  hearts  beguile, 

Smile  at  least,  or  seem  to  smile. 

Eyes  like  thine  were  never  meant 

To  hide  their  orbs  in  dark  restraint ; 

Spite  of  all  thou  fain  wouldst  say, 

Still  in  truant  beams  they  play. 

Thy  lips  —  but  here  my  modest  Muse 

Her  impulse  chaste  must  needs  refuse: 

She  blushes,  curt'sies,  frowns,  —  in  short  she 

Dreads  lest  the  subject  should  transport  me  ; 

And  flying  off  in  search  of  reason, 

Brings  prudence  back  in  proper  season; 

All  I  shall  therefore  say  (whate'er 

I  think,  is  neither  here  nor  there) 

Is,  that  such  lips,  of  looks  endearing, 

Were  formed  for  better  things  than  sneerhig. 

Of  soothing  compliments  divested, 

Advice  at  least's  disinterested  ; 

Such  is  my  artless  song  to  thee, 

From  all  the  flow  of  flattery  free ; 

Counsel  like  mine  is  as  a  brother's, 

My  heart  is  given  to  some  others ; 

That  is  to  say,  unskilled  to  cozen, 

It  shares  itself  among  a  dozen. 

Marion,  adieu  !  oh,  pr'ythee  slight  not 

This  warning,  though  it  may  delight  not ; 

And,  lest  my  precepts  be  displeasing 

To  those  who  think  remonstrance  teasing. 

At  once  I'll  tell  thee  our  opinion 

Concerning  woman's  soft  dominion  : 

Howe'er  we  gaze  with  admiration 

On  eyes  of  blue  or  lips  carnation, 

Howe'er  the  flowing  locks  attract  us, 

Howe'er  those  beauties  may  distract  us, 

Still  fickle,  we  are  prone  to  rove, 

These  cannot  fix  our  souls  to  love : 

It  is  not  too  severe  a  stricture 

To  say  they  form  a  pretty  picture ; 

But  wouldst  thou  see  the  secret  chain 

Which  binds  us  in  your  humble  train, 

To  hail  you  queens  of  all  creation, 

Know,  in  a  word,  'tis  ANIMATION. 


TO  A   LADY 

WHO  PRESENTED  TO  THE  AUTHOR  A  LOCK 
OF  HAIR  BRAIDED  WITH  HIS  OWN,  ANP 
APPOINTED  A  NIGHT  IN  DECEMBER  TG 
MEET   HIM    IN   THE  GARDEN.3 

These  locks,  which  fondly  thus  entwine, 
In  firmer  chains  our  hearts  confine, 
Than  all  th'  unmeaning  protestations 
Which  swell  with  nonsense  love  orations. 


1  See  ante,  p.  15,  note. 


*8 


HOURS   OF  IDLENESS. 


Our  love  is  fixed,  I  think  we've  proved  it, 

Nor  time,  nor  place,  nor  art  have  moved  it ; 

Then  wherefore  should  we  sigh  and  whine, 

With  groundless  jealousy  repine, 

With  silly  whims  and  fancies  frantic, 

Merely  to  make  our  love  romantic  ? 

Why  should  you  weep  like  Lydia  Languish, 

And  fret  with  self-creaied  anguish? 

Or  doom  the  lover  you  have  chosen, 

On  winter  nights  to  sigh  half  frozen ; 

In  leafless  shades  to  sue  for  pardon, 

Only  because  the  scene's  a  garden? 

For  gardens  seem,  by  one  consent, 

Since  Shakspeare  set  the  precedent, 

Since  Juliet  first  declared  her  passion, 

To  form  the  place  of  assignation.1 

Oh  !  would  some  modern  muse  inspire, 

And  seat  her  by  a  sea-coal  fire ; 

Or  had  the  bard  at  Christmas  written, 

^nd  laid  the  scene  of  love  in  Britain, 

He  surely,  in  commiseration, 

Had  changed  the  place  of  declaration. 

In  Italy  I've  no  objection; 

Warm  nights  are  proper  for  reflection  ; 

But  here  our  climate  is  so  rigid, 

That  love  itself  is  rather  frigid : 

Think  on  our  chilly  situation, 

And  curb  this  rage  for  imitation; 

Then  let  us  meet,  as  oft  we've  done, 

Beneath  the  influence  of  the  sun; 

Or,  if  at  midnight  I  must  meet  you, 

Within  your  mansion  let  me  greet  you  : 

There  we  can  love  for  hours  together, 

Much  better,  in  such  snowy  weather, 

Than  placed  in  all  th'  Arcadian  groves 

That  ever  witnessed  rural  loves  ; 

Then,  if  my  passion  fail  to  please, 

Next  night  I'll  be  content  to  freeze  ; 

No  more  I'll  give  a  loose  to  laughter, 

But  curse  mv  fate  for  ever  after.2 


1  In  the  above  little  piece  the  author  has  been  ac- 
t«ised  by  some  candid  readers  of  introducing  the 
k^me  of  a  lady  from  whom  he  was  some  hundred 
miles  distant  at  the  time  this  was  written;  and  poor 
Juliet,  who  has  slept  so  long  in  "  the  tomb  of  all 
the  Capulets,"  has  been  converted,  with  a  trifling 
alte^tion  of  her  name,  into  an  English  damsel, 
walking  in  a  garden  of  their  own  creation,  during 
the  month  of  December,  in  a  village  where  the 
author  never  passed  a  winter.  Such  has  been  the 
candor  of  some  ingenious  critics.  We  would  advise 
these  liberal  commentators  on  taste  and  arbiters  of 
decorum  to  read  Shakspeare. 

-  Having  heard  that  a  very  severe  and  indelicate 
censure  has  been  passed  on  the  above  poem,  I  beg 
leave  to  reply  in  a  quotation  from  an  admired  work, 
"  Carr's  Stranger  in  France."  —  "  As  we  were  con- 
templating a  painting  on  a  large  scale,  in  which, 
among  other  figures,  is  the  uncovered  whole  length 
of  a  warrior,  a  prudish-looking  lady,  who  seemed  to 
have  touched  the  age  of  desperation,  after  having 
attentively  surveyed  it  through  her  glass,  observed 
to  her  party,  that  there  was  a  great  deal  of  indeco- 
rum in   that  picture.     Madame  S.  shrewdly  whis- 


OSCAR   OF  ALVA.8 
A  TALE. 

HOW  sweetly  shines  through  azure  skies. 
The  lamp  of  heaven  on  Lora's  shore ; 

Where  Alva's  hoary  turrets  rise, 
And  hear  the  din  of  arms  no  more. 

But  often  has  yon  rolling  moon 
On  Alva's  casques  of  silver  played; 

And  viewed,  at  midnight's  silent  noon, 
Her  chiefs  in  gleaming  mail  arrayed : 

And  on  the  crimsoned  rocks  beneath, 
Which  scowl  o'er  ocean's  sullen  flow, 

Pale  in  the  scattered  ranks  of  death, 
She  saw  the  gasping  warrior  low ; 

While  many  an  eye  which  ne'er  again 
Could  mark  the  rising  orb  of  day, 

Turned  feebly  from  the  gory  plain, 
Beheld  in  death  her  fading  ray. 

Once  to  those  eyes  the  lamp  of  Love, 
They  blest  her  dear  propitious  light; 

But  now  she  glimmered  from  above, 
A  sad,  funereal  torch  of  night. 

Faded  is  Alva's  noble  race, 
And  gray  her  towers  are  seen  afar; 

No  more  her  heroes  urge  the  chase, 
Or  roll  the  crimson  tide  of  war. 

But,  who  was  last  of  Alva's  clan  ? 

Why  grows  the  moss  on  Alva's  stone  ? 
Her  towers  resound  no  steps  of  man, 

They  echo  to  the  gale  alone. 

And  when  that  gale  is  fierce  and  high, 
A  sound  is  heard  in  yonder  hall ; 

It  rises  hoarsely  through  the  sky, 
And  vibrates  o'er  the  mouldering  wall 

Yes,  when  the  eddying  tempest  sighs, 
It  shakes  the  shield  of  Oscar  brave; 

But  there  no  more  his  banners  rise, 
No  more  his  plumes  of  sable  wave. 

Fair  shone  the  sun  on  Oscar's  birth. 
When  Angus  hailed  his  eldest  born  ; 

The  vassals  round  their  chieftain's  hearth 
Crowd  to  applaud  the  happy  morn. 

They  feast  upon  the  mountain  deer, 
The  pibroch  raised  its  piercing  note  ;  4 


pered  in  my  ear,  '  that  the  indecorum  was  in  the 
remark.' " 

3  The  catastrophe  of  this  tale  was  suggested  by 
the  story  of  "  Jeronyme  and  Lorenzo,"  in  the  first 
volume  of  Schiller's  "  Armenian,  or  the  Ghost- 
Seer."  It  also  bears  some  resemblance  to  a  scene 
in  the  third  act  of  "  Macbeth." 

*  [Byron  fahs  into  a  very  common  error,  that  o» 
mistaking  pib-  *.  k,  which  means  a  particular  sort 
of  tune,  for  th#  «j-*«r'ne»t  on  which  it  is  played,  th? 
bagpipe. 1 


HOURS    <*>*  fJLElVESS. 


19 


To  gladden  more  their  highland  cheer, 
The  strains  in  martial  numbers  float : 

And  they  who  heard  the  war-notes  wild 
Hoped  that  one  day  the  pibroch's  strain 

Should  play  before  the  hero's  child 
While  he  should  lead  the  tartan  train. 

Another  year  is  quickly  past, 

And  Angus  hails  another  son  ; 
His  natal  day  is  like  the  last, 

Nor  soon  the  jocund  feast  was  done. 

Taught  by  their  sire  to  bend  the  bow, 

On  Alva's  dusky  hills  of  wind, 
The  boys  in  childhood  chased  the  roe, 

And  left  their  hounds  in  speed  behind. 

But  ere  their  years  of  youth  are  o'er, 
They  mingle  in  the  ranks  of  war; 

They  lightly  wheel  the  bright  claymore, 
«4nd  send  the  whistling  arrow  far. 

/>£»rk  was  the  flow  of  Oscar's  hair, 
Wildly  it  streamed  along  the  gale ; 

■tort  Allan's  locks  were  bright  and  fair, 
And  pensive  seemed  his  cheek,  and  pale. 

^ut  Oscar  owned  a  hero's  soul, 

His  dark  eye  shone  through  beams  of  truth  ; 
<\llan  had  early  learned  control, 

And  smooth  his  words  had  been  from  youth. 

3oth,  both  were  brave;  the  Saxon  spear 
Was  shivered  oft  beneath  their  steel; 

And  Oscar's  bosom  icorned  to  fear, 
But  Oscar's  bosom  knew  to  feel ; 

While  Allan's  soul  belied  his  form, 
Unworthy  with  3'ich  charms  to  dwell : 

Keen  as  the  lightring  of  the  storm, 
On  foes  his  deadly  vengeance  fell. 

From  high  Soivfhannon's  distant  tower 
Arrived  a  young  and  noble  dame ; 

With  Kenne*h's  lands  to  form  her  dower, 
Glenalvon's  blue-eyed  daughter  came  ; 

And  Oscar  claimed  the  beauteous  bride, 
And  Angus  on  his  Oscar  smiled  : 

It  soothed  the  father's  feudal  pride 
Thus  to  obtain  Glenalvon's  child. 

Hark  to  the  pibroch's  pleasing  note ! 

Hark  to  the  swelling  nuptial  song; 
In  joyous  strains  the  voices  float, 

And  still  the  choral  peal  prolong. 

See  how  the  heroes'  blood-red  plumes 
Assembled  wave  in  Alva's  hall; 

Each  youth  his  varied  plaid  assumes, 
Attending  on  their  chieftain's  call. 

It  is  not  war  their  aid  demands, 

The  pibroch  plays  the  song  of  peace; 

To  Oscar's  nuptials  throng  the  bands, 
Nor  vet  the  sounds  of  pleasure  cease. 


But  where  is  Oscar  ?  sure  'tis  late  : 
Is  this  a  bridegroom's  ardent  flame  ? 

While  thronging  guests  and  ladies  wait, 
Nor  Oscar  nor  his  brother  came. 

At  length  young  Allan  joined  the  bride  : 
"  Why  comes  not  Oscar,"  Angus  said  : 

"  Is  he  not  here  ?  "  the  youth  replied ; 
"  With  me  he  roved  not  o'er  the  glade : 

"  Perchance,  forgetful  of  the  day, 
'Tis  his  to  chase  the  bounding  roe ; 

Or  ocean's  waves  prolong  his  stay; 
Yet  Oscar's  bark  is  seldom  slow." 

"  Oh,  no !  "  the  anguished  sire  rejoined, 
"  Nor  chase,  nor  wave,  my  boy  delay; 

Would  he  to  Mora  seem  unkind  ? 
Would  aught  to  her  impede  his  way  ? 

"  Oh,  search,  ye  chiefs  !  oh,  search  around ! 

Allan,  with  these  through  Alva  fly; 
Till  Oscar,  till  my  son  is  found, 

Haste,  haste,  nor  dare  attempt  reply." 

All  is  confusion  —  through  the  vale 
The  name  of  Oscar  hoarsely  rings, 

It  rises  on  the  murmuring  gale, 
Till  night  expands  her  dusky  wings ; 

It  breaks  the  stillness  of  the  night, 
But  echoes  through  her  shades  in  vain, 

It  sounds  through  morning's  misty  light, 
But  Oscar  comes  not  o'er  the  plain. 

Three  days,  three  sleepless  nights,  the  Chief 
For  Oscar  searched  each  mountain  cave ; 

Then  hope  is  lost;  in  boundless  grief, 
His  locks  in  gray-torn  ringlets  wave. 

"  Oscar !  my  son  !  —  thou  God  of  Heaven 
Restore  the  prop  of  sinking  age  ! 

Or  if  that  hope  no  more  is  given, 
Yield  his  assassin  to  my  rage. 

"Yes,  on  some  desert  rocky  shore 
My  Oscar's  whitened  bones  must  lie  ; 

Then  grant,  thou  God !  I  ask  no  more, 
With  him  his  frantic  sire  may  die  ! 

"  Yet  he  may  live,  —  away,  despair ! 

Be  calm,  my  soul !  he  yet  may  live ; 
T'  arraign  my  fate,  my  voice  forbear ! 

0  God  !  my  impious  prayer  forgive- 

"  What,  if  he  live  for  me  no  more, 

1  sink  forgotten  in  the  dust, 
The  hope  ot  Alva's  age  is  o'er : 

Alas  !  can  pangs  like  these  be  just  ?  " 

Thus  did  the  hapless  parent  mourn, 
Till  Time,  who  soothes  severest  woe, 

Had  bade  serenity  return, 
And  made  the  tear-drop  cease  to  (low, 

For  still  some  latent  hope  survived 
That  Oscar  might  once  more  appear; 


20 


HOURS   OF  IDLENESS. 


His  hope  now  drooped  and  now  revived, 
Till  Time  had  told  a  tedious  year. 

Days  rolled  along,  the  orb  of  light 
Again  had  run  his  destined  race ; 

No  Oscar  blessed  his  father's  sight, 
And  sorrow  left  a  fainter  trace. 

For  youthful  Allan  still  remained, 
And  now  his  father's  only  joy: 
•  \nd  Mora's  heart  was  quickly  gained, 
For  beauty  crowned  the  fair-haired  boy. 

•She  thought  that  Oscar  low  was  laid, 
And  Allan's  face  was  wondrous  fair; 

If  Oscar  lived,  some  other  maid 

Had  claimed  his  faithless  bosom's  care. 

And  Angus  said,  if  one  year  more 
In  fruitless  hope  was  passed  away, 

His  fondest  scruples  should  be  o'er, 
And  he  would  name  their  nuptial  day. 

Slow  rolled  the  moons,  but  blest  at  last 
Arrived  the  dearly  destined  morn; 

The  year  of  anxious  trembling  past, 
What  smiles  the  lovers'  cheeks  adorn ! 

Hark  to  the  pibroch's  pleasing  note! 

Hark  to  the  swelling  nuptial  song! 
In  joyous  strains  the  voices  float, 

And  still  the  choral  peal  prolong. 

Again  the  clan,  in  festive  crowd, 

Throng  through  the  gate  of  Alva's  hall ; 

The  sounds  of  mirth  reecho  loud, 
And  all  their  former  joy  recall. 

But  who  is  he,  whose  darkened  brow 
Glooms  in  the  midst  of  general  mirth  ? 

Before  his  eyes'  far  fiercer  glow 
The  blue  flames  curdle  o'er  the  hearth. 

Dark  is  the  robe  which  wraps  his  form, 

And  tall  his  plume  of  gory  red; 
His  voice  is  like  the  rising  storm, 

But  light  and  trackless  is  his  tread. 

'Tis  noon  of  night,  the  pledge  goes  round. 
The  bridegroom's  health  is  deeply  quaffed  ; 

With  shouts  the  vaulted  roofs  resound, 
And  all  combine  to  hail  the  draught 

Sudden  the  stranger-chief  arose. 

And  all  the  clamorous  crowd  are  hushed ; 
Ana  Angus'  cheek  with  wonder  glows, 

And  Mora's  tender  bosom  blushed. 

*  Old  man !  "  he  cried,  "  this  pledge  is  done  ; 

Thou  swjw'st  'twas  duly  drank  by  me  ; 
It  hailed  the  nuptials  of  thy  son  : 

Now  will  I  claim  a  pledge  from  thee. 

"  While  all  around  is  mirth  and  joy, 

To  bless  thy  Allan's  happy  lot, 
6ay,  had'st  thou  ne'er  another  boy  ? 

Say,  why  should  Oscar  be  forgot  ?  " 


"  Alas  !  "  the  hapless  sire  replied, 
The  big  tears  starting  as  he  spoke, 

"  When  Oscar  left  my  hall,  or  died. 
This  aged  heart  was  almost  broke. 

"  Thrice  has  the  earth  revolved  her  course 
Since  Oscar's  form  has  blest  my  sight; 

And  Allan  is  my  last  resource, 
Since  martial  Oscar's  death  or  flight." 

"  'Tis  well,"  replied  the  stranger  stern, 
And  fiercely  flashed  his  rolling  eye ; 

"  Thy  Oscar's  fate  I  fain  would  learn ; 
Perhaps  the  hero  did  not  die. 

"  Perchance,  if  those  whom  most  he  lovad 
Would  call,  thy  Oscar  might  return ; 

Perchance  the  chief  has  only  roved; 
For  him  thy  Beltane1  yet  may  burn. 

"  Fill  high  the  bowl  the  table  round, 

We  will  not  claim  the  pledge  by  stealth , 

With  wine  let  every  cup  be  crowned ; 
Pledge  me  departed  Oscar's  health." 

"  With  all  my  soul,"  old  Angus  said, 
And  filled  his  goblet  to  the  brim  ; 

"  Here's  to  my  boy !  alive  or  dead, 
I  ne'er  shall  find  a  son  like  him." 

"  Bravely,  old  man,  this  health  has  sped; 

But  why  does  Allan  trembling  stand  ? 
Come,  drink  remembrance  of  the  dead, 

And  raise  thy  cup  with  firmer  hand." 

The  crimson  glow  of  Allan's  face 
Was  turned  at  once  to  ghastly  hue ; 

The  drops  of  death  each  other  chase 
Adown  in  agonizing  dew. 

Thrice  did  he  raise  the  goblet  high, 
And  thrice  his  lips  refused  to  taste  ; 

For  thrice  he  caught  the  stranger's  eye 
On  his  with  deadly  fury  placed. 

"  And  is  it  thus  a  brother  hails 

A  brother's  fond  remembrance  here  ? 

If  thus  affection's  strength  prevails, 
What  might  we  not  expect  from  fear  ?  " 

Roused  by  the  sneer,  he  raised  the  bowl, 
"  Would  Oscar  now  could  share  our  mirth  5 ' 

Internal  fear  appalled  his  soul; 
He  said,  and  dashed  the  cup  to  earth, 

"  'Tis  he !  I  hear  my  murderer's  voice !  " 
Loud  shrieks  a  darkly  gleaming  form  ; 

"  A  murderer's  voice  !  "  the  roof  replies, 
And  deeply  swells  the  bursting  storm. 

The  tapers  wink,  the  chieftains  shrink, 
The  stranger's  gone,  —  amidst  the  crew 


1  Beltane  Tree,  a  Highland  festival  on  the  first 
of  May,  held  near  fires  lighted  for  the  occasion. 

[Beal-tain  means  the  fire  of  Baal,  and  th«.  tw.Tae 
still  preserves  the  primeval  origin  of  this  CJlte 
superstition.] 


HOURS   OF  IDLENESS. 


21 


A  form  was  seen  in  tartan  green, 
And  tall  the  shade  terrific  grew. 

His  waist  was  bound  with  a  broad  belt  round, 
His  plume  of  sable  streamed  on  high  ; 

But  his  breast  was  bare,  with  the  red  wounds 
there, 
And  fixed  was  the  glare  of  his  glassy  eye. 

And  thrice  he  smiled,  with  his  eye  so  wild, 
On  Angus  bending  low  the  knee ; 

And  thrice   he   frowned  on   a  chief  on  the 
ground, 
Whom  shivering  crowds  with  horror  see. 

The  bolts  loud  roll,  from  pole  to  pole, 
The  thunders  through  the  welkin  ring, 

And  the  gleaming  form,  through  the  mist  of  the 
storm, 
Was  borne  on  high  by  the  whirlwind's  wing. 

Cold  was  the  feast,  the  revel  ceased. 

Who  lies  upon  the  stony  floor  ? 
Oblivion  pressed  old  Angus'  breast, 

At  length  his  life-pulse  throbs  once  more. 

"  Away,  away !  let  the  leech  essay 
To  pour  the  light  on  Allan's  eyes  :  " 

His  sand  is  done,  —  his  race  is  run; 
Oh !  never  more  shall  Allan  rise ! 

But  Oscar's  breast  is  cold  as  clay, 

His  locks  are  lifted  by  the  gale ; 
And  Allan's  barbed  arrow  lay 

With  him  in  dark  Glentanar's  vale. 

And  whence  the  dreadful  stranger  came, 
Or  who,  no  mortal  wight  can  tell ; 

But  no  one  doubts  the  form  of  flame. 
For  Alva's  sons  knew  Oscar  well. 

Ambition  nerved  young  Allan's  hand, 
Exulting  demons  winged  his  dart; 

While  Envy  waved  her  burning  brand, 
And  poured  her  venom  round  his  heart. 

Swift  is  the  shaft  from  Allan's  bow ; 

Whose  streaming  life-blood  stains  his  side  ? 
Dark  Oscar's  sable  crest  is  low, 

The  dart  has  drunk  his  vital  tide. 

And  Mora's  eye  could  Allan  move, 
She  bade  his  wounded  pride  rebel ; 

Alas !  that  eyes  which  beam'd  with  love 
Should  urge  the  soul  to  deeds  of  hell. 

Lo !  seest  thou  not  a  lonely  tomb 
Which  rises  o'er  a  warrior  dead  ? 

It  glimmers  through  the  twilight  gloom  ; 
Oh !  that  is  Allan's  nuptial  bed. 

Far,  distant  far,  the  noble  grave 

Which  held  his  clan's  great  ashes  stood ; 
And  o'er  his  corse  no  banners  wave, 

For  they  were  stained  with  kindred  blood. 


What  minstrel  gray,  what  hoary  bard, 

Shall  Allan's  deeds  on  harp-strings  raise  ? 

The  song  is  glory's  chief  reward, 

But  who  can  strike  a  murderer's  praise  ? 

Unstrung,  untouched,  the  harp  must  stand, 
No  minstrel  dare  the  theme  awake  ; 

Guilt  would  benumb  his  palsied  hand, 

His  harp  in  shuddering  chords  would  breaiS, 

No  lyre  of  fame,  no  hallowed  verse, 
Shall  sound  his  glories  high  in  air: 

A  dying  father's  bitter  curse, 
A  brother's  death-groan  echoes  there. 


THE  EPISODE   OF    NISUS   AND 
EURYALUS. 

A  PARAPHRASE  FROM  THE  ^ENEID,  LIB.  IX. 

NlSUS  the  guardian  of  the  portal,  stood, 
Eager  to  gild  his  arms  with  hostile  blood ; 
Well  skilled  in  fight  the  quivering  lance  to 

wield, 
Or  pour  his  arrows  through  th'  embattled  field : 
From  Ida  torn,  he  left  his  sylvan  cave, 
And  sought  a  foreign  home,  a  distant  grave. 
To  watch  the  movements  of  the  Daunian  host, 
With  him  Euryalus  sustains  the  post ; 
No  lovelier  mien  adorned  the  ranks  of  Troy, 
And  beardless  bloom  yet  graced  the  gallant 

boy, 
Though  few  the  seasons  of  his  youthful  life, 
As  yet  a  novice  in  the  martial  strife, 
'Twas  his,  with  beauty,  valor's  gifts  to  share  — 
A  soul  heroic,  as  his  form  was  fair : 
These  burn  with  one  pure  flame  of  generous 

love ; 
In  peace,  in  war,  united  still  they  move ; 
Friendship  and  glory  form  their  joint  reward; 
And  now  combined  they  hold  their  nightly 

guard. 

"What  God,"  exclaimed  the  first,  "instils 
this  fire  ? 

Or,  in  itself  a  god,  what  great  desire  ? 

My  laboring  soul,  with  anxious  thought  op- 
pressed, 

Abhors  this  station  of  inglorious  rest ; 

The  love  of  fame  with  this  can  ill  accord, 

Be't  mine  to  seek  for  glory  with  my  sword. 

Seest  thou  yon  camp,  with  torches  twinkling 
dim, 

Where  drunken  slumbers  wrap  each  lazy 
limb  ? 

Where  confidence  and  ease  the  watch  disdain 

And  drowsy  Silence  holds  her  sable  reign  ? 

Then  hear  my  thought :  —  In  deep  and  sullen 
grief 

Our  troops  and  leaders  mourn  their  absent 
chief; 


tt 


HCVXS    CF  IDLENESS. 


Now  could  the  gifts  and  promised  prize  be 

thine 
(The  deed,  the  danger,  and  the  fame  be  mine) , 
Were  this  decreed,  beneath  yon  rising  mound, 
Methinks,  an  easy  path  perchance  were  found  ; 
Which  past,  I  speed  my  way  to  Pallas'  walls, 
And  lead  .Eneas  from  Evander's  halls." 

With  equal  ardor  fired,  and  warlike  joy, 
His  glowing  friend   addressed  the    Dardaa 

boy :  — 
"These  deeds,  my   Nisus,  shalt  thou  dare 

alone  ? 
Must  all  the  fame,  the  peril,  be  thine  own  ? 
Am  I  by  thee  despised,  and  left  afar, 
As  one  unfit  to  share  the  toils  of  war  ? 
Not  thus  his  son  the  great  Opheltes  taught; 
Not  thus  my  sire  in  Argive  combats  fought; 
Not  thus,  when  Dion  fell  by  heavenly  hate, 
I  tracked  /Eneas  through  the  walks  of  fate  : 
Thou  know'st  my  deeds,  my  breast  devoid  of 

fear, 
And  hostile  life-drops  dim  my  gory  spear. 
Here  is  a  soul  with  hope  immortal  burns, 
And  life,  ignoble  life,  for  glory  spurns. 
Fame,  fame   is   cheaply   earned  by  fleeting 

breath : 
The  price  of  honor  is  the  sleep  of  death." 

Then    Nisus,  —  "Calm   thy  bosom's   fond 
alarms : 
Thy  heart  beats  fiercely  to  the  din  of  arms. 
More  dear  thy  worth  and  valor  than  my  own, 
I  swear  by  him  who  fills  Olympus'  throne ! 
So  may  I  triumph,  as  I  speak  the  truth, 
And  clasp  again  the  comrade  of  my  youth  ! 
But  should  I  fall,  —  and  he  who  dares  advance 
Through    hostile    legions    must    abide    by 

chance, — 
If  some  Rutulian  arm,  with  adverse  blow, 
Should  lay  the  friend  who  ever  loved  thee  low, 
Live  thou ;   such  beauties  I  would  fain  pre- 
serve, » 
Thy  budding  years  a  lengthened  term  deserve. 
When  humbled  in  the  dust,  let  some  one  be, 
Whose  gentle  eyes  will  shed  one  tear  for  me  ; 
Whose  manly  arm  may  snatch  me  back  by 

force, 
Or  wealth  redeem  from  foes  my  captive  corse  ; 
Or,  if  my  destiny  these  last  deny, 
If  in  the  spoiler's  power  my  ashes  lie, 
Thy  pious  care  may  raise  a  simple  tomb, 
To  mark  thy  love,  and  signalize  my  doom. 
Why  should  thy  doting  wretched  mother  weep 
Her  only  boy,  reclined  in  endless  sleep? 
Who,  for  thy  sake,  the  tempest's  fury  dared, 
Who,  for  thy  sake,  war's  deadly  peril  shared; 
Who  braved  what  woman  never  braved  before, 
And  left  her  native  for  the  Latian  shore." 
"In  vain  you  damp  the  ardor  of  my  soul," 
Replied  Euryalus  ;  "  it  scorns  control ! 
Hence,  let  us  haste  I "  —  Their  brother  guards 
arose. 


Roused  by  their  call,  nor  court  again  repose; 
The  pair,  buoyed  up  on  Hope's  exulting  wing 
Their  stations  leave,  and  speed  to  seek  the 
king. 

Now  o'er  the  earth  a  solemn  stillness  ran, 
And  lulled  alike  the  cares  of  brute  and  man ; 
Save  where  the  Dardaa  leaders  nightly  hold 
Alternate  converse,  and  their  plans  unfold. 
Cn  one  great  point  the  council  are  agreed. 
An  instant  message  to  their  prince  decreed ; 
Each  leaned  upon  the  lance  he  well  could 

wield, 
And  poised  with  easy  arm  his  ancient  shield; 
When  Nisus  and  his  friend  their  leave  request 
To  offer  something  to  their  high  behest 
With  anxious  tremors,  yet  unawed  by  fear, 
The  faithful  pair  before  the  throne  appear: 
lulus  greets  them  ;  at  his  kind  command, 
The  elder  first  addressed  the  hoary  band. 

"  With  patience  "  (thus  Hyrtacides  began) 
"Attend,  nor  judge  from  youth  our  humble 

plan. 
Where  yonder  beacons  half  expiring  beam, 
Our  slumbering  foes  of  future  conquest  dream. 
Nor  heed  that  we  a  secret  path  have  traced. 
Between  the  ocean  and  the  portal  placed, 
Beneath  the  covert  of  the  blackening  smoke, 
Whose  shade  securely  our  design  will  cloak! 
If  you,  ye  chiefs,  and  fortune  will  allow, 
We'll  bend  our  course  to  yonder  mountain's 

brow, 
Where  Pallas'  walls  at  distance  meet  the  sight, 
Seen  o'er  the  glade,  when  not  obscured  by 

night: 
Then  shall  ^Eneas  in  his  pride  return. 
While  hostile  matrons  raise  their  offspring's 

urn; 
And  Latian  spoils  and  purpled  heaps  of  dead 
Shall  mark  the  havoc  of  our  hero's  tread. 
Such  is  our  purpose,  not  unknown  the  way ; 
Where  yonder  torrent's  devious  waters  stray, 
Oft  have  we  seen,  when  hunting  by  the  stream, 
The  distant  spires  above  the  valleys  gleam." 

Mature  in  years,  for  sober  wisdom  famed, 
Moved  by  the  speech,  Alethes  here  exclaimed, 
"  Ye  parent  gods  !  who  rule  the  fate  of  Troy, 
Still  dwells  the  Dardan  spirit  in  the  boy; 
When  minds  like  these  in  striplings  thus  ye 

raise, 
Yours  is  the  godlike  act,  be  yours  the  praise ; 
In  gallant  youth,  my  fainting  hopes  revive, 
And  Ilion's  wonted  glories  still  survive." 
Then  in  his  warm  embrace  the  boys  he  pressed, 
And,  quivering,  strained   them  to  his   aged 

breast ; 
With  tears  the  burning  cheek  of  each  bedewed, 
And,  sobbing,  thus  his  first  discourse  renewed  : 
"  What  gift,  my  countrymen,  what  martial  prize 
Can  we  bestow,  which  you  may  not  despise  ? 
Our  deities  the  first  best  boon  have  given  -^ 


HOURS  OF  ID  £& NESS. 


23 


Internal  virtues  are  the  gift  of  Heaven. 
What  poor  rewards  can  bless  your  deeds  on 

earth, 
Doubtless  await  such  young,  exalted  worth. 
/Eneas  and  Ascanius  shall  combine 
To  yield  applause  far,  far  surpassing  mine." 
lulus  then  :  —  "By  all  the  powers  above! 
By  those  Penates  who  ray  country  love ! 
By  hoary  Vesta's  sacred  fane,  I  swear, 
My  hopes  are  all  in  you,  ye  generous  pair! 
Restore  my  father  to  my  grateful  sight, 
And  all  my  sorrows  yield  to  one  delight. 
Nisus  !  two  silver  goblets  are  thine  own, 
Saved  from  Arisba's  stately  domes  o'erthrown! 
My  sire  secured  them  on  that  fatal  day, 
Nor  left  such  bowls  an  Argive  robber's  prey: 
Two  massy  tripods,  also,  shall  be  thine; 
Two  talents  polished  from  the  glittering  mine ; 
An  ancient  cup,  which  Tyrian  Dido  gave, 
While  yet  our  vessels  pressed  the  Punic  wave  : 
But  when   the  hostile  chiefs   at   length  bow 

down, 
When  great  /Eneas  wears  Hesperia's  crown, 
The  casque,  the  buckler,  and  the  fiery  steed 
Which  Turnus  guides  with  more  than  mortal 

speed, 
Are  thine ;  no  envious  lot  shall  then  be  cast, 
I  pledge  my  word,  irrevocably  past : 
Nay  more,  twelve  slaves,  and  twice  six  captive 

dames 
To  soothe   thy  softer  hours  with    amorous 

flames, 
And  all  the  realms  which  now  the  Latins  sway 
The  labors  of  to-night  shall  well  repay. 
But  thou,  my  generous  youth,  whose  tender 

years 
Are   near  my  own,  whose  worth  my  heart 

reveres, 
Henceforth  affection,  sweetly  thus  begun, 
Shall  join  our  bosoms  and  our  souls  in  one; 
Without  thy  aid,  no  glory  shall  be  mine ; 
Without  thy  dear  advice,  no  great  design  ; 
Alike  through  life  esteemtd,  thou  godlike  boy, 
In  war  my  bulwark,  and  in  peace  my  joy." 

To  him  Euryalus  :  —  "  No  day  shall  shame 
The  rising  glories  which  from  this  I  claim. 
Fortune  may  favor,  or  the  skies  may  frown, 
But  valor,  spite  of  fate,  obtains  renown. 
Yet,  ere  from  hence  our  eager  steps  depart, 
One  boon  I  beg,  the  nearest  to  my  heart : 
My  mother,  sprung  from  Priam's  royal  line, 
Like  thine  ennobled,  hardly  less  divine, 
Nor  Troy  nor  king  Acestes'  realms  restrain 
Her  feeble  age  from  dangers  of  the  main; 
Alone  she  came,  all  selfish  fears  above, 
A  bright  example  of  maternal  love. 
Unknown  the  secret  enterprise  I  brave, 
Lest  grief  should  bend  my  parent  to  the  grave  ; 
From  this  alone  no  fond  adieus  I  seek, 
No  fainting  mother's  lips  have  pressed  my 
cheek; 


By  gloomy  night  and  thy  right  hand  I  vow 
Her  parting  tears  would  shake  my  purpose 

now : 
Do  thou,  my  prince,  her  failing  age  sustain 
In  thee  her  much-loved  child  may  live  again 
Her  dying  hours  with  pious  conduct  bless, 
Assist  her  wants,  relieve  her  fond  distress  : 
So  dear  a  hope  must  all  my  soul  inflame, 
To  rise  in  glory,  or  to  fall  in  fame." 
Struck  with  a  filial  care  so  deeply  felt, 
In  tears  at  once  the  Trojan  warriors  melt: 
Faster  than  all,  lulus'  eyes  o'erflow ; 
Such  love  was  his,  and  such  had  been  his  woe 
"  All  thou  hast  asked,  receive,"  the  prince  re- 
plied ; 
"  Nor  this  alone,  but  many  a  gift  beside. 
To  cheer  thy  mother's  years  shall  be  my  aim 
Creusa's  1  style  but  wanting  to  the  dame. 
Fortune  an  adverse  wayward  course  may  run, 
But  bless'd  thy  mother  in  so  dear  a  son. 
Now,  by  my  life!  —  my  sire's   most  sacred 

oath  — 
To  thee  I  pledge  my  full,  my  firmest  troth, 
All  the  rewards  which  once  to  thee  were  vowed, 
If  thou  shouldst  fall,  on  her  shall  be  bestowed." 
Thus  spoke  the  weeping  prince,  then  forth  to 

view 
A  gleaming  falchion  from  the  sheath  he  drew; 
Lycaon's  utmost  skill  had  graced  the  steel, 
For  friends  to  envy  and  for  foes  to  feel : 
A  tawny  hide,  the  Moorish  lion's  spoil, 
Slain  'midst  the  forest,  in  the  hunter's  toil, 
Mnestheus  to  guard  the  elder  youth  bestows, 
And  old  Alethes'  casque  defends  his  brows. 
Armed,  thence  they  go,  while  all  th'  assembled 

train 
To  aid  their  cause,  implore  the  gods  in  vain. 
More  than  a  boy,  in  wisdom  and  in  grace, 
lulus  holds  amidst  the  chiefs  his  place: 
His  prayer  he  sends;  but  what  can  prayers 

avail, 
Lost  in  the  murmurs  of  the  sighing  gale ! 

The  trench  is  passed,  and,  favored  by  the 
night, 

Through  sleeping  foes  they  wheel  their  wary 
flight. 

When  shall  the  sleep  of  many  a  foe  be  o'er? 

Alas  !  some  slumber  who  shall  wake  no  more ! 

Chariots  and  bridles,  mixed  with  arms,  are 
seen; 

And  flowing  flasks,  and  scattered  troops  be- 
tween : 

Bacchus  and  Mars  to  rule  the  camp  combine ; 

A  mingled  chaos  this  of  war  and  wine. 

"  Now,"  cries  the  first,  "  for  deeds  of  blood 
prepare, 

With  me  the  conquest  and  the  labor  share : 

Here  lies  our  path;  lest  any  hand  arise, 


1  The  mother  of  lulus,  lost  on  the  night  whe» 
Troy  was  taken. 


z* 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 


Watch  thou,  while  many  a  dreaming  chieftain 

dies : 
I'll  sarve  our  passage  through  the  heedless  foe, 
And  clear  thy  road  with  many  a  deadly  blow." 
His  whispering  accents  then  the  youth   re- 
pressed, 
And  pierced  proud    Rhamnes   through   his 

panting  breast : 
Stretched  at  his  ease,  th'  incautious  king  re- 
posed ; 
Debauch,  and  not  fatigue,  his  eyes  had  closed  : 
To  Turnus  dear,  a  prophet  and  a  prince, 
His  omens  more  than  augur's  skill  evince  ; 
But  he,  who  thus  foretold  the  iate  of  all, 
Could  not  avert  his  own  untimely  fall. 
Next  Remus'  armor-bearer,  hapless,  fell, 
And  three  unhappy  slaves  the  carnage  swell ; 
The  charioteer  along  his  courser's  sides 
Expires,  the  steel  his  severed  neck  divides; 
And,  last,  his  lord  is  numbered  with  the  dead: 
Bounding  convulsive,  flies  the  gasping 
From  the  swollen  veins  the  blackening  tor- 
rents pour; 
Stained  is  the  couch  and  earth  with  clotting 

gore. 
Voung  Lamyrus  ami  Lamus  next  expire, 
And  gay  Serranus,  filled  with  youthful  tin- ; 
Half  the  long  nignt   in  childish  games  was 

passed ; 
Lulled  by  the  potent  grape,  he  slept  at  last : 
Ah  !  happier  far  had  he  the  morn  surveyed, 
And  till  Aurora's  dawn  his  skill  displayed. 

In  slaughtered   folds,  the   keepers  lost  in 

sleep, 
His  hungry  fangs  a  lion  thus  may  steep ; 
Mid  the  sad  flock,  at  dead  of  night  he  prowls, 
With  murder  glutted,  and  in  carnage  rolls : 
Insatiate    still,   through    teeming    herds   he 

roams ; 
In  seas  of  gore  the  lordly  tyrant  foams. 

Nor  less  the  other's  deadly  vengeance  came, 
But  falls  on  feeble  crowds  without  a  name ; 
His  wound  unconscious  Fadus  scarce  can  feel, 
Vet  wakeful  Rhaesus  sees  the  threatening  steel ; 
His  coward  breast  behind  a  jar  he  hides, 
And  vainly  in  the  weak  defence  confides ; 
Full  in  his  heart,  the  falchion  searched  his 

veins, 
The  reeking  weapon  bears  alternate  stains ; 
Through  wine   and   blood,  commingling  as 

they  flow, 
One  feeble  spirit  seeks  the  shades  below. 
Now  where  Messapus  dwelt  they  bend  their 

way, 
Whose  fires  emit  a  faint  and  trembling  ray; 
There,  unconfined,  behold  each  grazing  steed, 
Unwatched,  unheeded,  on  the  herbage  feed: 
3rave  Nisus  here  arrests  his  comrade's  arm, 
Too  flushed  with  carnage,  and  with  conquest 

warm- 


"  Hence  let  us  haste,  the  dangerous  padi  is 

passed ; 
Full  foes  enough  to-night  have  breathed  their 

last: 
Soon  will  the  day  those  eastern  clouds  adorn; 
Now  let  us  speed,  nor  tempt  the  rising  morn." 

What  silver  arms,  with  various  art  embossed, 
What  bowls  and  mantles  in  confusion  tossed, 
They  leave  regardless  !  yet  one  glittering  prize 
Attracts  the  younger  hero's  wandering  eyes  ; 
The  gilded  harness  Rhamnes'  coursers  felt. 
The  gems  which  stud  the  monarch's  golden 

belt 
This  from  the  pallid  corse  was  quickly  torn, 
Once  by  a  line  of  former  chieftains  worn. 
'Th'  exulting  boy  the  studded  girdle  wears, 
Messapus'  helm  his  head  in  triumph  bears ; 
Then  from  the  tents  their  cautious  steps  they 

bend, 
To  seek  the  vale  where  safer  paths  extend. 

Just  at  this  hour,  a  band  of  Latian  horse 
To    'Turnus'    camp    pursue    their    destined 

con : 
While  the  slow  foot  their  tardy  march  delay, 
The  knights,  impatient,  spur  along  the  way: 
Three  hundred  mail-clad  men,  by  Volscens  led, 
To  'Turnus  with  their  master's  promise  sped : 
Now  they  approach  the  trench,  and  view  the 

walls, 
Win  n",  on  the  left,  a  light  reflection  falls; 
The  plundered  helmet,  through  the  waning 

night, 
Sheds  forth  a  silver  ladiance,  glancing  bright. 
Volscens  with  question  loud  the  pair  alarms  :  — 
"  Stand,  stragglers  !  stand  !  why  early  thus  in 

arms  ? 
From  whence,  to  whom?" — He  meets  with 

no  reply : 
Trusting  the  covert  of  the  night,  they  fly : 
The  thicket's  depth  with  hurried  pace  they 

tread, 
While  round  the  wood  the  hostile  squadron 

spread. 

With  brakes  entangled,  scarce  a  path  be- 
tween, 
Dreary  and  dark  appears  the  sylvan  scene  : 
Euryalus  his  heavy  spoils  impede, 
The  boughs  and  winding  turns  his  steps  mis- 
lead; 
But  Nisus  scours  along  the  forest's  maze 
To  where  Latinus'  steeds  in  safety  graze, 
Then  backward  o'er  the  plain  his  eyes  extend, 
On  every  side  they  seek  his  absent  friend. 
"  O  God !  my  boy,"  he  cries,  "  of  me  bereft, 
In  what  impending  perils  art  thou  left !  " 
Listening  he  runs  —  above  the  waving  trees, 
Tumultuous  voices  swell  the  passing  breeze  ; 
The  war-cry  rises,  thundering  hoofs  around 
Wake  the  dark  echoes  of  the  trembling  ground. 


HOURS   OF  IDLENESS. 


Again  he  turns,  of  footsteps  hears  the  noise; 

The  sound  elates,  the  sight  his  hope  destroys : 

The  hapless  boy  a  ruffian  train  surround, 

While  lengthening  shades  his  weary  way  con- 
found. 

Him  with  loud  shouts  the  furious  knights  pur- 
sue. 

Struggling  in  vain,  a  captive  to  the  crew. 

What  can  his  friend  'gainst  thronging  num- 
bers dare  ? 

Ah !  must  he  rush,  his  comrade's  fate  to 
share  ? 

What  force,  what  aid,  what  stratagem  essay, 

Back  to  redeem  the  Latian  spoiler's  prey  ? 

His  life  a  votive  ransom  nobly  give, 

Or  die  with  him  for  whom  he  wished  to  live  ? 

Poising  with  strength  his  lifted  lance  on  high, 

On  Luna's  orb  he  cast  his  frenzied  eye :  — 

"  Goddess  serene,  transcending  every  star ! 

Queen  of  the  sky,  whose  beams  are  seen  afar ! 

By  night  heaven  owns  thy  sway,  by  day  the 
grove, 

When,  as  chaste  Dian,  here  thou  deign'st  to 
rove ; 

If  e'er  myself,  or  sire,  have  sought  to  grace 

Thine  altars  with  the  produce  of  the  chase, 

Speed,  speed  my  dart  to  pierce  yon  vaunting 
crowd, 

To  free  my  friend,  and  scatter  far  the  proud." 

Thus  having  said,  the  hissing  dart  he  flung ; 

Through  parted  shades  the  hurtling  weapon 
sung ; 

The  thirsty  point  in  Sulmo's  entrails  lay, 

Transfixed  his  heart,  and  stretched  him  on  the 
clay. 

He  sobs,  he  dies,  —  the  troop  in  wild  amaze, 

Unconscious  whence  the  death,  with  horror 
gaze. 

While  pale  they  stare,  through  Tagus'  temples 
riven, 

A  second  shaft  with  equal  force  is  driven. 

Fierce  Volscens  rolls  around  his  lowering 
eyes; 

Veiled  by  the  night,  secure  the  Trojan  lies. 

Burning  with  wrath,  he  viewed  his  soldiers 
fall. 

'Thou  vouth  accurst,  thy  life  shall  pay  for 
all ! '" 

Quick  from  the  sheath  his  flaming  glaive  he 
drew, 

And,  raging,  on  the  boy  defenceless  flew. 

Nisus  no  more  the  blackening  shade  conceals, 

Forth,  forth  he  starts,  and  all  his  love  reveals ; 

Aghast,  confused,  his  fears  to  madness  rise, 

And  pour  these  accents,  shrieking  as  he  flies  : 

"  Me,  me,  —  your  vengeance  hurl  on  me  alone  ; 

Here  sheathe  the  steel,  my  blood  is  all  your 
own. 

Ye  starry  spheres  /  thou  conscious  Heaven  ! 
attest ! 

He  could  not  —  durst  not  —  lo!  the  guile  con- 
fest! 


All,  all  was  mine,  —  his  early  fate  suspend; 
He  only  loved  too  well  his  napless  friend : 
Spare,  spare,  ye  chiefs !  from  him  your  rage 

remove, 
His  fault  was  friendship,  all  his  crime  was 

love." 
He  prayed  in  vain  ;  the  dark  assassin's  sword 
Pierced  the  fair  side,  the  snawy  bosom  gored ; 
Lowly  to  earth  inclines  his  plume-clad  crest, 
And  sanguine  torrents  mantle  o'er  his  breast : 
As  some  young  rose,  whose  blossom  scents 

the  air, 
Languid  in  death,  expires  beneath  the  share; 
Or  crimson  poppy,  sinking  with  the  shower, 
Declining  gently,  falls  a  fading  flower ; 
Thus  sweetly  drooping,  bends  his  lovely  head 
And  lingering  beauty  hovers  round  the  dead. 

But  fiery  Nisus  stems  the  battle's  tide, 
Revenge  his  leader,  and  despair  his  guide ; 
Volscens  he  seeks  amidst  the  gathering  host, 
Volscens  must  soon  appease  his   comrade's 

ghost ; 
Steel,  flashing,  pours  on  steel,  foe  crowds  on 

foe ; 
Rage  nerves  his  arm,  fate  gleams   in   every 

blow ; 
In  vain  beneath    unnumbered   wounds    he 

bleeds, 
Nor  wounds,   nor    death,   distracted    Nisus 

heeds ; 
In  viewless  circles  wheeled,  his  falchion  flies, 
Nor  quits  the  hero's  grasp  till  Volscens  dies ; 
Deep  in  his  throat  its  end  the  weapon  found, 
The  tyrant's  soul  fled  groaning  through  the 

wound. 
Thus  Nisus  all  his  fond  affection  proved — ■ 
Dying,  revenged  the  fate  of  him  he  loved ; 
Then  on  his  bosom  sought  his  wonted  place, 
And  death  was  heavenly  in  his  friend's  em- 
brace ! 

Celestial  pair !  if  aught  my  verse  can  claim, 
Wafted   on   Time's   broad   pinion,   yours   is 

fame ! 
Ages  on  ages  shall  your  fate  admire, 
No  future  day  shall  see  your  names  expire, 
While  stands  the  Capitol,  immortal  dome  ! 
And  vanquished  millions  hail  their  empress. 
Rome! 


TRANSLATION    FROM    THE    MEDEA 
OF  EURIPIDES. 

["EpioTes  virep  fxev  ayav,  k.  t.  A.] 

WHEN  fierce  conflicting  passions  urge 
The  breast  where  love  is  wont  to  glow, 

What  mind  can  stem  the  stormy  surge 
Which  rolls  the  tide  of  human  woe  ? 

The  hope  of  praise,  the  dread  of  shame, 
Can  rouse  tve  tortured  breast  no  jnorc 


86 


tiUUKS   or*'  PDLENESS. 


The  wild  desire,  the  guilty  flame, 
Absorbs  each  wish  it  felt  before. 

But  if  affection  gently  thrills 

The  soul  by  purer  dreams  possest, 
The  pleasing  balm  of  mortal  ills 

In  love  can  soothe  the  aching  breast : 
If  thus  thou  comest  in  disguise, 

Fair  Venus  !  "from  thy  native  heaven, 
What  heart  unfeeling  would  despise 

The  sweetest  boon  the  gods  have  given  ? 

But  never  from  thy  golden  bow 

May  I  beneath  the  shaft  expire ! 
Whose  creeping  venom,  sure  and  slow, 

Awakes  an  all-consuming  fire  : 
Ye  racking  doubts  !  ye  jealous  fears ! 

With  others  wage  internal  war ; 
Repentance,  source  of  future  tears, 

From  me  be  ever  distant  far! 

May  no  distracting  thoughts  destroy 

The  holy  calm  of  sacred  love  ! 
May  all  the  hours  be  winged  with  joy, 

Which  hover  faithful  hearts  above ! 
Fair  Venus  !  on  thy  myrtle  shrine 

May  I  with  some  fond  lover  sigh, 
Whose  heart  may  mingle  pure  with  mine  — 

With  me  to  live,  with  me  to  die! 

My  native  soil !  beloved  before, 

Now  dearer  as  my  peaceful  home, 
Ne'er  may  I  quit  thy  rocky  shore, 

A  hapless  banished  wretch  to  roam  ! 
This  very  day,  this  very  hour, 

May  I  resign  this  fleeting  breaih ! 
Nor  quit  my  silent  humble  bower ; 

A  doom  to  me  far  worse  than  death. 

Have  I  not  heard  the  exile's  sigh, 

And  seen  the  exile's  silent  tear, 
Through  distant  climes  condemned  to  fly, 

A  pensive  weary  wanderer  here  ? 
Ah  !  hapless  dame  !  1  no  sire  bewails, 

No  friend  thy  wretched  fate  deplores, 
No  kindred  voice  with  rapture  hails 

Thy  steps  within  a  stranger's  doors. 

Perish  the  fiend  whose  iron  heart, 

To  fair  affection's  truth  unknown, 
Bids  her  he  fondly  loved  depart, 

Unpitied,  helpless,  and  alone; 
Who  ne'er  unlocks  with  silver  key  2 

The  milder  treasures  of  his  soul, — 
May  such  a  friend  be  far  from  me, 

And  ocean's  storms  between  us  roll ! 


1  Medea,  who  accompanied  Jason  to  Corinth,  was 
deserted  by  him  for  the  daughter  of  Creon,  king  of 
that  city.  The  chorus  from  which  this  is  taken 
here  addresses  Medea;  though  a  considerable  lib- 
erty is  taken  with  the  original,  by  expanding  the 
idea,  as  also  in  some  other  parts  of  the  translation. 

2  The  original  is  "  Kaflapav  avoi^avri  K\fi&a 
£peiw;  "  literally  "disclosing  the  bright  key  of 
the  mind." 


THOUGHTS  SUGGESTED  BY  A  COL- 
LEGE   EXAMINATION. 

High  in  the  midst,  surrounded  by  his  peers, 
MAGNUS3  his  ample  front  sublime  uprears : 
Placed  on  his  chair  of  state,  he  seems  a  god, 
While  Sophs  and  Freshmen  tremble  at  his 

nod. 
As  all  around  sit  wrapt  in  speechless  gloom, 
His  voice  in  thunder  shakes  the  sounding 

dome 
Denouncing  dire  reproach  to  luckless  fools, 
Unskilled  to  plod  in  mathematic  rules. 

Happy  the  youth  in  Euclid's  axioms  tried, 
Though  little  versed  in  any  art  beside ; 
Who,  scarcely  skilled  an  English  line  to  pen, 
Scans  Attic  metres  with  a  critic's  ken. 
What,  though  he  knows  not  how  his  fathers 

bled, 
When    civil    discord    piled    the    fields   with 

dead, 
When    Edward   bade  his  conquering  bands 

advance, 
Or  Henry  trampled  on  the  crest  of  France  ; 
Though  marvelling  at  the   name  of  Magna 

Charta, 
Yet  well  he  recollects  the  laws  of  Sparta ; 
Can  tell  what  edicts  sage  Lycurgus  made, 
Wrhile  Blackstone's  on  the  shelf  neglected  laid  ; 
Of  Grecian  dramas  vaunts  the  deathless  fame, 
Of  Avon's  bard  remembering  scarce  the  name. 

Such  is  the  youth  whose  scientific  pate 
Class-honors,  medals,  fellowships,  await; 
Or  evenj  perhaps,  the  declamation  prize, 
If  to  such  glorious  height  he  lifts  his  eyes. 
But  lo !  no  common  orator  can  hope 
The  envied  silver  cup  within  his  scope. 
Not  that  our  heads  much  eloquence  require, 
Th'  Athenian's4  glowing  style,  or  Tully's 

fire. 
A  manner  clear  or  warm  is  useless,  since 
We  do  not  try  by  speaking  to  convince. 
Be  other  orators  of  pleasing  proud  : 
We  speak  to  please  ourselves,  not  move  the 

crowd : 
Our  gravity  prefers  the  muttering  tone, 
A  proper  mixture  of  the  squeak  and  groan: 
No  borrowed  grace  of  action  must  be  seen, 


3  No  reflection  is  here  intended  against  the  person 
mentioned  under  the  name  of  Magnus.  He  is 
merely  represented  as  performing  an  unavoidable 
function  of  his  office.  Indeed,  such  an  attempt 
could  only  recoil  upon  myself;  as  that  gentleman  is 
now  as  much  distinguished  by  his  eloquence,  and 
the  dignified  propriety  with  which  he  fills  his  situa- 
tion, as  he  was  in  his  younger  days  for  wit  and  con- 
viviality. 

[By  "  Magnus"  Byron  meant  Dr.  William  Lort 
Mansel,  Master  of  Trinity  College,  Cambridge,  and 
afterwards  Bishop  of  Bristol.     He  died  in  1820.I 

4  Demosthenes. 


HOURS   OF  IDLENESS. 


27 


The   slightest   motion  would    displease    the 

Dean ;  1 
Whilst  every  staring  graduate  would  prate 
Against  what  he  could  never  imitate. 

The  man  who  hopes  t'  obtain  the  promised 
cup 
Must  in  one  posture  stand,  and  ne'er  look  up ; 
Nor  stop,  but  rattle  over  every  word  — 
No  matter  what,  so  it  can  not  be  heard. 
Thus  let  him  hurry  on,  nor  think  to  rest : 
Who  speaks  the  fastest's  sure  to  speak  the 

best; 
Who  utters  most  within  the  shortest  space 
May  safely  hope  to  win  the  wordy  race. 

The  sons  of  science  these,  who,  thus  repaid, 
Linger  in  ease  in  Granta's  sluggish  shade ; 
Where  on  Cam's  sedgy  banks  supine  they  lie 
Unknown,  unhonored  live,  unwept  for  die : 
Dull  as  the  pictures  which  adorn  their  halls, 
They  think  all  learning  fixed  within  their  walls  : 
In  manners  rude,  in  foolish  forms  precise, 
All  modern  arts  affecting  to  despise, 
Yet  prizing  Bentley's,  Brunck's,  or  Porson's2 

note, 
More  than  the  verse  on  which  the  critic  wrote  : 
Vain  as  their  honors,  heavy  as  their  ale, 
Sad  as  their  wit,  and  tedious  as  their  tale ; 
To  friendship  dead,  though  not  untaught  to 

feel 
When  Self  and  Church  demand  a  bigot  zeal. 
With  eager  haste  they  court  the  lord  of  power, 
Whether  'tis  Pitt  or  Petty  rules  the  hour ; 3 


1  [In  most  colleges,  the  Fellow  who  superintends 
the  chapel  service  is  called  Dean.] 

-  The  present  Greek  professor  at  Trinity  College, 
Cambridge,  a  man  whose  powers  of  mind  and  writ- 
ings may,  perhaps,  justify  their  preference. 

.["  I  remember  to  have  seen  Porson  at  Cambridge, 
in  the  hall  of  our  college,  and  in  private  parties; 
and  I  never  can  recollect  him  except  as  drunk  or 
brutal,  and  generally  both:  I  mean  in  an  evening; 
for  in  the  hall,  he  dined  at  the  Dean's  table,  and  I 
at- the  Vice-master's; — and  he  then  and  there  ap- 
peared sober  in  his  demeanor;  but  I  have  seen  him, 
in  a  private  party  of  undergraduates,  take  up  a 
poker  to  them,  and  heard  him  use  language  as 
blackguard  as  his  action.  Of  all  the  disgusting 
brutes,  sulky,  abusive,  and  intolerable,  Porson  was 
the  most  bestial,  as  far  as  the  few  times  I  saw  him 
went.  He  was  tolerated  in  this  state  amongst  the 
young  men  for  his  talents;  as  the  Turks  think  a 
madman  inspired,  and  bear  with  him.  He  used  to 
recite,  or  rather  vomit,  pages  of  all  languages,  and 
could  hiccup  Greek  like  a  Helot:  and  certainly 
Sparta  never  shocked  her  children  with  a  grosser 
exhibition  than  this  man's  intoxication."  —  Byron's 
Letters,  1S18.] 

3  Since  this  was  written,  Lord  Henry  Petty  has 
lost  his  place,  and  subsequently  (I  had  almost  said 
consequently)  the  honor  of  representing  the  Uni- 
versity. A  fact  so  glaring  requires  no  comment. 
[Lord  Henry  Petty  became  in  2809  the  Marquess 
of  Lansdowne.] 


To  him,  with  suppliant  smiles,  they  bend  tha 

head, 
While  distant  mitres  to  their  eyes  are  spread. 
But  should  a  storm  o'erwhelm  him  with  dls 

grace, 
They'd  fly  to  seek  the  next  who  filled  his  place, 
Such  are  the  men  who  learning's  treasures 

guard ! 
Such  is  their  practice,  such  is  their  reward ! 
This  much,  at  least,  we  may  presume  to  say—= 
The  premium  can't  exceed  the  price  they  pay. 


TO  A   BEAUTIFUL  QUAKER. 

SWEET  girl !  though  only  once  we  met, 
That  meeting  I  shall  ne'er  forget ; 
And  though  we  ne'er  may  meet  again, 
Remembrance  will  thy  form  retain. 
I  would  not  say,  "  I  love,"  but  still 
My  senses  struggle  with  my  will : 
In  vain,  to  drive  thee  from  my  breast, 
My  thoughts  are  more  and  more  represt; 
In  vain  I  check  the  rising  sighs, 
Another  to  the  last  replies  : 
Perhaps  this  is  not  love,  but  yet 
Our  meeting  I  can  ne'er  forget. 

What  though  we  never  silence  broke, 

Our  eyes  a  sweeter  language  spoke ; 

The  tongue  in  flattering  falsehood  deals, 

And  tells  a  tale  it  never  feels  : 

Deceit  the  guilty  lips  impart ; 

And  hush  the  mandates  of  the  heart ; 

But  soul's  interpreters,  the  eyes, 

Spurn  such  restraint,  and  scorn  disguise. 

As  thus  our  glances  oft  conversed, 

And  all  our  bosoms  felt  rehearsed, 

No  spirit,  from  within,  reproved  us, 

Say  rather,  "  'twas  the  spirit  moved  us." 

Though  what  they  uttered  I  repress, 

Yet  I  conceive  thou'lt  partly  guess ; 

For  as  on  thee  my  memory  ponders, 

Perchance  to  me  thine  also  wanders. 

This  for  myself,  at  least,  I'll  say, 

Thy  form  appears  through  night,  through  da)r 

Awake,  with  it  my  fancy  teems ; 

In  sleep,  it  smiles  in  fleeting  dreams; 

The  vision  charms  the  hours  away, 

And  bids  me  curse  Aurora's  ray 

For  breaking  slumbers  of  delight, 

Which  make  me  wish  for  endless  night. 

Since,  oh  !  whate'er  my  future  fate, 

Shall  joy  or  woe  my  steps  await, 

Tempted  by  love,  by  storms  beset, 

Thine  image  I  can  ne'er  forget. 

Alas  !  again  no  more  we  meet, 
No  more  our  former  looks  repeat; 
Then  let  me  breathe  this  parting  prayer. 
The  dictate  of  my  bosom's  care : 


23 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 


"  May  Heaven  so  guard  my  lovely  quaker, 
That  anguish  never  can  o'ertake  her; 
That  peace  and  virtue  ne'er  forsake  her, 
But  bliss  be  aye  her  heart's  partaker ! 
Oh  !  may  the  happy  mortal,  fated 
To  be,  by  dearest  ties,  related, 
For  her  each  hour  new  joys  discover, 
And  lose  the  husband  in  the  lover! 
May  that  fair  bosom  never  know 
What  'tis  to  feel  the  restless  woe 
Which  stings  the  soul,  with  vain  regret, 
Of  him  who  never  can  forget!" 

1806. 


THE   CORNELIAN.* 

No  specious  splendor  of  this  stone 
Endears  it  to  my  memory  ever; 

With  lustre  only  once  it  shone, 
And  blushes  modest  as  the  giver. 

Some,  who  can  sneer  at  friendship's  ties, 
Have,  for  my  weakness,  oft  reproved  me; 

Yet  still  the  simple  gift  I  prize, — 
For  I  am  sure  the  giver  loved  me. 

He  offered  it  with  downcast  look, 
As  fearful  that  I  might  refuse  it; 

I  told  him  when  the  gift  I  took, 
My  only  fear  should  be  to  lose  it. 

This  pledge  attentively  I  viewed, 
And  sparkling  as  I  held  it  near, 

Methought  one  drop  the  stone  bedewed, 
And  ever  since  I've  loved  a  tear. 

Still,  to  adorn  his  humble  youth, 

Nor  wealth  nor  birth  their  treasures  yield; 
But  he  who  seeks  the  flowers  of  truth. 

Must  quit  the  garden  for  the  field. 

'Tis  not  the  plant  upreared  in  sloth, 

Which  beauty  shows,  and  sheds  perfume; 

The  flowers  which  yield  the  most  of  both 
In  Nature's  wild  luxuriance  bloom. 


Had  Fortune  aided  Nature's  care, 
For  once  forgetting  to  be  blind, 

His  would  have  been  an  ample  share, 
If  well  proportioned  to  his  mind. 

But  had  the  goddess  clearly  seen, 
His  form  had  fixed  her  fickle  breast; 

Her  countless  hoards  would  his  have  been, 
And  none  remained  to  give  the  rest. 


1  [The  cornelian  of  these  verses  was  given  to 
Byron  by  the  Cambridge  chorister,  Eddlestone, 
whose  musical  talents  first  introduced  him  to  the 
acquaintance  of  the  poet,  who  entertained  for  him  a 
sentiment  of  the  most  romantic  friendship. 

On  leaving  his  choir,  Eddlestone  entered  into  a 
mercantile  house  in  the  metropolis,  and  died  of  a 
consumption,  in  1811.     Byron  wrote  to  Mrs.  Pigot, 
of  Southwell,  on  hearing  of  his  death,  "  You  may 
remember  a  cornelian,  which  some  years  ago  I  con- 
signed to  Miss  Pigot,  indeed  gave  to  her,  and  nov.' 
I  am  about  to  make  the  most  selfish  and  rude  of  | 
requests.     The  person  who  gave  it  to  me,  when   I  | 
was  very  young,  is  dead,  and  though  a  long  time  [ 
has  elapsed  since  we  met,  as  it  was    the    only  me-  I 
morial  I  possessed  of  that  person  (in  whom  I  was  ' 
very  much  interested),  it  has  acquired  a  value  by 
this   event   I   could   have  wished   it   never   to   have 
borne  in  my  eyes.     If,  therefore,  Miss  Pigot  should 


AN   OCCASIONAL  PROLOGUE, 

DELIVERED  PREVIOUS  TO  THE  PERFORM- 
ANCE  OF  "  THE  WHEEL  OF  FORTUNE"  Al 
A  PRIVATE  THEATRE.3 

Since  the  refinement  of  this  polished  age 
Has  swept  immoral  raillery  from  the  stage; 
Since  taste  has  now  expunged  licentious  wit, 
Which  stamped  disgrace  on  all  an  author  writ ; 
Since  now  to  please  with  purest  scenes  we  seek, 
Nor  dare  to  call  the  blush  from  Beauty's  cheek ; 
Oh  !  let  the  modest  Muse  some  pity  claim, 
And  meet   indulgence,  though  she  find   not 

fame. 
Still,  not  for  her  alone  we  wish  respect, 
Others  appear  more  conscious  of  defect : 
To-night  no  veteran  Roscii  you  behold, 
In  all  the  arts  of  scenic  action  old ; 
No  Cooke,  no  Kemble,  can  salute  you  here, 
No  Sijdons  draw  the  sympathetic  tear; 
To-night  you  throng  to  witness  the  debut 
Of  embryo  actors,  to  the  Drama  new  : 
Here,  then,  our  almost  unfledged  wings  we  try; 
Clip  not  our  pinions  ere  the  birds  can  fly: 
Failing  in  this  our  first  attempt  to  soar, 
Drooping,  alas !  we  fall  to  rise  no  more. 
Not  one  poor  trembler  only  fear  betrays, 
Who  hopes,  yet  almost  dreads,  to  meet  your 

praise ; 
But  all  our  dramatis  persona;  wait 


have  preserved  it,  I  must,  under  these  circum- 
stances, beg  her  to  excuse  my  requesting  it  to  be 
transmitted  to  me,  and  I  will  replace  it  by  some- 
thing  she  may  remember  me  by  equally  well." 
The  cornelian  heart  was  returned  accordingly :  and, 
indeed,  Miss  Pigot  reminded  Byron  that  he  had  left 
it  with  her  as  a  deposit,  not  a  gift.] 

2  ["  When  I  was  a  youth,  I  was  reckoned  a  good 
actor.  Besides  Harrow  speeches,  in  which  I  shone, 
I  enacted  Penruddock,  in  the  '  Wheel  of  Fortune,' 
and  Tristram  Fickle,  in  the  farce  of  '  The  Weather- 
cock,' for  three  nights,  in  some  private  theatricals 
at  Southwell,  in  1S06,  with  great  applause.  The 
occasional  prologue  for  our  volunteer  play  was  also  of 
my  composition.  The  other  performers  were  young 
ladies  and  gentlemen  of  the  neighborhood;  and  <he 
whole  went  off  with  great  effect  upon  our  good- 
natured  audience." —  Byron's  Diary,  1821.  This 
prologue  was  written  by  the  young  poet,  between 
stages,  on  his  way  from  Harrowgate.  On  getting 
into  the  carriage  at  Chesterfield  he  said  to  his  com- 
panion, "  Now,  Pigot,  I'll  spin  a  prologue  for  out 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 


*e 


fn  fond  suspense  this  crisis  ot  their  fate. 
No  venal  views  our  progress  can  retard, 
Your  generous  plaudits  are  our  sole  reward. 
For  these,  each  Hero  all  his  power  displays, 
Each  timid  Heroine  shrinks  before  your  gaze. 
Surely  the  last  will  some  protection  find ; 
None  to  the  softer  sex  can  prove  unkind : 
While  Youth   and   Beauty   form   the  female 

shield, 
The  sternest  censor  to  the  fair  must  yield. 
Vet,  should  our  feeble  efforts  nought  avail, 
Should,  after  all,  our  best  endeavors  fail, 
Still  let  some  mercy  in  your  bosoms  live, 
And,  if  you  can't  applaud,  at  least  forgive. 


ON   THE   DEATH   OF   MR.  FOX, 

THE     FOLLOWING     ILLIBERAL    IMPROMPTU 
APPEARED    IN   A   MORNING   PAPER. 

"  Our  nation's  foes  lament  on  Fox's  death, 
But  bless  the  hour  when  PlTT  resigned  his 

breath  : 
These  feelings  wide,  let  sense  and  truth  unclue, 
We  give  the  palm  where  Justice  points  its 

due." 

TO  WHICH  THE  AUTHOR  OF  THESE  PIECES 
SENT  THE  FOLLOWING  REPLY. 

Oh  factious  viper !  whose  envenomed  tooth 
Would  mangle  still  the  dead,  perverting  truth  ; 
What  though  our  "  nation's  foes  "  lament  the 

fate, 
With  generous  feeling,  of  the  good  and  great, 
Shall  dastard  tongues  essay  to  blast  the  name 
Of  him  whose  meed  exists  in  endless  fame? 
When  Pitt  expired  in  plenitude  of  power, 
Though  ill  success  obscured  his  dying  hour, 
Pity  her  dewy  wings  before  him  spread, 
For  noble  spirits  "  war  not  with  the  dead : " 
His  friends,  in  tears,  a  last  sad  requiem  gave, 
As  all  his  errors  slumbered  in  the  grave ; 
He  sunk,  an  Atlas  bending  'neath  the  weight 
Of  cares  o'erwhelming  our  conflicting  state  : 
When,  lo  !  a  Hercules  in  Fox  appeared, 
Who  for  a  time  the  ruined  fabric  reared : 
He,  too,  is  fallen,  who  Britain's  loss  supplied, 
With  him  our  fast-reviving  hopes  have  died  ; 
Not  one  great  people  only  raise  his  urn, 
All  Europe's  far-extended  regions  mourn. 
"  These   feelings   wide,   let  sense   and   truth 

unclue, 
To  give  the  palm  where  Justice  points  its 

due;" 


play;"  and  before  they  reached  Mansfield  he  had 
completed  his  task,  —  interrupting,  only  once,  his 
rhyming  reverie,  to  ask  the  proper  pronunciation  of 
the  French  word  "debut"  and,  on  being  answered 
(not,  it  would  seem,  very  correctly),  exclaiming, 
:*  Ay,  that  will  do  for  rhyme  to  '  new' "  —  Meorg.\ 


Yet  let  not  cankered  Calumny  assail, 

Or  round   our  statesmen  wind   her  gloomy 

veil. 
Fox !   o'er  whose   corse   a  mourning  world 

must  weep, 
Whose  dear  remains  in  honored  marble  sleep ; 
For  whom,  at  last,  e'en  hostile  nations  groan, 
While  friends  and  foes  alike  his  talents  own* 
Fox  shall  in  Britain's  future  annals  shine, 
Nor  e'en  to  PlTr  the  patriot's  palm  resign ; 
Which  Envy,  wearing  Candor's  sacred  mask 
For  PlTT,  and  Pitt  alone,  has  dared  to  ask.' 


THE  TEAR. 

"  O  lachrymarum  fons,  tenero  sacros 
Ducentium  ortus  ex  animo!  quater 
Felix,  in  imo  qui  scatentem 
Pectore  te,  pia  Nympha,  sensit."  —  Gray. 

WHEN  Friendship  or  Love  our  sympathies 
move, 

When  Truth  in  a  glance  should  appear, 
The  lips  may  beguile  with  a  dimple  or  smile, 

But  the  test  of  affection's  a  Tear. 

Too  oft  is  a  smile  but  the  hypocrite's  wile, 

To  mask  detestation  or  fear; 
Give  me  the  soft  sigh,  whilst  the  soul-telling 
eye 

Is  dimmed  for  a  time  with  a  Tear. 

Mild  Charity's  glow,  to  us  mortals  below, 
Shows  the  soul  from  barbarity  clear ; 

Compassion  will  melt  where  this  virtue  is  felt, 
And  its  dew  is  diffused  in  a  Tear. 

The  man  doomed  to  sail  with  the  blast  of  the 
gale, 
Through  billows  Atlantic  to  steer, 
As  he  bends  o'er  the  wave  which  may  soon  be 
his  grave, 
The  green  sparkles  bright  with  a  Tear. 

The  soldier  braves  death  for  a  fanciful  wreath 

In  Glory's  romantic  career; 
But  he  raises  the  foe  when  in  battle  laid  low, 

And  bathes  every  wound  with  a  Tear. 

If  with  high-bounding  pride  he  return  to  his 
bride, 
Renouncing  the  gore-crimsoned  spear, 
All  his  toils  are  repaid  when,  embracing  the 
maid, 
From  her  eyelid  he  kisses  the  Tear. 

Sweet  scene  of  my  youth  !  2  seat  of  Friendship 
and  Truth, 
Where  love  chased  each  fast-fleeting  year, 


1  [The  "  illiberal  impromptu "  appeared  in  the 
Morning  Post  and  Byron's  "  reply"  in  the  Morning 
Chronicle.] 

2  Harrow. 


JC 


HOURS   OF  IDLENESS. 


Loth  to  leave  thee,  I  mourned,  for  a  last  look 
I  turned, 
But  thy  spire  was  scarce  seen  through  a 
Tear. 

Though  my  vows  I  can  pour  to  my  Mary  no 
more, 
My  Mary  to  Love  once  so  dear, 
In  the  shade  of  her  bower  I  remember  the 
hour 
She  rewarded  those  vows  with  a  Tear. 

By  another  possest,  may  she  live  ever  blest ! 

Her  name  still  my  heart  must  revere: 
With  a  sigh  I  resign  what  I  once  thought  was 
mine, 

And  forgive  her  deceit  with  a  Tear. 

Ye  friends  of  my  heart,  ere  from  you  I  depart, 
This  hope  to  my  breast  is  most  near : 

If  again  we  shall  meet  in  this  rural  retreat, 
May  we  meet,  as  we  part,  with  a  Tear. 

When  my  soul  wings  her  flight  to  the  regions 
of  night, 
And  my  corse  shall  recline  on  its  bier, 
As  ye  pass  by  the  tomb  where  my  ashes  con- 
sume, 
Oh  !  moisten  their  dust  with  a  Tear. 

May  no  marble  bestow  the  splendor  of  woe 
Which  the  children  of  vanity  rear; 

No  fiction  of  fame  shall  blazon  my  name, 
All  I  ask  —  all  I  wish  —  is  a  Tear. 

October  26,  1806. 


REPLY 

TO  SOME  VERSES  OF  J.  M.  B.  PIGOT,  ESQ.,  ON 
THE  CRUELTY  OF  HIS  MISTRESS. 

Why,  Pigot,  complain  of  this  damsel's  dis- 
dain, 
Why  thus  in  despair  do  you  fret  ? 
For  months  you  may  try,  yet,  believe  me,  a 
sigh 
Will  never  obtain  a  coquette. 

Would  you  teach  her  to  love  ?  for  a  time  seem 
to  rove; 

At  first  she  may  frown  in  a  pet; 
But  leave  her  awhile,  she  shortly  will  smile, 

And  then  you  may  kiss  your  coquette. 

For  such  are  the  airs  of  these  fanciful  fairs, 
They  think  all  our  homage  a  debt : 

Yet  a  partial  neglect  soon  takes  an  effect, 
And  humbles  the  proudest  coquette. 

Dissemble  your  pain,  and  lengthen  your  chain, 
And  seem  her  hauteur  to  regret ; 

If  again  you  shall  sigh,  she  no  more  will  deny 
That  yours  is  the  rosy  coquette. 


If  still,  from  false  pride,  your  pangs  she  deride, 

This  whimsical  virgin  forget ; 
Some  other  admire,  who  will  melt  with  your 
fire, 

And  laugh  at  the  little  coquette. 

For  me,  I  adore  some  twenty  or  more, 
And  love  them  most  dearly ;  but  yet, 

Though  my  heart  they  enthrall,  I'd  abandon 
them  all, 
Did  they  act  like  your  blooming  coquette 

No  longer  repine,  adopt  this  design, 
And  break  through  her  slight-woven  net; 

Away  with  despair,  no  longer  forbear 
To  fly  from  the  captious  coquette. 

Then  quit  her,  my  friend  !  your  bosom  defend, 

Ere  quite  with  her  snares  you're  beset : 
Lest  your  deep-wounded  heart,  when  incensed 
by  the  smart, 
Should  lead  you  to  curse  the  coquette. 

October  27,  1806. 


TO   THE  SIGHING   STREPHON. 

YOUR  pardon,  my  friend,  if  my  rhymes  did 
offend, 
Your  pardon,  a  thousand  times  o'er; 
From  friendship  I  strove  your  pangs  to  re- 
move, 
But  Lswear  I  will  do  so  no  more. 

Since  your  beautiful   maid  your  flame   has 
repaid, 

No  more  I  your  folly  regret ; 
She's  now  most  divine,  and  I  bow  at  the  shrine 

Of  this  quickly  reformed  coquette. 

Yet  still,  I  must  own,  I  should  never  have 
known 
From  your  verses,  what  else  she  deserved ; 
Your  pain  seemed  so  great,  I  pitied  your  fate 

As  your  fair  was  so  devilish  reserved. 

Since  the  balm-breathing  kiss  of  this  magical 
miss 
Can  such  wonderful  transports  produce ; 
Since  the  "  world  you  forget,  when  your  lips 
once  have  met," 
My  counsel  will  get  but  abuse. 

You  say,  when  "  I  rove,  I  know  nothing  ol 
love ;  " 
'Tis  true,  I  am  given  to  range : 
If  I    rightly  remember,    I've   loved   a  good 
number, 
Yet  there's  pleasure,  at  least,  in  a  change. 

I  will  not  advance,  by  the  rules  of  romance, 

To  humor  a  whimsical  fair  ; 
Though  a  smile  may  delight,  yet  a  frown  won't 
affright, 

Or  drive  me  to  dreadful  despair. 


HOURS   OF  IDLENESS. 


While  my  blood  is  thus  warm  I  ne'er  shall 
reform, 

To  mix  in  the  Platonists'  school ; 
Of  this  I  am  sure,  was  my  passion  so  pure, 

Thy  mistress  would  think  me  a  fool. 

And  if  I  should  shun  every  woman  for  one, 
Whose  image  must  fill  my  whole  breast  — 

Whom  I  must  prefer,  and  sigh  but  for  her — 
What  an  insult  'twould  be  to  the  rest ! 

Now,  Strephon,  good  bye;  I  cannot  deny 
Your  passion  appears  most  absurd ; 

Such  love  as  you  plead  is  pure  love  indeed, 
For  it  only  consists  in  the  word. 


TO   ELIZA,  l 

ELIZA,  what  fools  are  the  Mussulman  sect, 
Who  to  woman  deny  the  soul's  future  exist- 
ence ; 
Could  they  see  thee,  Eliza,  they'd  own  their 
defect, 
And  this  doctrine  would  meet  with  a  general 
resistance. 

Had  their  prophet  possessed  half  an  atom  of 
sense, 
He  ne'er  would  have  women  from  paradise 
driven ; 
Instead  of  his  houris,  a  flimsy  pretence, 
With  women   alone   he   had   peopled   his 
heaven. 

Yet  still,  to  increase  your  calamities  more, 
Not  content  with  depriving  your  bodies  of 
spirit, 
He  allots  one  poor  husband  to  share  amongst 
four !  — 
With  souls  you'd  dispense ;   but  this   last, 
who  could  bear  it  ? 

His  religion  to  please  neither  party  is  made ; 
On  husbands  'tis  hard,  to  the  wives  most 
uncivil ; 
Still  I  can't  contradict,  what  so  oft  has  been 
said, 
"  Though  women  are  angels,  yet  wedlock's 
the  devil." 


LACHIN   Y   GAIR.2 

Away,  ye  gay  landscapes,  ye  gardens  of  roses ! 

In  you  let  the  minions  of  luxury  rove  ; 
Restore  me  the  rocks,  where  the  snow-flake 
reposes, 


1  [Miss  Elizabeth  Pigot,  of  Southwell,  to  whom 
several  of  Byron's  earliest  letters  were  addressed.] 

2  Lachin  y  Gair,  or,  as  it  is  pronounced  in  the 
Erse,  Loch  na  Garr,  towers  proudly  preeminent  in 
the  Northern  Highlands  near  Invercauld.     One  of 


Though  still  they  are  sacred  to  freedom  and 
love ; 
Yet,  Caledonia,  beloved  are  thy  mountains, 
Round  their  white  summits  though  elements 
war; 
Though  cataracts  foam  "stead  of  smooth-flow- 
ing fountains, 
I  sigh  for  the  valley  of  dark  Loch  na  Garr. 

Ah !    there   my  young  footsteps   in   infancy 
wandered ; 
My  cap  was  the  bonnet,  my  cloak  was  the 
plaid ; 3  ^ 

On  chieftains  long  perished  my  memory,  pon- 
dered, 
As  daily  I  strode  through  the  pine-covered 
glade : 
I  sought   not  my  home   till  the  day's  dying 
glory 
Gave  place  to  the  rays  of  the  bright  polar 
star; 
For  fancy  was  cheered  by  traditional  story, 
Disclosed  by  the  natives  of  dark  Loch  na 
Garr. 

"  Shades  of  the  dead !  have  I  not  heard  your 
voices 
Rise   on   the   night-rolling    breath    of   the 
gale  ?  " 
Surely  the  soul  of  the  hero  rejoices, 
And  rides  on  the  wind,  o'er  his  own  High- 
land vale. 
Round  Loch  na  Garr  while  the  stormy  mist 
gathers, 
Winter  presides  in  his  cold  icy  car : 
Clouds    there    encircle     the    forms    of    my 
.  fathers ; 

They  dwell  in  the  tempests  of  dark  Loch 
na  Garr. 

"Ill-starred,4  though    brave,  did  no    visions 
foreboding 
Tell    you    that    fate    had    forsaken    your 
cause  ?  " 


our  modern  tourists  mentions  it  as  the  highest 
mountain,  perhaps,  in  Great  Britain.  Be  this  as  it 
may,  it  is  certainly  one  of  the  most  sublime  and 
picturesque  amongst  our  "  Caledonian  Alps."  Its 
appearance  is  of  a  dusky  hue,  but  the  summit  is  the 
seat  of  eternal  snows.  Near  Lachin  y  Gair  I  spent 
some  of  the  early  part  of  my  life,  the  recollection  of 
which  has  given  birth  to  these  stanzas. 

3  This  word  is  erroneously  pronounced  plad:  the 
proper  pronunciation  (according  to  the  Scotch)  is 
shown  by  the  orthography. 

4  I  allude  here  to  my  maternal  ancestors,  "  the 
Gordons,"  many  of  whom  fought  for  the  unfortu- 
nate Prince  Charles,  better  known  by  the  name  of 
the  Pretender.  This  branch  was  nearly  allied  by 
blood,  as  well  as  attachment,  to  the  Stuarts. 
George,  the  second  Earl  of  Huntley,  married  the 
Princess  Annabella  Stuart,  daughter  of  James  the 
First  of  Scotland.  By  her  he  left  four  sons:  the 
third,  Sir  William  Gordon,  1  have  the  honor  U 
claim  as  one  of  my  progenitors. 


32 


HOURS   OF  IDLENESS. 


Ah!  were  you  destined  to  die  at  Culloden,1 

Victory  crowned  not  your  fall  with  applause  : 
Still  were  you  happy  in  death's  earthy  slum- 
ber, 
You  rest  with  your  clan   in  the  caves   of 
Braemar ; 2 
The   pibroch   resounds,  to  the   piper's   loud 
number, 
Your  deeds  on  the  echoes  of  dark  Loch  na 
i         Garr. 

.'  ¥ears  have  rolled  on,  Loch  na  Garr,  since  I 
left  you, 
Years  must  elapse  ere  I  tread  you  again  : 
Nature  of  verdure  and  flowers  has  bereft  you, 
Yet  still  are  you  dearer  than  Albion's  plain. 
England  !  thy  beauties  are  tame  and  domestic 
To  one  who  has  roved  on  the  mountains 
afar: 
Oh  for  the  crags  that  are  wild  and  majestic! 
The  steep  frowning  glories  of  dark  Loch 
na  Garr ! 3 


TO    ROMANCE. 

PARENT  of  golden  dreams,  Romance! 

Auspicious  queen  of  childish  joys, 
Who  lead'st  along,  in  airy  dance, 

Thy  votive  train  of  girls  and  boys; 


1  Whether  any  perished  in  the  battle  of  Culloden, 
I  am  not  certain;  but,  as  many  fell  in  the  insurrec- 
tion, I  have  used  the  name  of  the  principal  action, 
"  pars  pro  toto." 

2  A  tract  of  the  Highlands  so  called.  There  is 
also  a  castle  of  Braemar. 

3  [In  the  "  Island,"  a  poem  written  a  year  or  two 
before  Byron's  death,  are  these  lines:  — 

"  He  who  first  met  the  Highlands'  swelling  blue 
Will  love  each  peak  that  shows  a  kindred  hue, 
Hail  in  each  crag  a  friend's  familiar  face, 
And  clasp  the  mountain  in  his  mind's  embrace. 
Long  have  I  roamed  through  lands  which  are  not 

mine, 
Adored  the  Alp,  and  loved  the  Apennine, 
Revered  Parnassus,  and  beheld  the  steep 
Jove's  Ida  and  Olympus  crown  the  deep  : 
But  'twas  not  all  long  ages'  lore,  nor  all 
Their  nature  held  me  in  their  thrilling  thrall; 
The  infant  rapture  still  survived  the  boy, 
And  Loch  na  Garr  with  Ida  looked  o'er  Troy, 
Mixed  Celtic  memories  with  the  Phrygian  mount, 
And  Highland  linns  with  Castalie's  clear  fount." 
"  When    very   young,"    (he    adds   in   a   note,) 
"  about  eight  years  of  age,  after  an  attack  of  the  scar- 
let fever  at  Aberdeen,  I  was  removed,  by  medical  ad- 
1  vice,  into  the  Highlands,  and  from  this  period  I  date 
my  love  of  mountainous  countries.    I  can  never  for- 
get the  effect,  a  few  years  afterwards,  in   England, 
of  the  only  thing  I  had  long  seen,  even  in  miniature, 
of  a  mountain,  in  the  Malvern  Hills.     After  I   re- 
turned to  Cheltenham,  T  used  to  watch  them  every 
afternoon,  at  sunset,  with  a  sensation  which  I  can- 
not describe."] 


At  length,  in  spells  no  longer  bound, 
I  break  the  fetters  of  my  youth  ; 

No  more  I  tread  thy  mystic  round, 
But  leave  thy  realms  for  those  of  Truth 

And  yet  'tis  hard  to  quit  the  dreams 

Which  haunt  the  unsuspicious  soul, 
Where  every  nymph  a  goddess  seems, 

Whose  eyes  through  rays  immortal  roll . 
While  Fancy  holds  her  boundless  reign, 

And  all  assume  a  varied  hue ; 
When  virgins  seem  no  longer  vain, 

And  even  woman's  smiles  are  true. 

And  must  we  own  thee  but  a  name, 

And  from  thy  hall  of  clouds  descend  ? 
Nor  find  a  sylph  in  every  dame, 

A  l'y  lades4  in  every  friend? 
But  leave  at  once  thy  realms  of  air 

To  mingling  bands  of  fairy  elves; 
Confess  that  woman's  false  as  fair, 

And  friends  have  feeling  for — themselves? 

With  shame  I  own  I've  felt  thy  sway, 

Repentant,  now  thy  reign  is  o'er : 
No  more  thy  precepts  I  obey, 

No  more  on  fancied  pinions  soar. 
Fond  fool !  to  love  a  sparkling  eye, 

And  think  that  eye  to  truth  was  dear, 
To  trust  a  passing  wanton's  sigh, 

And  melt  beneath  a  wanton's  tear! 

Romance !  disgusted  with  deceit, 

Far  from  thy  motley  court  1  fly, 
Where  Affectation  holds  her  seat, 

And  sickly  Sensibility ; 
Whose  silly  tears  can  never  flow 

For  any  pangs  excepting  thine ; 
Who  turns  aside  from  real  woe, 

To  steep  in  dew  thy  gaudy  shrine. 

Now  join  with  sable  Sympathy, 

With  cypress  crowned,  arrayed  in  weeds, 
Who  heaves  with  thee  her  simple  sigh, 

Whose  breast  for  every  bosom  bleeds ; 
And  call  thy  sylvan  female  choir, 

To  mourn  a  swain  for  ever  gone, 
Who  once  could  glow  with  equal  fire, 

But  bends  not  now  before  thy  throne. 

Ye  genial  nymphs,  whose  ready  tears 

On  all  occasions  swiftly  flow ; 
Whose  bosoms  heave  with  fancied  fears, 

With  fancied  flames  and  phrensy  glow ; 
Say,  will  you  mourn  my  absent  name, 

Apostate  from  your  gentle  train  ? 


4  It  is  hardly  necessary  to  add,  that  Pylades  was 
the  companion  of  Orestes,  and  a  partner  in  one  ot 
those  friendships  which,  with  those  of  Achilles  and 
Patroclus,  Nisus  and  Euryalus,  Damon  and  Pythias, 
have  been  handed  down  to  posterity  as  remarkable 
instances  of  attachments,  which  in  all  probability 
never  existed  beyond  the  imagination  of  the  poe^ 
or  the  page  of  an  historian,  or  modern  novelist. 


HOURS   OF  IDLENESS. 


33 


An  infant  bard  at  least  may  claim 
From  you  a  sympathetic  strain. 

Adieu,  fond  race  !  a  long  adieu  ! 

The  hour  of  fate  is  hovering  nigh ; 
E'en  now  the  gulf  appears  in  view, 

Where  unlamented  you  must  lie  : 
Oblivion's  blackening  lake  is  seen, 

Convulsed  by  gales  you  cannot  weather ; 
Where  you,  and  eke  your  gentle  queen, 

Alas  !  must  perish  altogether. 


ANSWER 

TO  SOME  ELEGANT  VERSES  SENT  BY  A 
FRIEND  TO  THE  AUTHOR,  COMPLAINING 
THAT  ONE  OF  HIS  DESCRIPTIONS  WAS 
RATHER   TOO    WARMLY    DRAWN. 

"  But  if  any  old  lady,  knight,  priest,  or  physician, 

Should  condemn  me  for  printing  a  second  edition; 

If  good  Madam  Squintum  my  work  should  abuse, 

May  I  venture  to  give  her  a  smack  of  my  muse?  " 

New  Bath  Guide. 

Candor  compels  me,  Becher  !  1  to  commend 
The  verse  which  blends  the  censor  with  the 

friend, 
Your  strong  yet  just  reproof  extorts  applause 
From  me,  the  heedless  and  imprudent  cause. 
For  this  wild  error  which  pervades  my  strain, 
I  sue  for  pardon,  —  must  I  sue  in  vain  ? 
The  wise  sometimes  from  Wisdom's  ways  de- 
part : 
Can  youth  then  hush  the  dictates  of  the  heart  ? 
Precepts  of  prudence  curb,  but  can't  control, 
The  fierce  emotions  of  the  flowing  soul. 
When  Love's  delirium   haunts   the  glowing 

mind, 
Limping  Decorum  lingers  far  behind  : 
Vainly  the  dotard  mends  her  prudish  pace, 
Outstripped  and  vanquished   in   the   mental 

chase. 
The  young,  the  old,  have  worn  the  chains  of 

love : 
Let  those  they  ne'er  confined  my  lay  reprove  : 
Let  those  whose  souls  contemn  the  pleasing 

power 
Their  censures  on  the  hapless  victim  shower. 
Oh  !  how  I  hate  the  nerveless,  frigid  song, 
The  ceaseless  echo  of  the  rhyming  throng, 
Whose  labored  lines  in  chilling  numbers  flow, 
To  paint  a  pang  the  author  ne'er  can  know ! 


1  [The  Rev.  John  Becher,  prebendary  of  South- 
well, the  author  of  several  philanthropic  plans  for 
the  amelioration  of  the  condition  of  the  poor.  In 
this  gentleman  the  youthful  poet  found  not  only  an 
honest  and  judicious  critic,  but  a  sincere  friend.  To 
his  care  the  superintendence  of  the  second  edition  of 
"  Hours  of  Idleness,"  during  its  progress  through  a 
eountry  press,  was  intrusted,  and  at  his  suggestion 
ieveral  corrections  and  omissions  were  made.] 


The  artless  Helicon  I  boast  is  youth ;  — 

My  lyre,  the  heart ;  my  muse,  the  simple  truth. 

Far  be 't  from   me  the  "  virgin's  mind "  to 

"  taint :  " 
Seduction's  dread  is  here  no  slight  restraint. 
The  maid  whose  virgin  breast  is  void  of  guile, 
W7hose  wishes  dimple  in  a  modest  smile, 
Whose  downcast  eye  disdains  the  wanton  leer, 
Firm  in  her  virtue's  strength,  yet  not  severe  — 
She  whom  a  conscious  grace  shall  thus  refine 
Will  ne'er  be  "  tainted  "  by  a  strain  of  mine. 
But  for  the  nymph  whose  premature  desires 
Torment  her  bosom  with  unholy  fires, 
No  net  to  snare  her  willing  heart  is  spread ; 
She  would  have  fallen,  though  she  ne'er  had  ■ 

read. 
For  me,  I  fain  would  please  the  chosen  few, 
Whosesouls,  to  feeling  and  to  nature  true, 
Will  spare  the  childish  verse,  and  not  destroy 
The  light  effusions  of  a  heedless  boy. 
I  seek  not  glory  from  the  senseless  crowd ; 
Of  fancied  laurels  I  shall  ne'er  be  proud : 
Their  warmest  plaudits  I  would  scarcely  prize, 
Their  sneers  or  censures  I  alike  despise. 

November  26,  1806. 


ELEGY   ON    NEWSTEAD  ABBEY. 

"  It  is  the  voice  of  years  that  are  gone !   they  roll 
before  me  with  all  their  deeds."  —  Ossian. 

Newstead!      fast-falling,    once-resplendent 
dome ! 
Religion's    shrine !      repentant    HENRY'S2 
pride ! 
Of  warriors,  monks,  and  dames  the  cloistered 
tomb, 
Whose  pensive  shades  around  thy  ruins  glide, 

Hail  to  thy  pile  !  more  honored  in  thy  fall 
Than  modern  mansions   in   their  pillared 
state ; 

Proudly  majestic  frowns  thy  vaulted  hall, 
Scowling  defiance  on  the  blasts  of  fate. 

No  mail-clad  serfs,  obedient  to  their  lord, 
In  grim  array  the  crimson  cross3  demand; 

Or  gay  assemble  round  the  festive  board 
Their  chiefs  retainers,  an  immortal  band  ; 

Else  might  inspiring  Fancy's  magic  eye 
Retrace  their  progress  through  the  lapse  of 
time, 

Marking  each  ardent  youth,  ordained  to  die, 
A  votive  pilgrim  in  Judea's  clime. 

But  not  from   thee,  dark  pile !    departs   the 
chief; 
His  feudal  realm  in  other  regions  lay  : 


2  Henry  II.  founded  Newstead  soon  after  the  mur 
der  of  Thomas  a  Becket. 

3  The  red  cross  was  the  badge  of  the  crusaders. 


34 


HOURS   OF  IDLENESS. 


In  thee  the  wounded  conscience  courts  relief, 
Retiring  from  the  garish  blaze  of  day. 

Ves  !  in  thy  gloomy  cells  and  shades  profound 
The  monk  abjured  a  world  he  ne'er  could 
view ; 

Or  blood-stained  guilt  repenting  solace  found, 
Or  innocence  from  stern  oppression  flew. 

A  monarch  bade  thee  from  that  wild  arise, 
Where  Sherwood's  outlaws  once  were  wont 
to  prowl, 
And  Superstition's  crimes,  of  various  dyes, 
Sought   shelter  in   the   priest's    protecting 
cowl. 

Where  now  the  grass  exhales  a  murky  dew, 
The  humid  pall  of  life-extinguished  clay, 

In  sainted  fame  the  sacred  fathers  grew, 
Nor  raised  their  pious  voices  but  to  pray. 

Where   now  the  bats   their  wavering    *ings 
extend 
Soon  as  the  gloaming1  spreads  her  waning 
shade, 
The  choir  did  oft  their  mingling  vespers  blend, 
Or  matin  orisons  to  Mary-2  paid. 

Years  roll  on  years  ;  to  ages,  ages  yield  ; 

Abbots  to  abbots,  in  a  line,  succeed  : 
Religion's  charter  their  protecting  shield 

Till  royal  sacrilege  their  doom  decreed. 

One  holy  HENRY  reared  the  gothic  walls, 
And  bade  the  pious  inmates  rest  in  peace ; 

Another  HENRY3  the  kind  gift  recalls, 

And  bids  devotion's  hallowed  echoes  cease. 

Vain  is  each  threat  or  supplicating  prayer; 

He  drives  them  exiles  from  their  blest  abode, 
To  roam  a  dreary  world  in  deep  despair — 

No  friend,  no  home,  no  refuge,  but  their  God. 

Hark  how  the  hall,  resounding  to  the  strain, 
Shakes  with  the  martial  music's  novel  din  ! 

The  heralds  of  a  warrior's  haughty  reign, 
High  crested  banners  wave  thy  walls  within. 

Of  changing  sentinels  the  distant  hum, 

The  mirth  of  feasts,  the  clang  of  burnished 
arms, 

The  braying  trumpet  and  the  hoarser  drum, 
Unite  in  concert  with  increased  alarms. 

An  abbey  once,  a  regal  fortress  4  now, 
Encircled  by  insulting  rebel  powers, 


1  As  "  gloaming,''  the  Scottish  word  for  twilight, 
is  far  more  poetical,  and  has  been  recommended  by 
many  eminent  literary  men,  particularly  by  Dr. 
Moore  in  his  Letters  to  Burns,  I  have  ventured  to 
use  it  on  account  of  its  harmony. 

2  The  prion'  was  dedicated  to  the  Virgin. 

3  At  the  dissolution  of  the  monasteries,  Henry 
/III.  bestowed  Newstead  Abbey  on  Sir  John  Byron. 

4  Newstead  sustained  a  considerable  siege  in  the 
svar  between  Charles  I.  and  his  parliament. 


War's  dread  machines  o'erhang  thy  threaten- 
ing brow, 
And  dart  destruction  in  sulphureous  show- 
ers. 

Ah  vain  defence !  the  hostile  traitor's  siege, 
Though  oft   repulsed,  by  guile   o'ercomes 
the  brave ; 

His  thronging  foes  oppress  the  faithful  liege, 
Rebellion's  reeking  standards  o'er  him  wave, 

Not  unavenged  the  raging  baron  yields; 

The  blood  of  traitors  smears   the  purple 
plain  ; 
Unconquered  still,  his  falchion  there  he  wields, 

And  days  of  glory  yet  for  him  remain. 

Still  in  that  hour  the  warrior  wished  to  strew 
Self-gathered  laurels  on  a  self-sought  grave  •, 

But  Charles'  protecting  genius  hither  flew, 
The  monarch's  friend,  the  monarch's  hope, 
to  save. 

Trembling,  she  snatched  him  5  from  th'  une- 
qual strife, 
In  other  fields  the  torrent  to  repel ; 
For  nobler  combats,  here,  reserved  his  life, 
To  lead  the  band  where  godlike  Falk- 
land 6  fell. 

From   thee,   poor  pile!    to   lawless  plunder 
given, 
While  dying  groans  their  painful  requiem 
sound, 
Far  different  incense  now  ascends  to  heaven, 
Suep  victims  wallow  on  the  gory  ground. 

There  many  a  pale  and  ruthless  robber's  corse, 
Noisome  and  ghast,  defiles  thy  sacred  sod  ; 

O'er  mingling  man,  and  horse  commixed  with 
horse, 
Corruption's  heap,  the  savage  spoilers  trod. 

Graves,  long  with   rank  and   sighing  weeds 
o'erspread, 
Ransacked,   resign    perforce   their   mortal 
mould : 
From  ruffian  fangs  escape  not  e'en  the  dead, 
Raked   from   repose   in  search  for  buried 
gold. 

Hushed  is  the  harp,  unstrung  the  warlike  lyre, 
The   minstrel's    palsied   hand    reclines   in 
death ; 
No  more  he  strikes  the  quivering  chords  wilb 
fire, 
Or  sings  the  glories  of  the  martial  wreath. 


5  Lord  Byron,  and  his  brother  Sir  William,  held 
high  commands  in  the  royal  army.  The  former  was 
general  in  chief  in  Ireland,  lieutenant  of  the  Tower, 
and  governor  to  James,  Duke  of  York,  afterwards 
the  unhappy  James  II.;  the  latter  had  a  principal 
share  in  many  actions. 

6  Lucius  Cary,  Lord  ViseOdnt  Falkland,  the  most 
accomplished  man  of  his  age,  was  killed  at  the  *>&& 


HOURS    OF  IDLENESS. 


35 


At  length  the  sated  murderers,  gorged  with 
prey, 

Retire;  the  clamor  of  the  fight  is  o'er; 
Silence  again  resumes  her  awful  sway, 

And  sable  Horror  guards  the  massy  door. 

Here  Desolation  holds  her  dreary  court : 
What  satellites  declare  her  dismal  reign ! 

Shrieking  their  dirge,  ill-omened  birds  resort, 
To  flit  their  vigils  in  the  hoary  fane. 

Soon  a  new  morn's  restoring  beams  dispel 
The  clouds  of  anarchy  from  Britain's  skies  ; 

The  fierce  usurper  seeks  his  native  hell, 
And  Nature  triumphs  as  the  tyrant  dies. 

With    storms    she    welcomes    his     expiring 
groans ; 
Whirlwinds,  responsive,  greet  his  laboring 
breath ; 
Earth  shudders  as  her  caves  receive  his  bones, 
Loathing  the  offering  of  so  dark  a  death.1 

The  legal  ruler2  now  resumes  the  helm, 

He  guides  through  gentle  seas  the  prow  of 
state ; 
Hope  cheers,  with  wonted  smiles,  the  peaceful 
realm, 
And  heals  the  bleeding  wounds  of  wearied 
hate. 

The  gloomy  tenants,  Newstead  !  of  thy  cells, 
Howling,  resign  their  violated  nest ; 

Again  the  master  on  his  tenure  dwells, 

Enjoyed,  from  absence,  with  enraptured  zest. 

Vassals,  within  thy  hospitable  pale, 

Loudly  carousing,  bless  their  lord's  return  ; 

Culture  again  adorns  the  gladdening  vale, 
And    matrons,  once    lamenting,   cease    to 
mourn. 

A  thousand  songs  on  tuneful  echo  float, 
Unwonted  foliage  mantles  o'er  the  tree ; 

And  hark  !  the  horns  proclaim  a  mellow  note, 
The  hunters'  cry  hangs  lengthening  on  the 
breeze. 

Beneath   their    coursers'    hoofs    the    valleys 
shake : 
What  fears,  what  anxious  hopes,  attend  the 
chase ! 
The  dying  stag  seeks  refuge  in  the  Lake ; 
Exulting  shouts  announce  the  finished  race. 


tie  of  Newbury,    charging   in    the   ranks   of  Lord 
Byron's  regiment  of  cavalry. 

1  This  is  an  historical  fact.  A  violent  tempest 
occurred  immediately  subsequent  to  the  death  or 
interment  of  Cromwell,  which  occasioned  many  dis- 
putes between  his  partisans  and  the  cavaliers :  both 
interpreted  the  circumstance  into  divine  inter- 
position; but  whether  as  approbation  or  condemna- 
tion, we  leave  to  the  casuists  of  that  age  to  decide. 
I  have  made  such  use  of  the  occurrence  as  suited  the 
subject  of  my  poem. 

2  Charles  U. 


Ah  happy  days !  too  happy  to  endure ! 

Such   simple   sports   our  plain   forefathers 
knew : 
No  splendid  vices  glittered  to  allure ; 
Their  joys  were  many,  as  their  cares  were 
few. 

From  these  descending,  sons  to   sires   suc- 
ceed; 
Time  steals  along,  and  Death  uprears  his 
dart; 
Another  chief  impels  the  foaming  steed, 
Another  crowd  pursue  the  panting  hart. 

Newstead  !  what  saddening  change  of  scene  is 
thine ! 
Thy  yawning  arch  betokens  slow  decay ; 
The  last  and  youngest  of  a  noble  line 

Now  holds  thy  mouldering  turrets    in  his 
sway. 

Deserted    now,    he    scans    thy    gray    worn 
towers ; 
Thy   vaults,   where    dead   of   feudal    ages 
sleep ; 
Thy  cloisters,  pervious  to  the  wintry  show- 
ers; 
These,  these  he  views,  and  views  them  but 
to  weep. 

Yet  are  his  tears  no  emblem  of  regret : 
Cherished  affection  only  bids  them  flow. 

Pride,  hope,  and  love,  forbid  him  to  forget, 
But  warm    his    bosom   with    impassioned 
glow. 

Yet  he  prefers  thee  to  the  gilded  domes 
Or  gewgaw  grottos  of  the  vainly  great; 

Yet  lingers  'mid  thy  damp  and  mossy  tombs, 
Nor  breathes  a  murmur  'gainst  the  wi!\  of 
fate.3 

Haply  thy  sun,  emerging,  yet  may  shine, 
Thee  to  irradiate  with  meridian  ray ; 

Hours    splendid   as    the    past    may  still    be 
thine, 
And  bless  thy  future  as  thy  former  day.4 


3  ["  Come  what  may,"  wrote  Byron  to  his  mother, 
in  March,  1809,  "  Newstead  and  I  stand  or  fall  to- 
gether. I  have  now  lived  on  the  spot ;  I  have  fixed 
my  heart  upon  it ;  and  no  pressure,  present  or  future, 
shall  induce  me  to  barter  the  last  vestige  of  our  in- 
heritance. I  have  that  pride  within  me  which  will 
enable  me  to  support  difficulties.  I  can  endure  pri- 
vations; but  could  I  obtain,  in  exchange  for  New- 
stead Abbey,  the  first  fortune  in  the  country,  I 
would  reject  the  proposition.  Set  your  mind  at  ease 
on  that  score;  I  feel  like  a  man  of  honor,  and  I  will 
not  sell  Newstead."] 

4  [Those  who  turn  from  this  Elegy  to  the  stanzas 
on  Newstead  Abbey,  in  the  thirteenth  canto  o( 
Don  Juan,  cannot  fail  to  remark  how  frequently  the 
thoughts  in  the  two  pieces  are  the  same;  or  to  be 
interested,  in  comparing  the  juvenile  sketch  with 
the  bold  touches  and  mellow  coloring  of  the  master's 
picture.] 


36 


HOURS    OF  IDLENESS. 


CHILDISH    RECOLLECTIONS.! 

"  I  cannot  but  remember  such  things  were, 
And  were  most  clear  to  me." 

WHEN  slow  Disease,  with  all  her  host  of  pains, 
Chills  the  warm  tide  which  flows  along  the 

veins ; 
When   Health,  affrighted,  spreads  her  rosy 

wing, 
And  flies  with  every  changing  gale  of  spring; 
Not  to  the  aching  frame  alone  confined, 
Unyielding  pangs  assail  the  drooping  mind: 
What  grisly  forms,  the  spectre-train  of  woe, 
Bid   shuddering    Nature  shrink  beneath  the 

blow, 
With  Resignation  wage  relentless  strife, 
While  Hope   retires  appalled,  and  clings  to 

life. 

the  pang  when,  through  the  tedious 

hour, 
Remembrance  sheds  around  her  genial  power, 
Calls  back  the  vanished  days  to  rapture  given, 
When  love  was  bliss,  and  Beauty  formed  our 

heaven  ; 
Or,  dear  to  youth,  portrays  each  childish  scene, 
Those  fairy  bowers,  where   all  in  turn   have 

been. 
As  when  through  clouds  that  pour  the  summer 

storm 
The  orb  of  day  unveils  his  distant  form, 
Gilds  with  faint  beams  the  crystal  dews  of  rain, 
And  dimly  twinkles  o'er  the  watery  plain  ; 
Thus,  while   the  future   dark   and   cheerless 

gleams, 
The   sun   of  memory,  glowing  through   my 

dreams, 
Though  sunk  the  radiance  of  his  former  blaze, 
To  scenes  far  distant  points  his  paler  rays ; 
Still  rules  my  senses  with  unbounded  sway, 
The  past  confounding  with  the  present  day. 


1  [These  verses  were  composed  while  Byron  was 
suffering  under  severe  illness  and  depression  of 
spirits.  "I  was  laid,"  he  says,  "on  my  back, 
when  that  schoolboy  thing  was  written,  or  rather 
dictated  —  expecting  to  rise  no  more,  my  physician 
having  taken  his  sixteenth  fee."  In  the  private 
volume  the  poem  opened  with  the  following  lines:  — 

51  Hence!  thou  unvarying  song  of  varied  loves, 
Which  youth  commends,  maturer  age  reproves; 
Which  every  rhyming  bard  repeats  by  rote, 
By  thousands  echoed  to  the  self-same  note! 
Tired  of  the  dull,  unceasing,  copious  strain, 
My  soul  is  panting  to  be  free  again. 
Farewell!  ye  nymphs  propitious  to  my  verse, 
Some  other  Damon  will  your  charms  rehearse; 
Some  other  paint  his  pangs,  in  hope  of  bliss, 
Or  dwell  in  rapture  on  your  nectared  kiss. 
Those  beauties,  grateful  to  my  ardent  sight, 
No  more  entrance  my  senses  in  delight ; 
Those  bosoms,  formed  of  animated  snow, 
A.like  are  tasteless,  and  unfeeling  now. 
These  to  some  happier  lover  I  resign  — 
The  memory  of  those  joys  alone  is  mine- 


Oft  does  my  heart  indulge  the  rising  thought, 
Which  still  recurs,  unlooked  for  and  unsought; 
My  soul  to  Fancy's  fond  suggestion  yields, 
And  roams  romantic  o'er  her  airy  fields  : 
Scenes  of  my  youth,  developed,  crowd  to  view, 
To  which  I  long  have  bade  a  last  adieu  ! 
Seats  of  delight,  inspiring  youthful  themi  s; 
Friends  lost  to  me  for  aye,  except  in  dreams ; 
Some  who  in  marble  prematurely  sleep, 
Whose  forms  I  now  remember  but  to  weep  ; 
Some  who  yet  urge  the  same  scholastic  course 
Of  early  science,  future  fame  the  source; 
Who,  still  contending  in  the  studious  race, 
In  quick  rotation  fill  the  senior  place. 
These  with  a  thousand  visions  now  unite, 
To   dazzle,  though  they  please,  my   aching 

sight. 
[DA!    blest   spot,  where   Science   holds   her 

reign, 
How  joyous  once  I  joined  thy  youthful  train  ! 
Bright  in  idea  gleams  thy  lofty  spire, 
Again  1  mingle  with  thy  playful  quire; 
Our  tricks  of  mischief,  every  childish  game, 
Unchanged   by  time   or   distance,  seem    tin; 

same; 
Through  winding  paths  along  the  glade,  I 

trace 
The  social  smile  of  ever}'  welcome  face; 
My  wonted  haunts,  my  scenes  of  joy  and  woe, 
Each  early  boyish  friend,  or  youthful  foe, 
Our  feuds  dissolved,  but  not  my  friendship 

]mst :  — 
I  bless  the  former,  and  forgive  the  last. 
Hours  of  my  youth!    when,  nurtured  in  my 

breast, 
To    love   a  stranger,  friendship    made    me 

blest ;  — 
Friendship,  the  dear  peculiar  bond  of  youth, 
When  every  artless  bosom  throbs  with  truth  ; 
Untaught  by  worldly  wisdom  how  to  feign, 
And  check  each  impulse  with  prudential  rein  ; 
When  all  we  feel,  our  honest  souls  disclose  — 
In  love  to  friends,  in  open  hate  to  foes; 
No  varnished  tales  the  lips  of  youth  repeat. 
No    dear-bought   knowledge    purchased   by 

deceit. 


Censure  no  more  shall  brand  my  humble  name, 
The  child  of  passion  and  the  fool  of  fame. 
Weary  of  love,  of  life,  devoured  with  spleen, 
I  rest  a  perfect  Timon,  not  nineteen. 
World!   I  renounce  thee!  all  my  hope's  o'ercast: 
One  sigh  I  give  thee,  but  that  sigh's  the  last. 
Friends,  foes,  and  females,  now  alike  adieu! 
Would  I  could  add,  remembrance  of  you  too! 
Yet  though  the  future  dark  and  cheerless  gleams. 
The  curse  of  memory,  hovering  in  my  dreams, 
Depicts  with  glowing  pencil  all  those  years, 
Ere  yet  my  cup,  empoisoned,  flowed  with  tears; 
Still  rules  my  senses  with  tyrannic  sway, 
The  past  confounding  with  the  present  day. 

"  Alas!  in  vain  I  check  the  maddening  thought, 
It  still  recurs,  unlooked  for  and  unsought: 
My  soul  to  Fancy's,"  etc.,  etc.,  as  at  line  29.] 


HOURS   Of  IDLENESS. 


37 


Hypocrisy,  the  gift  of  lengthened  years, 
Matured  by  age,  the  garb  of  prudence  wears. 
When  now  the  boy  is  ripened  into  man, 
His  careful  sire  chalks  forth  some  wary  plan ; 
Instructs  his  son  from  candor's  path  to  shrink, 
Smoothly  to  speak,  and  cautiously  to  think ; 
Still  to  assent,  and  never  to  deny — 
A  patron's  praise  can  well  reward  the  lie : 
And  who,  when  Fortune's  warning  voice  is 

heard, 
Would  lose  his  opening  prospects  for  a  word? 
Although  against  that  word  his  heart  rebel, 
And  truth  indignant  all  his  bosom  swell. 

Away  with  themes  like  this !    not  mine  the 
task 
From  flattering  fiends  to  tear  the  hateful  mask  ; 
Let  keener  bards  delight  in  satire's  sting ; 
My  fancy  soars  not  on  Detraction's  wing: 
Once,  and  but  once,  she  aimed  a  deadly  blow, 
To  hurl  defiance  on  a  secret  foe  ; 
But  when  that  foe,  from  feeling  or  from  shame, 
The  cause  unknown,  yet  still  to  me  the  same, 
Warned   by  some   friendly   hint,  perchance, 

retired, 
With  this  submission  all  her  rage  expired. 
From  dreaded  pangs  that  feeble  foe  to  save, 
She  hushed  her  young  resentment,  and  for- 
gave ; 
Or,  if  my  muse  a  pedant's  portrait  drew, 
POMPOSUS' !  virtues  are  but  known  to  few  : 
I  never  feared  the  young  usurper's  nod, 
And  he  who  wields  must  sometimes  feel  the 

rod. 
If  since  on  Granta's  failings,  known  to  all 
Who  share  the  converse  of  a  college  hall, 
She  sometimes  trifled  in  a  lighter  strain, 
'Tis  past,  and  thus  she  will  not  sin  again, 
Soon  must  her  early  song  for  ever  cease, 
And  all  may  rail  when  I  shall  rest  in  peace. 

Here  first  remembered  be  the  joyous  band, 
Who  hailed  me  chief,2  obedient  to  command ; 


1  [Dr.  Butler,  head-master  of  Harrow  school. 
Had  Byron  published  another  edition  of  these  poems, 
it  was  his  intention,  instead  of  the  four  lines  begin- 
ning—  "  Or,  if  my  muse  a  pedant's  portrait  drew," 
to  insert  — 

"  If  once  my  muse  a  harsher  portrait  drew, 

Warm  with  her  wrongs,  and  deemed  the  likeness 

true, 
By  cooler  judgment  taught,  her  fault  she  owns,  — 
With  noble  minds  a  fault  confessed,  atones."] 

2  [On  the  retirement  of  Dr.  Drury,  three  candi- 
dates presented  themselves  for  the  vacant  chair, 
Messrs.  Drury,  Evans,  and  Butler.  On  the  first 
moTement  to  which  this  contest  gave  rise  in  the 
school,  young  Wildman  was  at  the  head  of  the  party 
for  Mark  Drury,  while  Byron  held  himself  aloof 
from  any.  Anxious,  however,  to  have  him  as  an 
ally,  one  of  the  Drury  faction  said  to  Wildman  — 
"  Byron,  I  know,  will  not  join,  because  he  does  not 
choose  to  act  second  to  any  one,  but,  by  giving  up 


Who  joined  with  me  in  every  boyish  sport  — 

Their  first  adviser,  and  their  last  resort ; 

Nor  shrunk  beneath  the  upstart  pedant's 
frown, 

Or  all  the  sable  glories  of  his  gown  ; 

Who,  thus  transplanted  from  his  father's 
school  — 

Unfit  to  govern,  ignorant  of  rule — ■ 

Succeeded  him,  whom  all  unite  to  praise, 

The  dear  preceptor  of  my  early  days  ; 

Probus,3  the  pride  of  science,  and  the 
boast, 

To  Ida  now,  alas !  for  ever  lost. 

With  him,  for  years,  we  searched  the  classic 
page, 

And  feared  the  master,  though  we  loved  the 
sage : 

Retired  at  last,  his  small  yet  peaceful  seat, 

From  learning's  labor  is  the  blest  retreat. 

POMPOSUS  fills  his  magisterial  chair ; 

POMPOSUS  governs,  —  but,  my  muse,  for- 
bear :4 

Contempt,  in  silence,  be  the  pendant's  lot; 

His  name  and  precepts  be  alike  forgot ; 

No  more  his  mention  shall  my  verse  de- 
grade, — 

To  him  my  tribute  is  already  paid. 


the  leadership  to  him,  you  may  at  once  secure  him." 
This  Wildman  accordingly  did,  and  Byron  took  the 
command.  —  Moore. .] 

3  Dr  Drury.  This  most  able  and  excellent  man 
retired  from  his  situation  in  March,  1805,  after  hav- 
ing resided  thirty-five  years  at  Harrow;  the  las! 
twenty  as  head-master;  an  office  he  held  with  equal 
honor  to  himself  and  advantage  to  the  very  exten- 
sive school  over  which  he  presided.  Panegyric 
would  here  be  superfluous :  it  would  be  useless  to 
enumerate  qualifications  which  were  never  doubted. 
A  considerable  contest  took  place  between  three 
rival  candidates  for  his  vacant  chair:  of  this  I  can 
only  say, 

Si  mea  cum  vestris  valuissent  vota,  Pelasgif 
Non  foret  ambiguus  tanti  certaminis  haeres. 

[Such  was  Byron's  parting  eulogy  on  Dr.  Drury. 
It  may  be  interesting  to  see  by  the  side  of  it  the 
Doctor's  own  account  of  his  pupil,  when  first  com- 
mitted to  his  care:  —  "I  took,"  says  the  Doctor, 
"  my  young  disciple  into  my  study,  and  endeavored 
to  bring  him  forward  by  inquiries  as  to  his  former 
amusements,  employments,  and  associates,  but 
with  little  or  no  effect;  and  I  soon  found  that  a 
wild  mountain  colt  had  been  submitted  to  my  man- 
agement. But  there  was  mind  in  his  eye.  His 
manner  and  temper  soon  convinced  me,  that  he 
might  be  led  by  a  silken  string  to  a  point,  rather 
than  by  a  cable;  — and  on  that  principle  I  acted."] 

4  [To  this  passage,  had  Byron  published  another 
edition  of  Hours  of  Idleness,  it  was  his  intention  to 
give  the  following  turn:  — 

"  Another  fills  his  magisterial  chair; 
Reluctant  Ida  owns  a  stranger's  care; 
Oh!   may  like  honors  crown  his  future  name' 
If  such  his  virtues,  such  shall  be  his  fame."] 


38 


houis  of  Witness. 


High,    through    those    elms,    with    hoary 
branches  crowned, 
Fair  Ida's  bower  adorns  the  landscape  round  ; 
There  Science,  from  her  favored  seat,  surveys 
The  vale  where  rural  Nature  claims  her  praise ; 
To  her  awhile  resigns  her  youthful  train. 
Who  move  in  joy,  and  dance  along  the  plain  ; 
In  scattered  groups  each  favored  haunt  pur- 
sue ; 
Repeat  old  pastimes,  and  discover  new; 
Flushed  with  his  rays,  beneath  the  noontide 

sun, 
In  rival  bands,  between  the  wickets  run, 
Drive  o'er  the  sward  the  ball  with  active  force, 
Or  chase  with  nimble  feet  its  rapid  course. 
But  these  with  slower  steps  direct  their  way. 
Where  Brent's  cool  waves  in  limpid  currents 

stray ; 
While  yonder  few  search  out  some  green  re- 
treat, 
And   arbors  shade   them  from   the   summer 

heat : 
Others,  again,  a  pert  and  lively  crew, 
Some  rough  and  thoughtless  stranger  placed 

in  view, 
With  frolic  quaint  their  antic  jests  expose, 
And  tease  the  grumbling  rustic  as  he  goes ; 
Nor  rest  with  this,  but  many  a  passing  fray 
Tradition  treasures  for  a  future  day : 
"  'Twas   here  the   gathered  swains  for  ven- 
geance fought, 
And    here  wre   earned   the    conquest   dearly 

bought ; 
Here  have  we  fled  before  superior  might, 
And  here  renewed  the  wild  tumultuous  fight." 
While   thus   our  souls  with    early  passions 

swell, 
In  lingering  tones  resounds  the  distant  bell ; 
Th'  allotted  hour  of  daily  sport  is  o'er, 
And    Learning  beckons   from    her   temple's 

door. 
No  splendid  tablets  grace  her  simple  hall, 
But  ruder  records  fill  the  dusky  wall ; 
There,   deeply   carved,  behold !    each   tyro's 

name 
Secures  its  owner's  academic  fame ; 
Here  mingling  view  the  names  of  sire   and 

son  — 
The  one  long  graved,  the  other  just  begun  : 
These  shall  survive  aiike  when  son  and  sire 
Beneath  one  common  stroke  of  fate  expire  : 1 
Perhaps  their  last  memorial  these  alone, 
Denied  in  death  a  monumental  stone, 
Whilst  to  the  gale  in  mournful  cadence  wave 
The  sighing  weeds  that  hide  their  nameless 

grave. 
And  here  my  name,  and  many  an  early  friend's, 


1  [During  a  rebellion  at  Harrow,  the  poet  pre- 
vented the  school-room  from  being  burnt  down,  by 
pointing  out  to  the  boys  the  names  of  their  fathers 
and  grandfathers  on  the  walls.J 


Along  the  wall  in  lengthened  line  extends. 
Though  still  our  deeds  amuse  the  youthful 

race, 
Who  tread  our  steps,  and  fill  our  former  place, 
Who  young,  obeyed  their  lords  in  silent  awe, 
Whose   nod  commanded,  and  whose   voice 

was  law ; 
And  now,  in  turn,  possess  the  reins  of  power, 
To  rule  the  little  tyrants  of  an  hour ;  — 
Though  sometimes,  with  the  tales  of  ancient 

day, 
They  pass  the  dreary  winter's  eve  away — 
"  And  thus  our  former  rulers  stemmed   the 

tide, 
And  thus  they  dealt  the  combat  side  by  side ; 
Just  in  this  place  the  mouldering  walls  they 

scaled, 
Nor  bolts  nor  bars  against  their    strength 

availed ; 2 
Here  Probus  came,  the  rising  fray  to  quell, 
And  here  he  faltered  forth  his  last  farewell ; 
And   here  one  night  abroad  they  dared  to 

roam, 
While    bold    PoMPOSUS    bravely    staid    at 

home ;  "  — 
While  thus  they  speak,  the  hour  must  soon 

arrive, 
When  names  of  these,  like  ours,  alone  survive : 
Yet  a  few  years,  one  general  wreck  will  whelm 
The  faint  remembrance  of  our  fairy  realm. 

Dear  honest  race !  though  now  we  meet  no 

more, 
One  last  long  look  on  what  we  were  before  — 
Our  first  kind  greetings,  and  our  last  adieu  — 
Drew  tears  from  eyes  unused   to  weep  with 

you. 
Through   splendid    circles,  fashion's    gaudy 

world, 
Where  folly's  glaring  standard  waves  unfurled, 
I  plunged  to  drown  in  noise  my  fond  regret, 
And  all  I  sought  or  hoped  was  to  forget. 
Vain  wish  !  if  chance  jorae  well-remembered 

face, 
Some  old  companion  of  my  early  race, 
Advanced  to  claim  his  friend  with  honest  joy, 
My  eyes,  my  heart,  proclaimed  me  still  a  boy ; 
The   glittering  scene,   the   fluttering  groups 

around, 
Were   quite   forgotten  when   my  friend  was 

found ; 
The  smiles  of  beauty —  (for,  alas !  I've  known 
What   'tis   to    bend    before    Love's    mighty 

throne)  — 


2  [Byron  elsewhere  thus  describes  his  usual 
course  of  life  while  at  Harrow  —  "always  cricket- 
ing, rebelling,  rowing;  and  in  all  manner  of  mis- 
chiefs." One  day,  in  a  fit  of  defiance,  he  tore  down 
all  the  gratings  from  the  window  of  the  hall;  and 
when  called  upon  by  Dr.  Butler  to  say  why  he  had 
committed  this  outrage,  coolly  answered,  "  because 
they  darkened  the  room."! 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 


39 


Hie  smiles  of  beauty,  though  those  smiles  were 

dear, 
Could  hardly  charm   me,  when  that  friend 

was  near; 
My  thoughts  bewildered  in  the  fond  surprise, 
The  woods  of  Ida  danced  before  my  eyes; 
I  saw  the  sprightly  wanderers  pour  along, 
I  saw  and  joined  again  the  joyous  throng; 
Panting,  again  I  traced  her  lofty  grove, 
And   friendship's    feelings    triumphed    over 

love.1 

Yet,  why  should  I  alone  with  such  delight. 
Retrace  the  circuit  of  my  former  flight  ? 
Is  there  no  cause  beyond  the  common  claim 
Endeared  to  all  in  childhood's  very  name  ? 
Ah  !  sure  some  stronger  impulse  vibrates  here, 
Which  whispers  friendship  will   be  doubly 

dear, 
To  one  who  thus  for  kindred  hearts   must 

roam, 
\nd  seek  abroad  the  love  denied  at  home. 
Those  hearts,  dear  IDA,  have  I  found  in  thee  — 
A  home,  a  world,  a  paradise  to  me. 
Stern  Death  forbade  my  orphan  youth  to  share 
The  tender  guidance  of  a  father's  care. 
Can  rank,  or  e'en  a  guardian's  name,  supply 
The  love  which  glistens  in  a  father's  eye  ? 
For  this  can  wealth  or  title's  sound  atone, 
Made,  by  a  parent's  early  loss,  my  own  ? 
What  brother  springs  a  brother's  love  to  seek  ? 
What  sister's  gentle  kiss  has  prest  my  cheek  ? 
For  me  how  dull  the  vacant  moments  rise, 
To  no  fond  bosom  linked  by  kindred  ties ! 
Oft  in  the  progress  of  some  fleeting  dream, 
Fraternal  smiles  collected  round  me  seem  ; 
While  still  the  visions  to  my  heart  are  prest, 


1  [This  description  of  what  the  young  poet  felt  in 
1806,  on  encountering  any  of  his  former  schoolfel- 
lows, falls  far  short  of  the  page  in  which  he  records 
an  accidental  meeting  with  Lord  Clare,  on  the  road 
between  Imola  and  Bologna  in  1821.  "  This  meet- 
ing," he  says,  "  annihilated  for  a  moment  all  the 
years  between  the  present  time  and  the  days  of 
Harrow.  It  was  a  new  and  inexplicable  feeling, 
like  rising  from  the  grave,  to  me.  Clare  too  was 
much  agitated  —  more  in  appearance  than  was  my- 
self;  for  I  could  feel  his  heart  beat  to  his  fingers' 
ends,  unless,  indeed,  it  was  the  pulse  of  my  own 
which  made  me  think  so.  We  were  but  five  min- 
utes together,  and  on  the  public  road;  but  I  hardly 
recollect  an  hour  of  my  existence  which  could  be 
weighed  against  them."  —  We  may  also  quote  the 
following  interesting  sentences  of  Madame  Guic- 
lioli: — "In  1822  (says  she),  a  few  days  before 
leaving  Pisa,  we  were  one  evening  seated  in  the  gar- 
len  of  the  Palazzo  Lanfranchi.  At  this  moment  a 
lervant  announced  Mr.  Hobhouse.  The  slight 
shade  of  melancholy  diffused  over  Lord  Byron's 
face,  gave  instant  place  to  the  liveliest  joy;  but  it 
was  so  great  that  it  almost  deprived  him  of  strength. 
A  fearful  paleness  came  over  his  cheeks,  and  his 
eyes  were  filled  with  tears  as  he  embraced  his  friend  : 
his  emotion  was  so  great  that  he  was  forced  to  sit 
»Own."J 


The  voice  of  love  will  murmur  in  my  rest : 
I  hear — I  wake  — and  in  the  sound  rejoice; 
I  hear  again,  —  but,  ah!  no  brother's  voice. 
A  hermit,  'midst  of  crowds,  I  fain  must  stray 
Alone,  though  thousand  pilgrims  fill  the  way; 
While  these  a  thousand  kindred  wreaths  en- 
twine, 
I  cannot  call  one  single  blossom  mine: 
What  then  remains  ?  in  solitude  to  groan, 
To  mix  in  friendship,  or  to  sigh  alone. 
Thus  must  I  cling  to  some  endearing  hand 
And  none  more  dear  than  Ida's  social  band.. 

ALONZO ! 2  best  and  dearest  of  my  friends, 
Thy  name  ennobles  him  who  thus  commends  : 
From  this  fond  tribute  thou  canst    gain  no 

praise ; 
The  praise  is  his  who  now  that  tribute  pays. 
Oh  !  in  the  promise  of  thy  early  youth, 
If  hope  anticipate  the  words  of  truth, 
Some  loftier  bard  shall  sing  fhy  glorious  name, 
To  build  his  own  upon  thy  deathless  fame. 
Friend  of  my  heart,  and  foremost  of  the  list 
Of  those  with  whom  I  lived  supremely  blest, 
Oft  have  we  drained  the  font  of  ancient  lore; 
Though   drinking  deeply,  thirsting  still   the 

more. 
Yet,  when  confinement's  lingering  hour  was 

done, 
Our  sports,  our  studies,  and  our  souls  were 

one: 
Together  we  impelled  the  flying  ball ; 
Together  waited  in  our  tutor's  hall ; 
Together  joined  in  cricket's  manly  toil, 
Or  shared  the  produce  of  the  river's  spoil; 
Or,  plunging  from  the  green  declining  shore, 
Our  pliant  limbs  the  buoyant  billows  bore  ; 
In  every  element,  unchanged,  the  same, 
All,  all  that  brothers  should  be,  but  the  name, 

Nor  yet  are  you  forgot,  my  jocund  boy ! 
DAVUS,3  the  harbinger  of  childish  joy; 
For  ever  foremost  in  the  ranks  of  fun, 
The  laughing  herald  of  the  harmless  pun; 
Yet  with  a  breast  of  such  materials  made  — 
Anxious  to  please,  of  pleasing  half  afraid; 
Candid  and  liberal,  with  a  heart  of  steel 
In  danger's  path  though  not  untaught  to  feel. 
Still  I  remember,  in  the  factious  strife, 
The  rustic's  musket  aimed  against  my  life  :  4 
High  poised  in  air  the  massy  weapon  hung. 


2  [The  Hon.  John  Wingfield,  of  the  Coldstream> 
Guards.  He  died  of  a  fever,  in  his  twentieth  year, 
at  Coimbra,  May  14th,  1811.  —  "Of  all  human 
beings,"  says  Byron,  "  I  was,  perhaps,  at  one  time, 
the  most  attached  to  poor  Wingfield.  I  had  known 
him  the  better  half  of  his  life,  and  the  happiest  part 
of  mine."] 

3  [The  Rev.  John  Cecil  Tattersall,  B.  A.,  of 
Christ  Church,  Oxford;  who  died  Dec.  8,  1812,  at 
Hall's  Place,  Kent,  aged  twenty-four.] 

4  [The  "  factious  strife"  was  brought  on  by  the 
breaking  up  of  school,  and  the  dismissal  of  some 


4U 


HOURS   OF  IDLENESS. 


A  cry  of  horror  burst  from  every  tongue ; 
Whilst  I,  in  combat  with  another  foe, 
Fought  on,  unconsciousofth'impendingblow; 
Your  arm,  brave  boy,  arrested  his  career — 
Forward  you  sprung,  insensible  to  fear; 
Disarmed   and   baffled  by  your  conquering 

hand, 
The  grovelling  savage  rolled  upon  the  sand : 
An  act  like  this,  can  simple  thanks  repay  ? 
Or  all  the  labors  of  a  grateful  lay  ? 
Oh  no  !  whene'er  my  breast  forgets  the  deed, 
That  instant,  Davus,  it  deserves  to  bleed. 

Lycus  ! l  on  me  thy  claims  are  justly  great : 
Thy  milder  virtues  could  my  muse  relate, 
To  thee  alone,  unrivalled,  would  belong 
The  feeble  efforts  of  my  lengthened  song.2 
Well  canst  thou  boast,  to  lead  in  senates  fit, 
A  Spartan  f.i  mness  with  Athenian  wit : 
Though  ye  ..  embryo  these  perfections  shine, 
Lycus  !  th/  father's  fame  will  soon  be  thine. 
Where  learning  nurtures  the  superior  mind, 
What  may  we  hope  from  genius  thus  refined ! 
When   time  at  length    matures  thy  growing 

years, 
How  wilt  thou  tower  above  thy  fellow  peers ! 
Prudence  and  sense,  a  spirit  bold  and  free, 
With  honor's  soul,  united  beam  in  thee. 

Shall  fair  EURYALUS3  pass  by  unsung? 
From  ancient  lineage,  not  unworthy  sprung : 
What  though  one  sad  dissension  bade  us  part, 
That  name  is  yet  embalmed  within  my  heart ; 


volunteers  from  drill,  at  the  same  hour.  The  butt- 
end  of  a  musket  was  aimed  at  Byron's  head,  and 
would  have  felled  him  to  the  ground,  but  for  the 
interposition  of  Tattersall.  —  Moore.] 

1  [John  Fitzgibbon,  second  Earl  of  Clare.  "  I 
never,"  Byron  says,  in  1821,  "hear  the  word 
'Clare,'  without  a  beating  of  the  heart  even  now; 
and  I  write  it  with  the  feelings  of  1803-4-5,  ad  infin- 
itum." In  1822  he  said  of  Clare,  "  I  have  always 
loved  him  better  than  any  male  thing  in  the  world."] 

2  [In  the  private  volume,  the  following  lines  con- 
clude this  character:  — 

:<  For  ever  to  possess  a  friend  in  thee, 
Was  bliss  unhoped,  though  not  unsought  by  me. 
Thy  softer  soul  was  formed  for  love  alone, 
To  ruder  passions  and  to  hate  unknown; 
Thy  mind,  in  union  with  thy  beauteous  form, 
Was  gentle,  but  unfit  to  stem  the  storm. 
That  face,  an  index  of  celestial  worth, 
Proclaimed  a  heart  abstracted  from  the  earth. 
Oft,  when  depressed  with  sad  foreboding  gloom, 
I  sat  reclined  upon  our  favorite  tomb, 
I've  seen  those  sympathetic  eyes  o'erflow 
With  kind  compassion  for  thy  comrade's  woe; 
Or  when  less  mournful  subjects  formed  our  themes, 
We  tried  a  thousand  fond  romantic  schemes, 
Oft  hast  thou  sworn,  in  friendship's  soothing  tone, 
Whatever  wish  was  mine  must  be  thine  own."] 

3  George-John,  fifth  Earl  Delawarr: — 

"  Harrow,  October  25, 1804.  —  I  am  happy  enough 
and  comfortable  here.  My  friends  are  not  numerous, 
but  select.     Among  the  principal,  I  rank  Lord  Del- 


Yet  at  the  mention  does  that  heart  rebound, 
And  palpitate,  responsive  to  the  sound. 
Envy  dissolved  our  ties,  and  not  our  will : 
We  once  were  friends, —  I'll  think  we  are  so 

still.* 
A  form  unmatched  in  nature's  partial  mould, 
A  heart  untainted,  we  in  thee  behold : 
Yet  not  the  senate's  thunder  thou  shalt  wield, 
Nor  seek  for  glory  in  th^.  tented  field  ; 
To  minds  of  ruder  texture  these  be  given  — 
Thy  soul  shall  nearer  soar  its  native  heaven. 
Haply,  in  polished  courts  might  be  thy  seat, 
But  that  thy  tongue  could  never  forge  deceir : 
The  courtier's  supple  bow  and  sneering  smilv 
The  flow  of  compliment,  the  slippery  wile, 
Would   make   that   breast  with   indignation 

burn, 
And  all  the  glittering  snares  to  tempt  thee 

spurn. 
Domestic  happiness  will  stamp  thy  fate; 
Sacred  to  love,  unclouded  e'er  by  hate ; 
The    world    admire    thee,   and    thy  friends 

adore ;  — 
Ambition's  slave  alone  would  toil  for  more. 

Now  last,  but  nearest,  of  the  social  band, 
See  honest,  open,  generous  CLEON5  stand; 
With  scarce  one  speck  to  cloud  the  pleasin? 

scene, 
No  vice  degrades  that  purest  soul  serene. 
On  the  same  day  our  studious  race  begun, 
On  the  same  day  our  studious  race  was  run  • 
Thus  side  by  side  we  passed  our  first  career, 
Thus  side  by  side  we  strove  for  many  a  year ; 
At  last  concluded  our  scholastic  life, 
We  neither  conquered  in  the  classic  strife : 


awarr,  who  is  very  amiable,  and  my  particular 
friend."  "  Nov.  2,  1804.  —  Lord  Delawarr  is  con- 
siderably younger  than  me,  but  the  most  good-tem- 
pered, amiable,  clever  fellow  in  the  universe.  To 
all  which  he  adds  the  quality  (a  good  one  in  the  eyes 
of  women)  of  being  remarkably  handsome.  Dela- 
warr and  myself  are,  in  a  manner,  connected;  for 
one  of  my  forefathers,  in  Charles  the  First's  time, 
married  into  their  family."  —  Byron's  Letters.] 

4  ["  You  will  be  astonished  to  hear  I  have  lately 
written  to  Delawarr,  for  the  purpose  of  explaining 
(as  far  as  possible,  without  involving  some  old 
friends  of  mine  in  the  business) ,  the  cause  of  my 
behavior  to  him  during  my  last  residence  at  Harrow, 
which  you  will  recollect  was  rather  en  cavalier. 
Since  that  period  I  have  discovered  he  was  treated 
with  injustice,  both  by  those  who  misrepresented 
his  conduct,  and  by  me  in  consequence  of  their  sug- 
gestions. I  have,  therefore,  made  all  the  reparaticw 
in  my  power,  by  apologizing  for  my  mistake,  though 
with  very  faint  hopes  of  success.  However,  I  have 
eased  my  own  conscience  by  the  atonement,  which 
is  humiliating  enough  to  one  of  my  disposition;  yet 
I  could  not  have  slept  satisfied  with  the  reflection 
of  having,  even  unintentionally,  injured  any  indi- 
vidual. I  have  done  all  that  could  be  done  to  repair 
the  injury."  —  Byron's  Letter  to  Lord  Clare, 
1807.] 
5_  ^Edward  Noel  Lopg,  Esq.] 


HOURS   OF  IDLENESS. 


41 


As  speakers  '  each  supports  an  equal  name, 
And  crowds  allow  to  both  a  partial  fame  : 
To  soothe  a  youthful  rival's  early  pride, 
Though  Cleon's  candor  would  the  palm  divide, 
Yet  candor's  self  compels  me  now  to  own, 
Justice  awards  it  to  my  friend  alone. 

Oh!  friends  regretted,  scenes  for  ever  dear, 
Remembrance   hails  you  with   her  warmest 

tear! 
Drooping,  she  bends  o'er  pensive  Fancy's  urn, 
To  trace  the  hours  which  never  can  return ; 
Yet  with  the  retrospection  loves  to  dwell, 
And  soothe  the  sorrows  of  her  last  farewell ! 
Yet  greets  the  triumph  of  my  boyish  mind, 
As  infant  laurels  round  my  head  were  twined, 
When  PROBUS'  praise  repaid  my  lyric  song, 
Or  placed  me  higher  in  the  studious  throng ; 
Or  when  my  first  harangue  received  applause,2 
His  sage  instruction  the  primeval  cause, 
What  gratitude  to  him  my  soul  possest, 
While   hope  of   dawning  honors  filled   my 

breast ! 
For  all  my  humble  fame,  to  him  alone 
The  praise  is  due,  who  made  that  fame  my 

own.3 


1  This  alludes  to  the  public  speeches  delivered  at 
the  school  where  the  author  was  educated. 

=  ["  I  remember  that  my  first  declamation  aston- 
ished Dr.  Drury  into  some  unwonted  (for  he  was 
economical  of  such)  and  sudden  compliments,  be- 
fore the  declaimers  at  our  first  rehearsal."  —  Byron's 
Diary.] 

["  I  certainly  was  much  pleased  with  Lord  By- 
ron's attitude,  gesture,  and  delivery,  as  well  as  with 
his  composition.  All  who  spoke  on  that  day  ad- 
hered, as  usual,  to  the  letter  of  their  composition, 
as  in  the  earlier  part  of  his  delivery  did  Lord  Byron. 
But,  to  my  surprise,  he  suddenly  diverged  from  the 
written  composition,  with  a  boldness  and  rapidity 
sufficient  to  alarm  me,  lest  he  should  fail  in  memory 
as  to  the  conclusion.  There  was  no  failure; — he 
came  round  to  the  close  of  his  composition  without 
discovering  any  impediment  and  irregularity  on  the 
whole.  I  questioned  him,  why  he  had  altered  his 
declamation  ?  He  declared  he  had  made  no  altera- 
tion, and  did  not  know,  in  speaking,  that  he  had 
deviated  from  it  one  letter.  I  believed  him,  and 
from  a  knowledge  of  his  temperament  am  con- 
vinced, that,  fully  impressed  with  the  sense  and 
substance  of  the  subject,  he  was  hurried  on  to  ex- 
pressions and  colorings  more  striking  than  what  his 
pen  had  expressed."  —  Dr.  Drury.] 

3  [In  the  private  volume  the  poem  concludes 
thus:  — 

'  When,  yet  a  novice  in  the  mimic  art, 
I  feigned  the  transports  of  a  vengeful  heart  — 
When  as  the  Royal  Slave  I  trod  the  stage, 
To  vent  in  Zanga  more  than  mortal  rage  — 
The  praise  of  Probus  made  me  feel  more  proud 
Than  all  the  plaudits  of  the  listening  crowd. 
"  Ah!  vain  endeavor  in  this  childish  strain 
To  soothe  the  woes  of  which  I  thus  complain! 
What  can  avail  this  fruitless  loss  of  time, 
To  measure  sorrow  in  a  jingling  rhyme! 


Oh !  could  I  soar  above  these  feeble  lays, 
These  young  effusions  of  my  early  days, 
To  him  my  muse  her  noblest  strain  would  give : 
The  song  might  perish,  but  the  theme  might 

live. 
Yet  why  for  him  the  needless  verse  essay  ? 
His  honored  name  requires  no  vain  display : 
By  every  son  of  grateful  Ida  blest, 
It  finds  an  echo  in  each  youthful  breast; 
A  fame  beyond  the  glories  of  the  proud, 
Or  all  the  plaudits  of  the  venal  crowd. 

IDA !  not  yet  exhausted  is  the  theme, 
Nor  closed  the  progress  of  my  youthful  dream. 
H  ow  many  a  friend  deserves  the  grateful  strain  ! 
What  scenes  of  childhood  still  unsung  remain  ! 


No  social  solace  from  a  friend  is  near, 
And  heartless  strangers  drop  no  feeling  tear. 
I  seek  not  joy  in  woman's  sparkling  eye: 
The  smiles  of  beauty  cannot  check  the  sigh. 
Adieu,  thou  world!   thy  pleasure's  still  a  dream, 
Thy  virtue  but  a  visionary  theme; 
Thy  years  of  vice  on  years  of  folly  roll, 
Till  grinning  death  assigns  the  destined  goal- 
Where  all  are  hastening  to  the  dread  abode, 
To  meet  the  judgment  of  a  righteous  God; 
Mixed  in  the  concourse  of  the  thoughtless  throng, 
A  mourner  midst  of  mirth,  I  glide  along; 
A  wretched,  isolated,  gloomy  thing, 
Curst  by  reflection's  deep  corroding  sting; 
But  not  that  mental  sting  which  stabs  within, 
The  dark  avenger  of  unpunished  sin; 
The  silent  shaft  which  goads  the  guilty  wretch 
Extended  on  a  rack's  untiring  stretch: 
Conscience  that  sting,  that  shaft  to  him  supplies  — 
His  mind  the  rack  from  which  he  ne'er  can  rise. 
For  me,  whate'er  my  folly,  or  my  fear, 
One  cheerful  comfort  still  is  cherished  here : 
No  dread  internal  haunts  my  hours  of  rest, 
No  dreams  of  injured  innocence  infest;  * 
Of  hope,  of  peace,  of  almost  all  bereft, 
Conscience,  my  last  but  welcome  guest  is  left. 
Slander's  empoisoned  breath  may  blast  my  name, 
Envy  delights  to  blight  the  buds  of  fame; 
Deceit  may  chill  the  current  of  my  blood, 
And  freeze  affection's  warm  impassioned  flood; 
Presaging  horror  darken  every  sense;  — ■ 
Even  here  will  conscience  be  my  best  defence. 
My  bosom  feeds  no  '  worm  which  ne'er  can  die:  °\ 
Not  crimes  I  mourn,  but  happiness  gone  by. 
Thus  crawling  on  with  many  a  reptile  vile, 
My  heart  is  bitter,  though  my  cheek  may  smile: 
No  more  with  former  bliss  my  heart  is  glad; 
Hope  yields  to  anguish,  and  my  soul  is  sad; 
From  fond  regret  no  future  joy  can  save; 
Remembrance  slumbers  only  in  the  grave."] 


*  ["  I  am  not  a  Joseph,"  said  Byron,  in  1821, 
"  nor  a  Scipio;  but  I  can  safely  affirm,  that  I  never 
in  my  life  seduced  any  woman." 

|  ["  We  know  enough  even  of  Lord  Byron's  pri- 
vate history  to  give  our  warrant  that,  though  his 
youth  may  have  shared  somewhat  too  largely  in  the 
indiscretions  of  those  left  too  early  masters  of  their 
own  actions  and  fortunes,  falsehood  and  malice  alone 
can  impute  to  him  any  real  cause  for  hopeless  re- 
morse, or  gloomy  melancholy."  —  Sir  Walter 
Scott.} 


42 


HOURS   OF  WLENESS. 


Yet  let  me  hush  this  echo  of  the  past, 
This  parting  song,  the  dearest  and  (he  last ; 
And  brood  in  secret  o'er  those  hours  of  joy, 
To  me  a  silent  and  a  sweet  employ, 
While  future  hope  and  fear  alike  unknown, 
I  think  with  pleasure  on  the  past  alone; 
Yes,  to  the  past  alone  my  heart  confine, 
And  chase  the  phantom  of  what  once  was  mine. 

Ida  !  still  o'er  thy  hills  in  joy  preside. 
And  proudly  steer  through  time's  eventful  tide; 
Stall  may  thy  blooming  sons  thy  name  revere, 
Smile  in  thy  bower,  but  quit  thee  with  a  tear  ;  — 
That  tear,  perhaps,  the  fondest  which  will  flow, 
O'er  their  last  scene  of  happiness  below. 
Tell  me,  ye  hoary  few,  who  glide  along. 
The  feeble  veterans  of  some  former  throng, 
Whose  friends,  like  autumn  leaves  by  tempests 

whirled, 
Are  swept  for  ever  from  this  busy  world ; 
Revolve  the  fleeting  moments  of  your  youth, 
While  Care  as  yet  withheld  her  venomed  tooth  ; 
Say  if  remembrance  days  like  these  endears 
Beyond  the  rapture  of  succeeding  years  ? 
Say  can  ambition's  fevered  dream  bestow 
So  sweet  a  balm  to  soothe  your  hours  of  woe  ? 
Can  treasures,  hoarded  forsome  thankless  son, 
Can  royal  smiles,  or  wreaths  by  slaughter  won, 
Can  stars  or  ermine,  man's  maturer  toys, 
(For  glittering  baubles  are  not  left  to  boys) 
Recall  one  scene  so  much  beloved  to  view, 
As  those  where  Youth  her  garland  twined  for 

you? 
Ah,  no  !  amidst  the  gloomy  calm  of  age 
You  turn  with  faltering  hand  life's  varied  page  ; 
Peruse  the  record  of  your  days  on  earth, 
Unsullied  only  where  it  marks  your  birth  ; 
Still  lingering  pause  above  each   chequered 

leaf, 
And  blot  with  tears  the  sablp  lines  of  grief; 
Where   Passion  o'er  the  theme   her  mantle 

threw, 
Or  weeping  Virtue  sighed  a  faint  adieu; 
But  bless  the  scroll  which  fairer  words  adorn, 
Traced  by  the  rosy  finger  of  the  morn  ; 
When  Friendship  bowed  before  the  shrine  of 

truth, 
And  Love,  without  his   pinion,1  smiled   on 

youth. 


ANSWER    TO    A    BEAUTIFUL    POEM 
ENTITLED   "THE  COMMON   LOT."2 

Montgomery!  true,  the  common  let 
Of  mortals  lies  in  Lethe's  wave ; 

Yet  some  shall  never  be  forgot  — 
Some  shall  exist  beyond  the  grave. 

1"L'Amitie  est  l'Amour  sans  ailes,"  is  a  French 
proverb. 

2  Written  by  James  Montgomery,  author  of 
'  The  Wanderer  in  Switzerland,"  etc. 


"  Unknown  the  region  of  his  birth," 
The  hero8  rolls  the  tide  of  war; 

Yet  not  unknown  his  martial  worth, 
Which  glares  a  meteor  from  afar. 

His  joy  or  grief,  his  weal  or  woe, 
Perchance  may  'scape  the  page  of  fame ; 

Yet  nations  now  unborn  will  know 
The  record  of  his  deathless  name. 

The  patriot's  and  the  poet's  frame 
Must  share  the  common  tomb  of  all: 

Their  glory  will  not  sleep  the  same; 
That  will  arise,  though  empires  fall. 

The  lustre  of  a  beauty's  eye 

Assumes  the  ghastly  stare  of  death  ; 

The  fair,  the  brave,  the  good  must  die, 
And  sink  the  yawning  grave  beneath. 

Once  more  the  speaking  eye  revives, 
Still  beaming  through  the  lover's  strain; 

For  Petrarch's  Laura  still  survives : 
She  died,  but  ne'er  will  die  again. 

The  rolling  seasons  pass  away, 

And  Time,  untiring,  waves  his  wing; 

Whilst  honor's  laurels  ne'er  decay, 
But  bloom  in  fresh,  unfading  spring. 

All,  all  must  sleep  in  grim  repose, 

Collected  in  the  silent  tomb; 
The  old  and  young,  with  friends  and  foes, 

Festering  alike  in  shrouds,  consume. 

The  mouldering  marble  lasts  its  day, 
Yet  falls  at  length  an  useless  fane ; 

To  ruin's  ruthless  fangs  a  prey, 
The  wrecks  of  pillared  pride  remain. 

What,  though  the  sculpture  be  destroyed, 
From  dark  oblivion  meant  to  guard ; 

A  bright  renown  shall  be  enjoyed 
By  those  whose  virtues  claim  reward. 

Then  do  not  say  the  common  lot 
Of  all  lies  deep  in  Lethe's  wave; 

Some  few  who  ne'er  will  be  forgot 
Shall  burst  the  bondage  of  the  grave. 


TO  A  LADY 

WHO  PRESENTED  THE  AUTHOR  WITH  THB 
VELVET  BAND  WHICH  BOUND  HER 
TRESSES. 

THIS  Band,  which  bound  thy  yellow  hair, 
Is  mine,  sweet  girl!  thy  pledge  of  love; 

It  claims  my  warmest,  dearest  care, 
Like  relics  left  of  saints  above. 


3  No  particular  hero  is  here  alluded  to.  The 
exploits  of  Bayard,  Nemours,  Edward  the  Black 
Prince,  and.  in  more    modern  times  the   fame  of 


HOURS   OF  IDLENESS. 


43 


Oh  !  I  will  wear  it  next  my  heart  ; 

'Twill  bind  my  soul  in  bonds  to  thee ; 
From  me  again  'twill  ne'er  depart, 

But  mingle  in  the  grave  with  me. 

The  dew  I  gather  from  thy  lip 

Is  not  so  dear  to  me  as  this  ; 
That  I  but  for  a  moment  sip, 

And  banquet  on  a  transient  bliss : 

This  will  recall  each  youthful  scene, 
E'en  when  our  lives  are  on  the  wane ; 

The  leaves  of  Love  will  still  be  green 
When  Memory  bids  them  bud  again. 

Oh  !  little  lock  of  golden  hue, 

In  gently  waving  ringlet  curled, 
By  the  dear  head  on  which  you  grew, 

I  would  not  lose  you  for  a  world. 

Not  though  a  thousand  more  adorn 
The  polished  brow  where  once  you  shone, 

Like  rays  which  gild  a  cloudless  morn, 
Beneath  Columbia's  1  /rvid  zone. 

1806. 


REMEMBRANCE. 

'TIS  done  !  —  I  saw  it  in  my  dreams  : 

No  more  with  Hope  the  future  beams ; 
My  days  of  happiness  are  few  : 

Chilled  by  misfortune's  wintry  blast, 

My  dawn  of  life  is  overcast, 

Love,  Hope,  and  joy,  alike  adieu  !  — 
Would  I  could  add  Remembrance  too  !  — 

1806. 


LINES 


ADDRESSED  TO  THE  REV.  J.  T.  BECHER,  ON 
HIS  ADVISING  THE  AUTHOR  TO  MIX 
MORE   WITH   SOCIETY. 

pEAR  Becher,  you  tell  me  to  mix  with  man- 
kind ;  — ■ 
I  cannot  deny  such  a  precept  is  wise  ; 
But  retirement  accords  with  the  tone  of  my 
mind : 
I  will  not  descend  to  a  world  I  despise. 

Did  the  senate  or  camp  my  exertions  require, 
Ambition  might  prompt  me,  at  once,  to  go 
forth ; 
When  infancy's  years  of  probation  expire, 
Perchance  I  may  strive  to  distinguish  my 
birth. 

The  fire  in  the  cavern  of  Etna  concealed, 
Still  mantles  unseen  in  its  secret  recess  ;  — 


Marlborough,  Frederick  the  Great,  Ceunt  Saxe, 
Charles  of  Sweden,  etc.,  are  familiar  to  every  his- 
torical reader,  but  the  exact  places  of  their  birth  are 
known  to  a  very  small  proportion  of  their  admirers. 


At  length,  in  a  volume  terrific  revealed, 

No  torrent  can  quench  it,  no  bounds  can 
repress. 

Oh  !  thus,  the  desire  in  my  bosom  for  fame 
Bids  me  live   but   to   hope   for  posterity's 
praise. 
Could  I  soar  with  the  phcenix  on  pinions  of 
flame, 
With  him  I  would  wish  to  expire  in  the 
blaze. 

For  the  life  of  a  Fox,  of  a  Chatham  the  death. 
What    censure,   what    danger,   what    woe 
would  I  brave ! 
Their  lives  did   not  end  when   they  yielded 
their  breath ; 
Their  glory  illumines   the  gloom    of  their 
grave. 

Yet  whv  should  I    mingle   in   Fashion's  full 
herd  ? 
Why  crouch  to  her  leaders,  or  cringe  to  her 
rules  ? 
Why  bend  to  the  proud,  or  applaud  the  ab- 
surd ? 
Why  search  for  delight  in  the  friendship  of 
fools  ? 

I  have  tasted  the  sweets  and  the  bitters  of 

love; 

In  friendship  I  early  was  taught  to  believe ; 

My  passion  the  matrons  of  prudence  reprove  ; 

I  have  found  that  a  friend  may  profess,  yet 

deceive. 

To   me  what  is  wealth  ?    it  may  pass  in   an 
hour, 
If  tyrants  prevail,   or   if    Fortune    should 
frown  ; 
To  me  what  is  title  ?  —  the  phantom  of  power; 
To  me  what  is  fashion  ?  —  I  seek   but  re- 
nown. 

Deceit  is  a  stranger  as  yet  to  my  soul ; 

I  still  am  unpractised  to  varnish  the  truth : 
Then  why  should  I  live  in  a  hateful  control  ? 

Why  waste  upon  folly  the  days  of  my  youth  ? 


THE  DEATH  OF  CALMAR  AND 
ORLA. 

AN   IMITATION   OF  MACPHERSON'S  OSSIAN.l 

Dear  are  the  days  of  youth  !  Age  dwells 
on  their  remembrance  through  the  mist  of 
time.  In  the  twilight  he  recalls  the  sunny 
hours  of  morn.  He  lifts  his  spear  with  trem- 
bling hand.  "  Not  thus  feebly  did  I  raise  the 
steel  before  my  fathers !  "     Past  is  the  race  of 


1  It  may  be  necessary  to  observe,  that  the  story, 
though  considerably  varied   in   the  catastrophe,  is 


44 


HOURS   OF  IDLENESS. 


heroes !  But  their  fame  rises  on  the  harp ; 
their  souls  ride  on  the  wings  of  the  wind ; 
they  hear  the  sound  through  the  sighs  of  the 
storm,  and  rejoice  in  their  hall  of  clouds ! 
Such  is  Calmar.  The  gray  stone  marks  his 
narrow  house.  He  looks  down  from  eddying 
tempests  :  he  rolls  his  form  in  the  whirlwind, 
and  hovers  on  the  blast  of  the  mountain. 

In  Morven  dwelt  the  chief;  a  beam  of  war 
to  Fingal.  His  steps  in  the  field  were  marked 
in  blood.  Lochlin's  sons  had  fled  before  his 
angry  spear ;  but  mild  was  the  eye  of  Calmar ; 
soft  was  the  flow  of  his  yellow  locks :  they 
streamed  like  the  meteor  of  the  night.  No 
maid  was  the  sigh  of  his  soul :  his  thoughts 
were  given  to  friendship,  —  to  dark-haired 
Orla,  destroyer  of  heroes !  Equal  were  their 
swords  in  battle ;  but  fierce  was  the  pride  of 
Orla: — gentle  alone  to  Calmar.  Together 
they  dwelt  in  the  cave  of  Oithona. 

From  Lochlin,  Swaran  bounded  o'er  the 
blue  waves.  Erin's  sons  fell  beneath  his 
might.  Fingal  roused  his  chiefs  to  combat. 
Their  ships  cover  the  ocean.  Their  hosts 
throng  on  the  green  hills.  They  come  to  the 
aid  of  Erin. 

Night  rose  in  clouds.  Darkness  veils  the 
armies,  but  the  blazing  oaks  gleam  through 
the  valley.  The  sons  of  Lochlin  slept :  their 
dreams  were  of  blood.  They  lift  the  spear 
in  thought,  and  Fingal  flies.  Not  so  the  host 
of  Morven.  To  watch  was  the  post  of  Orla. 
Calmar  stood  by  his  side.  Their  spears  were 
in  their  hands.  Fingal  called  his  chiefs  :  they 
stood  around.  The  king  was  in  the  midst. 
Gray  were  his  locks,  but  strong  was  the  arm 
of  the  king.  Age  withered  not  his  powers. 
"  Sons  of  Morven,"  said  the  hero,  "  to-morrow 
we  meet  the  foe.  But  where  is  Cuthullin,  the 
shield  of  Erin  ?  He  rests  in  the  halls  of 
Tura ;  he  knows  not  of  our  coming.  Who 
will  speed  through  Lochlin  to  the  hero,  and 
call  the  chief  to  arms  ?  The  path  is  by  the 
swords  of  foes;  but  many  are  my  heroes. 
They  are  thunderbolts  of  war.  Speak,  ye 
chiefs  !     Who  will  arise  ?  " 

"Son  of  Trenmor!  mine  be  the  deed," 
said  dark-haired  Orla,  "  and  mine  alone. 
What  is  death  to  me  ?  I  love  the  sleep  of 
the  mighty,  but  little  is  the  danger.  The  sons 
of  Lochlin  dream.  I  will  seek  car-borne 
Cuthullin.  If  I  fall,  raise  the  song  of  bards  ; 
and  lay  me  by  the  stream  of  Lubar."  —  "And 
shalt  thou  fall  alone  ?  "  said  fair-haired  Cal- 
mar. "  Wilt  thou  leave  thy  friend  afar  ? 
Chief  of  Oithona !  not  feeble  is  my  arm  in 
fight.  Could  I  see  thee  die,  and  not  lift  the 
spear  ?     No,  Orla !  ours  has  been  the  chase 


taken  from  "  Nisus  and  Euryalus,"  of  which  epi- 
sode a  translation  is  already  given  in  the  present 
volume. 


of  the  roebuck,  and  the  feast  of  shells ;  ours 
be  the  path  of  danger  :  ours  has  been  the  cave 
of  Oithona;  ours  be  the  narrow  dwelling  on  the 
banks  of  Lubar."  "  Calmar,"  said  tin-  chief  of 
Oithona, "  why  should  thy  yellow  locks  be  dark- 
ened in  thedustofErin  ?  Let  me  fall  alone.  My 
father  dwells  in  his  hall  of  air  :  he  will  rejoice  in 
his  boy;  but  the  blue-eyed  Mora  spreads  the 
feast  for  her  son  in  Morven.  She  listens  to 
the  steps  of  the  hunter  on  the  heath,  and 
thinks  it  is  the  tread  of  Calmar.  Let  him  not 
say,  '  Calmar  has  fallen  by  the  steel  of  Loch- 
lin :  he  died  with  gloomy  Orla,  the  chief  of 
the  dark  brow.'  Why  should  tears  dim  the 
azure  eye  of  Mora  ?  Why  should  her  voice 
curse  Orla,  the  destroyer  of  Calmar?  Live, 
Calmar!  Live  to  raise  my  stone  of  moss; 
live  to  revenge  me  in  the  blood  of  Lochlin. 
Join  the  song  of  bards  above  my  grave. 
Sweet  will  be  the  song  of  death  to  Orla,  from 
the  voice  of  Calmar.  My  ghost  shall  smile  on 
the  notes  of  praise."  "  Orla,"  said  the  son  of 
Mora,  "  could  I  raise  the  song  of  death  to  my 
friend  ?  Could  I  give  his  fame  to  the  winds  ? 
No,  my  heart  would  speak  in  sighs :  faint 
and  broken  are  the  sounds  of  sorrow.  Orla! 
our  souls  shall  hear  the  song  together.  One 
cloud  shall  be  ours  on  high :  the  bards  will 
mingle  the  names  of  Orla  and  Calmar." 

They  quit  the  circle  of  the  chiefs.  Their 
steps  are  to  the  host  of  Lochlin.  The  dying 
blaze  «f  oak  dim  twinkles  through  the  night. 
The  northern  star  points  the  path  to  Tura. 
Swaran,  the  king,  rests  on  his  lonely  hill. 
Here  the  troops  are  mixed :  they  frown  in 
sleep ;  their  shields  beneath  their  heads. 
Their  swords  gleam  at  distance  in  heaps. 
The  fires  are  faint ;  their  embers  fail  in  smoke. 
All  is  hushed  ;  but  the  gale  sighs  on  the  rocks 
above.  Lightly  wheel  the  heroes  through  the 
slumbering  band.  Half  the  journey  is  past, 
when  Mathon,  resting  on  his  shield,  meets  the 
eye  of  Orla.  It  rolls  in  flame,  and  glistens 
through  the  shade.  His  spear  is  raised  on 
high.  "  Why  dost  thou  bend  thy  brow,  chief 
of  Oithona  ?  "  said  fair-haired  Calmar  :  "we 
are  in  the  midst  of  foes.  Is  this  a  time  foi 
delay?"  "It  is  a  time  for  vengeance,"  sai1' 
Orla  of  the  gloomy  brow.  "  Mathon  of  Lochlii' 
sleeps  :  seest  thou  his  spear  ?  Its  point  is  dim 
with  the  gore  of  my  father.  The  blood  of 
Mathon  shall  reek  on  mine ;  but  shall  I  slay 
him  sleeping,  son  of  Mora?  No!  he  shall 
feel  his  wound  :  my  fame  shall  not  soar  on  the 
blood  of  slumber.  Rise,  Mathon,  rise  !  The 
son  of  Conna  calls ;  thy  life  is  his ;  rise  to 
combat."  Mathon  starts  from  sleep ;  but  did 
he  rise  alone  ?  No :  the  gathering  chiefs 
bound  on  the  plain.  "  Fly  !  Calmar,  fly  !  " 
said  dark-haired  Orla.  "  Mathon  is  mine.  I 
shall  die  in  joy  :  but  Lochlin  crowds  around. 
Fly  through  the  shade  of  night."     Orla  turns. 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 


45 


The  helm  of  Mathon  is  cleft ;  his  shield  falls 
from  his  arm  :  he  shudders  in  his  blood.  He 
rolls  by  the  side  of  the  blazing  oak.  Strumon 
sees  him  fall :  his  wrath  rises :  his  weapon 
glitters  on  the  head  of  Orla :  but  a  spear 
pierced  his  eye.  His  brain  gushes  through 
the  wound,  and  foams  on  the  spear  of  Cal- 
mar.  As  roll  the  waves  of  the  Ocean  on  two 
mighty  barks  of  the  north,  so  pour  the  men  of 
Lachlin  on  the  chiefs.  As,  breaking  the  surge 
in  foam,  proudly  steer  the  barks  of  the  north, 
so  rise  the  chiefs  of  Morven  on  the  scattered 
crests  of  Lochlin.  The  din  of  arms  came  to 
the  ear  of  Fingal.  He  strikes  his  shield ;  his 
sons  throng  around ;  the  people  pour  along 
the  heath.  Ryno  bounds  in  joy.  Ossian 
stalks  in  his  arms.  Oscar  shakes  the  spear. 
The  eagle  wing  of  Fillan  floats  on  the  wind. 
Dreadful  is  the  clang  of  death  !  many  are  the 
widows  of  Lochlin !  Morven  prevails  in  its 
strength. 

Morn  glimmers  on  the  hills  :  no  living  foe 
is  seen ;  but  the  sleepers  are  many ;  grim  they 
lie  on  Erin.  The  breeze  of  ocean  lifts  their 
locks ;  yet  they  do  not  awake.  The  hawks 
scream  above  their  prey. 

Whose  yellow  locks  wave  o'er  the  breast  of 
a  chief?  Bright  as  the  gold  of  the  stranger, 
they  mingle  with  the  dark  hair  of  his  friend. 
'Tis  Calmar :  he  lies  on  the  bosom  of  Orla. 
Theirs  is  one  stream  of  blood.  Fierce  is  the 
look  of  the  gloomy  Orla.  He  breathes  not ; 
but  his  eye  is  still  a  flame.  It  glares  in  death 
unclosed.  His  hand  is  grasped  in  Calmar's  ; 
but  Calmar  lives !  he  lives,  though  low. 
"  Rise,"  said  the  king,  "  rise,  son  of  Mora : 
'tis  mine  to  heal  the  wounds  of  heroes.  Cal- 
mar may  yet  bound  on  the  hills  of  Morven." 

"  Never  more  shall  Calmar  chase  the  deer 
of  Morven  with  Orla,"  said  the  hero.  "  What 
were  the  chase  to  me  alone  ?  Who  would 
share  the  spoils  of  battle  with  Calmar  ?  Orla 
is  at  rest!  Rough  was  thy  soul,  Orla!  yet 
soft  to  me  as  the  dew  of  morn  It  glared  on 
others  in  lightning:  to  me  a  silver  beam  of 
night.  Bear  my  sword  to  blue  tyed  Mora; 
let  it  hang  in  my  empty  hall.  It  is  not  pure 
from  blood :  but  it  could  not  save  Orla.  Lay 
me  with  my  friend.  Raise  the  song  when  I 
am  dark !  " 

They  are  laid  by  the  stream  of  Lubar.  Four 
gray  stones  mark  the  dwelling  of  Orla  and 
Calmar.  When  Swaran  was  bound,  our  sails 
rose  on  the  blue  waves.  The  winds  gave  our 
barks  to  Morven  : — the  bards  raised  the  song. 

"  What  form  rises  on  the  roar  of  clouds  ? 
Whose  dark  ghost  gleams  on  the  red  streams 
of  tempests  ?  His  voice  rolls  on  the  thunder. 
'Tis  Orla,  the  brown  chief  of  Oithona.  He 
was  unmatched  in  war.  Peace  to  thy  soul, 
Orla!  thy  fame  will  not  perish.  Nor  thine, 
Calmar !     Lovely  wast  thou,  son  of  blue-eyed 


Mora;  but  not  harmless  was  thy  sword.  It 
hangs  in  thy  cave.  The  ghosts  of  Lochlin 
shriek  around  its  steel.  Hear  thy  praise,  Cal- 
mar! It  dwells  on  the  voice  of  the  mighty. 
Thy  name  shakes  on  the  echoes  of  Morven. 
Then  raise  thy  fair  locks,  son  of  Mora.  Spread 
them  on  the  arch  of  the  rainbow ;  and  smile 
through  the  tears  of  the  storm." l 


L'AMITIE  EST  L'AMOUR  SANS  AILES. 

[WRITTEN   DECEMBER,    1806.] 

Why  should  my  anxious  breast  repine, 

Because  my  youth  is  fled  ? 
Days  of  delight  may  still  be  mine; 

Affection  is  not  dead. 
In  tracing  back  the  years  of  youth, 
One  firm  record,  one  lasting  truth 

Celestial  consolation  brings; 
Bear  it,  ye  breezes,  to  the  seat, 
Where  first  my  heart  responsive  beat, — 

"  Friendship  is  Love  without  his  wings !  " 

Through  few,  but  deeply  chequered  years, 

What  moments  have  been  mine ! 
Now  half  obscured  by  clouds  of  tears, 

Now  bright  in  rays  divine; 
Howe'er  my  future  doom  be  cast, 
My  soul,  enraptured  with  the  past. 

To  one  idea  fondly  clings ; 
Friendship !  that  thought  is  all  thine  own, 
Worth  worlds  of  bliss,  that  thought  alone  — 

"  Friendship  is  Love  without  his  wings  !  " 

Where  yonder  yew-trees  lightly  wave 

Their  branches  on  the  gale, 
Unheeded  heaves  a  simple  grave. 

Which  tells  the  common  tale  ; 
Round  this  unconscious  schoolboys  stray. 
Till  the  dull  knell  of  childish  play 

From  yonder  studious  mansion  rings ; 
But  here  whene'er  my  footsteps  move, 
My  silent  tears  too  plainly  prove 

"  Friendship  is  Love  without  his  wings !  " 

Oh  Love  !  before  thy  glowing  shrine 

My  early  vows  were  paid ; 
My  hopes,  my  dreams,  my  heart  was  thine, 

But  these  are  now  decayed ; 
For  thine  are  pinions  like  the  wind, 
No  trace  of  thee  remains  behind, 


1  I  fear  Laing's  late  edition  has  completely  over- 
thrown every  hope  that  Macpherson's  Ossian  might 
prove  the  translation  of  a  series  of  poems  complete 
in  themselves;  but,  while  the  imposture  is  discov- 
ered, the  merit  of  the  work  remains  undisputed, 
though  not  without  faults  —  particularly,  in  some 
parts,  turgid  and  bombastic  diction.  — The  present 
humhle  imitation  will  be  pardoned  by  the  admirers 
of  the  original  as  an  attempt,  however  inferior, 
which  evinces  an  attachment  to  their  favorite  author. 


*6 


HOURS    OF  IDLENESS. 


Except,  alas!  thy  jealous  stings. 
Away,  away !  delusive  power, 
Thou  shalt  not  haunt  my  coming  hour; 

Unless,  indeed,  without  thy  wings. 

Seat  of  my  youth  !  *  thy  distant  spire 

Recalls  each  scene  of  joy; 
My  bosom  glows  with  former  fire,— 

In  mind  again  a  boy. 
Thy  grove  of  elms,  thy  verdant  hill, 
Thy  every  path  delights  me  still, 

Each  flower  a  double  fragrance  flings ; 
Again,  as  once,  in  converse  gay, 
Each  dear  associate  seems  to  say 

"  Friendship  is  Love  without  his  wings  1 " 

My  Lycus !  2  wherefore  dost  thou  weep  ? 

Thy  falling  tears  restrain ; 
Affection  for  a  time  may  sleep, 

But,  oh,  'twill  wake  again. 
Think,  think,  my  friend,  when  next  we  meet, 
Our  long-wished  interview,  how  sweet! 

From  this  my  hope  of  rapture  springs; 
While  youthful  hearts  thus  fondly  swell. 
Absence,  my  friend,  can  only  tell, 

"  Friendship  is  Love  without  his  wings  I  " 

In  one,  and  one  alone  deceived 

Did  I  my  error  mourn  ? 
No  —  from  oppressive  bonds  relieved, 

I  left  the  wretch  to  scorn. 
I  turned  to  those  my  childhood  knew, 
With  feelings  warm,  with  bosoms  true, 

Twined  with  my  heart's  according  strings  ; 
And  till  those  vital  chords  shall  break, 
For  none  but  these  my  breast  shall  wake 

Friendship,  the  power  deprived  of  wings ! 

Ye  few!  my  soul,  my  life  is  yours, 

My  memory  and  my  hope ; 
Your  worth  a  lasting  love  insures, 

Unfettered  in  its  scope ; 
From  smooth  deceit  and  terror  sprung, 
With  aspect  fair  and  honeyed  tongue, 

Let  Adulation  wait  on  kings  ; 
With  joy  elate,  by  snares  beset, 
We,  we,  my  friends,  can  ne'er  forget 

"  Friendship  is  Love  without  his  wings  I  " 

Fictions  and  dreams  inspire  the  bard 

Who  rolls  the  epic  song; 
Friendship  and  Truth  be  my  reward  — 

To  me  no  bays  belong ; 
If  laurelled  Fame  but  dwells  with  lies, 
Me  the  enchantress  ever  flies, 

Whose  heart  and  not  whose  fancy  sings ; 
Simple  and  young,  I  dare  not  feign ; 
Mine  be  the  rude  yet  heartfelt  strain, 

"  Friendship  is  Love  without  his  wings !  " 


1  Harrow. 

2  The  Earl  of  Clare. 


THE  PRAYER  OF  NATURE* 

[WRITTEN   DECEMBER  20,  1S06.] 

Father  of  Light!  great  God  of  Heaven' 
Hear'st  thou  the  accents  of  despair  ? 

Can  guilt  like  man's  be  e'er  torgiven  ? 
Can  vice  atone  for  crimes  by  prayer  ? 

Father  of  Light,  on  thee  I  call ! 

Thou  see'st  my  soul  is  dark  within; 
Thou  who  canst  mark  the  sparrow's  fall, 

Avert  from  me  the  death  of  sin. 

No  shrine  I  seek,  to  sects  unknown ; 

Oh  point  to  me  the  path  of  truth  1 
Thy  dread  omnipotence  I  own ; 

Spare,  yet  amend,  the  faults  of  youth. 

Let  bigots  rear  a  gloomy  fane, 

Let  superstition  hail  the  pile, 
Let  priests,  to  spread  their  sable  reign, 

With  tales  of  mystic  rights  ueguile. 

Shall  man  confine  his  Maker's  sway 
To  Gothic  domes  of  mouldering  stone? 

Thy  temple  is  the  face  of  day ; 

Earth,  ocean,  heaven  thy  boundless  throne. 

Shall  man  condemn  his  race  to  hell, 
Unless  they  bend  in  pompous  form  ? 

Tell  us  that  all,  for  one  who  fell, 
Must  perish  in  the  mingling  storm  ? 

Shalf  each  pretend  to  reach  the  skies, 

Yet  doom  his  brother  to  expire, 
Whose  soul  a  different  hope  supplies, 

Or  doctrines  less  severe  inspire  ? 

Shall  these,  by  creeds  they  can't  expound, 
Prepare  a  fancied  bliss  or  woe  ? 

Shall  reptiles,  grovelling  on  the  ground, 
Their  great  Creator's  purpose  know  ? 

Shall  those,  who  live  for  self  alone, 

Whose  years  float  on  in  daily  crime  — 

Shall  they  by  Faith  for  guilt  atone, 
And  live  beyond  the  bounds  of  Time  ? 

Father!  no  prophet's  laws  I  seek, — 
Thy  laws  in  Nature's  works  appear;  — 

I  own  myself  corrupt  and  weak, 
Yet  will  I  pray,  for  thou  wilt  hear ! 

Thou,  who  canst  guide  the  wandering  star 
Through  trackless  realms  of  asther's  space; 

Who  calm'st  the  elemental  war, 

Whose  hand  from  pole  to  pole  I  trace :  — 


3  [It  is  difficult  to  conjecture  for  what  reason  these 
stanzas,  which  surpass  any  thing  that  Byron  had  yet 
written,  were  not  included  in  the  publication  of  1807. 
Written  when  the  author  was  not  nineteen  years  ol 
age,  "  this  remarkable  poem  shows,"  says  Moore, 
"  how  early  the  struggle  between  natural  piety  and 
doubt  began  in  his  mind."j 


HOURS   OF  IDLENESS. 


47 


Thou,  who  in  wisdom  placed  me  here, 
Who,  when  thou  wilt,  can  take  me  hence, 

Ah !  whilst  I  tread  this  earthly  sphere, 
Extend  to  me  thy  wide  defence. 

To  Thee,  my  God,  to  thee  I  calll 

Whatever  weal  or  woe  betide, 
By  thy  command  I  rise  or  fall, 

In  thy  protection  I  confide. 

If  when  this  dust  to  dust's  restored, 
My  soul  shall  float  on  airy  wing, 

How  shall  thy  glorious  name  adored 
Inspire  her  feeble  voice  to  sing! 

But,  if  this  fleeting  spirit  share 
With  clay  the  grave's  eternal  bea, 

While  life  yet  throbs  I  raise  my  prayer, 
Though  doomed  no  more  to  quit  the  dead. 

To  Thee  I  breathe  my  humble  strain, 
Grateful  for  all  thy  mercies  past, 

And  hope,  my  God,  to  thee  again 
This  erring  life  may  fly  at  last. 


TO   EDWARD   NOEL  LONG,   ESQ.i 

"  Nil  ego  contulerimjucundo  sanus  amico." 

Horace. 

Dear  Long,  in  this  sequestered  scene, 

While  all  around  in  slumber  lie, 
The  joyous  days  which  ours  have  been 

Come  rolling  fresh  on  Fancy's  eye ; 
Thus  if  anv.dst  the  gathering  storm, 
While  clouds  the  darkened  noon  deform, 
Yon  heaven  assumes  a  varied  glow, 
I  hail  the  sky's  celestial  bow, 
Which  spreads  the  sign  of  future  peace, 
And  bids  the  war  of  tempests  cease. 
Ah  1  though  the  present  brings  but  pain, ' 
I  think  those  days  may  come  again ; 
Or  if,  in  melancholy  mood, 
Some  lurking  envious  fear  intrude, 
To  check  my  bosom's  fondest  thought, 

And  interrupt  the  golden  dream, 
t  crush  the  fiend  with  malice  fraught, 

And  still  indulge  my  wonted  theme. 
Although  we  ne'er  again  can  trace, 

In  Granta's  vale,  the  pedant's  lore; 
Nor  through  the  groves  of  Ida  chase 

Our  raptured  visions  as  before, 


1  [This  gentleman,  who  was  with  Byron  both  at 
Harrow  and  Cambridge,  entered  the  Guards,  and 
served  in  the  expedition  to  Copenhagen.  He  was 
drowned  in  1S09,  when  on  his  way  to  join  the  army 
in  the  Peninsula;  the  transport  in  which  he  sailed 
being  run  down  in  the  night  by  another  of  the 
convoy.  "  Long's  father,"  says  Byron,  "  wrote  to 
me  to  write  his  son's  epitaph.  I  promised  —  but  I 
had  not  the  heart  to  complete  it.  He  was  such  a 
good,  amiable  being  as  rarely  remains  long  in  this 
•iQild;  with  talent  and  accomplishments,  too,  to 
^'•*-*him  the  more  regretted."  —  Diary,  1821.] 


Though  Youth  has  flown  on  rosy  pinion, 
And  Manhood  claims  his  stern  dominion  — 
Age  will  not  every  hope  destroy, 
But  yield  some  hours  of  sober  joy. 

Yes,  I  will  hope  that  Time's  broad  wing 
Will  shed  around  some  dews  of  spring: 
But  if  his  scythe  must  sweep  the  flowers 
Which  bloom  among  the  fairy  bowers, 
Where  smiling  Youth  delights  to  dwell, 
And  hearts  with  early  rapture  swell ; 
If  frowning  Age,  with  cold  control, 
Confines  the  current  of  the  soul, 
Congeals  the  tear  of  Pity's  eye, 
Or  checks  the  sympathetic  sigh, 
Or  hears  unmoved  misfortune's  groan, 
And  bids  me  feel  for  self  alone ; 
Oh !  may  my  bosom  never  learn 

To  soothe  its  wonted  heedless  flow ; 
Still,  still  despise  the  censor  stern, 

But  ne'er  forget  another's  woe. 
Yes,  as  you  knew  me  in  the  days 
O'er  which  Remembrance  yet  delays, 
Still  may  I  rove,  untutored,  wild, 
And  even  in  age  at  heart  a  child. 

Though  now  on  airy  visions  borne, 

To  you  my  soul  is  still  the  same. 
Oft  has  it  been  my  fate  to  mourn. 

And  all  my  former  joys  are  tame. 
But,  hence!  ye  hours  of  sable  hue! 

Your  frowns  are  gone,  my  sorrows  o'cv  2 
By  every  bliss  my  childhood  knew, 

I'll  think  upon  your  shade  no  more. 
Thus  when  the  whirlwind's  rage  is  past, 

And  caves  their  sullen  roar  enclose, 
We  heed  no  more  the  wintry  blast, 

When  lulled  by  zephyr  to  repose. 

Full  often  has  my  infant  Muse 

Attuned  to  love  her  languid  lyre ; 
But  now,  without  a  theme  to  choose, 

The  strains  in  stolen  sighs  expire. 
My  youthful  nymphs,  alas !  are  flown ; 

E ■  is  a  -wife,  and  C a  mother, 

And  Carolina  sighs  alone, 

And  Mary's  given  to  another; 
And  Cora's  eye,  which  rolled  on  me. 

Can  now  no  more  my  love  recall : 
In  truth,  dear  Long,  'twas  time  to  flee; 

For  Cora's  eye  will  shine  on  all. 
And  though  the  sun,  with  genial  rays, 
His  beams  alike  to  all  displays, 
And  every  lady's  eye's  a  sun. 
These  last  should  be  confined  t<5  one. 
The  soul's  meridian  don't  becoriTe  her, 
Whose  sun  displays  a  general  summer  I 
Thus  faint  is  every  former  flame, 
And  passion's  self  is  now  a  name. 
As,  when  the  ebbing  flames  are  low. 

The  aid  which  once  improved  their  light 
And  bade  them  burn  with  fiercer  glow, 

Now  quenches  all  their  sparks  in  night; 


«8 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 


Thus  has  it  been  with  passion's  fires, 
As  many  a  boy  and  girl  remembers, 

While  all  the  force  of  love  expires, 
Extinguished  with  the  dying  embers. 

But  now,  dear  Long,  'tis  midnight's  noon, 
And  clouds  obscure  the  watery  moon, 
Whose  beauties  I  shall  not  rehearse, 
Described  in  every  stripling's  verse; 
For  why  should  I  the  path  go  o'er, 
Which  every  bard  has  trod  before  ? 
Vet  ere  yon  silver  lamp  of  night 

Has  thrice  performed  her  stated  round, 
Has  thrice  retraced  her  path  of  light, 

And  chased  away  the  gloom  profound, 
I  trust  that  we,  my  gentle  friend, 
Shall  see  her  rolling  orbit  wend 
Above  the  dear-loved  peaceful  seat 
Wlvmh  once"  contained  our  youth's  retreat ; 
And  then  with  those  our  childhood  knew, 
We'll  mingle  in  the  festive  crew; 
While  many  a  tale  of  former  day 
Shall  wing  the  laughing  hours  away; 
And  all  the  flow  of  souls  shall  pour 
The  sacred  intellectual  shower, 
Nor  cease  till  Luna's  waning  horn 
Scarce  glimmers  through  the  mist  of  morn. 


TO  A  LADY.i 

Oh  !  had  my  fate  been  joined  with  thine, 
As  once  this  pledge  appeared  a  token, 

These  follies  had  not  then  been  mine, 
For  then  my  peace  had  not  been  broken.2 

To  thee  these  early  faults  I  owe, 
To  thee,  the  wise  and  old  reproving: 

They  know  my  sins,  but  do  not  know 
"Twas  thine  to  break  the  bonds  of  loving. 

For  once  my  soul,  like  thine,  was  pure, 
And  all  its  rising  fires  could  smother; 

But  now  thy  vows  no  more  endure, 
Bestowed  by  thee  upon  another. 

Perhaps  his  peace  I  could  destroy, 
And  spoil  the  blisses  thi  t  await  him ; 

Yet  let  my  rival  smile  in  jc  y, 
For  thy  dear  sake  I  cannot  hate  him. 

Ah !  since  thy  angel  form  is  gone, 
My  heart  no  more  can  rest  with  any ; 

But  what  it  sought  in  thee  alone, 
Attempts,  alas !  to  find  in  many. 

Then  fare  thee  well,  deceitful  maid! 
'Twere  vain  and  fruitless  to  regret  thee ; 


1  [Mrs.  Musters.] 

2  ["  Our  union  would  have  healed  feuds  in  which 
blood  had  been  shed  by  our  fathers  —  it  would  have 
joined  lands  broad  and  rich  —  it  would  have  joined 
at  least  one  heart,  and  two  persons  not  ill  matched 


Nor  Hope,  nor  Memory  yield  their  aid, 
But  Pride  may  teach  me  to  forget  thee. 

Yet  all  this  giddy  waste  of  years, 

This  tiresome  round  of  palling  pleasure: 

These  varied  loves,  these  matron's  fears, 
These  thoughtless  strains  to  passion's  meas- 
ures— 

If  thou  wert  mine,  had  all  been  hushed  •■• 
This  cheek,  now  pale  from  early  riot, 

With  passion's  hectic  ne'er  had  flushed. 
But  bloomed  in  calm  domestic  quiet. 

Yes,  once  the  rural  scene  was  sweet, 

For  Nature  seemed  to  smile  before  -lice,  3 

And  once  my  breast  abhorred  deceit, — 
For  then  it  beat  but  to  adore  thee. 

But  now  I  seek  for  other  joys : 

To  think  would  drive  my  soul  to  madness 
In  thoughtless  throngs  and  empty  noise, 

I  conquer  half  my  bosom's  sadness. 

Yet,  even  in  these  a  thought  will  steal 
In  spite  of  every  vain  endeavor, — 

And  fiends  might  pity  what  I  feel, — 
To  know  that  thou  art  lost  for  ever. 


I    WOULD   I   WERE  A   CARELESS 
CHILD. 

1  would  I  were  a  careless  child, 

Still  dwelling  in  my  Highland  cave, 
Or  roaming  through  the  dusky  wild, 

Or  bounding  o'er  the  dark  blue  wave; 
The  cumbrous  pomp  of  Saxon4  pride 

Accords  not  with  the  freeborn  soul, 
Which  loves  the  mountain's  craggy  side, 

And  seeks  the  rocks  where  billows  roll. 

Fortune !  take  back  these  cultured  lands, 

Take  back  this  name  of  splendid  sound ! 
I  hate  the  touch  of  servile  hands, 

I  hate  the  slaves  that  cringe  around. 
Place  me  among  the  rocks  I  love, 

Which  sound  to  Ocean's  wildest  roar; 
I  ask  but  this  —  again  to  rove 

Through  scenes  my  youth  bath  known  be- 
fore. 

in  years  (she  is  two  years  my  elder),  and  —  and  — 
and  —  what  has  been  the  rest-it?  "]  — Diary,  1821. 

3  [''Our  meetings,"  says  Byron  in  1822,  "were 
stolen  ones,  and  a  gate  leading  from  Mr.  Chaworth's 
grounds  to  those  of  my  mother  was  the  place  of  out 
interviews.  But  the  ardor  was  all  on  my  side.  I 
was  serious;  she  was  volatile:  she  liked  me  as  a 
younger  brother,  and  treated  and  laughed  at  me  as  a 
boy;  she,  however,  gave  me  her  picture,  and  that 
was  something  to  make  verses  upon.  Had  I  mar- 
ried her,  perhaps  the  whole  tenor  of  my  life  would 
have  been  different."] 

4  Sassenach,  or  Saxon,  a  Gaelic  word,  signifying 
either  Lowland  or  English. 


HOURS   OF  IDLENESS. 


49 


Few  are  my  years,  and  yet  I  feel 

The  world  was  ne'er  designed  for  me : 
Ah  !  why  do  darkening  shades  conceal 

The  hour  when  man  must  cease  to  be  ? 
Once  I  beheld  a  splendid  dream, 

A  visionary  scene  of  bliss : 
Truth  !  — wherefore  did  thy  hated  beam 

Awake  me  to  a  world  like  this  ? 

I  loved  —  but  those  I  loved  are  gone, 

Had  friends  —  my  early  friends  are  fled: 
How  cheerless  feels  the  heart  alone 

When  all  its  former  hopes  are  dead! 
Though  gay  companions  o'er  the  bowl 

Dispel  awhile  the  sense  of  ill ; 
Though  pleasure  stirs  the  maddening  soul, 

The  heart  —  the  heart  —  is  lonely  still. 

How  dull!  to  hear  the  voice  of  those 

Whom  rank  or   chance,  whom  wealth   or 
power, 
Have  made,  though  neither  friends  nor  foes, 

Associates  of  the  festive  hour. 
Give  me  again  a  faithful  few, 

In  years  and  feelings  still  the  same, 
And  I  will  fly  the  midnight  crew, 

Where  boisterous  joy  is  but  a  name. 

And  woman,  lovely  woman!  thou, 

My  hope,  my  comforter,  my  all! 
How  cold  must  be  my  bosom  now, 

When  e'en  thy  smiles  begin  to  pall  1 
Without  a  sigh  would  I  resign 

This  busy  scene  of  splendid  woe, 
To  make  that  calm  contentment  mine, 

Which  virtue  knows,  or  seems  to  know. 

Fain  would  I  fly  the  haunts  of  men — ■ 

I  seek  to  shun,  not  hate  mankind; 
My  breast  requires  the  sullen  glen, 

Whose  gloom  may  suit  a  darkened  mind. 
Oh  !  that  to  me  the  wings  were  given 

Which  bear  the  turtle  to  her  nest ! 
Then  would  I  cleave  the  vault  of  heaven, 

To  flee  away,  and  be  at  rest.1 


WHEN    I    ROVED   A   YOUNG    HIGH- 
LANDER. 

When  I  roved  a  young  Highlander  o'er  the 
dark  heath, 
And  climbed  thy  steep  summit,  oh  Morven 
of  snow ! 2 


1  *'  And  I  said,  Oh !  that  I  had  wings  like  a  dove ; 
for  than  would  I  fly  away,  and  be  at  rest."  —  Psalm 
!v.  6.  This  verse  also  constitutes  a  part  of  the 
.nost  beautiful  anthem  in  our  language. 

2  Morven,  a  lofty  mountain  in  Aberdeenshire. 
"  Gormal  of  snow,"  is  an  expression  frequently  to 
tt  found  in  Ossian. 


To  gaze  on  the  torrent  that  thundered  beneath, 
Or  the  mist  of  the  tempest  that  gathered 
below,3 

Untutored  by  science,  a  stranger  to  fear, 
And  rude  as  the  rocks  where  my  infancy 
grew, 
No  feeling,  save  one,  to  my  bosom  was  dear; 
Need  I  say,  my  sweet  Mary,4  'twas  centred 
in  you? 

Yet  it  could  not  be  love,  for  I  knew  not  tht 
name, — 
What  passion  can  dwell  in  the  heart  of  a 
child  ? 
But  still  I  perceive  an  emotion  the  same 
As  I  felt,  when  a  boy,  on  the  crag-covered 
wild : 
One  image  alone  on  my  bosom  impressed, 
I  loved  my  bleak  regions,  nor  panted  for 
new; 
And  few  were  my  wants,  for  my  wishes  were 
blessed ; 
And  pure  were  my  thoughts,  for  my  soul 
was  with  you. 


3  This  will  not  appear  extraoidinary  to  those  who 
have  been  accustomed  to  the  mountains.  It  is  by 
no  means  uncommon,  on  attaining  the  top  of  Ben-e- 
vis,  Ben-y-bourd,  etc.,  to  perceive,  between  the 
summit  and  the  valley,  clouds  pouring  down  rain, 
and  occasionally  accompanied  by  lightning,  while 
the  spectator  literally  looks  down  upon  the  storm, 
perfectly  secure  from  its  effects. 

4  [In  Byron's  Diary  for  1813,  he  says,  "  I  have 
been  thinking  lately  a  good  deal  of  Mary  Duff. 
How  very  odd  that  I  should  have  been  so  utterly, 
devotedly  fond  of  that  girl,  at  an  age  when  I  could 
neither  feel  passion,  nor  know  the  meaning  of  the 
word.  And  the  effect !  My  mother  used  always  to 
rally  me  about  this  childish  amour;  and,  at  last, 
many  years  after,  when  I  was  sixteen,  she  told  me 
one  day;  'Oh,  Byron,  I  have  had  a  letter  from 
Edinburgh,  from  Miss  Abercromby,  and  your  old 
sweetheart,  Mary  Duff,  is  married  to  a  Mr.  Cock- 
burn.'  [Robert  Cockburn,  Esq.,  of  Edinburgh.] 
And  what  was  my  answer?  I  really  cannot  explain 
or  account  for  my  feelings  at  that  moment ;  but  they 
nearly  threw  me  into  convulsions  —  to  the  horror  of 
my  mother  and  the  astonishment  of  everybody. 
And  it  is  a  phenomenon  in  my  existence  (for  I  was 
not  eight  years  old),  which  has  puzzled,  and  will 
puzzle  me  to  the  latest  hour  of  it."  —  Again,  in 
January,  1815,  a  few  days  after  his  marriage,  in  a 
letter  to  his  friend  Captain  Hay,  the  poet  thus 
speaks  of  his  childish  attachment :  —  "  Pray  tell  me 
more  —  or  as  much  as  you  like,  of  your  cousin 
Mary.  I  believe  I  told  you  our  story  some  years 
ago.  I  was  twenty-seven  a  few  days  ago,  and  I 
have  never  seen  her  since  we  were  children,  and 
young  children  too:  but  I  never  forget  her,  nor  ever 
can.  You  will  oblige  me  with  presenting  her  with 
my  best  respects,  and  all  good  wishes.  It  may 
seem  ridiculous  —  but  it  is  at  any  rate,  I  hope,  not 
offensive  to  her  nor  hers  —  in  me  to  pretend  to  rec- 
ollect any  thing  about  her,  at  so  early  a  period  of 
both  our  lives,  almost,  if  not  quite,  in  our  nur* 
series; — but  it  was  a  pleasant  dream,  whicb  sh> 


50 


HOURS   OF  IDLENESS. 


I  arose  with  the  dawn ;  with  my  dog  as  my 
guide, 
From  mountain   to   mountain   I  bounded 
along; 
I  breasted  the  billows  of  Dee's1  rushing  tide, 
And  heard  at  a  distance  the  Highlander's 
song: 
At  eve,  on  my  heath-covered  couch  of  repose, 
No  dreams,  save  of  Mary,  were  spread  to 
my  view ; 
And  warm  to  the  skies  my  devotions  arose, 
For  the  first  of  my  prayers  was  a  blessing 
on  you. 

1  left  my  bleak  home,  and  my  visions  are  gone  ; 
The  mountains  are  vanished,  my  youth  is 
no  more ; 
\s  the  last  of  my  race,  I  must  wither  alone, 
And  delight  but  in  days  I  have  witnessed 
before : 
Ah  !  splendor  has  raised,  but  embittered  my 
lot; 
More  dear  were  the  scenes  which  my  in- 
fancy knew  : 
Though  my  hopes  may  have  failed,  yet  they 
are  not  forgot; 
Though  cold  is  my  heart,  still  it  lingers  with 
you. 

When  I  see  some  dark  hill  point  its  crest  to 
the  sky, 
I  think  of  the  rocks  that  o'ershadow  Col- 
bleen  ;  - 
When  I  see  the  soft  blue  of  a  love-speaking  eye, 
I  think  of  those  eyes  that  endeared  the  rude 
scene ; 
When,  haply,  some  light-waving  locks  I  be- 
hold, 
That  faintly  resemble  my  Mary's  in  hue, 
£  think  on  the  long  flowing  ringlets  of  gold, 
The  locks  that  were  sacred  to  beauty,  and 
you. 
Vet  the  day  may  arrive  when  the  mountains 
once  more 
Shall  rise  to  my  sight  in  their  mantles  of  snow : 

But  while  these  soar  above  me,  unchanged  as 
before, 
Will  Mary  be  there  to  receive  me  ?  —  ah.no! 
Adieu,  then,  ye  hills,  where  my  childhood  was 
bred! 
Thou  sweet  flowing  Dee,  to  thy  waters  adieu ! 
No  home  in  the  forest  shall  shelter  my  head, — 
Ah !  Mary,  what  home  could  be  mine  but 
with  you  ? 


must  pardon  me  for  remembering.  Is  she  pretty 
still?  I  have  the  most  perfect  idea  of  her  person,  as 
a  child;  but  Time,  I  suppose,  has  played  the  devil 
with  us  both.''] 

1  The  Dee  is  a  beautiful  river,  which  rises  near 
Mar  Lodge  and  falls  into  the  sea  at  New  Aberdeen. 

2  Colbleen  is  a  mountain  near  the  verge  of  the 
Highlands,  not  far  from  the  ruins  of  Dee  Castle. 


TO   GEORGE,   EARL  DELAWARR. 

Oh  !  yes,  I  will  own  we  were  dear  to  each  other ; 
The  friendships  of  childhood,  though  fleet, 
ing,  are  true ; 
The   love  which  you  felt  was  the  love  of  a 
brother, 
Nor  less  the  affection  I  cherished  for  you. 

But  Friendship  can  vary  her  gentle  dominion ; 
The  attachment  of  years  in  a  moment  ex- 
pires : 
Like  Love,  too,  she  moves  on  a  swift-waving 
pinion, 
But  glows  not,  like  Love,  with  unquenchable 
fires. 

Full  oft  have  we  wandered  through  Ida  to- 
gether, 
And  blest  were  the  scenes  of  our  youth,  I 
allow : 
In  the  spring  of  our  life,  how  serene  is  the 
weather ! 
But  winter's  rude  tempests   are   gathering 
now. 

No  more  with  affection  shall  memory  blend 

ing, 

The  wonted  delights  of  our  childhood  re- 
trace : 
When  pride  steels  the  bosom,  the  heart  is  un- 
bending, 

And  what  would  be  justice  appears  a  dis 
gface. 

However,  dear  George,  for  I  still  must  esteem 
you  — 
The  few'  whom    I    love    I    can   never   up- 
braid — 
The  chance  which  has  lost  may  in  future  re- 
deem you, 
Repentance  will  cancel  the  vow  you  have 
made. 

I  will  not   complain,   and  though   chilled   is 

affection, 

With  me  no  corroding  resentment  shall  live : 

My  bosom  is  calmed  by  the  simple  reflection, 

That  both   may  be  wrong,  and  that  both 

should  forgive. 

You  knew  that  my  soul,  that  my  heart,  my 
existence 
If  danger  demanded,  were  wholly  your  own  ; 
You  knew  me  unaltered  by  years  or  by  dis- 
tance, 
Devoted  to  love  and  to  friendship  aloiie. 

You  knew,  —  but  away  with   the  vain   retro 
spection ! 
The  bond  of  affection  no  longer  endures  ; 
Too  late  you  may  droop  o'er  the  fond  recol- 
lection, 
And  sigh  for  the  friend  who  was  formerly 
yours. 


HOURS   OF  IDLENESS. 


51 


For  the  present,  we  par).   —  I  will  hope  not  for 
ever 
For  time  and  regret  wrill  restore  you  at  last : 
To  forget  our  dissension  we  both  should  en- 
deavor, 
I  ask  no  atonement  but  days  like  the  past. 


TO  THE  EAKL  OF  CLARE. 

"  Tu  s"  taper  amoris 
Sis  memor,  et  cari  CWnitis  iv?  abscedat  imago." 
Val.  Flac. 

Friend  of  my  youth  !  when  young  we  roved, 
Like  striplings,  mutually  beloved, 

With  friendship's  purest  glow, 
The  bliss  which  winged  those  rosy  hours 
Was  such  as  pleasure  seldom  showers 

On  mortals  hers  below. 

The  recollection  seems  alone 
Dearer  than  all  fhe  joys  I've  known, 

When  distan'  far  from  you : 
Though  pain,  'tis  still  a  pleasing  pain, 
To  trace  those  iays  and  hours  again, 

And  sigh  a^ain,  adieu  ! 

My  pensive  memory  lingers  o'er 
Those  scenes  to  be  enjoyed  no  more, 

Those  scnes  regretted  ever; 
The  measure  of  our  youth  is  full, 
Life's  evening  drear;,  is  dark  and  dull, 

And  we  may  meet  —  ah!  never! 

As  when  one  parent  spring  supplies 

Two  streams  which  from  one  fountain  rise, 

Together  joined  Jn  vain  ; 
How  soon,  diverging  from  their  source, 
Each,  murmuring,  seeks  another  course, 

Till  mingled  in  the  main ! 

Our  vital  streams  of  weal  or  woe, 
Though  near,  alas  !  distinctly  flow, 

Nor  mingle  as  before  : 
Now  swift  or  slow,  now  black  or  clear 
Till  death's  unfathomed  gulf  appear, 

And  both  shall  quit  the  shore. 

Our  souls,  my  friend  !  which  once  supplied 
One  wish,  nor  breathed  a  thought  beside, 

Now  flow  in  different  channels: 
Disdaining  humbler  rural  sports, 
Tis  yours  to  mix  in  polished  courts. 

And  shine  in  fashion's  annals ; 

'Tis  mine  to  waste  on  love  my  time, 
Or  vent  my  reveries  in  rhyme, 

Without  the  aid  of  reason ; 
For  sense  and  reason  (critics  know  it) 
Have  quitted  every  amorous  poet, 

Nor  left  a  thought  to  seize  on. 

Poor  LITTLE!  sweet,  melodious  bard' 
Of  late  esteemed  it  monstrous  hard 


That  he,  who  sang  before  all, — 
He  who  the  lore  of  love  expanded,— 
By  dire  reviewers  should  be  branded 

As  void  of  wit  and  moral.1 

And  yet,  while  Beauty's  praise  is  thine, 
Harmonious  favorite  of  the  Nine ! 

Repine  not  at  thy  lot. 
Thy  soothing  lays  may  still  be  read, 
When  Persecution's  arm  is  dead, 

And  critics  are  forgot. 

Still  I  must  yield  those  worthies  merit, 
Who  chasten,  with  unsparing  spirit, 

Bad  rhymes,  and  those  who  write  them 
And  though  myself  may  be  the  next, 
By  criticism  to  be  vext, 

I  really  will  not  fight  them.2 

Perhaps  they  would  do  quite  as  well 
To  break  the  rudely  sounding  shell 

Of  such  a  young  beginner. 
He  who  offends  at  pert  nineteen, 
Ere  thirty  may  become,  I  ween, 

A  very  hardened  sinner. 

Now,  Clare,  I  must  return  to  you; 
And,  sure,  apologies  are  due : 

Accept,  then,  my  concession. 
In  truth,  dear  Clare,  in  fancy's  flight 
I  soar  along  from  left  to  right ; 

My  muse  admires  digression. 

I  think  I  said  'twould  be  your  fate 
To  add  one  star  to  royal  state ;  — 

May  regal  smiles  attend  you! 
And  should  a  noble  monarch  reign, 
You  will  not  seek  his  smiles  in  vain, 

If  worth  can  recommend  you. 

Yet  since  in  danger  courts  abound, 
Where  specious  rivals  glitter  round, 

From  snares  may  saints  preserve  you; 
And  grant  your  love  or  friendship  ne'er 
From  any  claim  a  kindred  care, 

But  those  who  best  deserve  you ! 

Not  for  a  moment  may  you  stray 
From  truth's  secure,  unerring  way ! 

May  no  delights  decoy ! 
O'er  roses  may  your  footsteps  move, 
Your  smiles  be  ever  smiles  of  love, 

Your  tears  be  tears  of  joy ! 


1  These  stanzas  were  written  soon  after  the  ap« 
pearance  of  a  severe  critique,  in  a  northern  review, 
on  a  new  publication  of  the  British  Anacreon.  —  [See 
Edinburgh  Review,  July,  1807,  article  on  "  Epistles, 
Odes,  and  other  Poems,  by  Thomas  Little,  Esq."] 

2  A  bard  [Moore]  (horresco  referens)  defied  his 
reviewer  [Jeffrey]  to  mortal  combat.  If  this  exam- 
ple becomes  prevalent,  our  periodical  censors  must 
be  dipped  in  the  river  Styx;  for  what  else  can  secure 
them  from  the  numerous  host  of  their  enraged  as- 
sailants? 


52 


HOURS   OF  IDLENESS. 


Oh  !  if  you  wish  that  happiness 

Your  coming  days  and  years  may  bless, 

And  virtues  crown  your  brow  ; 
Be  still  as  you  were  wont  to  be, 
Spotless  as  you've  been  known  to  me, — 

Be  still  as  you  are  now.1 

And  though  some  trifling  share  of  praise, 
To  cheer  my  last  declining  days, 
•     To  me  were  doubly  dear ; 
Whilst  blessing  your  beloved  name, 
I'd  wave  at  once  a  poet's  fame, 
To  prove  a  prophet  here. 


LINES  WRITTEN  BENEATH  AN  ELM 
IN  THE  CHURCHYARD  OF  HAR- 
ROW.-! 

Spot  of  my  youth  !  whose  hoary  branches  sigh, 
Swept  by  the  breeze  that  fans  thy  cloudless  sky ; 
Where  now  alone  I  muse,  who  oft  have  trod, 
With  those  I  loved,  thy  soft  and  verdant  sod ; 


1  ["  Of  all  I  have  ever  known,  Clare  has  always 
been  the  least  altered  in  eve'.y  thing  from  the  excel- 
lent qualities  and  kind  affections  which  attached  me 
to  him  so  strongly  at  school.  I  should  hardly  have 
thought  it  possible  for  society  (or  the  world,  as  it  is 
called)  to  leave  a  being  with  so  little  of  the  leaven 
of  bad  passions.  I  do  not  speak  from  personal  ex- 
perience only,  but  from  all  I  have  ever  heard  of  him 
from  others,  during  absence  and  distance." — By- 
ron's Diary,  1821.] 

2  [On  losing  his  natural  daughter,  Allegra,  in 
April,  1822,  Byron  sent  her  remains  to  be  buried 
at  Harrow,  "  where,"  he  says,  in  a  letter  to  Mr. 
Murray,  "  I  once  hoped  to  have  laid  my  own." 
"  There  is,"  he  adds,  "  a  spot  in  the  churchyard, 
near  the  footpath,  on  the  brow  of  the  hill  looking  to- 
wards Windsor,  and  a  tomb  under  a  large  tree  (bear- 
ing the  name  of  Peachie,  or  Peachey),  where  I  used 
to  sit  for  hours  and  hours  when  a  boy.  This  was  my 
favorite  spot;  but  as  I  wish  to  erect  a  tablet  to  her 
memory,  the  body  had  better  be  deposited  in  the 
church  :  "  —  and  it  was  so  accordingly.] 


With  those  who,  scattered  far,  perchance  de- 
plore, 
Like  me,  the  happy  scenes  they  knew  before : 
Oh  !  as  I  trace  again  thy  winding  hill, 
Mine  eyes  admire,  my  heart  adores  thee  still, 
Thou  drooping  Elm  1  beneath  whose  boughs 

I  lav, 
And  frequent  mused  the  twilight  hours  away; 
Where,  as  they  once  were  wont,  my  limbs  re- 

cline, 
But,  ah  !  without  the  thoughts  which  then  wen 

mine : 
How  do  thy  branches,  moaning  to  the  blast, 
Invite  the  bosom  to  recall  the  past, 
And  seem  to  whisper,  as  they  gently  swell, 
"  Take,  while  thou  canst,  a  lingering,  last  fare- 
well !  " 
When  fate  shall  chill,  at  length,  this  fevered 
breast, 
And  calm  its  cares  and  passions  into  rest, 
Oft  have  I  thought,  'twould  soothe  my  dying 

hour,  — 
If  aught  may  soothe  when  life  resigns  her 

power, — 
To  know  some  humble  grave,  some  narrow  cell, 
Would  hide  my  bosom  where  it  loved  to  dwell ; 
With  this  fond  dream,  methinks,  'twere  sweet 

to  die  — 
And  here  it  lingered,  here  my  heart  might  lie  ; 
Here  might  I  sleep  where  all  my  hopes  arose, 
Scene  of  my  youth,  and  couch  of  my  repose; 
For  ffter  stretched  beneath  this  mantling  shade, 
Pressed  by  the  turf  where  once  my  childhood 

played, 
Wrapt  by  the  soil  that  veils  the  spot  I  loved, 
Mixed  with  the  earth  o'er  which  my  footsteps 

moved, 
Blest  by  the  tongues  that  charmed  my  youth- 
ful ear, 
Mourned  by  the  few  my  soul  acknowledgec1 

here ; 
Deplored  by  those  in  early  days  allied, 
And  unremembered  by  the  world  beside. 

September  2,  1807. 


OCCASIONAL    PIECES. 

FROM    1S07   TO    1824. 


THE  ADIEU. 

WRITTEN    UNDER    THE    IMPRESSION    THAT 
THE  AUTHOR  WOULD  SOON   DIE. 

ADIEU,  thou  Hill !  1  where  early  joy 

Spread  roses  o'er  my  brow ; 
Where  Science  seeks  each  loitering  boy 

With  knowledge  to  endow. 
Adieu  my  youthful  friends  or  foes, 
Partners  of  former  bliss  or  woes ; 

No  more  through  Ida's  paths  we  stray; 
Soon  must  I  share  the  gloomy  cell, 
Whose  ever-slumbering  inmates  dwell 

Unconscious  of  the  day. 

Adieu,  ye  hoary  Regal  Fanes, 

Ye  spires  of  Granta's  vale, 
Where  Learning  robed  in  sable  reigns, 

And  Melancholy  pale. 
Ye  comrades  of  the  jovial  hour, 
Ye  tenants  of  the  classic  bower, 

On  Cama's  verdant  margin  placed, 
Adieu !  while  memory  still  is  mine, 
For,  offerings  on  Oblivion's  shrine, 

These  scenes  must  be  effaced. 

Adieu,  ye  mountains  of  the  clime 

Where  grew  my  youthful  years ; 
Where  Loch  na  Garr  in  snows  sublime 

His  giant  summit  rears. 
Why  did  my  childhood  wander  forth 
From  you,  ye  regions  of  the  North, 

With  sons  of  pride  to  roam  ? 
Why  did  I  quit  my  Highland  cave, 
Marr's  dusky  heath,  and  Dee's  clear  wave, 

To  seek  a  Sotheron  home  ? 

Hall  of  my  Sires  !  a  long  farewell  — 

Yet  why  to  thee  adieu  ? 
Thy  vaults  will  echo  back  my  knell, 

Thy  towers  my  tomb  will  view  : 
The  faltering  tongue  which  sung  thy  fall, 
And  former  glories  of  thy  Hall  2 

Forgets  its  wonted  simple  note  — 
But  yet  the  Lyre  retains  the  strings, 
And  sometimes,  on  .Eolian  wings, 

In  dying  strains  may  float. 

1  Harrow. 

2  See  ante,  pp.  4,  33. 


Fields,  which  surround  yon  rustic  cot, 

While  yet  I  linger  here, 
Adieu !  you  are  not  now  forgot, 

To  retrospection  dear. 
Streamlet ! 3  along  whose  rippling  surge, 
My  youthful  limbs  were  wont  to  urge 

At  noontide  heat  their  pliant  course ; 
Plunging  with  ardor  from  the  shore, 
Thy  springs  will  lave  these  limbs  no  more, 

Deprived  of  active  force. 

And  shall  I  here  forget  the  scene, 

Still  nearest  to  my  breast  ? 
Rocks  rise,  and  rivers  roll  between 

The  spot  which  passion  blest ; 
Yet,  Mary,4  all  thy  beauties  seem 
Fresh  as  in  Love's  bewitching  dream, 

To  me  in  smiles  displayed : 
Till  slow  disease  resigns  his  prey 
To  Death,  the  parent  of  decay, 

Thine  image  cannot  fade. 

And  thou,  my  Friend  !  5  whose  gentle  love 

Yet  thrills  my  bosom's  chords, 
How  much  thy  friendship  was  above 

Description's  power  of  words ! 
Still  near  my  breast  thy  gift  I  wear, 
Which  sparkled  once  with  Feeling's  tear, 

Of  Love  the  pure,  the  sacred  gem  ; 
Our  souls  were  equal,  and  our  lot 
In  that  dear  moment  quite  forgot; 

Let  Pride  alone  condemn  ! 

All,  all,  is  dark  and  cheerless  now! 

No  smile  of  Love's  deceit, 
Can  warm  my  veins  with  wonted  glow, 

Can  bid  Life's  pulses  beat : 
Not  e'en  the  hope  of  future  fame, 
Can  wake  my  faint,  exhausted  frame, 

Or  crown  with  fancied  wreaths  my  head. 
Mine  is  a  short  inglorious  race, — 
To  humble  in  the  dust  my  face, 

And  mingle  with  the  dead. 

Oh  Fame  !  thou  goddess  of  my  heart ; 
On  him  who  gains  thy  praise, 


[The  river  Grete,  at  Southwell.] 
Mary  Duff.     See  ante,  p.    49,  note. 
Eddlestone,  the  Cambridge  chorister.    See  ante 


54 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


Pointless  must  fall  the  Spectre's  dart, 

Consumed  in  Glory's  blaze; 
But  me  she  beckons  from  the  earth, 
My  name  obscure,  unmarked  my  birth, 

My  life  a  short  and  vulgar  dream  ; 
Lost  in  the  dull,  ignoble  crowd, 
My  hopes  recline  within  a  shroud, 

My  fate  is  Lethe's  stream. 

When  I  repose  beneath  the  sod, 

Unheeded  in  the  clay, 
Where  once  my  playful  footsteps  trod, 

Where  now  my  head  must  lay ; 
The  meed  of  Pity  will  be  shed 
In  dew-drops  o'er  my  narrow  bed, 

By  nightly  skies,  and  storms  alone ; 
No  mortal  eye  will  deign  to  steep 
With  tears  the  dark  sepulchral  deep 

Which  hides  a  name  unknown. 

Forget  this  world,  my  restless  sprite, 

Turn,  turn  thy  thoughts  to  Heaven  : 
There  must  thou  soon  direct  thy  flight, 

If  errors  are  forgiven. 
To  bigots  and  to  sects  unknown, 
Bow  down  beneath  the  Almighty's  Throne  ; 

To  Him  address  thy  trembling  prayer: 
He,  who  is  merciful  and  just, 
Will  not  reject  a  child  of  dust, 

Although  his  meanest  care. 

Father  of  Light !  to  Thee  I  call, 

My  soul  is  dark  within  : 
Thou,  who  canst  mark  the  sparrow's  fall, 

Avert  the  death  of  sin. 
Thou,  who  canst  guide  the  wandering  star, 
Who  calm'st  the  elemental  war, 

Whose  mantle  is  yon  boundless  sky, 
My  thoughts,  my  words,  my  crimes  forgive  ; 
And,  since  I  soon  must  cease  to  live, 

Instruct  me  how  to  die.  ~ 


TO   A   VAIN    LADY. 

AH,  heedless  girl !  why  thus  disclose 
What  ne'er  was  meant  for  other  ears  : 

Why  thus  destroy  thine  own  repose, 
And  dig  the  source  of  future  tears  ? 

Oh,  thou  wilt  weep,  imprudent  maid, 
While  lurking  envious  foes  will  smile, 

For  all  the  follies  thou  hast  said 
Of  those  who  spoke  but  to  beguile. 

Vain  girl !  thy  lingering  woes  are  nigh, 
If  thou  believ'st  what  striplings  say  : 

Oh,  from  the  deep  temptation  fly, 
Nor  fall  the  specious  spoiler's  prey. 

Dost  thou  repeat,  in  childish  boast, 
The  words  man  utters  to  deceive  ? 

Thy  peace,  thy  hope,  thy  all  is  lost, 
If  them  canst  venture  to  believe. 


While  now  amongst  thy  female  peers 
Thou  tell'st  again  the  soothing  tale, 

Canst  thou  not  mark  the  rising  sneers 
Duplicity  in  vain  would  veil  ? 

These  tales  in  secret  silence  hush, 
Nor  make  thyself  the  public  gaze  : 

What  modest  maid  without  a  blush 

Recounts  a  flattering  coxcomb's  praise  ? 

Will  not  the  laughing  boy  despise 
Her  who  relates  each  fond  conceit* — 

Who,  thinking  Heaven  is  in  her  eyes 
Yet  cannot  see  the  slight  deceit  ? 

For  she  who  takes  a  soft  delight 
These  amorous  nothings  in  revealing, 

Must  credit  all  we  say  or  write, 
While  vanity  prevents  concealing. 

Cease,  if  you  prize  your  beauty's  reign ! 

No  jealousy  bids  me  reprove  : 
One,  who  is  thus  from  nature  vain, 

I  pity,  but  I  cannot  love. 

January  15,  1807, 


TO  ANNE. 

OH,  Anne!   your  offences  to  me  have  been 
grievous ; 
I  thought  from  my  wrath  no  atonement  could 
save  you ; 
BuVwoman  is  made  to  command  and  deceive 
us  — 
Ilookedinyourface.andlalmostforgaveyou. 

I  vowed  I  could  ne'er  for  a  moment  respect  you, 

Yet  thought  that  a  day's  separation  was  long  : 

When  we  met,  I  determined  again  to  suspect 

you  — 

Your  smile  soon  convinced  me  suspicion  was 

wrong. 

I  swore,  in  a  transport  of  young  indignation, 
With  fervent  contempt  evermore  to  disdain 
you: 
I  saw  you  —  my  anger  became  admiration  ; 
And  now,  all  my  wish,  all  my  hope,  's  to  re- 
gain you. 

With  beauty  like  yours,  oh,  how  vain  the  con- 
tention ! 
Thus   lowly  I   sue   for  forgiveness  before 
you;  — 
At  once  to  conclude  such  a  fruitless  dissension, 
Be  false,  my  sweet  Anne,  when  I  cease  to 

adorey°u!         January  .6,  1807. 

TO  THE  SAME. 

OH  say  not,  sweet  Anne,  that  the  Fates  have 
decreed 
The  heart  which  adores  you  should  wish  to 
dissever ; 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


55 


Such  Fates  were  to  me  most  unkind  ones  in- 
deed,— 
To  bear  me  from  love  and  from  beauty  for 
ever. 

Your  frowns,  lovely  girl,  are  the  Fates  which 
alone 
Could  bid  me  from  fond  admiration  refrain  ; 
By  these,  every  hope,  every  wish  were  o'er- 
thrown, 
Till  smiles  should  restore  me   to   rapture 
again. 

As  the  ivy  and  oak,  in  the  forest  entwined, 
The  rage  of  the  tempest  united  must  weather, 

My  love  and  my  life  were  by  nature  designed 
To  flourish  alike,  or  to  perish  together. 

Then  say  not,  sweet  Anne,  that  the  Fates  have 

decreed 

Your  lover  should  bid  you  a  lasting  adieu  ; 

Till  Fate  can  ordain  that  his  bosom  shall  bleed, 

His  soul,  his  existence,  are  centred  in  you. 

1807. 


TO  THE  AUTHOR   OF  A   SONNET 
BEGINNING 

' '  SAD    IS    MY  VERSE,'   YOU  SAY,  '  AND   YET 
NO  TEAR.'" 

Thy  verse  is  "  sad  "  enough,  no  doubt : 
A  devilish  deal  more  sad  than  witty ! 

Why  we  should  weep,  I  can't  find  out, 
Unless,  for  thee  we  weep  in  pity. 

Yet  there  is  one  I  pity  more ; 

And  much,  alas  !  I  think  he  needs  it : 
For  he,  I'm  sure,  will  suffer  sore, 

Who,  to  his  own  misfortune,  reads  it. 

Thy  rhymes,  without  the  aid  of  magic, 
May  once  be  read  —  but  never  after : 

YTet  their  effect's  by  no  means  tragic, 
Although  by  far  too  dull  for  laughter. 

But  would  you  make  our  bosoms  bleed, 
And  of  no  common  pang  complain  — 

If  you  would  make  us  weep  indeed, 
Tell  us,  you'll  read  them  o'er  again. 

March  8,  1807. 


ON   FINDING  A  FAN. 

In  one  who  felt  as  once  he  felt, 

This  might,  perhaps,  have  fanned  the  flame  ; 
But  now  his  heart  no  more  will  melt, 

Because  that  heart  is  not  the  same. 

As  when  the  ebbing  flames  are  low, 

The  aid  which  once  improved  their  light, 

And  bade  them  burn  with  fiercer  glow, 
Now  quenches  all  their  blaze  in  night, 


Thus  has  it  been  with  passion's  fires  — 
As  many  a  boy  and  girl  remembers  — 

While  every  hope  of  love  expires, 
Extinguished  with  the  dying  embers. 

The  first,  though  not  a  spark  survive, 
Some  careful  hand  may  teach  to  burn ; 

The  last,  alas  !  can  ne'er-revive  ; 

No  touch  can  bid  its  warmth  return. 

Or,  if  it  chance  to  wake  again, 

Not  always  doomed  its  heat  to  smother. 
It  sheds  (so  wayward  fates  ordain) 

Its  former  warmth  around  another. 

1807. 


FAREWELL  TO   THE   MUSE. 

THOU  Power  !  who  hast  ruled  me  through  in- 
fancy's days, 
Young  offspring  of  Fancy,  'tis  time  we  should 
part; 
Then  rise  on  the  gale  this  the  last  of  my  lays, 
The  coldest  effusion  which  springs  from  my 
heart. 

This  bosom,  responsive  to  rapture  no  more, 
Shall  hush  thy  wild  notes,  nor  implore  thee 
to  sing ; 
The  feelings  of  childhood,  which  taught  thee 
to  soar, 
Are  wafted  far  distant  on  Apathy's  wing. 

Though  simple  the  themes  of  my  rude  flow- 
ing Lyre, 
Yet  even  these  themes  are  departed  for  ever ; 
No  more  beam  the  eyes  which  my  dream  could 
inspire, 
My  visions  are  flown, to  return, — alas,  never  1 

When  drained  is  the  nectar  which  gladdens  the 
bowl, 

How  vain  is  the  effort  delight  to  prolong ! 
When  cold  is  the  beauty  which  dwelt  in  my  soul, 

What  magic  of  Fancy  can  lengthen  my  song  ? 

Can  the  lips  sing  of  Love  in  the  desert  alone. 
Of  kisses  and  smiles  which  they  now  must 
resign  ? 
Or  dwell  with  delight  on  the  hours  that  are 
flown  ? 
Ah,  no !  for  these  hours  can  no  longer  be 
mine. 

Can  they  speak  of  the  friends  that  I  lived  but 
to  love  ? 
Ah,  surely  affection  ennobles  the  strain! 
But  how  can  my  numbers  in  sympathy  move, 
When  I  scarcely  can  hope  to  behold  them 
again  ? 

Can  I  sing  of  the  deeds  which  my  Fathers  have 
done, 
And  raise  my  loud  harp  to  the  fame  of  my 
Sires  ? 


56 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


For  glories  like  theirs,  oh,  how  faint  is  my  tone ! 
For  Heroes'  exploits  how  unequal  my  fires  ! 

Untouched,  then,  my  Lyre  shall  reply  to  the 
blast  — 
'Tis  hushed ;  and  my  feeble  endeavors  are 
o'er; 
And  those  who  have  heard  it  will  pardon  the 
past, 
When  they  know  that  its  murmurs  shall  vi- 
brate no  more. 

And  soon  shall  its  wild  erring  notes  be  forgot, 
Since  early  affection  and  love  is  o'ercast : 

Oh  !  blest  had  my  fate  been,  and  happy  my  lot, 
Had  the  first  strain  of  love  been  the  dearest, 
the  last. 

Farewell,  my  young  Muse  !  since  we  now  can 
ne'er  meet; 
If  our  songs  have  been  languid,  they  surely 
are  few : 
Let  us  hope  that  the  present  at  least  will  be 
sweet  — 
The    present  —  which    seals    our    eternal 
Adieu.  1807. 


TO  AN    OAK  AT   NEWSTEAD.i 

YOUNG  Oak!   when  I  planted  thee   deep  in 
the  ground, 
I  hoped  that  thy  days  would  be  longer  than 
mine ; 
That  thy  dark-waving  branches  would  flourish 
around, 
And  ivy  thy  trunk  with  its  mantle  entwine. 

Such,  such  was  my  hope,  when,  in  infancy's 
vears, 
On  the  land  of  my  fathers  I    reared  thee 
with  pride : 
They  are  past,  and  I  water  thy  stem  with  my 
tears,  — 
Thy  decay  not  the    weeds    that   surround 
thee  can  hide. 

I  left  thee,  my  Oak,  and,  since  that  fatal  hour, 

A  stranger' has  dwelt  in  the  hall  of  my  sire ; 

Till  manhood  shall  crown  me,  not  mine  is  the 

power, 

But  his,  whose  neglect  may  have  bade  thee 

expire. 


1  [Byron,  on  his  first  arrival  at  Newstead,  in  1798, 
planted  an  oak  in  the  garden,  and  nourished  the 
fancy,  that  as  the  tree  flourished  so  should  he.  On 
revisiting  the  abbey,  he  found  the  oak  choked  up 
by  weeds,  and  almost  destroyed;  —  hence  these 
lines.  Shortly  after  Colonel  Wildman  took  posses- 
sion, he  one  day  noticed  it,  and  said  to  the  servant 
who  was  with  him,  "  Here  is  a  fine  young  oak;  but 
it  must  be  cut  down,  as  it  grows  in  an  improper 
place."  —  "I  hope  not,  sir,"  replied  the  man;  "  for 
it's  the  one  that  my  lord  was  so  fond  of,  because  he 
set  it  himself."  The  tree,  of  course,  was  spared, 
and  is  shown  to  strangers  as  the  Byron  Oak.] 


Oh  !  hardy  thou  wert —  even  now  little  care 
Might   revive   thy    young    head,   and    thy 
wounds  gently  heal : 
But  thou  wert  not  fated  affection  to  share  — 
For  who   could   suppose   that  a  Stranger 
would  feel  ? 

Ah,  droop  not,  my  Oak !  lift  thy  head  for  a 

while; 

Ere  twice  round  yon  Glory  this  planet  shall 

run, 

The  hand  of  thy  Master  will  teach  thee  to  smile. 

When  Infancy's  years  of  probation  are  done. 

Oh,  live  then,  my  Oak !  tower  aloft  from  the 
weeds, 
That  clog  thy  young  growth,  and  assist  thy 
decay, 
For  still  in  thy  bosom  are  life's  early  seeds, 
And  still  may  thy  branches  their  beauty  dis- 
play. 

Oh  !  yet,  if  maturity's  years  may  be  thine, 
Though  /  shall  lie'  low  in   the   cavern   of 
death, 
On  thy  leaves  yet  the  day-beam  of  ages  may 
shine, 
Uninjured  by  time,  or    the    rude  winter's 
breath. 

For   centuries  still   may  thy  boughs   lightly 
wave 
O'er  the  corse  of  thy  lord  in  thy  canopy  laid  ; 
While  the  branches  thus  gratefully  shelter  his 
grave, 
The  chief  who  survives  may  recline  in  thy 
shade. 

And  as  he,  with  his  boys,  shall  revisit  this  spot, 
He  will  tell  them  in  whispers  more  softly  to 
tread. 
Oh  !  surely,  by  these  I  shall  ne'er  be  forgot : 
Remembrance  still  hallows  the  dust  of  the 
dead. 

And  here,  will  they  say,  when  in  life's  glowing 
prime, 
Perhaps  he  has  poured  forth    his   young 
simple  lay, 
And  here  must  he  sleep,  till  the  moments  of 
time 
Are  lost  in  the  hours  of  Eternity's  day. 

1807. 


ON    REVISITING   HARROW.2 

HERE  once  engaged  the  stranger's  view 
Young  Friendship's  record  simply  traced ; 

Few  were  her  words,  —  but  yet,  though  few, 
Resentment's  hand  the  line  defaced. 

2  Some  years  ago,  when  at  Harrow,  a  friend  of 
the  author  engraved  on  a  particular  spot  the  names 
of  both,  with  a  few  additional  words,  as  a  memorial. 


OCCASIONAL   PIECES. 


51 


Deeply  she  cut  —  but  not  erased, 
The  characters  were  still  so  plain, 

That  Friendship  once  returned,  and  gazed, — 
Till  Memory  hailed  the  words  again. 

Repentance  placed  them  as  before ; 

Forgiveness  joined  her  gentle  name  ; 
So  fair  the  inscription  seemed  once  more, 

That  Friendship  thought  it  still  the  same. 

Thus  might  the  Record  now  have  been  ; 

But,  ah,  in  spite  of  Hope's  endeavor, 
Or  Friendship's  tears,  Pride  rushed  between, 

And  blotted  out  the  line  for  ever ! 

September,  1807. 


EPITAPH     ON      JOHN      ADAMS,     OF 
SOUTHWELL, 

A  CARRIER,   WHO  DIED   OF   DRUNKENNESS. 

J   JOHN   Adams    lies   here,  of  the    parish   of 
'  Southwell, 

A.  Carrier  who  carried  his  can  to  his  mouth 

well ; 
He  carried  so  much,  and  he  carried  so  fast. 
He  could  carry  no  more  —  so  was  carried  at 

last; 
For,  the  liquor  he  drank,  being  too  much  for 

one, 
He  could  not  carry  off,  —  so  he's  now  carri-on. 
September,  1807. 


TO    MY   SON.i 

THOSE  flaxen  locks,  those  eyes  of  blue, 
Bright  as  thy  mother's  in  their  hue; 
Those  rosy  lips,  whose  dimples  play 
And  smile  to  steal  the  heart  away, 
Recall  a  scene  of  former  joy, 
And  touch  thy  father's  heart,  my  Boy ! 

And  thou  canst  lisp  a  father's  name  — 
Ah,  William,  were  thine  own  the  same,— 
No  self-reproach  —  but,  let  me  cease  — 
My  care  for  thee  shall  purchase  peace  ; 
Thy  mother's  shade  shall  smile  in  joy, 
And  pardon  all  the  past,  my  Boy  ! 

Her  lowly  grave  the  turf  has  prest, 

And  thou  hast  known  a  stranger's  breast. 

Derision  sneers  upon  thy  birth, 

And  yields  thee  scarce  a  name  on  earth  ; 

Yet  shall  not  these  one  hope  destroy, — 

A  Father's  heart  is  thine,  my  Boy  ! 


Afterwards,  on  receiving  some  real  or  imagined  in- 
jury, the  author  destroyed  the  frail  record  before  he 
left  Harrow.  On  revisiting  the  place  in  1807,  he 
wrote  under  it  these  stanzas. 

'  [Moore  in  his  Life  of  Byron  questions  the  ex- 
istence of  this  son,  whom  he  considers  merely  a  con- 
venient fiction  of  the  poet.     But  from  a  passage  in 


Why,  let  the  world  unfeeling  frown, 
Must  I  fond  Nature's  claim  disown  ? 
Ah,  no — though  moralists  reprove, 
I  hail  thee,  dearest  child  of  love, 
Fair  cherub,  pledge  of  youth  and  joy- 
A  Father  guards  thy  birth,  my  Boy  1 

Oh,  'twill  be  sweet  in  thee  to  trace, 
Ere  age  has  wrinkled  o'er  my  face, 
Ere  half  my  glass  of  life  is  run, 
At  once  a  brother  and  a  son ; 
And  all  my  wane  of  years  employ 
In  justice  done  to  thee,  my  Boy ! 

Although  so  young  thy  heedless  sire. 
Youth  will  not  damp  parental  fire ; 
And,  wert  thou  still  less  dear  to  me, 
While  Helen's  form  revives  in  thee, 
The  breast,  which  beat  to  former  joy, 
Will  ne'er  desert  its  pledge,  my  Boy ! 


FAREWELL!     IF     EVER    FONDEST 
PRAYER. 

Farewell  !  if  ever  fondest  prayer 

For  other's  weal  availed  on  high, 
Mine  will  not  all  be  lost  in  air, 

But  waft  thy  name  beyond  the  sky. 
'Twere  vain  to  speak,  to  weep,  to  sigh  : 

Oh  !  more  than  tears  of  blood  can  tell, 
When  wrung  from  guilt's  expiring  eye, 

Are  in  that  word —  Farewell !  —  Farewell ! 

These  lips  are  mute,  these  eyes  are  dry; 

But  in  my  breast  and  in  my  brain, 
Awake  the  pangs  that  pass  not  by, 

The  thought  that  ne'er  shall  sleep  again. 
My  soul  nor  deigns  nor  dares  complain, 

Though  grief  and  passion  there  rebel : 
I  only  know  we  loved  in  vain  — 

I  only  feel  —  Farewell !  —  Farewell ! 

1808. 


BRIGHT    BE    THE    PLACE    OF    THY 
SOUL. 

BRIGHT  be  the  place  of  thy  soul ! 

No  lovelier  spirit  than  thine 
E'er  burst  from  its  mortal  control, 

In  the  orbs  of  the  blessed  to  shine. 

On  earth  thou  wert  all  but  divine, 
As  thy  soul  shall  immortally  be  ; 

And  our  sorrow  may  cease  to  repine, 

When  we  know  that  thy  God  is  with  thee. 

Light  be  the  turf  of  thy  tomb  ! 

May  its  verdure  like  emeralds  be  : 


Don  Juan  (canto  XVI.  stanza  61),  there  is  reason  to 
believe  that  Moore  was  mistaken.] 


58 


OCCASIONAL   PIECES. 


There  should  not  be  the  shadow  of  gloom 
In  aught  that  reminds  us  of  thee. 

Young  flowers  and  an  evergreen  tree 
May  spring  from  the  spot  of  thy  rest : 

But  nor  cypress  nor  yew  let  us  see ; 
For  why  should  we  mourn  for  the  blest  ? 


WhiN   WE  TWO    PARTED. 

When  we  two  parted 

In  silence  and  tears, 
Half  broken-hearted 

To  sever  for  years, 
Pale  grew  thy  cheek  and  cold, 

Colder  thy  kiss  ; 
Truly  that  hour  foretold 

Sorrow  to  this. 

The  dew  of  the  morning 

Sunk  chill  on  my  brow  — 
It  felt  like  the  warning 

Of  what  I  feel  now. 
Thy  vows  are  all  broken, 

And  light  is  thy  fame  ; 
I  hear  thy  name  spoken, 

And  share  in  its  shame. 

They  name  thee  before  me, 

A  knell  to  mine  ear; 
A  shudder  comes  o'er  me  — 

Why  wert  thou  so  dear  ? 
They  know  not  I  knew  thee, 

Who  knew  thee  too  well :  — 
Long,  long  shall  I  rue  thee, 

Too  deeply  to  tell. 

In  secret  we  met  — 

In  silence  I  grieve, 
That  thy  heart  could  forget, 

Thy  spirit  deceive. 
If  I  should  meet  thee 

After  long  years, 
How  should  I  greet  thee  ?  — 

With  silence  and  tears. 


TO   A   YOUTHFUL   FRIEND. 

FEW  years  have  passed  since  thou  and  I 
Were  firmest  friends,  at  least  in  name, 

And  childhood's  gay  sincerity 

Preserved  our  feelings  long  the  same. 

But  now,  like  me,  too  well  thou  knowest 
What  trifles  oft  the  heart  recall ; 

And  those  who  once  have  loved  the  most 
Too  soon  forget  they  loved  at  all. 

And  such  the  change  the  heart  displays, 
So  frail  is  early  friendship's  reign, 


A  month's  brief  lapse,  perhaps  a  day's, 
Will  view  thy  mind  estranged  again. 

If  so,  it  never  shall  be  mine 
To  mourn  the  loss  of  such  a  heart; 

The  fault  was  Nature's  fault,  not  thine, 
Which  made  thee  fickle  as  thou  art. 

As  rolls  the  ocean's  changing  tide, 
So  human  feelings  ebb  and  flow ; 

And  who  would  in  a  breast  confide, 
Where  stormy  passions  ever  glow  ? 

It  boots  not  that,  together  bred, 
Our  childish  days  were  days  of  joy: 

My  spring  of  life  has  quickly  fled  ; 
Thou,  too,  hast  ceased  to  be  a  boy. 

And  when  we  bid  adieu  to  youth, 

Slaves  to  the  specious  world's  control, 

We  sigh  a  long  farewell  to  truth  ; 

That  world  corrupts  the  noblest  soul. 

Ah,  joyous  season  !  when  the  mind 
Dares  all  things  boldly  but  to  lie; 

When  thought  ere  spoke  is  unconfined, 
And  sparkles  in  the  placid  eye. 

Not  so  in  Man's  maturer  years, 
When  Man  himself  is  but  a  tool ; 

When  interest  sways  our  hopes  and  fears, 
And  all  must  love  and  hate  by  rule. 

With  fools  in  kindred  vice  the  same, 
We  learn  at  length  our  faults  to  blend; 

And  those,  and  those  alone,  may  claim 
The  prostituted  name  of  friend. 

Such  is  the  common  lot  of  man  : 
Can  we  then  'scape  from  folly  free  ? 

Can  we  reverse  the  general  plan, 
Nor  be  what  all  in  turn  must  be  ? 

No  ;  for  myself,  so  dark  my  fate 
Through  every  turn  of  life  hath  been  ; 

Man  and  the  world  so  much  I  hate, 
I  care  not  when  I  quit  the  scene. 

But  thou,  with  spirit  frail  and  light, 
Wilt  shine  awhile,  and  pass  away; 

As  glow-worms  sparkle  through  the  night, 
But  dare  not  stand  the  test  of  day. 

Alas  !  whenever  folly  calls 

Where  parasites  and  princes  meet, 
(For  cherished  first  in  royal  halls, 

The  welcome  vices  kindly  greet) 

Ev'n  now  thou'rt  nightly  seen  to  add 
One  insect  to  the  fluttering  crowd ; 

And  still  thy  trifling  heart  is  glad 

To  join  the  vain,  and  court  the  proud. 

There  dost  thou  glide  from  fair  to  fair, 
Still  simpering  on  with  eager  haste, 

As  flies  along  the  gay  parterre, 

That  taint  the  flowers  they  scarcely  taste 


OCCASIONAL     \ECES. 


S9 


But  say,  what  nymph  will  prize  the  flame 
Which  seems,  as  marshy  vapors  move, 

To  flit  along  from  dame  to  dame, 
An  ignis-fatuus  gleam  of  love  ? 

What  friend  for  thee,  howe'er  inclined, 
Will  deign  to  own  a  kindred  care  ? 

Who  will  debase  his  manly  mind, 
For  friendship  every  fool  may  share ! 

In  time  forbear ;  amidst  the  throng 
No  more  so  base  a  thing  be  seen ; 

No  more  so  idly  pass  along: 

Be  something,  any  thing,  but  —  mean.1 


LINES     INSCRIBED     UPON    A    CUP 
FORMED   FROM  A   SKULL. 

Start  not  —  nor  deem  my  spirit  fled : 

In  me  behold  the  only  skull, 
From  which,  unlike  a  living  head, 

Whatever  flows  is  never  dull. 

I  lived,  I  loved,  I  quaffed,  like  thee; 

I  died :  let  earth  my  bones  resign : 
Fill  up  —  thou  canst  not  injure  me; 

The  worm  hath  fouler  lips  than  thine. 

Better  to  hold  the  sparkling  grape, 

Than  nurse  the  earth-worm's  slimy  brood ; 

And  circle  in  the  goblet's  shape 

The  drink  of  Gods,  than  reptile's  food. 

Where  once  my  wit,  perchance,  hath  shone, 

In  aid  of  others'  let  me  shine  ; 
And  when,  alas  !  our  brains  are  gone, 

What  nobler  substitute  than  wine  ? 

Quaff  while  thou  canst:  another  race, 
When  thou  and  thine  like  me  are  sped, 

May  rescue  thee  from  earth's  embrace, 
And  rhyme  and  revel  with  the  dead. 

Why  not  ?  since  through  life's  little  day 
Our  heads  such  sad  effects  produce ; 

Redeemed  from  worms  and  wasting  clay, 
This  chance  is  theirs,  to  be  of  use.2 

Newstead  Abbey,  1808. 


1  [This  copy  of  verses,  and  several  of  the  poems 
which  follow  it,  originally  appeared  in  a  volume 
published  in  1809  by  Mr.  Hobhouse,  under  the  title 
of  "  Imitations  and  Translations,  together  with 
Original  Poems,"  and  bearing  the  modest  epigraph — 
"  Nos  hjec  novimus  esse  nihil."] 

2  [Byron  gives  the  following  account  of  this 
cup: — "The  gardener,  in  digging,  discovered  a 
skull  that  had  probably  belonged  to  some  jolly  friar 
or  monk  of  the  Abbey,  about  the  time  it  was  de- 
raonasteried.  Observing  it  to  be  of  giant  size,  and 
in  a  perfect  state  of  preservation,  a  strange  fancy 
seized  me  of  having  it  set  and  mounted  as  a  drink- 
ing cup.  I  accordingly  sent  it  to  town,  and  it  re- 
turned with  a  very  high  polish,  and  of  a  mottled 
color  like  tortoise-shell."] 


WELL!   THOU  ART  HAPPY.3 

Well  !  thou  art  happy,  and  I  feel 
That  I  should  thus  be  happy  too ; 

For  still  my  heart  regards  thy  weal 
Warmly,  as  it  was  wont  to  do. 

Thy  husband's  blest  —  and  'twill  impart 
Some  pangs  to  view  his  happier  lot : 

But  let  them  pass  —  Oh  !  how  my  heart 
Would  hate  him,  if  he  loved  thee  not! 

When  late  I  saw  thy  favorite  child, 

I  thought  my  jealous  heart  would  break-, 

But  when  the  unconscious  infant  smiled, 
I  kissed  it  for  its  mother's  sake. 

I  kissed  it,  —  and  repressed  my  sighs, 

Its  father  in  its  face  to  see; 
But  then  it  had  its  mother's  eyes, 

And  they  were  all  to  love  and  me. 

Mary,  adieu  !  I  must  away : 

While  thou  art  blest  I'll  not  repine ; 

But  near  thee  I  can  never  stay; 

My  heart  would  soon  again  be  thine. 

I  deemed  that  time,  I  deemed  that  pride 
Had  quenched  at  length  my  boyish  Harms ; 

Nor  knew,  till  seated  by  thy  side, 
My  heart  in  all,  —  save  hope,  —  the  same. 

Yet  was  I  calm  :  I  knew  the  time 

My  breast  would  thrill  before  thy  look ; 

But  now  to  tremble  were  a  crime  — 
We  met,  —  and  not  a  nerve  was  shook. 

I  saw  thee  gaze  upon  my  face, 
Yet  meet  with  no  confusion  there : 

One  only  feeling  could'st  thou  trace ; 
The  sullen  calmness  of  despair. 

Away !  away  !  my  early  dream 

Remembrance  never  must  awake  : 

Oh  !  where  is  Lethe's  fabled  stream  ? 
My  foolish  heart  be  still,  or  break. 

November  2;  1808. 


INSCRIPTION   ON  THE  MONUMENT 
OF  A   NEWFOUNDLAND   DOG.4 

WHEN  some  proud  son  of  man  returns  to  earth, 
Unknown  to  glory,  but  upheld  by  birth, 
The  sculptor's  art  exhausts  the  pomp  of  woe, 
And  storied  urns  record  who  rests  below ; 
When  all  is  done,  upon  the  tomb  is  seen, 
Notwhat  he  was, but  what  he  should  have  been; 
But  the  poor  dog,  in  life  the  firmest  friend, 
The  first  to  welcome,  foremost  to  defend, 


3  [A  few  days  before  this  poem  was  written,  the 
poet  had  been  invited  to  dine  at  Annesley.  On  the 
infant  daughter  of  his  fair  hostess  being  brought 
into  the  room,  he  started  involuntarily,  and  with 
difficulty  suppressed  his  emotion.] 

4  TThis  monument  is  still  a  conspicuous  ornamenl 


oO 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


Whose  honest  heart  is  still  his  master's  own, 
Who  labors,  fights,  lives,   breathes   for  him 

alone, 
I'nhonored  falls,  unnoticed  all  his  worth, 
Denied  in  heaven  the  soul  he  held  on  earth: 
While  man,  vain  insect !  hopes  to  be  forgiven, 
And  claims  himself  a  sole  exclusive  heaven. 
Oh  man  !   thou  feeble  tenant  of  an  hour, 
Debased  by  slavery,  or  corrupt  by  power. 
Who  knows  thee  well  must  quit  thee  with  dis- 
gust, 
Degraded  mass  of  animated  dust! 
Thy  love  is  lust,  thy  friendship  all  a  cheat, 
■  1  ]i\  smiles  hypocrisy,  thy  words  deceit! 
By  nature  vile,  ennobled  but  by  name, 
Each  kindred  brute  might  bid  thee  blush  for 

shame. 
Ye  !  -,\  ho  perchance  behold  this  simple  urn, 
Pass  on  —  it  honors  none  you  wish  to  mourn  : 
To  mark  a  friend's  remains  these  stones  arise  ; 
I  never  knew  but  one,  —  and  here  he  lies. 
Newstead  Abbey,  November  30,  1808. 


TO  A  LADY,  ON  BEING  ASKED  MY 
REASON  FOR  QUITTING  ENG- 
LAND   IN    THE    SPRING. 

WHEN  Man,  expelled  from  Eden's  bowers, 
A  moment  lingered  near  the  gate, 

Each  scene  recalled  the  vanished  hours, 
And  bade  him  curse  his  future  fate. 

But,  wandering  on  through  distant  climes, 
He  learnt  to  bear  his  load  of  grief; 

Just  gave  a  sigh  to  other  times, 
And  found  in  busier  scenes  relief. 


in  the  garden  of  Newstead.     The  following  is  the 
inscription  by  which  the  verses  are  preceded:  — 
"  Near  this  spot 
Are  deposited  the  Remains  of  one 
Who  possessed  Beauty  without  Vanity, 
Strength  without  Insolence, 
Courage  without  Ferocity, 
And  all  the  Virtues  of  Man  without  his  Vices. 
This  Praise,  which  would  be  unmeaning  Flattery 
If  inscribed  over  human  ashes, 
Is  but  a  just  tribute  to  the  Memory  of 
BOATSWAIN,  a  Dog, 
Who  was  born  at  Newfoundland,  May,  1803, 
And  died  at  Newstead  Abbey,  Nov.  18,  1808." 
Byron  thus  announced  the  death  of  his  favorite  to 
Mr.  Hodgson:  — "  Boatswain  is  dead !  — he  expired 
in  a  state  of  madness,  on  the  i8th,  after  suffering 
much,  yet  retaining  all  the  gentleness  of  his  nature 
to  the  last;  never  attempting  to  do  the  least  injury 
to  any  one  near  him.     I   have  now  lost  every  thing 
except  old  Murray."      By  the  will  which  he  exe- 
cuted in  1811,  he  directed  that  his  own  body  should 
be  buried  in  a  vault  in  the  garden  near  his  faithful 
dog.] 


Thus,  lady ! *  will  it  be  with  me, 
And  I  must  view  thy  charms  no  more; 

For,  while  I  linger  near  to  thee, 
I  sigh  for  all  I  knew  before. 

In  flight  I  shall  be  surely  wise, 
Escaping  from  temptation's  snare; 

I  cannot  view  my  paradise, 
Without  the  wish  of  dwelling  there.'2 

December  2,  1808. 


REMIND   ME  NOT,   REMIND   ME 
NOT. 

REMIND  me  not,  remind  me  not, 
Of  those  beloved,  those  vanished  hours 
When  all  my  soul  was  given  to  thee ; 
Hours  that  may  never  be  forgot, 
Till  time  unnerves  our  vital  powers, 
And  thou  and  I  shall  cease  to  be. 

Can  I  forget  —  canst  thou  forget, 
When  playing  with  thy  golden  hair, 

How  quick  thy  fluttering  heart  did  move  t 
Oh  !  by  my  soul,  I  see  thee  yet, 

With  eyes  so  languid,  breast  so  fair, 
And  lips,  though  silent,  breathing  love. 

When  thus  reclining  on  my  breast, 

Those  eyes  threw  back  a  glance  so  sweet, 
As  half  reproached  yet  raised  desire, 
And  still  we  near  and  nearer  prest. 
And  still  our  glowing  lips  would  meet, 
As  if  in  kisses  to  expire. 

And  then  those  pensive  eyes  would  close, 
And  bid  their  lids  each  other  seek, 
Veiling  the  azure  orbs  below ; 
While  their  long  lashes'  darkened  gloss 
Seemed  stealing  o'er  thy  brilliant  cheek, 
Like  raven's  plumage  smoothed  on  snow, 

1  [In  the  first  copy,  "Thus,  Mary!  " — (Mrs. 
Musters).] 

2  [Originally  this  line  stood,  —  "  Without  a  wish 
to  enter  there."  The  following  is  an  extract  from  a 
letter  of  Byron's,  written  in  1823,  only  three  days 
previous  to  his  leaving  Italy  for  Greece:  —  "Miss 
Chaworth  was  two  years  older  than  myself.  She 
married  a  man  of  an  ancient  and  respectable  family, 
but  her  marriage  was  not  a  happier  one  than  my  own. 
Her  conduct,  however,  was  irreproachable ;  but  there 
was  not  sympathy  between  their  characters.  I  had 
not  seen  her  for  many  years,  when  an  occasion  of- 
fered. I  was  upon  the  point,  with  her  consent,  of 
paying  her  a  visit,  when  my  sister,  who  has  always 
had  more  influence  over  me  than  any  one  else,  per- 
suaded me  not  to  do  it.  '  For,'  said  she,  '  if  you  go 
you  will  fall  in  love  again,  and  then  there  will  be  a 
scene ;  one  step  will  lead  to  another,  e t  cela  fera 
un  eclat.'  I  was  guided  by  those  reasons,  and 
shortly  after  married,  —  with  what  success  it  is  use- 
less to  say."] 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


61 


I  dreamt  last  night  our  love  returned, 
And,  sooth  to  say,  that  very  dream 
Was  sweeter  in  its  phantasy, 
Than  if  for  other  hearts  I  burned, 
For  eyes  that  ne'er  like  thine  could  beam 
In  rapture's  wild  reality. 

Then  tell  me  not,  remind  me  not, 
Of  hours  which,  though  for  ever  gone, 
Can  still  a  pleasing  dream  restore, 
Till  thou  and  I  shall  be  forgot, 
And  senseless  as  the  mouldering  stone 
Which  tells  that  we  shall  be  no  more. 


THERE  WAS  A  TIME,  I   NEED   NOT 

NAME. 

There  was  a  time,  I  need  not  name, 
Since  it  will  ne'er  forgotten  be, 

When  all  our  feelings  were  the  same 
As  still  my  soul  hath  been  to  thee. 

And  from  that  hour  when  first  thy  tongue 
Confessed  a  love  which  equalled  mine, 

Though  many  a  grief  my  heart  hath  wrung, 
Unknown  and  thus  unfelt  by  thine, 

None,  none  hath  sunk  so  deep  as  this  — 
To  think  how  all  that  love  hath  flown ; 

Transient  as  every  faithless  kiss, 
But  transient  in  thy  breast  alone. 

And  yet  my  heart  some  solace  knew, 
When  late  I  heard  thy  lips  declare, 

In  accents  once  imagined  true, 

Remembrance  of  the  days  that  were. 

Yes  !  my  adored,  yet  most  unkind ! 

Though  thou  wilt  never  love  again, 
To  me  'tis  doubly  sweet  to  find 

Remembrance  of  that  love  remain. 

Yes !  'tis  a  glorious  thought  to  me, 
Nor  longer  shall  my  soul  repine, 

Whate'er  thou  art  or  e'er  shalt  be, 
Thou  hast  been  dearly,  solely  mine 


AND    WILT    THOU    WEEP  WHEN    I 
AM   LOW? 

And  wilt  thou  weep  when  I  am  low  ? 

Sweet  lady  !  speak  those  words  again  : 
Yet  if  they  grieve  thee,  say  not  so  — 

I  would  not  give  that  bosom  pain. 

My  heart  is  sad,  my  hopes  are  gone, 

My  blood  runs  coldly  through  my  breast ; 

And  when  I  perish,  thou  alone 
Wilt  sigh  above  my  place  of  rest. 

And  yet,  methinks,  a  gleam  of  peace 
Doth  through  my  cloud  of  anguish  shine ; 


And  for  awhile  my  sorrows  cease. 
To  know  thy  heart  hath  felt  for  mine. 

Oh  lady!  blessed  be  that  tear  — 
It  falls  for  one  who  cannot  weep : 

Such  precious  drops  are  doubly  dear 
To  those  whose  eyes  no  tear  may  steep. 

Sweet  lady !  once  my  heart  was  warm 
With  every  feeling  soft  as  thine ; 

But  beauty's  self  hath  ceased  to  charm 
A  wretch  created  to  repine. 

Yet  wilt  thou  weep  when  I  am  low  ? 

Sweet  lady !  speak  those  words  again ; 
Yet  if  they  grieve  thee,  say  not  so  — 

I  would  not  give  that  bosom  pain. 


FILL  THE  GOBLET  AGAIN. 

A  SONG. 

FILL  the  goblet  again  !  for  I  never  before 
Felt  the  glow  which  now  gladdens  my  heart 

to  its  core ; 
Let  us    drink !  —  who  would    not  ?  —  since, 

through  life's  varied  round, 
In  the  goblet  alone  no  deception  is  found. 

I  have  tried  in  its  turn  all  that  life  can  supply  ; 
I  have  basked  in  the  beam  of  a  dark  rolling 

eye; 
I   have  loved !  —  who   has   not  ?  —  but  what 

heart  can  declare, 
That  pleasure  existed  while  passion  was  there  ? 

In  the  days  of  my  youth,  when  the  heart's  in 

its  spring, 
And  dreams   that  affection   can   never   take 

wing, 
I  had   friends! — who  has  not  ?—  but  what 

tongue  will  avow, 
That  friends,  rosy  wine !    are  so   faithful   as 

thou? 

The  heart  of  a  mistress  some  boy  may  es- 
trange, 

Friendship  shifts  with  the  sunbeam  —  thou 
never  canst  change : 

Thou  grow'st  old  —  who  does  not  ?  —  but  on 
earth  what  appears, 

Whose  virtues,  like  thine,  still  increase  with 
its  years  ? 

Yet  if  blest  to  the  utmost  that  love  can  bestow, 
Should  a  rival  bow  down  to  our  idol  below, 
We  are  jealous  !  —  who's  not  ?  —  thou  hast  no 

such  alloy ; 
For  the  more  that  enjoy  thee,  the  more  we 

enjoy. 

Then  the  season  of  youth   and   its  vanities 

past, 
For  refuge  we  fly  to  the  goblet  at  last ; 


62 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


There  we  find  —  do  we  not?  —  in  the  flow  of 

the  soul, 
That  truth,  as  of  yore,  is  confined  to  the  bowl. 

When  the  box   of  Pandora  was  opened  on 

And  Misery's  triumph  commenced  over  Mirth, 
Hope  was  left,  — was  she  not  ?  —  but  the  gob- 
let we  kiss, 
And  care  not  for  Hope,  who   are  certain  of 
bliss. 

Long  life  to  the  grape !  for  when  summer  is 

flown, 
The  age  of  our  nectar  shall  gladden  our  own  : 
We   must  die  —  who  shall   not?  —  May  our 

sins  be  forgiven, 
And  Hebe  shall  never  be  idle  in  heaven. 


STANZAS    TO    A    LADY.i   ON    LEAV- 
ING  ENGLAND. 

"Its  done  —  and  shivering  in  the  gale 
The  bark  unfurls  her  snowy  sail ; 
And  whistling  o'er  the  bending  mast, 
Loud  sings  on  high  the  freshening  blast; 
And  I  must  from  this  land  be  gone, 
Because  I  cannot  love  but  one. 

But  could  I  be  what  I  have  been, 
And  could  I  see  what  I  have  seen  — 
Could  I  repose  upon  the  breast 
Which  once  my  warmest  wishes  blest  — 
I  should  not  seek  another  zone 
Because  I  cannot  love  but  one. 

'Tis  long  since  I  beheld  that  eye 
Which  gave  me  bliss  or  misery; 
And  I  have  striven,  but  in  vain, 
Never  to  think  of  it  again  : 
For  though  I  fly  from  Albion, 
I  still  can  only  love  but  one. 

As  some  lone  bird,  without  a  mate, 
My  weary  heart  is  desolate; 
I  look  around,  and  cannot  trace 
One  friendly  smile  or  welcome  face, 
And  ev'n  in  crowds  am  still  alone, 
Because  I  cannot  love  but  one. 

And  I  will  cross  the  whitening  foam, 

And  I  will  seek  a  foreign  home  ; 

Till  I  forget  a  false  fair  face, 

I  ne'er  shall  find  a  resting-place. 

My  own  dark  thoughts  I  cannot  shun, 

But  ever  love,  and  love  but  one. 

The  poorest,  veriest  wretch  on  earth 
Still  finds  some  hospitable  hearth, 
Where  friendship's  or  love's  softer  glow 
May  smile  in  joy  or  soothe  in  woe  ; 


1  [Mrs.  Musters.] 


But  frienr*  ">r  leman  I  have  none, 
Because  i  cannot  love  but  one. 

I  go  —  but  wheresoe'er  I  flee, 
There's  not  an  eye  will  weep  for  me ; 
There's  not  a  kind  congenial  heart, 
Where  I  can  claim  the  meanest  part ; 
Nor  thou,  who  hast  my  hopes  undone, 
Wilt  ^igh,  although  I  love  but  one. 

To  think  of  every  early  scene, 

01  what  we  are,  and  what  we've  been, 

Would  whelm  some  softer  hearts  with  woe- 

But  mine,  alas  !  has  stood  the  blow  ; 

Vet  still  beats  on  as  it  begun, 

And  never  truly  loves  but  one. 

And  who  that  dear  loved  one  may  be 
Is  not  for  vulgar  eyes  to  see, 
And  why  that  early  love  was  crost, 
Thou  know'st  the  best,  I  feel  the  most ; 
But  few  that  dwell  beneath  the  sun 
Have  loved  so  long,  and  loved  but  one. 

I've  tried  another's  fetters  too, 
With  charms  perchance  as  fair  to  view; 
And  I  would  fain  have  loved  as  well, 
But  some  unconquerable  spell 
Forbade  my  bleeding  breast  to  own 
A  kindred  care  for  aught  but  one. 

'Twould  soothe  to  take  one  lingering  view. 
And  bless  thee  in  my  last  adieu ; 
Yet  wish  I  not  those  eyes  to  weep 
For  him  that  wanders  o'er  the  deep; 
His  home,  his  hope,  his  youth  are  gone, 
Vet  still  he  loves,  and  loves  but  one.- 


LINES    WRITTEN     IN     AN     ALBUM. 
AT   MALTA. 

AS  o'er  the  cold  sepulchral  stone 
Some  name  arrests  the  passer-by; 

Thus,  when  thou  view'st  this  page  alone, 
May  mine  attract  thy  pensive  eye  ! 

And  when  by  thee  that  name  is  read, 
Perchance  in  some  succeeding  year, 

Reflect  on  me  as  on  the  dead, 
And  think  my  heart  is  buried  here. 

September  14.  '809 


TO   FLORENCES 

OH  Lady !    when  I  left  the  shore, 

The  distant  shore  which  gave  me  bir'h, 


2  [Thus  corrected  by  himself;  the  two  last  lines 
being  originally — ■ 

"  Though  wheresoe'er  my  bark  may  run, 
I  love  but  thee,  I  love  but  one."] 

3  [These  lines  were  written  at  Malta.     The  lad* 


OCCASIONAL   PIECES. 


63 


[  hardly  thought  to  grieve  once  more, 
To  quit  another  spot  on  earth  : 

Yet  here,  amidst  this  barren  isle, 
Where  panting  Nature  droops  the  head, 

Where  only  thou  art  seen  to  smile, 
I  view  my  parting  hour  with  dread. 

Though  far  from  Albion's  craggy  shore, 
Divided  by  the  dark-blue  main ; 

A  few,  brief,  rolling  seasons  o'er, 
Perchance  I  view  her  cliffs  again  : 

But  wheresoe'er  I  now  may  roam, 

Through  scorching  clime,  and  varied  sea, 

Though  Time  restore  me  to  my  home, 
I  ne'er  shall  bend  mine  eyes  on  thee : 

On  thee,  in  whom  at  once  conspire 
All  charms  which  heedless  hearts  can  move, 

Whom  but  to  see  is  to  admire, 
And,  oh!  forgive  the  word  —  to  love. 

Forgive  the  word,  in  one  who  ne'er 
With  such  a  word  can  more  offend ; 

And  since  thy  heart  I  cannot  share, 
Believe  me,  what  I  am,  thy  friend. 

And  who  so  cold  as  look  on  thee, 
Thou  lovely  wanderer,  and  be  less  ? 

Nor  be,  what  man  should  ever  be, 
The  friend  of  Beauty  in  distress  ? 

Ah  !  who  would  think  that  form  had  past 
Through  Danger's  most  destructive  path, 

Had  braved  the  death-winged  tempest's  blast, 
And  'scaped  a  tyrant's  fiercer  wrath  ? 

Lady !  when  I  shall  view  the  walls 
Where  free  Byzantium  once  arose, 

And  Stamboul's  Oriental  halls 
The  Turkish  tyrants  now  inclose ; 


to  whom  they  were  addressed,  and  whom  he  after- 
wards apostrophizes  in  the  stanzas  on  the  thunder- 
storm of  Zitza  and  in  Childe  Harold,  is  thus  men- 
tioned in  a  letter  to  his  mother :  — "  This  letter  is 
committed  to  the  charge  of  a  very  extraordinary  lady, 
whom  you  have  doubtless  heard  of,  Mrs.  Spencer 
Smith,  of  whose  escape  the  Marquis  de  Salvo  pub- 
lished a  narrative  a  few  years  ago.  She  has  since 
been  shipwrecked  ;  and  her  life  has  been  from  its 
commencement  so  fertile  in  remarkable  incidents, 
that  in  a  romance  they  would  appear  improbable. 
She  was  born  at  Constantinople,  where  her  father, 
Baron  Herbert,  was  Austrian  ambassador;  married 
unhappily,  yet  has  never  been  impeached  in  point 
of  character",  excited  the  vengeance  of  Bonaparte, 
by  taking  a  part  in  some  conspiracy;  several  times 
risked  her  life;  and  is  not  yet  five  and  twenty. 
She  is  here  on  her  way  to  England  to  join  her 
husband,  being  obliged  to  leave  Trieste,  where  she 
was  paying  a  visit  to  her  mother,  by  the  approach 
of  the  French,  and  embarks  soon  in  a  ship  of  war. 
Since  my  arrival  here  I  have  had  scarcely  any  other 
companion.  I  have  found  her  very  pretty,  very 
accomplished,  and  extremely  eccentric.  Bonaparte 
is  even  now  so  incensed  against  her,  that  her  life 


Though  mightiest  in  the  lists  of  fame, 
That  glorious  city  still  shall  be; 

On  me  'twill  hold  a  dearer  claim, 
As  spot  of  thy  nativity : 

And  though  I  bid  thee  now  farewell, 
When  I  behold  that  wondrous  scene, 

Since  where  thou  art,  I  may  not  dwell, 
'Twill  soothe  to  be  where  thou  hast  been. 
September,  1809. 


STANZAS 

COMPOSED  DURING  A  THUNDERSTORM.! 

CHILL  and  mirk  is  the  nightly  blast, 
Where  Pindus'  mountains  rise, 

And  angry  clouds  are  pouring  fast 
The  vengeance  of  the  skies. 

Our  guides  are  gone,  our  hope  is  lost, 

And  lightnings,  as  they  play, 
But  show  where  rocks  our  path  have  crost. 

Or  gild  the  torrent's  spray. 

Is  yon  a  cot  I  saw,  though  low  ? 

When  lightning  broke  the  gloom  — 
How  welcome  were  its  shade  !  — ah,  no! 

'Tis  but  a  Turkish  tomb. 

Through  sounds  of  foaming  waterfalls, 

I  hear  a  voice  exclaim  — 
My  way-worn  countryman,  who  calls 

On  distant  England's  name. 

A  shot  is  fired  —  by  foe  or  friend  ? 

Another  —  'tis  to  tell 
The  mountain-peasants  to  descend, 

And  lead  us  where  they  dwell. 

Oh !  who  in  such  a  night  will  dare 
To  tempt  the  wilderness  ? 


would  be  in  danger  if  she  were  taken  prisoner  » 
second  time."] 

1  [This  thunderstorm  occurred  during  the  night  of 
the  nth  October,  1809,  when  Byron's  guides  had 
lost  the  road  to  Zitza,  near  the  range  of  mountains 
formerly  called  Pindus,  in  Albania.  Mr.  Hobhouse, 
who  had  rode  on  before  the  rest  of  the  party,  and 
arrived  at  Zitza  just  as  the  evening  set  in,  describes 
the  thunder  as  "  roaring  without  intermission,  the 
echoes  of  one  peal  not  ceasing  to  roll  in  the  moun- 
tains, before  another  tremendous  crash  burst  over 
our  heads;  whilst  the  plains  and  the  distant  hills 
appeared  in  a  perpetual  blaze."  "  The  tempest," 
he  says,  "  was  altogether  terrific,  and  worthy  of  the 
Grecian  Jove.  My  Friend,  with  the  priest  and 
the  servants,  did  not  enter  our  hut  till  three  in  the 
morning.  I  now  learnt  from  him  that  they  had  lost 
their  way,  and  that,  after  wandering  up  and  down  in 
total  ignorance  of  their  position,  they  had  stopped  at 
last  near  some  Turkish  tombstones  and  a  torrent, 
which  they  saw  by  the  flashes  of  lightning.  They 
had  been  thus  exposed  for  nine  hours.  It  was  long 
before  we  ceased  to  talk  of  the  thunderstorm  in  tha 
plain  of  Zitza."] 


64 


OCCASIONAL   PIECES. 


And  who  'mid  thunder  peals  can  heai 
Our  signal  of  distress  ? 

And  who  that  heard  our  shouts  would  rise 

To  try  the  dubious  road  ? 
Nor  rather  deem  from  nightly  cries 

That  outlaws  were  abroad. 

Clouds  burst,  skies  flash,  oh,  dreadful  hour ! 

More  fiercely  pours  the  storm  ! 
Yet  here  one  thought  has  still  the  power 

To  keep  my  bosom  warm. 

While  wandering  through  each  broken  path, 

O'er  brake  and  craggy  brow; 
While  elements  exhaust  their  wrath 

Sweet  Florence,  where  art  thou  ? 

Not  on  the  sea,  not  on  the  sea, 
Thy  bark  hath  long  been  gone : 

Oh,  may  the  storm  that  pours  on  me, 
Bow  down  my  head  alone ! 

Full  swiftly  blew  the  swift  Siroc, 

When  last  I  pressed  thy  lip ; 
And  long  ere  now,  with  foaming  shock. 

Impelled  thy  gallant  ship. 

Now  thou  art  safe ;  nay,  long  ere  now 

Hast  trod  the  shore  of  Spain ; 
'Twere  hard  if  aught  so  fair  as  thou 

Should  linger  on  the  main. 

And  since  I  now  remember  thee 

In  darkness  and  in  dread, 
As  in  those  hours  of  revelry 

Which  mirth  and  music  sped;* 

Do  thou,  amid  the  fair  white  walls, 

If  Cadiz  yet  be  free, 
At  times  from  out  her  latticed  halls 

Look  o'er  the  dark  blue  sea; 

Then  think  upon  Calypso's  isles, 

Endeared  by  days  gone  by ; 
To  others  give  a  thousand  smiles, 

To  me  a  single  sigh. 

And  when  the  admiring  circle  mark 

The  paleness  of  thy  face, 
A  half-formed  tear,  a  transient  spark 

Uf  melancholy  grace, 

Again  thou'lt  smile,  and  blushing  shun 

Some  coxcomb's  raillery; 
Nor  own  for  once  thou  thought'st  of  one, 

Who  ever  thinks  on  thee. 

Though  smile  and  sigh  alike  are  vain, 

When  severed  hearts  repine, 
My  spirit  flies  o'er  mount  and  main, 

And  mourns  in  search  of  thine. 


1  ["  This  and  the  two  following  stanzas  have  a 
music  in  them,  which,  independently  of  all  mean- 
ing, is  enchanting."  —  Moore.\ 


STANZAS 

WRITTEN     IN     PASSING     THE     AMBRAC1AN 
GULF. 

THROUGH  cloudless  skies,  in  silvery  sheen, 
Full  beams  the  moon  on  Actium's  coast. 

And  on  these  waves,  for  Egypt's  queen, 
The  ancient  world  was  won  and  lost 

And  now  upon  the  scene  I  look, 
The  azure  grave  of  many  a  Roman  ; 

Where  stern  Ambition  once  forsook 
His  wavering  crown  to  follow  woman. 

Florence !  whom  I  will  love  as  well 

As  ever  yet  was  said  or  sung, 
(Since  Orpheus  sang  his  spouse  from  hell) 

Whilst  thou  art  fair  and  I  am  young ; 

Sweet  Florence!  those  were  pleasant  times, 
When  worlds  were  staked  for  ladies'  eyes : 

Had  bards  as  many  realms  as  rhymes, 
Thy  charms  might  raise  new  Antonies. 

Though  Fate  forbids  such  things  to  be, 
Yet,  by  thine  eyes  and  ringlets  curled ! 

I  cannot  lose  a  world  for  thee, 

But  would  not  lose  thee  for  a  world. 

November  14,  1809. 


THE  SPELL  IS  BROKE,  THE  CHARM 

p  IS   FLOWN! 

WRITTEN  AT  ATHENS,  JANUARY   16,  181C. 

THE  spell  is  broke,  the  charm  is  flown! 

Thus  is  it  with  life's  fitful  fever : 
We  madly  smile  when  we  should  groan ; 

Delirium  is  our  best  deceiver. 

Each  lucid  interval  of  thought 

Recalls  the  woes  of  Nature's  charter, 

And  he  that  acts  as  wise  men  ought, 
But  lives,  as  saints  have  died,  a  martyr. 


WRITTEN  AFTER  SWIMMING  FROM 
SESTOS  TO  ABYDOS.2 

IF,  in  the  month  of  dark  December, 

Leander,  who  was  nightly  wont 
(What  maid  will  not  the  tale  remember  ?) 

To  cross  thy  stream,  broad  Hellespont! 

If,  when  the  wintry  tempest  roared, 

He  sped  to  Hero,  nothing  loth, 
And  thus  of  old  thy  current  poured, 

Fair  Venus !  how  I  pity  both ! 


2  On  the  3d  of  May,  1810,  while  the  Salse<te 
(Captain  Bathurst)  was  lying  in  the  Dardanelles, 
Lieutenant  Ekenhead,  of  that  frigate  and  the  writer 
of  these  rhymes  swam  from  the  F.uropean  shore  ta 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


65 


For  me,  degenerate  modern  wretch, 
Though  in  the  genial  month  of  May, 

My  dripping  limbs  I  faintly  stretch, 
And  think  I've  done  a  feat  to-day. 

But  since  he  crossed  the  rapid  tide, 
According  to  the  doubtful  story, 

To  woo,  —  and  —  Lord  knows  what  beside, 
And  swam  for  Love,  as  I  for  Glory ; 

'Twere  hard  to  say  who  fared  the  best : 

Sad  mortals  i  thus  the  Gods  still  plague  you  ! 

He  lost  his  labor,  I  my  jest : 
For  he  was  drowned,  and  I've  the  ague.1 
May  9,  1810. 


MAID  OF  ATHENS,  ERE  WE  PART. 

ZtoTj  tJ-ov,  eras  aya77w. 

Maid  of  Athens,2  ere  we  part, 
Give,  oh,  give  me  back  my  heart! 
Or,  since  that  has  left  my  breast, 
Keep  it  now,  and  take  the  rest ; 


the  Asiatic  —  by  the  by,  from  Abydos  to  Sestos 
would  have  been  more  correct.  The  whole  distance, 
from  the  place  whence  we  started  to  our  landing  on 
the  other  side,  including  the  length  we  were  car- 
ried by  the  current,  was  computed  by  those  on  board 
the  frigate  at  upwards  of  four  English  miles;  though 
the  actual  breadth  is  barely  one.  The  rapidity  of 
the  current  is  such  that  no  boat  can  row  directly 
across,  and  it  may,  in  some  measure,  be  estimated 
from  the  circumstance  of  the  whole  distance  being 
accomplished  by  one  of  the  parties  in  an  hour  and 
five,  and  by  the  other  in  an  hour  and  ten  minutes. 
The  water  was  extremely  cold,  from  the  melting  of 
the  mountain  snows.  About  three  weeks  before,  in 
April,  we  had  made  in  attempt;  but,  having  ridden 
all  the  way  from  the  Vroad  the  same  morning,  and 
the  water  being  of  an  icy  chillness,  we  found  it  nec- 
essary to  postpone  the  completion  till  the  frigate 
anchored  below  the  castles,  when  we  swam  the 
straits,  as  just  stated;  entering  a  considerable  way 
above  the  European,  and  landing  below  the  Asiatic, 
fort.  Chevalier  says  that  a  young  Jew  swam  the 
same  distance  for  his  mistress;  and  Oliver  mentions 
its  having  been  done  by  a  Neapolitan;  but  our  con- 
sul, Tarragona,  remembered  neither  of  these  circum- 
stances, and  tried  to  dissuade  us  from  the  attempt. 
A  number  of  the  Salsette's  crew  were  known  to  have 
accomplished  a  greater  distance;  and  the  only  thing 
that  surprised  me  was,  that,  as  doubts  had  been  en- 
tertained of  the  truth  of  Leander's  story,  no  travel- 
ler had  ever  endeavored  to  ascertain  its  practicability. 

1  ["  My  companion,"  says  Mr.  Hobhouse,  "  had 
before  made  a  more  perilous,  but  less  celebrated 
passage;  for  I  recollect  that,  when  we  were  in  Por- 
tugal, he  swam  from  Old  Lisbon  to  Belem  Castle, 
and  having  to  contend  with  a  tide  and  counter  cur- 
rent, the  wind  blowing  freshly,  was  but  little  less 
than  two  hours  in  crossing."] 

2  "  Theresa,  the  Maid  of  Athens,  and  her  sisters 
Catinco,  and  Mariana,  are  of  middle  stature.  The 
two  eldest  have  black,  or  dark,  hair  and  eyes;  their 
jisage   oval,  and  complexion   somewhat  pale,  with 


Hear  my  vow  before  I  go, 

Zuii]  vlov,  (7<is  ayajrCi.3 

By  those  tresses  unconfined, 
Wooed  by  each  ^Egean  wind ; 
By  those  lids  whose  jetty  fringe, 
Kiss  thy  soft  cheeks'  blooming  tinge; 
By  those  wild  eyes  like  the  roe, 

Zujtj  jtxou,  cd?  ayairui. 

By  that  lip  I  long  to  taste ; 
By  that  zone-encircled  waist ; 
By  all  the  token-flowers  4  that  tell 
What  words  can  never  speak  so  well-. 
By  love's  alternate  joy  and  woe, 

Zu>t)  ju.ou,  crds   ayairio. 

Maid  of  Athens !  I  am  gone : 
Think  of  me,  sweet !  when  alone. 
Though  I  fly  to  Istambol,5 
Athens  holds  my  heart  and  soul: 
Can  I  cease  to  love  thee  ?  No ! 
Zwtj  )J-ovt  eras  ayair6> 

Athens,  1810^ 


MY  EPITAPH. 

YOUTH,  Nature,  and  relenting  Jove, 
To  keep  my  lamp  in  strongly  strove ; 
But  Romanelli  was  so  stout, 
He  beat  all  three  —  and  blew  it  out.5 

October,  1810. 


teeth  of  dazzling  whiteness.  Their  cheeks  are  round- 
ed,  and  noses  straight,  rather  inclined  to  aquiline. 
The  youngest,  Mariana,  is  very  fair,  her  face  not  so 
finely  rounded,  but  has  a  gayer  expression  than  her 
sisters',  whose  countenances,  except  when  the  con- 
versation has  something  of  mirth  in  it,  may  be  said 
to  be  rather  pensive.  Their  persons  are  elegant,  and 
their  manners  pleasing  and  ladylike,  such  as  would 
be  fascinating  in  any  country.  They  possess  very 
considerable  powers  of  conversation,  and  their  minds 
seem  to  be  more  instructed  than  those  of  the  Greek 
women  in  general." — Williams'  Travels  in 
Greece. 

3  Romaic  expression  of  tenderness :  If  I  translate 
it,  I  shall  affront  the  gentlemen,  as  it  may  seem 
that  I  supposed" they  could  not;  and  if  I  do  not,  I 
may  affront  the  ladies.  For  fear  of  any  miscon- 
struction on  the  part  of  the  latter,  I  shall  do  so, 
begging  pardon  of  the  learned.  It  means,  "  My 
life,  I  love  you!"  which  sounds  very  prettily  in  all 
languages,  and  is  as  much  in  fashion  in  Greece  at 
this  day  as,  Juvenal  tells  us,  the  two  first  words 
were  amongst  the  Roman  ladies,  whose  erotic  ex- 
pressions were  all  Hellenised. 

4  In  the  East  (where  ladies  are  not  taught  to 
write,  lest  they  should  scribble  assignations)  flowers, 
cinders,  pebbles,  etc.,  convey  the  sentiments  of  the 
parties  by  that  universal  deputy  of  Mercury  —  an 
old  woman.  A  cinder  says,  "  I  burn  for  thee;"  a 
bunch  of  flowers  tied  with  hair,  "  Take  me  and  fly ; " 
but  a  pebble  declares  —  what  nothing  else  can. 

5  Constantinople. 

6  ["  I  have  just  escaped  from  a  physician  and  a 
fever.     In  spite  of  my  teeth  and  tongue,  the  Eng 


66 


OCCASIONAL   PIECES. 


SUBSTITUTE  FOR  AN    EPITAPH. 

Kind  Reader!    take   your  choice  to    cry  or 

laugh ; 
Here  Harold  lies  —  but  where's  his  Epitaph  ? 
If  such  you  seek,  try  Westminster,  and  view 
Ten  thousand  just  as  fit  for  him  as  you. 

Athens. 


LINES   IN  THE  TRAVELLERS'  BOOK 
AT   ORCHOMENUS. 

IN  THIS   BOOK   A    TRAVELLER    HAD    WRIT- 
TEN : — 

Fair  Albion,  smiling,  sees  her  son  depart 
To  trace  the  birth  and  nursery  of  art : 
Noble  his  object,  glorious  is  his  aim ; 
He  comes  to  Athens,  and  he  writes  his  name. 

BWNEATH   WHICH   LORD    BYRON    INSERTED 
THE   FOLLOWING  :  — 

The  modest  bard,  like  many  a  bard  unknown, 
Rhymes  on  our  names,  but  wisely  hides  his 

own ; 
But  yet,  whoe'er  he  be,  to  say  no  worse. 
His  name  would  bring  more  credit  than  his 

verse.  l8lo. 


TRANSLATION     OF     THE     FAMOUS 
GREEK  WAR-SONG. 

11  Aei're  7rcu5es  Ttui'  'EAAqruu'."  1 

Sons  of  the  Greeks,  arise ! 

The  glorious  hour's  gone  forth, 
And,  worthy  of  such  ties, 

Display  who  gave  us  birth. 


Sons  of  Greeks  !  let  us  go 
In  arms  against  the  foe, 
Till  their  hated  blood  shall  flow 
In  a  river  past  our  feet. 

Then  manfully  despising 

The  Turkish  tyrant's  yoke, 
Let  your  country  see  you  rising, 

And  all  her  chains  are  broke. 
Brave  shades  of  chiefs  and  sages, 

Behold  the  coming  strife  ! 
Hellenes  of  past  ages, 

Oh,  start  again  to  life  i 


lish  consul,  my  Tartar,  Albanian,  dragoman,  forced 
a  physician  upon  me,  and  in  three  days  brought  me 
to  the  last  L;asn.  In  this  state  I  made  my  epitaph."] 
—  Byron  to  Mr.  Hodgson,  October  3,  1810. 

1  The  song  AeGre  walSe?,  etc.,  was  written  by 
Riga,  who  perished  in  the  attempt  to  revolutionize 
Greece.  This  translation  is  as  literal  as  the  author 
could  make  it  in  verse.  It  is  of  the  same  measure 
as  that  of  the  original. 


At  the  sound  of  my  trumpet,  breaking 

Your  sleep,  oh,  join  with  me  ! 
And  the  seven-hilled  -  city  seeking, 

Fight,  conquer,  till  we're  free. 

Sons  of  Greeks,  etc, 

Sparta,  Sparta,  why  in  slumbers 

Lethargic  dost  thou  lie  ? 
Awake,  and  join  thv  numbers 

With  Athens,  old' ally! 
Leonidas  recalling, 

That  chief  of  ancient  song, 
Who  saved  ye  once  from  falling, 

The  terrible  !  the  strong! 
Who  made  that  bold  diversion 

In  old  Thermopylae, 
And  warring  with  the  Persian 

To  keep  his  country  free ; 
With  his  three  hundred  wnging 

The  battle,  long  he  stood, 
And  like  a  lion  raging, 

Expired  in  seas  of  blood. 

Sons  of  Greeks,  etc.* 


TRANSLATION     OF     THE     ROMAIC 
SONG, 

"  MTraiVio  ^.e'o"'  '9  to  Trepi^oAl 
'ilpatoTarr)  Xai6>j,"  etc.* 

I  ENTER  thy  garden  of  roses, 

Beloved  and  fair  Haidee, 
Each  morning  where  Flora  reposes, 

For  surely  I  see  her  in  thee. 
Oh,  Lovely!  thus  low  I  implore  thee, 

Receive  this  fond  truth  from  my  tongue, 
Which  utters  its  song  to  adore  thee, 

Yet  trembles  for  what  it  has  sung; 
As  the  branch,  at  the  bidding  of  Nature, 

Adds  fragrance  and  fruit  to  the  tree, 
Through  her  eyes,  through  her  every  feature, 

Shines  the  soul  of  the  young  Haidee. 

But  the  loveliest  garden  grows  hateful 

When  Love  has  abandoned  the  bowers ; 
Bring  me  hemlock  —  since  mine  is  ungrateful, 


2  Constantinople.     "  'EnTa\o<l>os." 

3  [Riga  was  a  Thessalian,  and  passed  the  first 
part  of  his  youth  among  his  native  mountains,  in 
teaching  ancient  Greek  to  his  countrymen.  On  the 
outbreak  of  the  French  Revolution,  he  and  some 
other  enthusiasts  perambulated  Greece,  rousing  the 
bold,  and  encouraging  the  timid  by  their  minstrelsy. 
He  afterwards  went  to  Vienna  to  solicit  aid  for  a 
rising,  but  was  given  up  by  the  Austrian  govern- 
ment to  the  Turks,  who  vainly  endeavored  by  tor- 
ture to  force  from  him  the  names  of  the  other  con- 
spirators.] 

4  The  song  from  which  this  «i  taken  is  a  great 
favorite  with  the  young  girls  of  Athens  of  all  classes. 
Their  manner  of  singing  it  is  by  verses  in  rotation, 
the  whole  number  present  joining  in  the  chorus.  I 
have  heard  it  frequently  at  our  "  vopoi,"  in  thd 
winter  of  1810-11      The  air  is  o\Antiv  and  pretty- 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


67 


That  herb  is  more  fragrant  than  flowers. 
The  poison,  when  poured  from  the  chalice, 

Will  deeply  embitter  the  bowl ; 
But  when  drunk  to  escape  from  thy  malice, 

The  draught  shall  be  sweet  to  my  soul. 
Too  cruel !  in  vain  I  implore  thee 

My  heart  from  these  horrors  to  save : 
Will  nought  to  my  bosom  restore  thee  ? 

Then  open  the  gates  of  the  grave. 

As  the  chief  who  to  combat  advances 

Secure  of  his  conquest  before, 
Thus  thou,  with  those  eyes  for  thy  lances, 

Hast  pierced  through  my  heart  to  its  core. 
Ah,  tell  me,  my  soul !  must  I  perish 

By  pangs  which  a  smile  would  dispel  ? 
Would  the  hope,  which  thou  once  bad'st  me 
cherish, 

For  torture  repay  me  too  well  ? 
Now  sad  is  the  garden  of  roses, 

Beloved  but  false  Haidee ! 
There  Flora  all  withered  reposes, 

Aid  mourns  o'er  thine  absence  with  me. 


LINES  WRITTEN   BENEATH  A 
PICTURE. 

Dear  object  of  defeated  care! 

Though  now  of  Love  and  thee  bereft, 
To  reconcile  me  with  despair, 

Thine  image  and  my  tears  are  left. 

'Tis  said  with  Sorrow  Time  can  cope ; 

But  this  I  feel  can  ne'er  be  true : 
For  by  the  death-blow  of  my  Hope 

My  Memory  immortal  grew. 

Athens,  January,  1811. 


ON   PARTING. 

THE  kiss,  dear  maid  !  thy  lip  has  left, 

Shall  never  part  from  mine, 
Till  happier  hours  restore  the  gift 

Untainted  back  to  thine. 

Thy  parting  glance,  which  fondly  beams, 

An  equal  love  may  see  : 
The  tear  that  from  thine  eyelid  streams, 

Can  weep  no  change  in  me. 

I  ask  no  pledge  to  make  me  blest 

In  gazing  when  alone ; 
Nor  one  memorial  for  a  breast, 

Whose  thoughts  are  all  thine  own. 

Nor  need  I  write  —  to  tell  the  tale 

My  pen  were  doubly  weak : 
Oh  !  what  can  idle  words  avail, 

Unless  the  heart  could  speak  ? 


By  day  or  night,  in  weal  or  woe, 

That  heart,  no  longer  free, 
Must  bear  the  love  it  cannot  show, 

And  silent  ache  for  thee. 

March,  1811. 

EPITAPH    FOR    JOSEPH    BLACKETT 
LATE   POET  AND   SHOEMAKER.  1 

Stranger  !  behold,  interred  together, 
The  souls  of  learning  and  of  leather. 
Poor  Joe  is  gone,  but  left  his  all : 
You'll  find  his  relics  in  a  stall. 
His  works  were  neat,  and  often  found 
Well  stitched,  and  with  morocco  bound. 
Tread  lightly — where  the  bard  is  laid 
He  cannot  mend  the  shoe  he  made; 
Yet  is  he  happy  in  his  hole, 
With  verse  immortal  as  his  sole. 
But  still  to  business  he  held  fast, 
And  stuck  to  Phcebus  to  the  last. 
Then  who  shall  say  so  good  a  fellow 
Was  only  "  leather  and  prunella  ?  " 
For  character  —  he  did  not  lack  it; 
And  if  he  did,  'twere  shame  to  "  Black-it." 
Malta,  May  16,  1811. 


FAREWELL  TO  MALTA. 

Adieu,  ye  joys  of  La  Valette! 

Adieu,  sirocco,  sun,  and  sweat! 

Adieu,  thou  palace  rarely  entered ! 

Adieu,  ye  mansions  where  —  I've  ventured  1 

Adieu,  ye  cursed  streets  of  stairs  ! 

(How  surely  he  who  mounts  you  swears!) 

Adieu,  ye  merchants  often  failing! 

Adieu,  thou  mob  for  ever  railing! 

Adieu,  ye  packets — without  letters  ! 

Adieu,  ye  fools — who  ape  your  betters! 

Adieu,  thou  damned'st  quarantine, 

That  gave  me  fever,  and  the  spleen  ! 

Adieu  that  stage  which  makes  us  yawn,  Sirs, 

Adieu  his  Excellency's  dancers  ! 

Adieu  to  Peter  —  whom  no  fault's  in, 

But  could  not  teach  a  colonel  waltzing; 

Adieu,  ye  females  fraught  with  graces  1 

Adieu  red  coats,  and  redder  faces ! 

Adieu  the  supercilious  air 

Of  all  that  strut  "  en  militaire!  " 

I  go  —  but  God  knows  when,  or  why, 

To  smoky  towns  and  cloudy  sky, 

To  things  (the  honest  truth  to  say) 

As  bad  —  but  in  a  different  way.  — 

Farewell  io  these,  but  not  adieu, 
Triumphant  sons  of  truest  blue! 
While  either  Adriatic  shore, 


1  [He  died  in  1810,  and  his  works  have  followed 
lim.] 


68 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


And  fallen  chiefs,  and  fleets  no  more, 
And  nightly  smiles,  and  daily  dinners, 
Proclaim  you  war  and  women's  winners. 
Pardon  my  Muse,  who  apt  to  prate  is, 
And  take  my  rhyme  —  because  'tis  "  gratis." 

And  now  I've  got  to  Mrs.  Fraser, 
Perhaps  you  think  I  mean  to  praise  her  — 
And  were  I  vain  enough  to  think 
My  praise  was  worth  this  drop  of  ink, 
A  line  —  or  two  —  were  no  hard  matter, 
As  here,  indeed,  I  need  not  flatter: 
But  she  must  be  content  to  shine 
In  better  praises  than  in  mine, 
With  lively  air  and  open  heart, 
And  fashion's  ease,  without  its  art; 
Her  hours  can  gaily  glide  along, 
Nor  ask  the  aid  of  idle  song. — 

And  now,  O  Malta !  since  thou'st  got  us, 
Thou  little  military  hothouse  ! 
I'll  not  offend  with  words  uncivil, 
And  wish  thee  rudely  at  the  Devil, 
But  only  stare  from  out  my  casement, 
And  ask,  for  what  is  such  a  place  meant  ? 
Then,  in  my  solitary  nook, 
Return  to  scribbling  or  a  book, 
Or  take  my  physic  while  I'm  able 
(Two  spoonfuls  hourly  by  the  label), 
Prefer  my  nightcap  to  my  beaver, 
And  bless  the  gods —  I've  got  a  fever ! 

May  26,  1811. 


TO  DIVES. 

A   FRAGMENT. 

Unhappy  Dives!  in  an  evil  hour 

'Gainst  Nature's  voice  seduced  to  deeds  ac- 
curst ! 

Once  Fortune's  minion,  now  thou  feel'st  her 
power; 

Wrath's  viol  on  thy  lofty  head  hath  burst. 

In  Wit,  in  Genius,  as  in  Wealth  the  first, 

How  wond'rous  bright  thy  blooming  morn 
arose ! 

But  thou  wert  smitten  with  th'  unhallowed 
thirst 

)l  Crime  un-named,  and  thy  sad  noon  must 
close 

n  scorn,  and  solitude  unsought,  the  worst  of 
woes.  tHtt. 


ON  MOORE'S  LAST  OPERATIC  FARCE, 
OR   FARCICAL  OPERA. 

Good  plays  are  scarce, 
So  Moore  writes  farce  : 
The  poet's  fame  grows  brittle  — 


We  knew  before 
That  Little  s  Moore, 
But  now  'tis  Moore  that's  little. 

September  14,  1811.' 


EPISTLE  TO  A   FRIEND,* 

IN  ANSWER  TO  SOME  LINES  EXHORTING 
THE  AUTHOR  TO  BE  CHEERFUL,  AND 
TO  "  BANISH  CARE.'- 

"  OH  !  banish  care  "  —  such  ever  be 
The  motto  of  thy  revelry! 
Perchance  of  mine,  when  wassail  nights 
Renew  those  riotous  delights, 
Wherewith  the  children  of  Despair 
Lull  the  lone  heart,  and  "  banish  care." 
But  not  in  morn's  reflecting  hour, 
When  present,  past,  and  future  lower, 
When  all  I  loved  is  changed  or  gone, 
Mock  with  such  taunts  the  woes  of  one, 
Whose  every  thought  —  but  let  them  pass-- 
Thou  know'st  I  am  not  what  I  was. 
But,  above  all,  if  thou  wouldst  hold 
Place  in  a  heart  that  ne'er  was  cold, 
By  all  the  powers  that  men  revere, 
By  all  unto  thy  bosom  dear, 
Thy  joys  below,  thy  hopes  above, 
Speak  —  speak  of  any  thing  but  love. 
r 

'Twere  long  to  tell,  and  vain  to  hear, 
The  tale  of  one  who  scorns  a  tear; 
And  there  is  little  in  that  tale 
Which  better  bosoms  would  bewail. 
But  mine  has  suffered  more  than  well 
'Twould  suit  philosophy  to  tell. 
I've  seen  my  bride  another's  bride,— 
Have  seen  her  seated  by  his  side, — 
Have  seen  the  infant,  which  she  bore, 
Wear  the  sweet  smile  the  mother  wore, 
When  she  and  I  in  youth  have  smiled, 
As  fond  and  faultless  as  her  child;  — 
Have  seen  her  eyes,  in  cold  disdain. 
Ask  if  I  felt  no  secret  pain  ; 
And  /have  acted  well  my  part, 
And  made  my  cheek  belie  my  heart, 
Returned  the  freezing  glance  she  gave, 
Yet  felt  the  while  that  woman's  slave  ;  — 
Have  kissed,  as  if  without  design, 
The  babe  which  ought  to  have  been  mine, 
And  showed,  alas  !  in  each  caress 
Time  had  not  made  me  love  the  less.3 


1  [The  farce  was  called  "  M.  P.;  or,  the  Blue 
Stocking."] 

-  [Francis  Hodgson.] 

3  [These  lines  will  show  with  what  gloomy  fidelity, 
even  while  under  the  pressure  of  recent  sorrow,  the 
poet  reverted  to  the  disappointment  of  his  early 
affection,  as  the  chief  source  of  all  his  suffering* 
and  errors,  present  and  to  come.  —  Moore.] 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


69 


But  let  this  pass  —  I'll  whine  no  more, 
Nor  seek  again  an  eastern  shore ; 
The  world  befits  a  busy  brain,  — 
I'll  hie  me  to  its  haunts  again. 
But  if,  in  some  succeeding  year, 
When  Britain's  "  May  is  in  the  sere," 
Thou  hear'st  of  one,  whose  deepening  crimes, 
Suit  with  the  sablest  of  the  times, 
Of  one,  whom  love  nor  pity  sways, 
Nor  hope  of  fame,  nor  good  men's  praise, 
One,  who  in  stern  ambition's  pride, 
Perchance  not  blood  shall  turn  aside, 
One  ranked  in  some  recording  page 
With  the  worst  anarchs  of  the  age, 
Him  wilt  thou  know  —  and  kncnving  pause, 
Nor  with  the  effect  forget  the  cause.1 

Newstead  Acbey,  October  n,  1811. 

TO   THYRZA. 
Without  a  stone  to  mark  the  spot, 

And  say,  what  Truth  might  well  have  said, 
By  all,  save  one,  perchance  forgot, 

Ah!   wherefore  art  thou  lowly  laid? 
By  many  a  shore  and  many  a  sea 

Divided,  yet  beloved  in  vain; 
The  past,  the  future  fled  to  thee 

To  bid  us  meet  —  no  —  ne'er  again ! 
Could  this  have  been — a  word,  a  look 

That  softly  said,  "  We  part  in  peace," 
Had  taught  my  bosom  how  to  brook, 

With  fainter  sighs,  thy  soul's  release. 
And  didst  thou  not,  since  Death  for  thee 

Prepared  a  light  and  pangless  dart, 
Once  long  for  him  thou  ne'er  shalt  see, 

Who  held,  and  holds  thee  in  his  heart? 
Oh!  who  like  him  had  watched  thee  here? 

Or  sadly  marked  thy  glazing  eye, 
In  that  dread  hour  ere  death  appear, 

When  silent  sorrow  fears  to  sigh, 
Till  all  was  past?      But  when  no  more 

'Twas  thine  to  reck  of  human  woe, 
Affection's  heart- drops,  gushing  o'er, 

Had  flowed  as  fast —  as  now  they  flow. 
Shall  they  not  flow,  when  many  a  day 

In  these,  to  me,  deserted  towers, 
Ere  called  but  for  a  time  away, 

Affection's  mingling  tears  were  ours? 
Ours  too  the  glance  none  saw  beside; 

The  smile  none  else  might  understand; 
The  whispered  thought  of  hearts  allied, 

The  pressure  of  the  thrilling  hand; 

1  [The  anticipations  of  his  own  future  career  in 
these  concluding  lines  are  of  a  nature,  it  must  be 
owned,  to  awaken  more  of  horror  than  of  interest, 


The  kiss,  so  guiltless  and  refined 
That  Love  each  warmer  wish  forbore ; 

Those  eyes  proclaimed  so  pure  a  mind, 
Even  passion  blushed  to  plead  for  more. 

The  tone,  that  taught  me  to  rejoice, 
When  prone,  unlike  thee,  to  repine ; 

The  song,  celestial  from  thv  voice, 
But  sweet  to  me  from  none  but  thine ; 

The  pledge  we  wore —  I  wear  it  still, 

But  where  is  thine  ?  —  Ah  !  where  art  thou  1 

Oft  have  I  borne  the  weight  of  ill, 
But  never  bent  beneath  till  now  ! 

Well  hast  thou  left  in  life's  best  bloom 

The  cup  of  woe  for  me  to  drain. 
If  rest  alone  be  in  the  tomb, 

1  would  not  wish  thee  here  again ; 

But  if  in  worlds  more  blest  than  this 

Thy  virtues  seek  a  fitter  sphere, 
Impart  some  portion  of  thy  bliss, 

To  wean  me  from  mine  anguish  here. 

Teach  me  —  too  early  taught  by  thee  ! 

To  bear,  forgiving  and  forgiven  : 
On  earth  thy  love  was  such  to  me ; 

It  fain  would  form  my  hope  in  heaven ! 

October  11,  1811.2 

were  we  not  prepared,  by  so  many  instances  of  his 
exaggeration  in  this  respect,  not  to  be  startled  at 
any  lengths  to  which  the  spirit  of  self-libelling  would 
carry  him.  — ■  Moore.] 

2  [Moore  considers  "Thyrza"  a  mere  creature 
of  the  poet's  brain.  "  It  was,"  he  says,  "  about  the 
time  when  he  was  thus  bitterly  feeling,  and  express- 
ing, the  blight  which  his  heart  had  suffered  from  a 
real  object  of  affection,  that  his  poems  on  the  death 
of  an  imaginary  one  were  written;  — -nor  is  it  any 
wonder,  when  we  consider  the  peculiar  circum- 
stances under  which  those  beautiful  effusions  flowed 
from  his  fancy,  that  of  all  his  strains  of  pathos,  they 
should  be  the  most  touching  and  most  pure.  They 
were,  indeed,  the  essence,  the  abstract  spirit,  as  it 
were,  of  many  griefs;  — a  confluence  of  sad  thoughts 
from  many  sources  of  sorrow,  refined  and  warmed  in 
their  passage  through  his  fancy,  and  forming  thus 
one  deep  reservoir  of  mournful  feeling."  It  is  a  pity 
to  disturb  a  sentiment  thus  beautifully  expressed: 
but  Byron,  in  a  letter  to  Mr.  Dallas,  bearing  the 
exact  date  of  these  lines,  namely,  Oct.  n,  1811, 
writes  as  follows: — "I  have  been  again  shocked 
with  a  death,  and  have  lost  one  very  dear  to  me  in 
happier  times:  but  '  I  have  almost  forgot  the  taste 
of  grief,'  and  '  supped  full  of  horrors,'  till  I  have 
become  callous;  nor  have  I  a  tear  left  for  an  event 
which,  five  years  ago,  would  have  bowed  my  head 
to  the  earth."  In  his  reply  to  this  letter,  Mr.  Dallas 
says,  —  "I  thank  you  for  your  confidential  com- 
munication. How  truly  do  I  wish  that  that  being 
had  lived,  and  lived  yours!  What  your  obligations 
to  her  would  have  been  in  that  case  is  inconceivable." 
Several  years  after  the  series  of  poems  on  Thyrza 
were  written,  Byron,  on  being  asked  to  whom  they 
referred,  by  a  oerson  in  whose  tenderness  he  never 
ceased  to  confide,  refused  to  answer,  with  marks  of 


70 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


AWAY,  AWAY!   YE  NOTES  OF  WOE! 

Away,  away,  ye  notes  of  woe ! 

Be  silent,  thou  once  soothing  strain, 
Or  I  must  flee  from  hence  —  for,  oh  ! 

I  dare  not  trust  those  sounds  again. 
To  me  they  speak  of  brighter  days  — 

But  lull  the  chords,  for  now,  alas ! 
I  must  not  think,  I  may  not  gaze 

On  what  I  am  —  on  what  I  was. 

The  voice  that  made  those  sounds   more 
sweet 

Is  hushed,  and  all  their  charms  are  fled ; 
And  now  their  softest  notes  repeat 

A  dirge,  an  anthem  o'er  the  dead ! 
Yes,  Thyrza !  yes,  they  breathe  of  thee, 

Beloved  dust !  since  dust  thou  art ; 
And  all  that  once  was  harmony 

Is  worse  than  discord  to  my  heart ! 

'Tis  silent  all !  — but  on  my  ear 

The  well  remembered  echoes  thrill ; 
I  hear  a  voice  I  would  not  hear, 

A  voice  that  now  might  well  be  still : 
Yet  oft  my  doubting  soul  'twill  shake ; 

Even  slumber  owns  its  gentle  tone, 
Till  consciousness  will  vainly  wake 

To  listen,  though  the  dream  be  flown. 

Sweet  Thyrza !  waking  as  in  sleep, 

Thou  art  but  now  a  lovely  dream ; 
A  star  that  trembled  o'er  the  deep, 

Then  turned  from  earth  its  tender  beam. 
B*t  he  who  through  life's  dreary  way 

Must  pass,  when  heaven  is  veiled  in  wrath, 
Will  long  lament  the  vanished  ray 

That  scattered  gladness  o'er  his  path. 
December  6,  1811.  * 


ONE  STRUGGLE  MORE  AND  I  AM 
FREE. 

One  struggle  more,  and  I  am  free 

From  pangs  that  rend  my  heart  in  twain  ; 
One  last  long  sigh  to  love  and  thee, 

Then  back  to  busy  life  again. 
It  suits  me  well  to  mingle  now 

With  things  that  never  pleased  before : 
Though  every  joy  is  fled  below, 

What  future  grief  can  touch  me  more  ? 

Then  bring  me  wine,  the  banquet  bring; 

Man  was  not  formed  to  live  alone  : 
I'll  be  that  light,  unmeaning  thing 

That  smiles  with  all,  and  weeps  with  none. 


agitation,  such  as  rendered  recurrence  to  the  subject 
impossible.  The  five  following  pieces  are  all  de- 
voted to  Thyrza.] 

1  ["  I  wrote  this  a  day  or  two  ago,  on  hearing  a 
song  of  former  days."  —  Byron's  Letters,  Dec.  8, 
1811.] 


It  was  not  thus  in  days  more  dear, 
It  never  would  have  been,  but  thou 

Hast  fled,  and  left  me  lonely  here; 
Thou'rt  nothing,  —  all  are  nothing  now, 

In  vain  my  lyre  would  lightly  breathe  ! 

The  smile  that  sorrow  fain  would  wear 
But  mocks  the  woe  that  lurks  beneath, 

Like  roses  o'er  a  sepulchre. 
Though  gay  companions  o'er  the  bowl 

Dispel  awhile  the  sense  of  ill ; 
Though  pleasure  fires  the  maddening  soul. 

The  heart  —  the  heart  is  lonely  still ! 

On  many  a  lone  and  lovely  night 

It  soothed  to  gaze  upon  the  sky; 
For  then  I  deemed  the  heavenly  light 

Shone  sweetly  on  thy  pensive  eye : 
And  oft  I  thought  at  Cynthia's  noon, 

When  sailing  o'er  the  ^Egean  wave, 
"  Now  Thyrza  gazes  on  that  moon  —  " 

Alas,  it  gleamed  upon  her  grave  • 

When  stretched  on  fever's  sleepless  bed, 

And  sickness  shrunk  my  throbbing  veins, 
"  'Tis  comfort  still,"  I  faintly  said, 

"  That  Thyrza  cannot  know  my  pains : " 
Like  freedom  to  the  time-worn  slave, 

A  boon  'tis  idle  then  to  give, 
Relenting  Nature  vainly  gave 

My  life,  when  Thyrza  ceased  to  live ! 

My  Thyrza's  pledge  in  better  days, 

When  love  and  life  alike  were  now  ! 
How  different  now  thou  mect'st  my  gaze  i 

How  tinged  by  time  with  sorrow's  hue  ! 
The  heart  that  gave  itself  with  thee 

Is  silent  —  ah,  were  mine  as  still! 
Though  cold  as  e'en  the  dead  can  be, 

It  feels,  it  sickens  with  the  chill. 

Thou  bitter  pledge  !  thou  mournful  token ! 

Though  painful,  welcome  to  my  breast ! 
Still,  still,  preserve  that  love  unbroken, 

Or  break  the  heart  to  which  thou'rt  pressed 
Time  tempers  love,  but  not  removes, 

More  hallowed  when  its  hope  is  fled  : 
Oh  !  what  are  thousand  living  loves 

To  that  which  cannot  quit  the  dead  ? 


EUTHANASIA. 

WHEN  Time,  or  soon  or  late,  shall  bring 
The  dreamless  sleep  that  lulls  the  dead, 

Oblivion  1  may  thy  languid  wing 
Wave  gendy  o'er  my  dying  bed ! 

No  band  of  friends  or  heirs  be  there, 
To  weep,  or  wish  the  coming  blow : 

No  maiden,  with  dishevelled  hair, 
To  feel,  or  feign,  decorous  woe. 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


71 


But  silent  let  me  sink  to  earth, 
With  no  officious  mourners  neal*; 

I  would  not  mar  one  hour  of  mirth, 
Nor  startle  friendship  with  a  fear. 

Yet  Love,  if  Love  in  such  an  hour 
Could  nobly  check  its  useless  sighs, 

Might  then  exert  its  latest  power 
In  her  who  lives  and  him  who  dies. 

'Twere  sweet,  my  Psyche  !  to  the  last 
Thy  features  still  serene  to  see : 

Forgetful  of  its  struggles  past, 
E'en  Pain  itself  should  smile  on  thee. 

But  vain  the  wish  —  for  Beauty  still 
Will  shrink,  as  shrinks  the  ebbing  breath  ; 

A.nd  woman's  tears,  produced  at  will, 
Deceive  in  life,  unman  in  death. 

Then  lonely  be  my  latest  hour, 
Without  regret,  without  a  groan ; 

For  thousands  Death  hath  ceased  to  lower, 
And  pain  been  transient  or  unknown. 

"  Ay,  but  to  die,  and  go,"  alas  ! 

Where  all  have  gone,  and  all  must  go  1 
To  be  the  nothing  that  I  was 

Ere  born  to  life  and  living  woe ! 

Count  o'er  the  joys  thine  hours  have  seen, 
Count  o'er  thy  days  from  anguish  free, 

&nd  know,  whatever  thou  hast  been, 
'Tis  something  better  not  to  be. 


AND   THOU  ART   DEAD,  AS   YOUNG 
AND   FAIR. 

'   Heu,  quanto  minus  est  cum  reliquis  versari  quam 
tui  meminisse!  " 

AND  thou  art  dead,  as  young  and  fair 

As  aught  of  mortal  birth ; 
And  form  so  soft,  and  charms  so  rare, 

Too  soon  returned  to  Earth ! 
Though  Earth  received  them  in  her  bed, 
And  o'er  the  spot  the  crowd  may  tread 

In  carelessness  or  mirth, 
There  is  an  eye  which  could  not  brook 
A  moment  on  that  grave  to  look. 

I  will  not  ask  where  thou  liest  low, 

Nor  gaze  upon  the  spot ; 
There  flowers  or  weeds  at  will  may  grow, 

So  I  behold  them  not : 
It  is  enough  for  me  to  prove 
That  what  I  loved  and  long  must  love, 

Like  common  earth  can  rot; 
To  me  there  needs  no  stone  to  tell, 
'Tis  Nothing  that  I  loved  so  well. 

Yet  did  I  love  thee  to  the  last 

As  fervently  as  thou, 
Who  didst  not  change  through  all  the  past, 

And  canst  not  alter  now. 


The  love  where  Death  has  set  his  seal, 
Nor  age  can  chill,  nor  rival  steal, 

Nor  falsehood  disavow : 
And,  what  were  worse,  thou  canst  not  see 
Or  wrong,  or  change,  or  fault  in  me. 

The  better  days  of  life  were  ours ; 

The  worst  can  be  but  mine : 
The  sun  that  cheers,  the  storm  that  lowers, 

Shall  never  more  be  thine. 
The  silence  of  that  dreamless  sleep 
I  envy  now  too  much  to  weep ; 

Nor  need  I  to  repine 
That  all  those  charms  have  passed  away, 
I  might  have  watched  through  long  decay. 

The  flower  in  ripened  bloom  unmatched 

Must  fall  the  earliest  prey ; 
Though  by  no  hand  untimely  snatched, 

The  leaves  must  drop  away : 
And  yet  it  were  a  greater  grief 
To  watch  it  withering,  leaf  by  leaf, 

Than  see  it  plucked  to-day; 
Since  earthly  eye  but  ill  can  bear 
To  trace  the  change  to  foul  from  fair. 

I  know  not  if  I  could  have  borne 

To  see  thy  beauties  fade ; 
The  night  that  followed  such  a  morn 

Had  worn  a  deeper  shade  : 
Thy  day  without  a  cloud  hath  passed, 
And  thou  wert  lovely  to  the  last ; 

Extinguished,  not  decayed ; 
As  stars  that  shoot  along  the  sky 
Shine  brightest  as  they  fall  from  high. 

As  once  I  wept,  if  I  could  weep, 

My  tears  might  well  be  shed, 
To  think  I  was  not  near  to  keep 

One  vigil  o'er  thy  bed; 
To  gaze,  how  fondly !  on  thy  face, 
To  fold  thee  in  a  faint  embrace, 

Uphold  thy  .drooping  head; 
And  show  that  love,  however  vain, 
Nor  thou  nor  I  can  feel  again. 

Yet  how  much  less  it  were  to  gain, 

Though  thou  hast  left  me  free, 
The  loveliest  things  that  still  remain, 

Than  thus  remember  thee  ! 
The  all  of  thine  that  cannot  die 
Through  dark  and  dread  Eternity 

Returns  again  to  me, 
And  more  thy  buried  love  endears 
Than  aught,  except  its  living  years. 

February,  1812. 


IF  SOMETIMES   IN   THE   HAUNTS 
OF   MEN. 

IF  sometimes  in  the  haunts  of  men 

Thine  image  from  my  breast  mav  fade 
TJie  lonely  hour  presents  again 


72 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


The  semblance  of  thy  gentle  shade : 
And  now  that  sad  and  silent  hour 

Thus  much  of  thee  can  still  restore, 
And  sorrow  unobserved  may  pour 

The  plaint  she  dare  not  speak  before. 

Oh,  pardon  that  in  crowds  awhile 

I  waste  one  thought  I  owe  to  thee, 
And,  self-condemned,  appear  to  smile, 

Unfaithful  to  thy  Memory! 
Nor  deem  that  memory  less  dear, 

That  then  I  seem  not  to  repine ; 
I  would  not  fools  should  overhear 

One  sigh  that  should  be  wholly  thine. 

If  not  the  goblet  passed  unquaffed, 

It  is  not  drained  to  banish  care ; 
The  cup  must  hold  a  deadlier  draught, 

That  brings  a  Lethe  for  despair. 
And  could  Oblivion  set  my  soul 

From  all  her  troubled  visions  free, 
I'd  dash  to  earth  the  sweetest  bowl 

That  drowned  a  single  thought  of  thee. 

For  wert  thou  vanished  from  my  mind, 

Where  could  my  vacant  bosom  turn  ? 
And  who  would  then  remain  behind 

To  honor  thine  abandoned  Urn  ? 
No,  no  —  it  is  my  sorrow's  pride 

That  last  dear  duty  to  fulfil ; 
Though  all  the  world  forget  beside, 

'Tis  meet  that  I  remember  still. 

For  well  I  know,  that  such  had  been, 

Thy  gentle  care  for  him,  who  now 
Unmourned  shall  quit  this  mortal  scene, 

Where  none  regarded  him,  but  thou: 
And,  oh  !   I  feel  in  that  was  given 

A  blessing  never  meant  for  me ; 
Thou  wert  too  like  a  dream  of  Heaven, 

For  earthly  Love  to  merit  thee. 

March  14,  1812. 


FROM   THE  FRENCH. 

^EGLE,  beauty  and  poet,  has  two  little  crimes  ; 
She  makes  her  own  face,  and  does  not  make 
her  rhymes. 


ON   A    CORNELIAN    HEART  WHICH 
WAS   BROKEN. 

[LL- FATED  Heart !  and  can  it  be 
That  thou  should'st  thus  be  rent  in  twain  ? 

Have  years  of  care  for  thine  and  thee 
Alike  been  all  employed  in  vain  ? 

Yet  precious  seems  each  shattered  part, 
And  every  fragment  dearer  grown, 

Since  he  who  wears  thee  feels  thou  art 
A  fitter  emblem  of  his  own. 

March  16,  1S12. 


LINES   TO  A    LADY  WEEPING.' 

Weep,  daughter  of  a  royal  line, 
A  Sire's  disgrace,  a  realm's  decay, 

Ah  !  happy  if  each  tear  of  thine 
Could  wash  a  father's  fault  away ! 

Weep  —  for  thy  tears  are  Virtue's  tears  — 
Auspicious  to  these  suffering  isles ; 

And  be  each  drop  in  future  years 
Repaid  thee  by  thy  people's  smiles  ! 

March,  1819. 


THE  CHAIN    I    GAVE. 

FROM   THE  TURKISH. 

THE  chain  I  gave  was  fair  to  view, 
The  lute  I  added  sweet  in  sound ; 

The  heart  that  offered  both  was  true, 
And  ill  deserved  the  fate  it  found. 

These  gifts  were  charmed  by  secret  spell 

Thy  truth  in  absence  to  divine ; 
And  they  have  done  their  duty  well, — 

Alas !  they  could  not  teach  thee  thine. 

That  chain  was  firm  in  every  link. 
But  not  to  bear  a  stranger's  touch  ; 

That  lute  was  sweet  —  till  thou  could'st  think 
In  other  hands  its  notes  were  such. 

L£t  him,  who  from  thy  neck  unbound 
The  chain  which  shivered  in  his  grasp, 

Who  saw  that  lute  refuse  to  sound, 
Restring  the  chords,  renew  the  clasp. 

When  thou  wert  changed,  they  altered  too ; 

The  chain  is  broke,  the  music  mute. 
'Tis  past  —  to  them  and  thee  adieu  — 

False  heart,  frail  chain,  and  silent  lute. 


LINES  WRITTEN  ON  A  BLANK 
LEAF  OF  THE  "PLEASURES  OF 
MEMORY." 

Absent  or  present,  still  to  thee, 

My  friend,  what  magic  spells  belong ! 

As  all  can  tell,  who  share,  like  me, 
In  turn  thy  converse,  and  thy  song. 


1  [This  impromptu  owed  i<s  birth  to  an  on  dit, 
that  the  Princess  Charlotte  of  Wales  burst  into  tears 
on  hearing  that  the  Whigs  had  found  it  impossible  to 
form  a  cabinet,  at  the  period  of  Perceval's  death. 
They  were  appended  to  the  first  edition  of  the  "  Cor- 
sair," and  excited  a  sensation  marvellously  dispro- 
portionate to  their  length,  —  or,  we  may  add,  their 
merit.  The  ministerial  prints  raved  for  two  months 
on  end,  in  the  most  foul-mouthed  vituperation  of  the 
poet,  —  the  Morning  Post  even  announced  a  motion 
in  the  House  of  Lords  —  "  and  al!   this,"  Byron 


OCCASIONAL   PIECES. 


73 


But  when  the  dreaded  hour  shall  come, 
By  Friendship  ever  deemed  too  nigh, 

And  "  MEMORY  "  o'er  her  Druid's  tomb1 
Shall  weep  that  aught  of  thee  can  die, 

How  fondly  will  she  then  repay 
Thy  homage  offered  at  her  shrine, 

And  blend,  while  ages  roll  away, 
Her  name  immortally  with  thine  / 

April  19,  1812. 


ADDRESS, 

SPOKEN  AT  THE   OPENING   OF   DRURY-LANE 
THEATRE,  SATURDAY,  OCT.  IO,  1812.'2 

IN  one  dread  night  our  city  saw,  and  sighed, 
Bowed  to  the  dust,  the  Drama's  tower  of  pride  ; 
In  one  short  hour  beheld  the  blazing  fane, 
Apollo  sink,  and  Shakspeare  cease  to  reign. 

Ye  who  beheld,   (oh !    sight  admired  and 

mourned, 
Whose  radiance  mocked  the  ruin  it  adorned  !) 
Through  clouds  of  fire  the  massy  fragments 

riven, 
Like   Israel's  pillar,   chase   the    night    from 

heaven ; 
Saw  the  long  column  of  revolving  flames 
Shake    its    red    shadow    o'er    the    startled 

Thames.3 


writes  to  Moore,  "  as  Bedreddin  in  the  Arabian 
Nights  remarks,  for  making  a  cream  tart  with  pep- 
per: how  odd,  that  eight  lines  should  have  given 
birth,  I  really  think,  to  eight  thousand!  "] 

1  ["  When  Rogers  does  talk,  he  talks  well;  and, 
on  all  subjects  of  taste,  his  delicacy  of  expression  is 
pure  as  his  poetry.  If  you  enter  his  house  —  his 
drawing-room  —  his  library  —  you  of  yourself  say, 
this  is  not  the  dwelling  of  a  common  mind.  There  is 
not  a  gem,  a  coin,  a  book  thrown  aside  on  his  chim- 
ney-piece, his  sofa,  his  table,  that  does  not  bespeak 
an  almost  fastidious  elegance  in  the  possessor."  — 
Byron's  Diary,  1813.] 

2  The  theatre  in  Drury  Lane,  which  was  opened 
in  1747,  with  Dr.  Johnson's  masterly  address,  and 
witnessed  the  last  glories  of  Garrick,  having  fallen 
into  decay,  was  rebuilt  in  1794.  The  new  building 
perished  by  fire  in  181 1;  and  the  Managers,  in  their 
anxiety  that  the  opening  of  the  present  edifice  should 
be  distinguished  by  some  composition  of  at  least 
equal  merit,  advertised  in  the  newspapers  for  a  gen- 
eral competition.  Sccres  of  addresses,  not  one  tol- 
erable, showered  on  their  desk,  and  they  were  in  sad 
despair,  when  Lord  Holland  interfered,  and  not 
without  difficulty,  prevailed  on  Byron  to  write  these 
verses — "  at  the  risk,"  as  he  said,  "  of  offending  a 
hundred  scribblers  and  a  discerning  public."  The 
admirable  jeu  d'esprit  of  the  Messrs.  Smith  will 
long  preserve  the  memory  of  the  "  Rejected  Ad- 
dresses."] 

3  T"  By  the  by,  the  best  view  of  the  said  fire 
(which  I  myself  saw  from  a  house-top  in  Covent 
Garden)  was  at  Westminster  Bridge  from  the  reflec- 
tion of  the  Thames."  —  Byron  to  Lord  Holland.} 


While  thousands,  thronged  around  the  burn- 
ing dome, 
Shrank  back  appalled,  and  trembled  for  their 

home, 
As   glared   the   volumed  blaze,  and  ghastly 

shone 
The    skies,  with    lightnings    awful    as    their 

own, 
Till  blackening  ashes  and  the  lonely  wall 
Usurped  the  Muse's  realm,  and  marked  her 

fall; 
Say  —  shall  this  new,  nor  less  aspiring  pile, 
Reared  where  once  rose  the  mightiest  in  our 

isle, 
Know  the  same  favor  which  the  former  knew, 
A  shrine  for  Shakspeare — worthy  him  and 

you  ? 

Yes  —  it  shall  be  —  the  magic  of  that  name 
Defies  the  scythe  of  time,  the  torch  of  flame  ; 
On  the  same  spot  still  consecrates  the  scene, 
And  bids  the  Drama  be  where  she  hath  been  : 
This  fabric's  birth  attests  the  potent  spell  — 
Indulge  our  honest  pride,  and  say,  How  Well! 

As  soars  this  fane  to  emulate  the  last, 
Oh  !  might  we  draw  our  omens  from  the  past, 
Some   hour  propitious  to  our  prayers   may 

boast 
Names  such  as  hallow  still  the  dome  we  lost. 
On  Drury  first  your  Siddons'  thrilling  art 
O'erwhelmed  the  gentlest,  stormed  the  stern- 
est heart. 
On  Drury,  Garrick's  latest  laurels  grew ; 
Here  your  last  tears  retiring  Roscius  drew, 
Sighed  his  last  thanks,  and  wept  his  last  adieu  : 
But  still  for  living  wit  the  wreaths  may  bloom 
That  only  waste  their  odors  o'er  the  tomb. 
Such  Drury  claimed   and  claims  —  nor  you 

refuse 
One  tribute  to  revive  his  slumbering  muse ; 
With  garlands  deck  your  own   Menander's 

head ! 
Nor  hoard  your  honors  idly  for  the  dead ! 

Dear  are  the  days  which  made  our  annals 
bright, 
Ere  Garrick  fled,  or  Brinsley  4  ceased  to  write. 
Heirs  to  their  labors,  like  all  high-born  heirs, 
Vain  of  our  ancestry  as  they  of  theirs. 


4  [Originally,  "  Ere  Garrick  died,"  etc.,  —  "  By 
the  by  one  of  my  corrections  in  the  copy  sent  yes- 
terday has  dived  into  the  bathos  some  sixty  fathom  — 
'  When  Garrick  died,  and  Brinsley  ceased  to  write.' 
Ceasing  to  live  is  a  much  more  serious  concern,  and 
ought  not  to  be  first.  Second  thoughts  in  every 
thing  are  best;  but,  in  rhyme,  third  and  fourth  don't 
come  amiss.  I  always  scrawl  in  this  way,  and 
smooth  as  fast  as  I  can,  but  never  sufficiently;  and, 
latterly,  I  can  weave  a  nine  line  stanza  faster  than 
a  couplet,  for  which  measure  I  have  not  the  cunning. 
When  I  began  '  Childe  Harold,'  I  had  never  tried 
Spenser's  n.easjre  and  now  I  cannot  scribble  io 
anv  ether." —  Byron  to  Lord  Holland.} 


f4 


OCCASIONAL   PIECES. 


While  thus  Remembrance  borrows  Banquo's 

glass 
To  claim  the  sceptred  shadows  as  they  pass, 
And  we  the  mirror  hold,  where  imaged  shine 
Immortal  names  emblazoned  on  our  line, 
Pause  —  ere  their  feebler  offspring  you  con- 
demn, 
Reflect  how  hard  the  task  to  rival  them  ! 

Friends  of  the  stage !  to  whom  both  Play- 
ers and  Plays 
Must  sue  alike  for  pardon  or  for  praise, 
Whose  judging  voice  and  eye  alone  direct 
The  boundless  power  to  cherish  or  reject ; 
If  e'er  frivolity  has  led  to  fame, 
And  made  us  blush  that  you  forbore  to  blame  ; 
If  e'er  the  sinking  stage  could  condescend 
To  soothe  the  sickly  taste  it  dare  not  mend, 
All  past  reproach  may  present  scenes  refute, 
And  censure,  wisely  loud,  be  justly  mute  ! l 
Oh  !  since  your  hat  stamps  the  Drama's  laws. 
Forbear  to  mock  us, with  misplaced  applause  ; 
So  pride  shall  doubly  nerve  the  actor's  powers, 
And  reason's  voice  be  echoed  back  by  ours ! 

This  greeting  o'er,  the  ancient  rule  obeyed, 
The  Drama's  homage  by  her  herald  paid, 
Receive  our  welcome  too,  whose  every  tone 
Springs  from  our  hearts,  and  fain  would  win 

your  own. 
The  curtain  rises  —  may  our  stage  unfold 
Scenes  not  unworthy  Drury's  days  of  old  ! 
Britons  our  judges,  Nature  for  our  guide, 
Still   may   we  please  —  long,  long   may  you 

preside  1 


PARENTHETICAL    ADDRESS.^ 

BY   DR.   PLAGIARY. 

Half  stolen,  with  acknowledgements,  to  be  spoken 
in  an  inarticulate  voice  by  Master  P.  at  the  opening 
of  the  next  new  theatre.  Stolen  parts  marked  with 
the  inverted  commas  of  quotation  —  thus  " " 

"  When  energizing  objects  men  pursue," 
Then  Lord  knows  what  is  writ  by  Lord  knows 
who. 


1  [The  following  lines  were  omitted  by  the  Com- 
mittee— 

"  Nay,  lower  still,  the  Drama  yet  deplores 
That  late  she  deigned  to  crawl  upon  all-fours. 
When  Richard  roars  in  Bosworth  for  a  horse, 
If  you  command,  the  steed  must  come  in  course. 
If  you  decree,  the  stage  must  condescend 
To  soothe  the  sickly  taste  we  dare  not  mend. 
Blame  not  our  judgment  should  we  acquiesce, 
And  gratify  you  more  by  showing  less. 
The  past  reproach  let  present  scenes  refrite, 
Nor  shift  from  man  to  babe,  from  babe  to  brute." 
"Is   Whitbread,"  said   Byron,  "determined   to 
castrate  all  my  cavalry  lines  ?    I  do  implore,  for  my 
9ivn  gratification,  one  lash  on  those  accursed  quadru- 
peds—  '  a  long  shot,  Sir  Lucius,  if  you  love  me.'  "] 
*  [Among  the  addresses  sent  in  to  the  Drury  Lane 


"  A  modest  monologue  you  here  survey," 
Hissed  from  the  theatre  the  "  other  day," 
As  if  Sir  Fretful  wrote  "  the  slumberous  "  verse, 
And  gave  his  son  "  the  rubbish  "  to  rehearse. 
"  Yet  at  the  thing  you'd  never  be  amazed," 
Knew  you  the  rumpus  which  the  author  raised ; 
"  Nor  even  here  your  smiles  would  be  represt," 
Knew  you  these  lines  —  the  badness  of  the  best. 
"  Flame  !  fire !  and  flame ! !"  (words  borrowed 

from  Lucretius,) 
"  Dread  metaphors  which  open  wounds  "  like 

issues 
"And     sleeping    pangs     awake  —  and— but 

away  " 
(Confound  me  if  I  know  what  next  to  say). 
"  Lo  Hope  reviving  re-expands  her  wing's," 
And  Master  G — recites  what  Doctor  Busby 

sings !  — 
"  If  mighty  things  with  small  we  may  compare," 
( Translated  from  the  grammar  for  the  fair!) 
Dramatic  "  spirit  drives  a  conquering  car," 
And  burned  poor  Moscow  like  a  tub  of"  tar." 
"  This  spirit  Wellington  has  shown  in  Spain," 
To  furnish  melodrames  for  Drury  Lane. 
"  Another  Marlborough  points  to  Blenheim's 

story," 
And  George  and  I  will  dramatize  it  for  ye. 

"  In  arts  and  sciences  our  isle  hath  shone" 
(This  deep  discovery  is  mine  alone). 
"  Oh  British  poesy,  whose  powers  inspire  " 
My  verse  —  or  I'm  a  fool  —  and  Fame's  aliai, 
"  TheeAve  invoke,  your  sister  arts  implore  " 
With  "smiles,"  and  "lyres,"  and  "pencils," 

and  much  more. 
These,  if  we  win  the  Graces,  too,  we  gain 
Disgraces,  too  !  "  inseparable  train  !" 
"Three  who  have  stolen  their  witching  airs 

from  Cupid  " 
(You  all   know  what  I    mean,  unless  you're 

stupid)  : 
"  Harmonious  throng "  that  I  have   kept   in 

petto, 
Now  to  produce  in  a  "  divine  sestetto" 7 '/ 
"  While  Poesy,"  with  these  delightful  doxies, 
"  Sustains  her  part  "  in  all  the  "  upper  "  boxes  ! 
"Thus  lifted  gloriously,  you'll  soar  along," 
Borne  in  the  vast  balloon  of  Busby's  song; 
"  Shine  in  your  farce,  masque,  scenery,  and 

play  " 
(For  this  last  line  George  had  a  holiday). 
"Old  Drury  never,  never  soared  so  high," 
So  says  the  manager,  and  so  says  I. 
"  But   hold,    you    say,    this    self-complacent 

boast ;  " 
Is  this  the  poem  which  the  public  lost  ? 

Committee  was  one  by  Dr.  Busby,  entitled  "  A 
Monologue,"  of  which  the  above  is  a  parody.  It 
began : — 

"When  energizing  objects  men  pursue, 
What  are  the  prodigies  they  cannot  do? 
A  magic  edifice  you  here  survey, 
Shot  from  the  ruins  of  the  other  day,  etc."] 


OCCASIONAL   PIECES. 


71 


*  True  —  true  —  that  lowers  at  once  our  mount- 
ing pride;" 

But  lo  !  —  the  papers  print  what  you  deride. 

"  'Tis  ours  to  look  on  you — you  hold  the  prize," 

'  Tis  twenty  guineas,  as  they  advertise  ! 

"A  double  blessing  your  rewards  impart"  — 

I  wish  I  had  them,  then,  with  all  my  heart. 

"  Our  twofold  feeling  owns  its  twofold  cause," 

Why  son  and  I  both  beg  for  your  applause. 

"  When  in  your  fostering  beams  you  bid  us 
live," 

My  next  subscription  list  shall  say  how  much 
you  give  I  October,  1812. 


VERSES     FOUND      IN     A     SUMMER 
HOUSE  AT  HALES-OWEN.i 

WHEN  Dryden's  fool,  "  unknowing  what  he 

sought," 
His  hours   in  whistling   spent,  "  for  want  of 

thought,"  2 
This  guiltless  oaf  his  vacancy  of  sense 
Supplied,  and  amply  too  by  innocence; 
Did  modern  swains,  possessed  of  Cymon's 

powers, 
In  Cymon's  manner  waste  their  leisure  hours, 
Th'  offended  guests  would  not,  with  blushing, 

see 
These  fair  green  walks  disgraced  by  infamy. 
Severe  the  fate  of  modern  fools,  alas  1 
When  vice  and  folly  mark  them  as  they  pass. 
Like  noxious  reptiles  o'er  the  whitened  wall, 
The  filth  they  leave  still  points  out  where  they 

crawL. 


REMEMBER  THEE!    REMEMBER 
THEE1 

Remember  thee  1  remember  thee ! 

Till  Lethe  quench  life's  burning  stream  I 
Remorse  and  shame  shall  cling  to  thee, 

And  haunt  thee  like  a  feverish  dream  I 

Remember  thee !  Ay,  doubt  it  not. 

Thy  husband  too  shall  think  of  thee: 
By  neither  shalt  thou  be  forgot, 

Thou  false  to  him,  ihow  fiend  to  me  1 8 


TO  TIME. 

IlMEl  on  whose  arbitrary  wing 
The  varying  hours  must  flag  or  fly, 

Whose  tardy  winter,  fleeting  spring, 
But  drag  or  drive  us  on  to  die  — 


1  Tin  Warwickshire.! 

*  [See  Cymon  and  Iphigenia.j 

*  lOn  the  cessation  of  a  temporary  liaison  formed 


Hail  thou !  who  on  my  birth  bestowed 
Those  boons  to  all  that  know  thee  known 

Yet  better  I  sustain  thy  load, 

For  now  I  bear  the  weight  alone. 

I  would  not  one  fond  heart  should  share 
The  bitter  moments  thou  hast  given ; 

And  pardon  thee,  since  thou  could'st  spare 
All  that  I  loved,  to  peace  or  heaven ; 

To  them  be  joy  or  rest,  on  me 
Thy  future  ills  shall  press  in  rain ; 

I  nothing  owe  but  years  to  thee, 
A  debt  already  paid  in  pain. 

Yet  even  that  pain  was  some  relief; 

It  felt,  but  still  forgot  thy  power: 
The  active  agony  of  grief 

Retards,  but  never  counts  the  hour. 

In  joy  I've  sighed  to  think  thy  flight 
Would  soon  subside  from  swift  to  slow ; 

Thy  cloud  could  overcast  the  light, 
But  could  not  add  a  night  to  woe; 

For  then,  however  drear  and  dark, 

My  soul  was  suited  to  thy  sky ; 
One  star  alone  shot  forth  a  spark 

To  prove  thee  —  not  Eternity. 

That  beam  hath  sunk,  and  now  thou  art 
A  blank ;  a  thing  to  count  and  curse 

Through  each  dull  tedious  trifling  part. 
Which  all  regret,  yet  all  rehearse. 

One  scene  even  thou  canst  not  deform ; 

The  limit  of  thy  sloth  or  speed 
When  future  wanderers  bear  the  storm 

Which  we  shall  sleep  too  sound  to  heed : 

And  I  can  smile  to  think  how  weak 
Thine  efforts  shortly  shall  be  shown, 

When  all  the  vengeance  thou  canst  wreak 
Must  fall  upon— a  nameless  stone. 


TRANSLATION  OF  A  ROMAIC  LOVB 
SONG. 

AH  1  Love  was  never  yet  without 
The  pang,  the  agony,  the  doubt, 
Which  rends  my  heart  with  ceaseless  sigh, 
While  day  and  night  roll  darkling  by. 

Without  one  friend  to  hear  my  woe, 
I  faint,  I  die  beneath  the  blow. 


by  Lord  Byron  during  his  London  career,  the  fa* 
one  called  one  morning  at  her  quondam  lover't 
apartments.  His  Lordship  was  from  home:  but 
finding  Vathek  on  the  table,  the  lady  wrote  in  the 
first  page  of  the  volume  the  words  "  Remember 
me'  "  Byron  immediately  wrote  under  the  omioouf 
warnrng  these  two  stanzas.  — Medwin.\ 


76 


OCCASIONAL   PIECES. 


That  Love  had  arrows,  well  I  knew; 
Alas  I  I  find  them  poisoned  too. 

Birds,  yet  in  freedom,  shun  the  net 
Which  Love  around  your  haunts  hath  set ; 
Or,  circled  by  his  fatal  fire, 
Your  hearts  shall  burn,  your  hopes  expire. 

A  bird  of  free  and  careless  wing 
Was  I,  through  many  a  smiling  spring; 
Eut  caught  within  the  subtle  snare, 
\  burn,  and  feebly  flutter  there. 

Who  ne'er  have  loved,  and  loved  in  vain, 
Can  neither  feel  nor  pity  pain, 
The  cold  repulse,  the  look  askance, 
The  lightning  of  Love's  angry  glance. 

In  flattering  dreams  I  deemed  thee  mine; 
Now  hope,  and  he  who  hoped,  decline ; 
Like  melting  wax,  or  withering  flower, 
I  feel  my  passion,  and  thy  power. 

My  light  of  life !  ah,  tell  me  why 

That  pouting  lip,  and  altered  eye  ? 

My  bird  of  love !  my  beauteous  mate  ! 

A.nd  art  thou  changed,  and  canst  thou  hate  ? 

Mine  eyes  like  wintry  streams  o'erflow : 
What  wretch  with  me  would  barter  woe  ? 
My  bird !  relent :  one  note  could  give 
A.  charm,  to  bid  thy  lover  live. 

My  curdling  blood,  my  maddening  brain, 

In  silent  anguish  I  sustain; 

And  still  thy  heart,  without  partaking 

One  pang,  exults  —  while  mine  is  breaking. 

Pour  me  the  poison ;  fear  not  thou ! 
Thou  canst  not  murder  more  than  now: 
I've  lived  to  curse  my  natal  day, 
And  Love,  that  thus  can  lingering  slay. 

My  wounded  soul,  my  bleeding  breast, 
Can  patience  preach  thee  into  rest  ? 
Alas !  too  late,  I  dearly  know 
That  joy  is  harbinger  of  woe. 


THOU  ART  NOT  FALSE,  BUT  THOU 
ART  FICKLE. 

THOU  art  not  false,  but  thou  art  fickle, 
To  those  thyself  so  fondly  sought ; 

The  tears  that  thou  hast  forced  to  trickle 
Are  doubly  bitter  from  that  thought: 

Tis  this  which  breaks  the  heart  thou  grievest, 

Too  well  thou  lov'st — too  soon  thou  leavest. 

The  wholly  false  the  heart  despises, 
And  spurns  deceiver  and  deceit ; 

But  she  who  not  a  thought  disguises, 
Whose  love  is  as  sincere  as  sweet,— 

When  she  can  change  who  loved  so  truly. 

It  feels  what  mine  has  felt  so  newly. 


To  dream  of  joy  and  wake  to  sorrow 
Is  doomed  to  all  who  love  or  live ; 

And  if,  when  conscious  on  the  morrow, 
We  scarce  our  fancy  can  forgive. 

That  cheated  us  in  slumber  only, 

To  leave  the  waking  soul  more  lonely, 

What  must  they  feel  whom  no  false  vision 
But  truest,  tenderest  passion  warmed  ? 

Sincere,  but  swift  in  sad  transition  ; 
As  if  a  dream  alone  had  charmed  ? 

Ah  1  sure  such  grief  is  fancy's  scheming, 

And  all  thy  change  can  be  but  dreaming! 


ON  BEING  ASKED  WHAT  WAS  THE 
"ORIGIN    OF   LOVE." 

THE  "Origin  of  Lovel"  —  Ah,  why 
That  cruel  question  ask  of  me, 

When  thou  mayst  read  in  many  an  eye 
He  starts  to  life  on  seeing  thee  ? 

And  shouldst  thou  seek  his  end  to  know: 
My  heart  forebodes,  my  fears  foresee, 

He'll  linger  long  in  silent  woe ; 
But  live  —  until  I  cease  to  be. 


REMEMBER  HIM,  WHOM   PASSION'S 
POWER. 

Remember  him,  whom  passion's  power 
Severely,  deeply,  vainly  proved  : 

Remember  thou  that  dangerous  hour 
When  neither  fell,  though  both  were  loved 

That  yielding  breast,  that  melting  eye, 
Too  much  invited  to  be  blessed: 

That  gentle  prayer,  that  pleading  sigh. 
The  wilder  wish  reproved,  repressed. 

Oh !  let  me  feel  that  all  I  lost 

But  saved  thee  all  that  conscience  fears ; 
And  blush  for  every  pang  it  cost 

To  spare  the  vain  remorse  of  years. 

Yet  think  of  this  when  many  a  tongue, 
Whose  busy  accents  whisper  blame. 

Would  do  the  heart  that  loved  thee  wrong, 
And  brand  a  nearly  blighted  name. 

Think  that,  whate'er  to  others,  thou 

Hast  seen  each  selfish  thought  subdued: 

I  bless  thy  purer  soul  even  now, 
Even  now,  in  midnight  solitude. 

Oh.  God  1  that  we  had  met  in  time, 

Our  hearts  as  fond,  thy  hand  more  free; 
When  thou  hadst  loved  without  a  crime, 
1      And  I  been  less  unworthy  thee  I 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


77 


Far  may  thy  days,  as  heretofore, 
From  this  our  gaudy  world  be  past ! 

And  that  too  bitter  moment  o'er, 
Oh !  may  such  trial  be  thy  last ! 

This  heart,  alas !  perverted  long, 
Itself  destroyed  might  there  destroy; 

To  meet  thee  in  the  glittering  throng, 
Would  wake  Presumption's  hope  of  joy. 

Then  to  the  things  whose  bliss  or  woe, 
Like  mine,  is  wild  and  worthless  all, 

That  world  resign  —  such  scenes  forego. 
Where  those  who  feel  must  surely  fall. 

Thy  youth,  thy  charms,  thy  tenderness, 
Thy  soul  from  long  seclusion  pure ; 

From  what  even  here  hath  passed,  may  guess 
What  there  thy  bosom  must  endure. 

Oh  !  pardon  that  imploring  tear, 
Since  not  by  Virtue  shed  in  vain, 

My  frenzy  drew  from  eyes  so  dear; 
For  me  they  shall  not  weep  again. 

Though  long  and  mournful  must  it  be, 
The  thought  that  we  no  more  may  meet ; 

Yet  I  deserve  the  stern  decree, 

And  almost  deem  the  sentence  sweet. 

Still,  had  I  loved  thee  less,  my  heart 
Had  then  less  sacrificed  to  thine; 

It  felt  not  half  so  much  to  part, 
As  if  its  guilt  had  made  thee  mine. 

1813. 


ON  LORD  THURLOW'S  POEMS.i 

WHEN  Thurlow  this  damned  nonsense  sent, 

(I  hope  I  am  not  violent) 

Nor  men  nor  gods  knew  what  he  meant. 

And  since  not  even  our  Rogers'  praise 

To  common  sense  his  thoughts  could  raise  — 

Why  would  they  let  him  print  his  lays  ? 


To  me  divine  Apollo,  grant  —  O! 
Hermilda's  first  and  second  canto, 
I'm  fitting  up  a  new  portmanteau; 

And  thus  to  furnish  decent  lining, 

My  own  and  other's  bays  I'm  twining - 

So,  gentle  Thurlow,  throw  me  thine  in. 


1  [One  evening,  in  1813,  Byron  and  Moore  were 
ridiculing  a  volume  of  poetry  which  they  chanced  to 
take  up  at  the  house  of  Rogers.  While  their  host 
was  palliating  faults  and  pointing  out  beauties,  their 
mirth  received  a  fresh  impulse  by  the  discovery  of  a 
piece,  in  which  the  author  had  loudly  sung  the  praises 
of  Rogers  himself.  "  The  opening  line  of  the  poem," 
says  Moore,  "  was  '  When  Rogers  o'er  this  labor 
bent;  '  and  Lord  Byron  undertook  to  read  it  aloud; 


TO  LORD  THURLOW. 

"  I  lay  my  branch  of  laurel  down, 
Then  thus  to  form  Apollo's  crown 
Let  every  other  bring  his  own." 

Lord  Thurlow 's  lines  to  Mr.  Roger* 

"I  lay  my  branch  of  laurel  down." 
Thou  "  lay  thy  branch  of  laurel  down  !  " 
Why,  what  thou'st  stole  is  not  enow; 
And,  were  it  lawfully  thine  own, 

Does  Rogers  want  it  most,  or  thou  ? 
Keep  to  thyself  thy  withered  bough. 
Or  send  it  back  to  Doctor  Donne: 
Were  justice  done  to  both,  I  trow, 

He'd  have  but  little,  and  thou  —  none. 

"  Then  thus  to  for?n  Apollo's  crown'' 
A  crown  !  why,  twist  it  how  you  will, 
Thy  chaplet  must  be  foolscap  still. 
When  next  you  visit  Delphi's  town, 

Enquire  amongst  your  fellow-lodgers, 
They'll  tell  you  Phoebus  gave  his  crown, 

Some  years  before  your  birth,  to  Rogers. 

"Let  every  other  bring  his  own." 
When  coals  to  Newcastle  are  carried, 

And  owls  sent  to  Athens,  as  wonders, 
From  his  spouse  when  the  Regent's  unmarried, 

Or  Liverpool  weeps  o'er  his  blunders ; 
When  Tories  and  Whigs  cease  to  quarrel. 

When  Castlereagh's  wife  has  an  heir, 
Then  Rogers  shall  ask  us  for  laurel, 

And  thou  shalt  have  plenty  to  spare. 


TO   THOMAS   MOORE. 

WRITTEN  THE  EVENING  BEFORE  HIS  VISIT 
TO  MR.  LEIGH  HUNT  IN  HORSEMONGER 
LANE  GAOL,   MAY   19,   1813. 

OH  you,  who  in  all  names  can  tickle  the  town, 
Anacreon,  Tom  Little,  Tom  Moore,  or  Tom 

Brown, — 
For  hang  me  if  I  know  of  which  you  may  most 

brag, 
Your  Quarto  two-pounds,  or  your  Two-penny 
Post  Bag ; 

***** 
But  now  to  my  letter — to  yours  'tis  an  answer — 
To-morrow  be  with  me,  as  soon  as  you  can,  sir, 
All  ready  and  dressed  for  proceeding  to  spunge 

on 
(According  to  compact)  the  wit  in  the  dun- 
geon— 


—  but  he  found  it  impossible  to  get  beyond  the  first 
two  words.  Our  laughter  had  now  increased  to  such 
a  pitch  that  nothing  could  restrain  it,  till  even  Mr. 
Rogers  himself  found  it  impossible  not  to  join  us.  A 
day  or  two  after,  Lord  Byron  sent  me  the  following : 
'  My  dear  Moore,  "  When  Rogers  "  must  not  see  th# 
inclosed,  which  I  send  for  your  perusal.'  "j 


78 


OCCASIONAL   PIECES. 


Pray  Phcebus  at  length  our  political  malice 
May  not  get   us   lodgings  within   the  same 

palace ! 
I  suppose  that  to-night  you're  engaged  with 

some  codgers, 
And  for  Sotheby's  Blues  have  deserted  Sam 

Rogers  • 
Ana  I,  though  with  cold  I  have  nearly  my 

death  got, 
Must  put  on  my  breeches,  and  wait  on  the 

Heathcote, 
But  to-morrow,  at  four,  we  will  both  play  the 

Scurra, 
And  you'll  be  Catullus,  the  Regent  Mamurra.1 


IMPROMPTU,   IN    REPLY  TO  A 
FRIEND. 

WHEN,  from  the  heart  where  Sorrow  sits, 

Her  dusky  shadow  mounts  too  high, 
And  o'er  the  changing  aspect  flits, 

And  clouds  the  brow,  or  fills  the  eye ; 
Heed  not  that  gloom,  which  soon  shall  sink  : 

My  thoughts  their  dungeon  know  too  well ; 
Back  to  my  breast  the  wanderers  shrink, 

And  droop  within  their  silent  cell.2 

September,  1813. 


SONNET,  TO   GENEVRA. 

THINE  eyes'  blue  tenderness,  thy  long  fair  hair, 
And  the  wan  lustre  of  thy  features  —  caught 
From      contemplation  —  where      serenely 
wrought, 
Seems  Sorrow's  softness  charmed  from  its  de- 
spair — 
Have  thrown  such  speaking  sadness  in  thine 
air, 
That — but  I  know  thy  blessed  bosom  fraught 
With    mines    of    unalloyed    and    stainless 
thought — 
I  should  have  deemed  thee  doomed  to  earthly 

care. 
With  such  an  aspect,  by  his  colors  blent, 
When    from    his    beauty-breathing    pencil 
born, 
(Except  that  thou  hast  nothing  to  repent) 


1  [The  reader  who  wishes  to  understand  the  full 
force  of  this  scandalous  insinuation  is  referred  to 
Muretus's  notes  on  a  celebrated  poem  of  Catullus, 
entitled  In  Ccesartm  ;  but  consisting,  in  fact,  of  sav- 
agely scornful  abuse  of  the  favorite  Mamurra  :  — 

"  Quis  hoc  potest  videre  ?  quis  potest  pari, 
Nisi  impudicus  et  vorax  et  helluo  ? 
Mamurram  habere  quod  comata  Gallia 
Habebat  unctum,  et  ultima  Britannia  ?  "  etc. — ] 

2  [These  verses  are  said  to  have  dropped  from  the 
poet's  pen  to  excuse  a  transient  expression  of  melan- 
choly which  overclouded  the  general  gaiety.  —  Sir 
Walter  Scott.] 


The  Magdalen  of  Guido  saw  the  morn  — 
Such  seem'st  thou  —  but  how  much  more  ex< 

cellent ! 
With  nought  Remorse  can  claim  —  nor  Vir 

tue  scorn.  December  17,  1813.3 


SONNET,  TO  THE  SAME. 

THY  cheek  is  pale  with  thought,  but  not  frorp 
woe, 

And  yet  so  lovely,  that  if  Mirth  could  flush 

Its  rose  of  whiteness  with  the  brightest  blush. 
My  heart  would  wish  away  that  ruder  glow: 
And  dazzle  not  thy  deep-blue  eyes  —  but,  oh  1 

While  gazing  on  them  sterner  eyes  will  gush, 

And  into  mine  my  mother's  weakness  rush, 
Soft  as  the  last  drops  round  heaven's  airy  bow. 
For,  through  thy  long  dark  lashes  low  depend- 
ing. 

The  soul  of  melancholy  Gentleness 
Gleams  like  a  seraph  from  the  sky  descending, 

Above  all  pain,  yet  pitying  all  distress ; 
At  once  such  majesty  with  sweetness  blending, 

I  worship  more,  but  cannot  love  thee  less. 
December  17,  1813. 


FROM   THE   PORTUGUESE. 

"  TU   ME  CHAMAS." 

IN  motnents  to  delight  devoted, 

"  My  life !  "  with  tenderest  tone,  you  cry ; 
Dear  words  !  on  which  my  heart  had  doted, 

If  youth  could  neither  fade  nor  die. 

To  death  even  hours  like  these  must  roll, 
Ah!  then  repeat  those  accents  never; 

Or  change  "  my  life  !  "  into  "  my  soul  1  " 
Which,  like  my  love,  exists  for  ever. 

ANOTHER  VERSION. 

You  call  me  still  your  life.  —  Oh  !  change  the 
word  — 

Life  is  as  transient  as  the  inconstant  sigh : 
Say  rather  I'm  your  soul ;  more  just  that  name, 

For,  like  the  soul,  my  love  can  never  die. 


THE  DEVIL'S  DRIVE; 

AN   UNFINISHED   RHAPSODY.4 

THE  Devil  returned  to  hell  by  two, 
And  he  staid  at  home  till  five ; 


3  ["  Read  some  Italian,  and  wrote  two  sonnets.  I 
never  wrote  but  one  sonnet  before,  and  that  was  not 
in  earnest,  and  many  years  ago,  as  an  exercise  — 
and  I  will  never  write  another.  They  are  the  most 
puling,  petrifying,  stupidly  Platonic  compositions." 
—  Byron's  Diary,  1813.] 

4  f"  I  have  lately  written  a  wild,  rambling,  uniuv 


OCCASIONAL   PIECES. 


79 


When  he  dined  on  some  homicides  done  in 
ragout, 

And  a  rebel  or  so  in  an  Irish  stew, 
And  sausages  made  of  a  self-slain  Jew  — 
And  bethought  himself  what  next  to  do, 

"And,"  quoth  he,  "  I'll  take  a  drive. 
I  walked  in  the  morning,  I'll  ride  to-night; 
In  darkness  my  children  take  most  delight, 

And  I'll  see  how  my  favorites  thrive. 

"And  what  shall  I  ride  in?  "  quoth  Lucifer 
then  — 

"  If  I  followed  my  taste,  indeed, 
I  should  mount  in  a  wagon  of  wounded  men, 

And  smile  to  see  them  bleed. 
But  these  will  be  furnished  again  and  again, 

And  at  present  my  purpose  is  speed ; 
To  see  my  manor  as  much  as  I  may, 
And  watch  that  no  souls  shall  be  poached  away. 

"  I  have  a  state-coach  at  Carlton  House, 

A  chariot  in  Seymour  Place ; 
But  they're  lent  to  two  friends,  who  make  me 
amends 
By  driving  my  favorite  pace  : 
And  they  handle  their  reins  with  such  a  grace, 
I  have  something  for  both  at  the  end  of  their 
race. 

''  So  now  for  the  earth  to  take  my  chance." 
Then  up  to  the  earth  sprung  he ; 

And  making  a  jump  from  Moscow  to  France, 
He  stepped  across  the  sea, 

And  rested  his  hoof  on  a  turnpike  road, 

No  very  great  way  from  a  bishop's  abode. 

But  first  as  he  flew,  I  forgot  to  say, 

That  he  hovered  a  moment  upon  his  way 

To  look  upon  Leipsic  plain ; 
And  so  sweet  to  his  eye  was  its  sulphury  glare, 
And  so  soft  to  his  ear  was  the  cry  of  despair, 

That  he  perched  on  a  mountain  of  slain ; 
And  he  gazed  with  delight  from  its  growing 

height, 
Nor  often  on  earth  had  he  seen  such  a  sight, 

Nor  his  work  done  half  as  well : 
For  the  field  ran  so  red  with  the  blood  of  the 
dead, 

That  it  blushed  like  the  waves  of  hell ! 
Then  loudly,  and  wildly,  and  long  laughed  he  : 
"  Methinks  they  have  here  little  need  of  me  !" 


ished  rhapsody,  called  '  The  Devil's  Drive,'  the 
notion  of  which  I  took  from  Porson's  '  Devil's 
Walk.'  "  —  Byron's  Diary,  1813.  —  *'  Of  this 
strange,  wild  poem,"  says  Moore,  "  the  only  copy 
that  Lord  Byron,  I  believe,  ever  wrote,  he  pre- 
sented to  Ix)rd  Holland.  Though  with  a  good 
deal  of  vigor  and  imagination,  it  is,  for  the  most 
part,  rather  clumsily  executed,  wanting  the  point 
and  condensation  of  those  clever  verses  of  Mr. 
Coleridge,  which  Lord  Byron,  adopting  a  notion 
long  prevalent,  has  attributed  to  Professor  Por- 
son."]  The  "  Devil's  Walk"  is  principally  South- 
ey's.     See  Southey's  Poems,  vol.  iii.  75. 


But  the  softest  note  that  soothed  his  ear 

Was  the  sound  of  a  widow  sighing; 
And  the  sweetest  sight  was  the  icy  tear, 
Which  horror  froze  in  the  blue  eye  clear 

Of  a  maid  by  her  lover  lying — 
As  round  her  fell  her  long  fair  hair ; 
And  she  looked  to  heaven  with  that  frenzied 

air, 
Which  seemed  to  ask  if  a  God  were  there ! 
And,  stretched  by  the  wall  of  a  ruined  hut, 
With  its  hollow  cheek,  and  eyes  half  shut, 

A  child  of  famine  dying: 
And  the  carnage  begun,  when  resistance  is 
done, 

And  the  fall  of  the  vainly  flving. 

***** 

But  the  Devil  has  reached  our  cliffs  so  white, 

And  what  did  he  there,  I  pray  ? 
If  his  eyes  were  good,  he  but  saw  by  night 

What  we  see  every  day  : 
But  he  made  a  tour,  and  kept  a  journal 
Of  all  the  wondrous  sights  nocturnal, 
And  he  sold  it  in  shares  to  the  Men  of  the  Row, 
Who  bid  pretty  well  —  but  they  cheated  him, 
though. 

The  Devil  first  saw,  as  he  thought,  the  Mail, 

Its  coachman  and  his  coat ; 
So  instead  of  a  pistol  he  cocked  his  tail, 

And  seized  him  by  the  throat : 
"  Aha  !  "  quoth  he,  "  what  have  we  here  ? 
'Tis  a  new  barouche,  and  an  ancient  peer !  " 

So  he  sat  him  on  his  box  again, 

And  bade  him  have  no  fear, 
But  be  true  to  his  club,  and  stanch  to  his  rein, 

His  brothel,  and  his  beer; 
"  Next  to  seeing  a  lord  at  the  council  board, 

I  would  rather  see  him  here." 

***** 

The  Devil  gat  next  to  Westminster, 

And  he  turned  to  "  the  room  "  of  the  Com- 
mons ; 

But  he  heard  as  he  purposed  to  enter  in  there, 
That "  the  Lords  "  had  received  a  summons  ; 

And  he  thought,  as  a  "  quondam  aristocrat," 

He  might  peep  at  the  peers,  though  to  hear 
them  were  flat ; 

And  he  walked  up  the  house  so  like  one  of  our 
own, 

That  they  say  that  he  stood  pretty  near  the 
throne. 

He  saw  the  Lord  Liverpool  seemingly  wise, 
The  Lord  Westmoreland  certainly  silly, 

And  Johnny  of  Norfolk  —  a  man  of  some 
size  — 
And  Chatham,  so  like  his  friend  Billy; 

And  he  saw  the  tears  in  Lord  Eldon's  eyes, 
Because  the  Catholics  would  not  rise, 
In  spite  of  his  prayers  and  his  prophecies; 

And  he  heard  —  which  set  Satan  himself  3 
staring  — 


so 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


A  certain  Chief  Justice  say  something  like 
swearing. 

And  the  Devil  was  shocked — and  quoth  he, 
"  I  must  go, 

For  I  find  we  have  much  better  manners  be- 
low: 

If  thus  he  harangues  when  he  passes  my 
border, 

I  shall  hint  to  friend  Moloch  to  call  him  to 
order." 


WINDSOR   POETICS. 

LINES  COMPOSED  ON  THE  OCCASION  OF  HIS 
ROYAL  HIGHNESS  THE  PRINCE  REGENT 
BEING  SEEN  STANDING  BETWEEN  THE 
COFFINS  OF  HENRY  VIII.  AND  CHARLES 
I.,   IN   THE   ROYAL  VAULT  AT  WINDSOR. 

Famed  for  the  contemptuous  breach  of  sacred 

ties, 
By  headless  Charles  see  heartless  Henry  lies  ; 
Between  them  stands  another  sceptred  thing  — 
It  moves,  it  reigns  —  in  all  but  name,  a  king : 

Charles  to  his  people,  Henry  to  his  wife, 
■ — In  him  the  double  tyrant  starts  to  life: 
Justice  and  death  have  mixed  their  dust  in  vain, 
Each  royal  vampire  wakes  to  life  again. 
Ah,  what  can  tombs  avail !  —  since  these  dis- 
gorge 
The  blood  and  dust  of  both  —  to  mould  a 
George. 


STANZAS   FOR   MUSIC. 

["I   SPEAK   NOT,   I   TRACE  NOT,"   ETC.]* 

I  SPEAK  not,  I  trace  not,  I  breathe  not  thy 

name, 
There  is  grief  in  the  sound,  there  is  guilt  in 

the  fame ; 
But  the  tear  which  now  burns  on  my  cheek 

may  impart 
The  deep  thoughts  that  dwell  in  that  silence 

of  heart. 

Too  brief  for  our  passioi  ,  too  long  for  our 
peace 

Were  those  hours  —  can  their  joy  or  their  bit- 
terness cease  ? 

We  repent  —  we  abjure  —  we  will  break  from 
our  chain,  — 

We  will  part, — we  will  fly  to —  unite  it  again  ! 

Oh !  thine  be  the  gladness,  and  mine  be  the 
guilt ! 


1  ["  Thou  hast  asked  me  for  a  song,  and  I  enclose 
you  an  experiment,  which  has  cost  me  something 
more  than  trouble,  and  is,  therefore,  less  likely  to  be 
worth  your  taking  any  in  your  proposed  setting. 
Now,  if  it  be  so,  throw  it  into  the  fire  without 
phrase."  —  Byron  to  Moore,  May  10,  1814.] 


Forgive  me,  adored  one !  —  forsake,  if  tho« 

wilt;  — 
But  the  heart  which  is  thine  shall  expire  unde- 

based, 
And  man  shall  not  break  it  —  whatever  thou 

mayst. 

And  stern  to  the  haughty,  but  humble  to  thee, 
This  soul,  in  its  bitterest  blackness,  shall  be  ; 
And  our  days  seem  as  swift,  and  our  moments 

more  sweet, 
With  thee  by  my  side,  than  with  worlds  at  our 

feet. 
One  sigh  of  thy  sorrow,  one  look  of  thy  love, 
Shall  turn  me  or  fix,  shall  reward  or  reprove ; 
And  the  heartless  may  wonder  at  all  I  resign  — 
Thy  lip  shall  reply,  not  to  them,  but  to  mine. 
May,  1814. 


ADDRESS  INTENDED  TO  BE  RE- 
CITED AT  THE  CALEDONIA 
MEETING. 

Who  hath  not  glowed  above  the  page  where 

fame 
Hath  fixed  high  Caledon's  unconquered  name ; 
The  mountain-land  which  spurned  the  Roman 

chain, 
And  baffled  back  the  fiery-crested  Dane, 
Whose   bright  claymore  and   hardihood   of 

harjd 
No  foe  could  tame  —  no  tyrant  could  com- 
mand ? 
That  race  is  gone  —  but  still  their  children 

breathe, 
And  glory  crowns  them  with  redoubled  wreath  : 
O'er  Gael  and  Saxon  mingling  banners  shine, 
And,  England  !  add  their  stubborn  strength  to 

thine. 
The  blood  which  flowed  with  Wallace  flows 

as  free, 
But  now  'tis  only  shed  for  fame  and  thee ! 
Oh  !  pass  not  by  the  northern  veteran's  claim, 
But  give  support  —  the  world  hath  given  him 

fame. 

The  humbler  ranks,  the  lowly  brave,  who  bled 
While   cheerly  following  where   the   mighty 

led  — 
Who  sleep  beneath  the  undistinguished  sod 
Where  happier  comrades  in  their  triumph  trod, 
To  us  bequeath  —  'tis  all  their  fate  allows  — 
The  sireless  offspring  and  the  lonely  spouse : 
She  on  high  Albyn's  dusky  hills  may  raise 
The  tearful  eye  in  melancholy  gaze,     » 
Or  view,  while  shadowy  auguries  disclose 
The  Highland  seer's  anticipated  woes, 
The  bleeding  phantom  of  each  martial  form 
Dim  in  the  cloud,  or  darkling  in  the  storm ; 
While  sad,  she  chants  the  solitary  song, 
The  soft  lament  for  him  who  tarries  long  — 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


81 


For  him,  whose  distant  relics  vainly  crave 
The  Coronach's  wild  requiem  to  the  brave ! 

'Tis  Heaven  —  not  man  —  must  charm  away 

the  woe 
Which  bursts  when  Nature's  feelings  newly 

flow ; 
Yet  tenderness  and  time  may  rob  the  tear 
Of  half  its  bitterness  for  one  so  dear ; 
A  nation's  gratitude  perchanse  may  spread 
A.  thornless  pillow  for  the  widowed  head ; 
Mav  lighten  well  her  heart's  maternal  care, 
\nd  wean  from  penury  the  soldier's  heir. 

May,  1814. 


FRAGMENT  OF  AN   EPISTLE  TO 
THOMAS   MOORE. 

"  WHAT  say  If"  —  not  a  syllable  further  in 

prose ; 
I'm  your  man  "of  all  measures,"  dear  Tom, 

—  so,  here  goes  ! 
Here  goes,  for  a  swim  on  the  stream  of  old 

Time, 
On  those  buoyant  supporters,  the  bladders  of 

rhyme. 
If  our  weight  breaks  them  down,  and  we  sink 

in  the  flood, 
We  are  smothered ,  at  least,  in  respectable  mud, 
Where  the  Divers  of  Bathos  lie  drowned  in  a 

heap, 
And  Southey's  last  Pa2an  has  pillowed   his 

sleep ;  — 
That  "  Felo  de  se  "  who,  half  drunk  with  his 

malmsey, 
Walked  out  of  his  depth  and  was  lost  in  a  calm 

sea, 
•Singing  "  Glory  to  God"  in  a  spick  and  span 

stanza, 
The  like  (since  Tom  Sternhold  was  choked) 

never  man  saw. 

The  papers  have  told  you,  no  doubt,  of  the 

fusses, 
The  fetes,  and  the  gapings  to  get  at  these 

Russes, — 
Of  his  Majesty's  suite,  up  from  coachman  to 

Hetman, — 
And  what  dignity  decks  the  flat  face  of  the 

great  man. 
I  saw  him,  last  week,  at  two  balls  and  a  party,  — 
For  a  prince,  his  demeanor  was  rather  too 

hearty. 
Vou  know,  we  are  ussd  to  quite   different 

graces. 

***** 

The  Czar's  look,  I  own,  was  much  brighter  and 

brisker, 
But  then  he  is  sadly  deficient  in  whisker; 
A.nd  wore  but  a  star'ess  blue  coat,  and   in 

kersey- 


mere breeches  whisked  round,  in  a  waltz  with 

the  Jersey, 
Who,  lcvely  as  ever,  seemed  just  as  delighted 
With  majesty's  presence  as  those  she  invited. 


June,  1814. 


CONDOLATORY  ADDRESS  TO  SA- 
RAH, COUNTESS  OF  JERSEY,  ON 
THE  PRINCE  REGENT'S  RETURN- 
ING HER  PICTURE  TO  MRS.  MEE.J 

WHEN  the  vain  triumph  of  the  imperial  lord. 
Whom  servile  Rome  obeyed,  and  yet  abhorred. 
Gave  to  the  vulgar  gaze  each  glorious  bust, 
That  left  a  likeness  of  the  brave,  or  just ; 
What  most  admired  each  scrutinizing  eye 
Of  all  that  decked  that  passing  pageantry  ? 
What  spread  from  face  to  face  that  wondering 

air? 
The  thought  of  Brutus  —  for  his  was  not  there  ! 
That  absence  proved  his  worth,  —  that  absence 

fixed 
His  memory  on  the  longing  mind,  unmixed ; 
And  more  decreed  his  glory  to  endure, 
Than  all  a  gold  Colossus  could  secure. 

If  thus,  fair  Jersey,  our  desiring  gaze 
Search  for  thy  form,  in  vain  and  mute  amaze, 
Amidst  those  pictured  charms,  whose  loveli- 
ness, 
Bright  though  they  be,  thine  own  had  r"Q- 

dered  less ; 
If  he,  that  vain  old  man,  whom  truth  admits 
Heir  of  his  father's  crown,  and  of  his  wits, 
If  his  corrupted  eye,  and  withered  heart, 
Could  with  thy  gentle  image  bear  depart; 
That  tasteless  shame  be  his,  and  ours  the  grief, 
To  gaze  on  Beauty's  band  without  its  chief: 
Yet  comfort  still  one  selfish  thought  imparts, 
We  lose  the  portrait,  but  preserve  our  hearts. 

What  can  his  vaulted  gallery  now  disclose  ? 
A  garden  with  all  flowers  —  except  the  rose ;  -  - 
A  fount  that  only  wants  its  living  stream; 
A  night,  with  every  star,  save  Dian's  beam. 
Lost  to  our  eyes  the  present  forms  shall  be, 
That  turn  from  tracing  them  to  dream  of  thee; 
And  more  on  that  recalled  resemblance  pause, 
Than  all  he  shall  not  force  on  our  applause. 

Long  may  thy  yet  meridian  lustre  shine, 
With  all  that  Virtue  asks  of  Homage  thine : 
The  symmetry  of  youth  —  the  grace  of  mien — 
The  eye  that  gladdens  —  and  the  brow  serene ; 


1  ["  The  newspapers  have  got  hold  (I  know  not 
how)  of  the  Condolatory  Address  to  Lady  Jersey  on 
the  picture-abduction  by  our  Regent,  and  have  pub- 
lished them  —  with  my  name,  too,  smack  —  without 
even  asking  leave,  or  inquiring  whether  or  no !  D — n 
their  impudence,  and  d — n  every  thing.  It  has  put 
me  out  of  patience,  and  so  —  I  shall  say  no  more 
about  it." —  Byron's  Letters.} 


82 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


The  glossy  darkness  of  that  clustering  hair, 
Which  shades,  yet  shows  that  forehead  more 

than  fair! 
Each  glance  that  wins  us,  and  the  life  that 

throws 
A  spell  which  will  not  let  our  looks  repose, 
But  turn  to  gaze  again,  and  find  anew 
Some  charm  that  well  rewards  another  view. 
These  are  not  lessened,  these  are  still  as  bright, 
Albeit  too  dazzling  for  a  dotard's  sight; 
And  those  must  wait  till  every  charm  is  gone, 
To  please  the  paltry  heart  that  pleases  none ;  — 
That  dull  cold  sensualist,  whose  sickly  eye 
In  envious  dimness  passed  thy  portrait  by; 
Who  racked  his  little  spirit  to  combine 
Its  hate  of  Freedom's  loveliness,  and  thine. 
August,  1814. 


TO   BELSHAZZAR. 

BELSHAZZAR!  from  the  banquet  turn, 

Nor  in  thy  sensual  fulness  fall ; 
Behold  !  while  yet  before  thee  burn 

The  graven  words,  the  glowing  wall, 
Many  a  despot  men  miscall 

Crowned  and  anointed  from  on  high ; 
But  thou,  the  weakest,  worst  of  all  — 

Is  it  not  written,  thou  must  die  ? 

Go!  dash  the  roses  from  thy  brow  — 

Gray  hairs  but  poorly  wreathe  with  them  ; 
Youth's  garlands  misbecome  thee  now, 

More  than  thy  very  diadem, 
Where  thou  hast  tarnished  every  gem  :  — 

Then  throw  the  worthless  bauble  by. 
Which,  worn  by  thee,  even  slaves  contemn, 

And  learn  like  better  men  to  die ! 

Oh  !  early  in  the  balance  weighed, 

And  ever  light  of  word  and  worth, 
Whose  soul  expired  ere  youth  decayed, 

And  left  thee  but  a  mass  of  earth. 
To  see  thee  moves  the  scorner's  mirth : 

But  tears  in  Hope's  averted  eye 
Lament  that  even  thou  hadst  birth  — 

Unfit  to  govern,  live,  or  die. 


ELEGIAC  STANZAS  ON  THE  DEATH 
OF  SIR   PETER   PARKER,  BART.l 

THERE  is  1  tear  for  all  that  die, 
A  mourner  o'er  the  humblest  grave ; 

But  nations  swell  the  funeral  cry, 
And  Triumph  y/eeps  above  the  brave. 


1  [This  gallant  officer  fel.  in  August,  i3i4,  in  his 
twenty-ninth  year,  whilst  commanding,  on  shore,  a 
party  from  his  ship,  in  the  attack  on  the  American 
camp  near  Baltimore.  He  was  Byron's  first  cousin; 
ta>t  they  had  never  met  since  boyhooH  \ 


For  mem  is  Sorrow's  pui  t;st  sigh 
O'er  Ocean's  heaving  bosom  sent: 

In  vain  their  bones  unburied  lie, 
All  earth  becomes  their  monument! 

A  tomb  is  theirs  on  every  page, 

An  epitaph  on  every  tongue : 
The  present  hours,  the  future  age, 

For  them  bewail,  to  them  belong. 

For  them  the  voice  of  festal  mirth 

Grows  hushed,  their  name  the  only  sound 

While  deep  Remembrance  pours  to  Worth 
The  goblet's  tributary  round. 

A  theme  to  crowds  that  knew  them  not, 

Lamented  by  admiring  foes, 
Who  would  not  share  their  glorious  lot? 

Who  would  not  die  the  death  they  chose? 

And,  gallant  Parker!  thus  enshrined 
Thy  life,  thy  fall,  thy  fame  shall  be; 

And  early  valor,  glowing,  find 
A  model  in  thy  memory. 

But  there  are  breasts  that  bleed  with  thee 
In  woe,  that  glory  cannot  quell; 

And  shuddering  hear  of  victory, 

Where  one  so  dear,  so  dauntless,  fell. 

Where  shall  they  turn  to  mourn  thee  less  ? 

When  cease  to  hear  thy  cherished  name  ? 
Time  cannot  teach  forgetfulness, 

While  Grief's  full  heart  is  fed  by  Fame. 

Alas  !  for  them,  though  not  for  thee, 

They  cannot  choose  but  weep  the  more; 

Deep  for  the  dead  the  grief  must  be, 
Who  ne'er  gave  cause  to  mourn  before. 
October,  1814. 


STANZAS   FOR   MUSIC.2 
["  THERE'S  not  a  joy  the  world  can 

GIVE,"   ETC.] 

"  O  Lachrymarum  fons,  tenero  sacros 
Ducentium  ortus  ex  animo:  quater 
Felix !   in  imo  qui  scatentem 
Pectore  te,  pia  Nympha,  sensit." 

Gray's  Poemala. 

There's  not  a  joy  the  world  can  give  like  that 

it  takes  away, 
When  the  glow  of  early  thought  declines  in 

feeling's  dull  decay ; 
'Tis  not  on  youth's  smooth  cheek  the  blush 

alone,  which  fades  so  fast, 
But  the  tender  bloom  of  heart  is  gone,  ere 

youth  itself  be  past. 


8  These  verses  were  given  by  Byron  to  Mr.  Power, 
who  published  them,  with  beautiful  music  by  Sir  John 
Stevenson.  ["  I  feel  merry  enough  to  send  you  a  sad 
song.  An  event,  the  death  of  poor  Dorset,  and  the 
recollection  of  what  I  once  felt,  and  ought  to  have  felt 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


8? 


Then  the  few  whose  spirits  float  above  the 

wreck  of  happiness 
Are  driven  o'er  the  shoals  of  guilt,  or  ocean 

of  excess : 
The  magnet  of  their  course  is  gone,  or  only 

points  in  vain 
The  shore  to  which  their  shivered  sail  shall 

never  stretch  again. 

Then  the  mortal   coldness  of  the  soul   like 

death  itself  comes  down; 
It  cannot  feel  for  others'  woes,  it  dare  not 

dream  its  own ; 
That  heavy  chill  has  frozen  o'er  the  fountain 

of  our  tears, 
And  though  the   eye  may  sparkle  still,  'tis 

where  the  ice  appears. 

Though  wit  may  flash  from  fluent  lips,  and 
mirth  distract  the  breast, 

Through  midnight  hours  that  yield  no  more 
their  former  hope  of  rest ; 

'Tis  but  as  ivy-leaves  around  the  ruined  tur- 
ret wreathe, 

AH  green  and  wildly  fresh  without,  but  worn 
and  gray  beneath. 

Oh  could  I  feel  as  I  have  felt,  —  or  be  what  I 

have  been, 
Or  weep  as  I  could  once  have  wept,  o'er  many 

a  vanished  scene ; 
As  springs  in  deserts  found  seem  sweet,  all 

brackish  though  they  be, 
So,  midst  the  withered  waste  of  life,   those 

tears  would  flow  to  me.1 

March,  1815. 


So  the  spirit  bows  before  thee, 
To  listen  and  adore  thee ; 
With  a  full  but  soft  emotion, 
Like  the  swell  of  Summer's  ocean. 


STANZAS  FOR  MUSIC. 

["  THERE  BE  NONE  OF  BEAUTY'S 
DAUGHTERS."] 

There  be  none  of  Beauty's  daughters 

With  a  magic  like  thee ; 
And  like  music  on  the  waters 

Is  thy  sweet  voice  to  me : 
When,  as  it  its  sound  were  causing 
The  charmed  ocean's  pausing 
The  waves  lie  still  and  gleaming, 
And  the  lulled  winds  seem  dreaming. 

And  the  midnight  moon  is  weaving 
Her  bright  chain  o'er  the  deep; 

Whose  breast  is  gently  heaving, 
As  an  infant's  asleep : 


now,  but  could  not  —  set  me  pondering,  and  finally 
into  the  train  of  thought  which  you  have  in  your 
1/ands."]  —  Byron  to  Moore. 

1  ["  Do  you  remember  the  lines  I  sent  you  early 
last  year  ?  I  don't  wish  (like  Mr  Fitzgerald)  to 
claim  the  character  of  '  Vates,'  in  all  its  transla- 
tions,—  but  were  they  not  a  little  prophetic?  I 
mean  those  beginning,  '  There's  not  a  joy  the  world 


ON   NAPOLEON'S   ESCAPE  FROM 
ELBA. 

ONCE  fairly  set  out  on  his  party  of  pleasure, 
Taking  towns  at  his  liking,  and  crowns  at  his 

leisure, 
From  Elba  to  Lyons  and  Paris  he  goes, 
Making  balls  for  the  ladies,  and  bows  to  his  foes. 
March  27,  1815. 


ODE  FROM   THE  FRENCH. 

["  WE  DO  NOT  CURSE  THEE,  WATERLOO  1  "] 


We  do  not  curse  thee,  Waterloo! 

Though  Freedom's  blood  thy  plain  bedew; 

There  'twas  shed,  but  is  not  sunk — 

Rising  from  each  gory  trunk, 

Like  the  water-spout  from  ocean, 

With  a  strong  and  growing  motion  — 

It  soars,  and  mingles  in  the  air, 

With  that  of  lost  Labedoyere  — 

With  that  of  him  whose  honored  grave 

Contains  the  "  bravest  of  the  brave." 

A  crimson  cloud  it  spreads  and  glows, 

But  shall  return  to  whence  it  rose ; 

When  'tis  full  'twill  burst  asunder  — 

Never  yet  was  heard  such  thunder 

As  then  shall  shake  the  world  with  wonder- 

Never  yet  was  seen  such  lightning 

As  o'er  heaven  shall  then  be  bright'ning  I 

Like  the  Wormwood  Star  foretold 

By  the  sainted  Seer  of  old, 

Show'ring  down  a  fiery  flood, 

Turning  rivers  into  blood.2 

II. 

The  Chief  has  fallen,  but  not  by  you, 

Vanquishers  of  Waterloo ! 

When  the  soldier  citizen 

Swayed  not  o'er  his  fellow-men  — 

Save  in  deeds  that  led  them  on 

Where  Glory  smiled  on  Freedom's  son  — 


can  give,'  etc.,  on  which  I  pique  myself  as  being 
the  truest,  though  the  most  melancholy,  I  ever 
wrote." — Byron's  Letters,  March,  1816.] 

2  See  Rev.  chap.  viii.  v.  7,  etc.  "  The  first  angel 
sounded,  and  there  followed  hail  and  fire  mingled 
with  blood,"  etc.  v.  8.  "  And  the  second  angel 
sounded,  and  as  it  were  a  great  mountain  burning 
with  fire  was  cast  into  the  sea;  and  the  third  part 
of  the  sea  became  blood,"  etc.  v.  10.  "  And  the 
third  angel  sounded,  and  there  fell  a  great  star  from 


84 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


Who,  of  all  the  despots  banded, 

With  that  youthful  chief  competed  ? 
Who  could  boast  o'er  France  defeated, 

Till  lone  Tyranny  commanded  ? 

Till,  goaded  by  ambition's  sting, 

The  Hero  sunk  into  the  King  ? 

Then  he  fell  :  —  so  perish  all, 

Who  would  men  by  man  enthrall ! 

III. 
And  thou,  too,  of  the  snow-white  plume! 
Whose  realm  refused  thee  even  a  tomb ;  * 
Better  hadst  thou  still  been  leading 
France  o'er  hosts  of  hirelings  bleeding, 
Than  sold  thyself  to  death  and  shame 
For  a  meanly  royal  name ; 
Such  as  he  of  Naples  wears, 
Who  thy  blood-bought  title  bears. 
Little  didst  thou  deem,  when  dashing 

On  thy  war-horse  through  the  ranks 

Like  a  stream  which  burst  its  banks, 
While  helmets  cleft,  and  sabres  clashing, 
Shone  and  shivered  fast  around  thee  — 
Of  the  fate  at  last  which  found  thee : 
Was  that  haughty  plume  laid  low 
By  a  slave's  dishonest  blow  ? 
Once  —  as  the  Moon  sways  o'er  the  tide, 
It  rolled  in  air,  the  warrior's  guide ; 
Through  the  smoke-created  night 
Of  the  black  and  sulphurous  fight, 
The  soldier  raised  his  seeking  eye 
To  catch  that  crest's  ascendency,  — 
And,  as  it  onward  rolling  rose, 
So  moved  his  heart  upon  our  foes. 
There,  where  death's  brief  pang  was  quickest, 
And  the  battle's  wreck  lay  thickest, 
Strewed  beneath  the  advancing  banner 

Of  the  eagle's  burning  crest  — 
(There  with  thunder-clouds  to  fan  her, 

Who  could  then  her  wing  arrest  — 

Victory  beaming  from  her  breast  ?) 
While  the  broken  line  enlarging 

Fell,  or  fled  along  the  plain  ; 
There  be  sure  was  Murat  charging! 

There  he  ne'er  shall  charge  again  ! 


O'er  glories  gone  the  invaders  march, 
Weeps  Triumph  o'er  each  levelled  arch  — 
But  let  Freedom  rejoice, 


heaven,  burning  as  it  were  a  lamp,  and  it  fell  upon 
the  third  part  of  the  rivers,  and  upon  the  fountains 
of  waters."  v.  n.  "And  the  name  of  the  star  is 
called  Wormwood  :  and  the  third  part  of  the  wa- 
ters became  wormwood ;  and  many  men  died  of 
the  waters,  because  they  were  made  bitter." 

1  ["  Murat's  remains  are  said  to  have  been  torn 
from  the  grave  and  burnt.  Poor  dear  Murat,  what 
an  end  !  His  white  plume  used  to  be  a  rallying 
point  in  battle,  like  Henry  the  Fourth's.  He  re- 
fused a  confessor  and  a  bandage ;  so  would  neither 
suffer  his  soul  nor  body  to  be  bandaged."  —  Byron  s 
Letters.] 


With  her  heart  in  her  voice ; 

But,  her  hand  on  her  sword, 

Doubly  shall  she  be  adored ; 

France  hath  twice  too  well  been  taught 

The  "  moral  lesson  "  dearly  bought  — 

Her  safety  sits  not  on  a  throne, 

With  Capet  or  Napoleon  ! 

But  in  equal  rights  and  laws, 

Hearts  and  hands  in  one  great  cause  — 

Freedom,  such  as  God  hath  given 

Unto  all  beneath  his  heaven, 

With  their  breath,  and  from  their  birth, 

Though  Guilt  would  sweep  it  from  the  earth , 

With  a  fierce  and  lavish  hand 

Scattering  nations'  wealth  like  sand; 

Pouring  nations'  blood  like  water, 

In  imperial  seas  of  slaughter! 

v. 
But  the  heart  and  the  mind, 
And  the  voice  of  mankind, 
Shall  arise  in  communion  — 
And  who  shall  resist  that  proud  union  ? 
The  time  is  past  when  swords  subdued  — 
Man  may  die  —  the  soul's  renewed: 
Even  in  this  low  world  of  care 
Freedom  ne'er  shall  want  an  heir; 
Millions  breathe  but  to  inherit 
Her  for  ever  bounding  spirit — 
When  once  more  her  hosts  assemble, 
Tyrants  shall  believe  and  tremble  — 
Smile  they  at  this  idle  threat? 
Crimson  tears  will  follow  yet,2 


FROM   THE  FRENCH. 

["  MUST  THOU  GO,  MY  GLORIOUS  CHIEF  ?  "]» 
I. 

MUST  thou  g  ,  my  glorious  Chief, 

Severed  from  thy  faithful  few  ? 
Who  can  tell  thy  warrior's  grief, 

Maddening  o'er  that  long  adieu  ? 
Woman's  love,  and  friendship's  zeal, 

Dear  as  both  have  been  to  me  — 
What  are  they  to  all  I  feel, 

With  a  soldier's  faith  for  thee  ? 


2  ['  Talking  of  politics,  pray  look  at  the  conclu- 
sion of  my  '  Ode  on  Waterloo,'  written  in  the  yeai 
1815,  and,  comparing  it  with  the  Duke  de  Berri? 
catastrophe  in  1820.  tell  me  if  1  have  not  as  good  a 
right  to  the  character  of  'I'ates'  in  both  senses  oi 
the  word,  as  Fitzgerald  and  Coleridge  ?  — 

'  Crimson  tears  will  follow  yet;  ' 
and  have  they  not  ?  "  —  Byron's  Letters,  1820.] 

3  "  All  wept,  but  particularly  Savary,  and  a  Polish 
officer  who  had  been  exalted  from  the  ranks  by  Bona- 
parte. He  clung  to  his  master's  knees;  wrote  a  letter 
to  Lord  Keith,  entreating  permission  to  accompany 
him,  even  in  the  most  menial  capacity,  which  could 

I  not  be  admitted." 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


85 


ii. 
Idol  of  the  soldier's  soul! 

First  in  fight,  but  mightiest  now : 
Many  could  a  world  control ; 

Thee  alone  no  doom  can  bow. 
By  thy  side  for  years  I  dared 

Death  ;  and  envied  those  who  fell, 
When  their  dying  shout  was  heard, 

Blessing  him  they  served  so  well/1 


Would  that  I  were  cold  with  those, 

Since  this  hour  I  live  to  see ; 
When  the  doubts  of  coward  foes 

Scarce  dare  trust  a  man  with  thee, 
Dreading  each  should  set  thee  free ! 

Oh  !  although  in  dungeons  pent, 
All  their  chains  were  light  to  me, 

Gazing  on  thy  soul  unbent. 

IV. 

Would  the  sycophants  of  him 

Now  so  deaf  to  duty's  prayer, 
Were  his  borrowed  glories  dim, 

In  his  native  darkness  share  ? 
Were  that  world  this  hour  his  own, 

All  thou  calmly  dost  resign, 
Could  he  purchase  with  that  throne 

Hearrt  like  those  which  still  are  thine  ? 


My  chief,  my  king,  my  friend,  adieu ! 

Never  did  I  droop  before ; 
Never  to  my  sovereign  sue, 

As  his  foes  I  now  implore : 
All  I  ask  is  to  divide 

Every  peril  he  must  brave ; 
Sharing  by  the  hero's  side 

His  fall,  his  exile,  and  his  grave. 


ON   THE  STAR   OF  "THE   LEGION 
OF   HONOR." 

[FROM   THE  FRENCH.] 

Star  of  the  brave  !  — whose  beam  hath  shed 

Such  glory  o'er  the  quick  and  dead — ■ 

Thou  radiant  and  adored  deceit! 

Which  millions  rushed  in  arms  to  greet, — 

Wild  meteor  of  immortal  birth  ! 

Why  rise  in  Heaven  to  set  on  Earth  ? 

Souls  of  slain  heroes  formed  thy  rays ; 
Eternity  flashed  through  thy  blaze  ; 


1  "  At  Waterloo,  one  man  was  seen,  whose  left 
arm  was  shattered  by  a  cannon  ball,  to  wrench  it 
off  with  the  other,  and  throwing  it  up  in  the  air,  ex- 
claimed to  his  comrades,  '  Vive  PEmpereur,  jusqu' 
a  la  mort !  '  There  were  many  other  instances  of 
the  like :  this  you  may,  however,  depend  on  as  true." 
—  Private  Letter  from  Brussels. 


The  music  of  thy  martial  sphere 
Was  fame  on  high  and  honor  here; 
And  thy  light  broke  on  human  eyes, 
Like  a  volcano  of  the  skies. 

Like  lava  rolled  thy  stream  of  blood, 
And  swept  down  empires  with  its  flood ; 
Earth  rocked  beneath  thee  to  her  base, 
As  thou  didst  lighten  through  all  space 
And  the  shorn  Sun  grew  dim  in  air, 
And  set  while  thou  wert  dwelling  there. 

Before  thee  rose,  and  with  thee  grew, 

A  rainbow  of  the  loveliest  hue 

Of  three  bright  colors,2  each  divine, 

And  fit  for  that  celestial  sign ; 

For  Freedom's  hand  had  blended  them, 

Like  tints  in  an  immortal  gem. 

One  tint  was  of  the  sunbeam's  dyes ; 
One,  the  blue  depth  of  Seraph's  eyes ; 
One,  the  pure  Spirit's  veil  of  white 
Had  robed  in  radiance  of  its  light : 
The  three  so  mingled  did  beseem 
The  texture  of  a  heavenly  dream. 

Star  of  the  brave  !  thy  ray  is  pale, 
And  darkness  must  again  prevail! 
But,  oh  thou  Rainbow  of  the  free ! 
Our  tears  and  blood  must  flow  for  thee. 
When  thy  bright  promise  fades  away, 
Our  life  is  but  a  load  of  clay. 

And  Freedom  hallows  with  her  tread 
The  silent  cities  of  the  dead; 
For  beautiful  in  death  are  they 
Who  proudly  fall  in  her  array; 
And  soon,  oh  Goddess  !  may  we  be 
For  evermore  with  them  or  thee  1 


NAPOLEON'S   FAREWELL. 

[FROM  THE   FRENCH.] 
I. 

Farewell  to  the  Land,  where  the  gloom  ol 

my  Glory 
Arose  and  o'ershadowed  the  earth  with  her 

name  — 
She  abandons  me  now  —  but  the  page  of  her 

story, 
The  brightest  or  blackest,  is  filled  with   my 

fame. 
I  have  warred  with  a  world  which  vanquished 

me  only 
When  the  meteor  of  conquest  allured  me  too 

far; 
I  have  coped  with  the  nations  which  dread  me 

thus  lonely, 
The  last  single  Captive  to  millions  in  war. 


2  The  tricolor. 


86 


OCCASIONAL   PIECES. 


ii. 
Farewell  to  thee,  France !  when  thy  diadem 

crowned  me, 
I    made   thee  the  gem   and  the  wonder  of 

earth,  — 
But  thy  weakness  decrees  I  should  leave  as 

I  found  thee, 
Decayed  in  thy  glory,  and  sunk  in  thy  worth. 
Oh  !  for  the  veteran  hearts  that  were  wasted 
In  strife  with  the  storm,  when  their  battles  were 

won  — 
Then  the  Eagle,  whose  gaze  in  that  moment 

was  blasted, 
Had  still  soared  with  eyes  fixed  on  victory's 

sun ! 

III. 

Farewell  to  thee,  France !  — but  when  Liberty 

rallies 
Once   more   in   thy   regions,   remember  me 

then, — 
The  violet  still  grows  in  the   depth   of  thy 

valleys ; 
Though    withered,    thy    tear   will    unfold    it 

again  — 
Yet,  yet,  I  may  baffle  the  hosts  that  surround 

us, 
And  yet  may  thy  heart  leap   awake   to   my 

voice  — 
There  are   links  which   must  break   in   the 

chain  that  has  bound  us, 
Then  turn  thee  and  call  on  the  Chief  of  thy 

choice ! 


ENDORSEMENT  TO  THE  DEED  OF 
SEPARATION,  IN  THE  APRIL  OF 
1816. 

A  YEAR  ago  you  swore,  fond  she ! 

"  To  love,  to  honor,"  and  so  forth  : 
Such  was  the  vow  you  pledged  to  me, 

And  here's  exactly  what  'tis  worth. 


DARKNESS.! 

1  HAD  a  dream,  which  was  not  all  a  dream. 
The  bright  sun  was  extinguished,  and  the  stars 
Did  wander  darkling  in  the  eternal  space, 
Rayless,  and  pathless,  and  the  icy  earth 
Swung  blind  and  blackening  in  the  moonless 

air; 
Morn  came  and  went  —  and  came,  and  brought 

no  day, 
And  men  forgot  their  passions  in  the  dread 
Of  this  their  desolation ;  and  all  hearts 
Were  chilled  into  a  selfish  prayer  for  light : 
And  they  did  live  by  watchfires  —  and  the 

thrones, 

1  fin  the  original  MS.  —  "  A  Dream."^ 


The  palaces  of  crowned  kings  —  the  huts, 
The  habitations  of  all  things  which  dwell, 
Were   burnt   for  beacons ;    cities  were   con- 
sumed, 
And  men  were  gathered  round  their  blazing 

homes 
To  look  once  more  into  each  other's  face ; 
Happy  were  those  who  dwelt  within  the  eye 
Of  the  volcanos,  and  their  mountain-torch  : 
A  fearful  hope  was  all  the  world  contained; 
Forests  were  set  on  fire — but  hour  by  hour 
They  fell  and  faded  —  and  the  crackling  trunks 
Extinguished  with  a  crash  —  and  all  was  black. 
The  brows  of  men  by  the  despairing  light 
Wore  an  unearthly  aspect,  as  by  fits 
The  flashes  fell  upon  them  ;  some  lay  down 
And  hid  their  eyes  and  wept ;  and  some  did 

rest 
Their  chins  upon  their  clenched  han«s,  and 

smiled ; 
And  others  hurried  to  and  fro,  and  fed 
Their  funeral  piles  with  fuel,  and  looked  up 
With  mad  disquietude  on  the  dull  sky, 
The  pall  of  a  past  world  ;  and  then  again 
With  curses  cast  them  down  upon  the  dust, 
And  gnashed  their  teeth  and  howled  :  the  wild 

birds  shrieked, 
And,  terrified,  did  flutter  on  the  ground 
And  flap  their  useless  wings  ;  the  widest  brutes 
Came  tame  and  tremulous ;  and  vipers  crawled 
And  twined  themselves  among  the  multitude, 
Hissing,  but  stingless  —  they  were  slain  for 

food : 
And  War,  which  for  a  moment  was  no  more, 
Did  glut  himself  again  ;  —  a  meal  was  bought 
With  blood,  and  each  sate  sullenly  apart 
Gorging  himself  in  gloom  :  no  love  was  left ; 
All  earth  was  but  one  thought  —  and  that  was 

death, 
Immediate  and  inglorious;  and  the  pang 
Of  famine  fed  upon  all  entrails  —  men 
Died,  and  their  bones  were  tombless  as  their 

flesh ; 
The  meagre  by  the  meagre  were  devoured, 
Even  dogs  assailed  their  masters,  all  save  one, 
And  he  was  faithful  to  a  corse,  and  kept 
The  birds  and  beasts  and  famished  men  at  bay, 
Till  hunger  clung  them,  or  the  dropping  dead 
Lured  their  lank  jaws  ;  himself  sought  out  no 

food, 
But  with  a  piteous  and  perpetual  moan, 
And  a  quick  desolate  cry,  licking  the  hand 
Which  answered  not  with  a  caress  —  he  died- 
The  crowd  was  famished  by  degrees  ;  but  two 
O*  an  enormous  city  did  survive, 
And  they  were  enemies :  they  met  beside 
The  dying  embers  of  an  altar-place 
Where  had  been  heaped  a  mass  of  holy  things 
For  an  unholy  usage ;  they  raked  up, 
And  shivering  scraped  with  their  cold  skeleton 

hands 
The  feeble  ashes,  and  their  feeble  breath 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


87 


Blew  for  a  little  life,  and  made  a  flame 
Which  was  a  mockery ;  then  they  lifted  up 
Their  eyes  as  it  grew  lighter,  and  beheld 
Each  other's  aspects  —  saw,  and  shrieked,  and 

died  — 
Even  of  their  mutual  hideousness  they  died, 
Unknowing  who  he  was  upon  whose  brow 
Famine  had  written  Fiend.    The  world  was 

void, 
The  populous  and  the  powerful  was  a  lump, 
Seasonless,  herbless,  treeless,   manless,   life- 
less — 
A  lump  of  death —  a  chaos  of  hard  clay. 
The  rivers,  lakes,  and  ocean  all  stood  still, 
And  nothing  stirred  within  their  silent  depths  ; 
Ships  sailorless  lay  rotting  on  the  sea, 
And  their  masts  fell  down  piecemeal ;  as  they 

dropped 
They  slept  on  the  abyss  without  a  surge  — 
The  waves  were  dead  ;  the  tides  were  in  their 

grave, 
The  Moon,  their  mistress,  had  expired  before  ; 
The  winds  were  withered  in  the  stagnant  air, 
And  the  clouds  perished ;  Darkness  had  no 

need 
Of  aid  from  them  —  She  was  the  Universe.* 
Diodati,  July,  1816. 


CHURCHILL'S   GRAVE; 2 

A   FACT  LITERALLY   RENDERED. 

I  stood  beside  the  grave  of  him  who  blazed 
The  comet  of  a  season,  and  I  saw 

The  humblest  of  all  sepulchres,  and  gazed 
With  not  the  less  of  sorrow  and  of  awe 

On  that  neglected  turf  and  quiet  stone, 


1  ["  Darkness  "  is  a  grand  and  gloomy  sketch  of 
the  supposed  consequences  of  the  final  extinction 
of  the  Sun  and  the  heavenly  bodies;  executed,  un- 
doubtedly, with  great  and  fearful  force,  but  with 
something  of  German  exaggeration,  and  a  fantas- 
tical solution  of  incidents.  The  very  conception  is 
terrible  above  all  conception  of  known  calamity,  and 
is  too  oppressive  to  the  imagination  to  be  contem- 
plated with  pleasure,  even  in  the  faint  reflection  of 
poetry.  —  Jeffrey '.] 

2  [On  the  sheet  containing  the  original  draught  of 
these  lines,  Byron  has  written:  —  "The  following 
poem  (as  most  that  I  have  endeavored  to  write)  is 
founded  on  a  fact;  and  this  detail  is  an  attempt  at  a 
serious  imitation  of  the  style  of  a  great  poet  —  its 
beauties  and  its  defects:  I  say,  the  style;  for  the 
thoughts  I  claim  as  my  own.  In  this,  if  there  be 
any  thing  ridiculous,  let  it  be  attributed  to  me,  at 
least  as  much  as  to  Mr.  Wordsworth;  of  whom  there 
can  exist  few  greater  admirers  than  myself.  I  have 
blended  what  I  would  deem  to  be  the  beauties  as 
well  as  defects,  of  his  style ;  and  it  ought  to  be  re- 
membered, that,  in  such  things,  whether  there  be 
fruse  or  dispraise,  there  is  always  what  is  called  a 
compliment,  however  unintentional."] 


Writh  name  no  clearer  than  the  names  un- 
known, 
Which  lay  unread  around  it ;  and  I  asked 

The  Gardener  of  that  ground,  why  it  might 
be 
That  for  this  plant  strangers  his  memory  tasked 

Through  the  thick  deaths  of  half  a  century ; 
And  thus  he  answered  —  "  Well,  I  do  not  know 
Why  frequent  travellers  turn  to  pilgrims  so ; 
He  died  before  my  day  of  Sextonship, 

And  I  had  not  the  digging  of  this  grave." 
And  is  this  all  ?  I  thought,  — and  do  we  rip 

The  veil  of  Immortality?  and  crave 
I  know  not  what  of  honor  and  of  light 
Through  unborn  ages,  to  endure  this  blight  ? 
So  soon,  and  so  successless  ?     As  I  said, 
The  Architect  of  all  on  which  we  tread, 
For  Earth  is  but  a  tombstone,  did  essay 
To  extricate  remembrance  from  the  clay, 
Whose  minglings  might  confuse  a  Newton's 
thought, 

Were  it  not  that  all  life  must  end  in  one, 
Of  which  we  are  but  dreamers  ;  —  as  he  caught 
As  'twere  the  twilight  of  a  former  Sun, 
Thus  spoke  he,  —  "I  believe  the  man  of  whom 
You  wot,  who  lies  in  this  selected  tomb, 
Was  a  most  famous  writer  in  his  day, 
And  therefore  travellers  step  from  out  their  way 
To  pay  him  honor, —  and  myself  whate'er 

Your  honor  pleases,"  —  then  most  pleased 
I  shook3 

From  out  my  pocket's  avaricious  nook 
Some  certain  coins  of  silver,  which  as  'twere 
Perforce  I  gave  this  man,  though  I  could  spare 
So  much  but  inconveniently  :  —  Ye  smile, 
I  see  ye,  ye  profane  ones  !  all  the  while, 
Because  my  homely  phrase  the  truth  would  tell. 
You  are  the  fools,  not  I  —  for  I  did  dwell 
With  a  deep  thought,  and  with  a  softened  eye, 
On  that  Old  Sexton's  natural  homily, 
In  which  there  was  Obscurity  and  Fame, — 
The  Glory  and  the  Nothing  of  a  Name.4 

Diodati,  1816. 


3  [Originally  — 

"  then  most  pleased,  I  shook 

My  inmost  pocket's  most  retired  nook, 
And  out  fell  five  and  sixpence."] 

4  [The  grave  of  Churchill  might  have  called  from 
Lord  Byron  a  deeper  commemoration;  for,  though 
they  generally  differed  in  character  and  genius,  there 
was  a  resemblance  between  their  history  and  charac- 
ter. The  satire  of  Churchill  flowed  with  a  more  pro- 
fuse, though  not  a  more  embittered,  stream;  while, 
on  the  other  hand,  he  cannot  be  compared  to  Lord 
Byron  in  point  of  tenderness  or  imagination.  But 
both  these  poets  held  themselves  above  the  opinion 
of  the  world,  and  both  were  followed  by  the  fame 
and  popularity  which  they  seemed  to  despise.  The 
writings  of  both  exhibit  an  inborn,  though  some- 
times ill-regulated  generosity  of  mind,  and  a  spirit 
of  proud  independence,  frequently  pushed  to  ex- 
tremes. Both  carried  their  hatred  of  hypocrisy  be- 
yond the  verge  of  prudence,  and  indulged  their  veia 


8S 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


PROMETHEUS. 


i. 


TITAN !  to  whose  immortal  eyes 

The  sufferings  of  mortality, 

Seen  in  their  sad  reality, 
Were  not  as  things  that  gods  despise; 
What  was  thy  pity's  recompense  ? 
A  silent  suffering,  and  intense ; 
The  rock,  the  vulture,  and  the  chain, 
All  that  the  proud  can  feel  of  pain, 
The  agony  they  do  not  show, 
The  suffocating  sense  of  woe, 

Which  speaks  but  in  its  loneliness, 
And  then  is  jealous  lest  the  sky 
Should  have  a  listener,  nor  will  sigh 

Until  his  voice  is  echoless. 

II. 

Titan !  to  thee  the  strife  was  given 
Between  the  suffering  and  the  will, 
Which  torture  where  they  cannot  kill ; 
And  the  inexorable  Heaven, 
And  the  deaf  tyranny  of  Fate, 
The  ruling  principle  of  Hate, 
Which  for  its  pleasure  doth  create 
The  things  it  may  annihilate, 
Refused  thee  even  the  boon  to  die : 
The  wretched  gift  eternity 
Was  thine  —  and  thou  hast  borne  it  well. 
All  that  the  Thunderer  wrung  from  thee 
Was  but  the  menace  which  flung  back 
On  him  the  torments  of  thy  rack ; 
The  fate  thou  didst  so  well  foresee, 
But  would  not  to  appease  him  tell ; 
And  in  thy  Silence  was  his  Sentence, 
And  in  his  Soul  a  vain  repentance, 
And  evil  dread  so  ill  dissembled 
That  in  his  hand  the  lightnings  trembled. 

III. 

Thy  Godlike  crime  was  to  be  kind, 
To  render  with  thy  precepts  less 
The  sum  of  human  wretchedness, 

And  strengthen  Man  with  his  own  mind; 

But  baffled  as  thou  wert  from  high, 

Still  in  thy  patient  energy, 

In  the  endurance,  and  repulse 
Of  thine  impenetrable  Spirit, 

Which  Earth  and  Heaven  could  not  convulse, 
A  mighty  lesson  we  inherit : 

Thou  art  a  symbol  and  a  sign 
To  Mortals  of  their  fate  and  force; 

Like  thee,  Man  is  in  part  divine, 
A  troubled  stream  from  a  pure  source ; 

And  Man  in  portions  can  foresee 

His  own  funereal  destiny ; 

His  wretchedness,  and  his  resistance, 

And  his  sad  unallied  existence : 


of  satire  to  the  borders  of  licentiousness.  Both  died 
in  the  flower  of  their  age  in  a  foreign  land.  —  Sir 
Walter  Scott.] 


To  which  his  Spirit  may  oppose 
Itself —  and  equal  to  all  woes, 

And  a  firm  will,  and  a  deep  sense 
Which  even  in  torture  can  descry 

Its  own  concentred  recompense, 
Triumphant  where  it  dares  defy, 
And  making  Death  a  Victory. 

Diodati,  July,  1816. 


A   FRAGMENT. 

["COULD  I   REMOUNT,"   ETC.] 

Could  I  remount  the  river  of  my  years 
To  the  first  fountain  of  our  smiles  and  tears. 
I  would  not  trace  again  the  stream  of  hour? 
Between  their  outworn  banks  of  withered  flov 

ers, 
But  bid  it  flow  as  now  —  until  it  glides 
Into  the  number  of  the  nameless  tides. 


What  is  this  Death  ?  —  a  quiet  of  the  heart  ? 
The  whole  of  that  of  which  we  are  a  part  ? 
For  life  is  but  a  vision  — what  I  see 
Of  all  which  lives  alone  is  life  to  me, 
And  being  so  —  the  absent  are  the  dead, 
Who  haunt  us  from  tranquillity,  and  spread 
A  dreary  shroud  around  us,  and  invest 
With  sad  remembrancers  our  hours  of  rest. 

Thfe  absent  are  the  dead  —  for  they  are  cold, 
And  ne'er  can  be  what  once  we  did  behold ; 
And  they  are  changed,  and  cheerless,  —  or  if 

yet 
The  unforgotten  do  not  all  forget, 
Since  thus  divided  —  equal  must  it  be 
If  the  deep  barrier  be  of  earth,  or  sea; 
It  may  be  both  —  but  one  day  end  it  must 
In  the  dark  union  of  insensate  dust. 

The  under-earth  inhabitants  —  are  they 
But  mingled  millions  decomposed  to  clay? 
The  ashes  of  a  thousand  ages  spread 
Wherever  man  has  trodden  or  shall  tread  ? 
Or  do  they  in  their  silent  cities  dwell 
Each  in  his  incommunicative  cell? 
Or  have  they  their  own   language  ?    and   a 

sense 
Of  breathless  being?  —  darkened  and  intense 
As  midnight  in  her  solitude  ?  —  Oh  Earth  ! 
Where  are  the  past  ?  —  and  wherefore  had  they 

birth  ? 
The  dead  are  thy  inheritors  —  and  we 
But  bubbles  on  thy  surface ;  and  the  key 
Of  thy  profundity  is  in  the  grave, 
The  ebon  portal  of  thy  peopled  cave, 
Where  I  would  walk  in  spirit,  and  behold 
Our  elements  resolved  to  things  untold, 
And  fathom  hidden  wonders,  and  explore 
The  essence  of  great  bosoms  now  no  more. 
*  *  *  *  * 

Diodati,  July,  1816. 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


89 


SONNET  TO    LAKE   LEMAN. 


and 


Rousseau  —  Voltaire  —  our   Gibbon 
De  Stael  — 
Leraan !  *    these  names  are  worthy  of  thy 

shore, 
Thy  shore  of  names  like  these !  wert  thou 
no  more, 
Their  memory  thy  remembrance  would  recall : 
To  them  thy  banks  were  lovely  as  to  all, 
But  they  have  made  them  lovelier,  for  the 

lore 
Of  mighty  minds  doth  hallow  in  the  core 
Of  human  hearts  the  ruin  of  a  wall 
Where  dwelt  the  wise  and  wondrous;  but 
by  thee 
How  much  more,  Lake  of  Beauty  !  do  we  feel, 

In  sweetly  gliding  o'er  thy  crystal  sea, 
The  wild  glow  of  that  not  ungentle  zeal, 

Which  of  the  heirs  of  immortality 
Is  proud,  and  makes  the  breath  of  glory  real ! 
Diodati,  July,  1816. 


1  Geneva,  Ferney,  Copet,  Lausanne. 


STANZAS   FOR   MUSIC. 

["BRIGHT  BE  THE  PLACE  OF  THY  SOUL.'"] 


Bright  be  the  place  of  thy  soul! 

No  lovelier  spirit  than  thine 
E'er  burst  from  its  mortal  control, 

In  the  orbs  of  the  blessed  to  shine. 
On  earth  thou  wert  all  but  divine, 

As  thy  soul  shall  immortally  be ; 
And  our  sorrow  may  cease  to  repine 

When  we  know  that  thy  God  is  with  thee 


Light  be  the  turf  of  thy  tomb ! 

May  its  verdure  like  emeralds  be ! 
There  should  not  be  the  shadow  of  gloom, 

In  aught  that  reminds  us  of  thee. 
Young  flowers  and  an  evergreen  tree 

May  spring  from  the  spot  of  thy  rest : 
But  nor  cypress  nor  yew  let  us  see ; 

For  why  should  we  mourn  for  the  blest  ? 


ROMANCE   MUY   DOLOROSO 


SITIO  Y  TOMA   DE  ALHAMA. 

El  qual  dezia  en  A  ravigo  assi. 

I. 

Passeavase  el  Rey  Moro 
Por  la  ciudad  de  Granada, 
Desde  las  puertas  de  Elvira 
Hasta  las  de  Bivarambla. 

Ay  de  mi,  Alhama! 

II. 
Cartas  le  fueron  venidas 
Que  Alhama  era  ganada. 
Las  cartas  echo  en  el  fuego, 

Y  al  mensagero  matava. 

Ay  de  mi,  Alhama ! 

III. 
Descavalga  de  una  mula, 

Y  en  un  cavallo  cavalga. 
Por  el  Zacatin  arriba 
Subido  se  avia  al  Alhambra. 

Ay  de  mi,  Alhama ! 


Como  en  el  Alhambra  estuvo, 
Al  mismo  punto  mandava 


A  VERY   MOURNFUL   BALLAD  1 

ON   THE 
SIEGE  AND  CONQUEST  OF  ALHAMA. 

Which,  in  the  Arabic  language,  is  to  the  folloits 
ing  pu  rport. 

I. 

The  Moorish  King  rides  up  and  down 
Through  Granada's  royal  town  ; 
From  Elvira's  gates  to  those 
Of  Bivarambla  on  he  goes. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama/ 


Letters  to  the  monarch  tell 
How  Alhama's  city  fell : 
In  the  fire  the  scroll  he  threw, 
And  the  messenger  he  slew. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

III. 
He  quits  his  mule,  and  mounts  his  horse, 
And  through  the  street  directs  his  course ; 
Through  the  street  of  Zacatin 
To  the  Alhambra  spurring  in. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama! 

IV. 
When  the  Alhambra  walls  he  gained, 
On  the  moment  he  ordained 


1  The  effect  of  the  original  ballad  —  whic>  existed  both  in  Spanish  and  Arabic  —  was  such,  that  it  was 
forbidden  to  be  sung  by  the  Moors,  on  pain  01  Jeath.  within  Granada. 


90 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


Que  se  toquen  las  trompetas 
Con  afiafiles  de  plata. 

Ay  de  mi,  Alhama! 


Y  que  atambores  de  guerra 
Apriessa  toquen  alarma ; 
Por  que  lo  oygan  sus  Moros, 
Los  de  la  Vega  y  Granada. 

Ay  de  mi,  Alhama! 


Los  Moros  que  el  son  oyeron, 
Que  al  sangriento  Marte  llama, 
Uno  a  uno,  y  dos  a  dos, 
Un  gran  esquadron  formavan. 
Ay  de  mi,  Alhama! 

VII. 

Alii  hablo  un  Moro  viejo ; 
Desta  manera  hablava  :  — 
Par  que  nos  llamas,  Rey  ? 
Para  que  es  este  llamada  ? 

Ay  de  mi,  Alhama ! 

VIII. 

Aveys  de  saber,  amigos, 
Una  nueva  desdichada : 
Que  Christianos,  con  braveza, 
Ya  nos  han  tornado  Alhama. 

Ay  de  mi,  Alhama! 

IX. 

Alii  hablo  un  viejo  Alfaqui, 
De  barba  crecida  y  cana  :  — 
Bien  se  te  emplea,  buen  Rey, 
Buen  Rey ;  bien  se  te  empleava. 
Ay  de  mi,  Alhama ! 

x. 

Mataste  los  'Bencerrages, 
Que  era  la  flor  de  Granada ; 
Cogiste  los  tornadizos 
De  Cordova  la  nombrada. 

Ay  de  mi,  Alhama  ! 

XI. 
Por  esso  mereces,  Rey, 
Una  pene  bien  doblada  ; 
Que  te  pierdas  tu  y  el  reyno, 
Y  que  se  pierda  Granada. 

Ay  de  mi,  Alhama! 


Si  no  se  respetan  leyes, 
Es  ley  que  todo  se  pierda ; 

Y  que  se  pierdas  Granada, 

Y  que  te  pierdas  en  ella. 

Ay  de  mi,  Alhama! 

XIII. 
Fuego  por  los  ojos  vierte, 
El  Rey  que  esto  oyera. 


That  the  trumpet  straight  should  sound 
With  the  silver  clarion  round. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

V. 

And  when  the  hollow  drums  of  war 
Beat  the  loud  alarm  afar, 
That  the  Moors  of  town  and  plain 
Might  answer  to  the  martial  strain, 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama '. 

VI. 

Then  the  Moors,  by  this  aware 
That  bloody  Mars  recalled  them  there, 
One  by  one,  and  two  by  two, 
To  a  mighty  squadron  grew. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

VII. 

Out  then  spake  an  aged  Moor 
In  these  words  the  king  before, 
"  Wherefore  call  on  us,  oh  King? 
What  may  mean  this  gathering  ?  " 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

VIII. 
'  Friends !  ye  have,  alas !  to  know 
Of  a  most  disastrous  blow, 
That  the  Christians,  stern  and  bold, 
Have  obtained  Alhama's  hold." 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

,  IX. 

Out  then  spake  Old  Alfaqui, 
With  his  beard  so  white  to  see, 
"Good  King!  thou  art  justly  served, 
Good  King !  this  thou  hast  deserved. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 


'  By  thee  were  slain,  in  evil  hour, 
The  Abencerrage,  Granada's  flower ; 
And  strangers  were  received  by  thee 
Of  Cordova  the  Chivalry. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

XI. 
'  And  for  this,  oh  King !  is  sent 
On  thee  a  double  chastisement : 
Thee  and  thine,  thy  crown  and  realm, 
One  last  wreck  shall  overwhelm. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

XII. 
1  He  who  holds  no  laws  in  awe, 
He  must  perish  by  the  law; 
And  Granada  must  be  won, 
And  thyself  with  her  undone." 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

XIII. 

Fire  flashed  from  out  the  old  Moor's  eyes 
The  Monarch's  wrath  began  to  rise, 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


91 


Y  como  el  otro  de  leyes 
De  leyes  tambien  hablava. 

Ay  de  mi,  Alhama! 

XIV. 

Sabe  un  Rey  que  no  ay  leyes 
De  darle  a  Reyes  disgusto  — 
Esso  dize  el  Rey  Moro 
Relinchando  de  colera. 

Ay  de  mi,  Alhama ! 


Moro  Alfaqui,  Moro  Alfaqui, 
El  de  la  vellida  barba, 
El  Rey  te  manda  prender, 
Por  la  perdida  de  Alhama. 

Ay  de  mi,  Alhama ! 

XVI. 

Y  cortarte  la  cabeza, 

Y  ponerla  en  el  Alhambra, 
Por  que  a  ti  castigo  sea, 

Y  otros  tiemblen  en  miralla. 

Ay  de  mi,  Alhama ! 

XVII. 
Cavalleros,  hombres  buenos, 
Dezid  de  mi  parte  al  Rey, 
Al  Rey  Moro  de  Granada, 
Como  no  le  devo  nada. 

Ay  de  mi,  Alhama  ! 

XVIII. 

De  averse  Alhama  perdido 
A  mi  me  pesa  en  el  alma. 
Que  si  el  Rey  perdio  su  tierra, 
Otro  mucho  mas  perdiera. 

Ay  de  mi,  Alhama! 

XIX. 

Perdieran  hijos  padres, 

Y  casados  las  casadas : 
Las  cosas  que  mas  amara 
Perdio  l'un  y  el  otro  fama. 

Ay  de  mi,  Alhama ! 

xx. 

Perdi  una  hija  donzella 
Que  era  la  fior  d'  esta  tierra, 
Cien  doblas  dava  por  ella, 
No  me  las  estimo  en  nada. 

Ay  de  mi,  Alhama ! 

XXI. 

Diziendo  assi  al  hacen  Alfaqui, 
Le  cortaron  la  cabeca, 

Y  la  elevan  al  Alhambra, 
Assi  come  el  Rey  lo  manda. 

Ay  de  mi,  Alhama ! 


Hombres,  ninos  y  mugeres, 
Lloran  tan  grande  perdida. 


Because  he  answered,  and  because 
He  spake  exceeding  well  of  laws. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 


There  is  no  law  to  say  such  things 
As  may  disgust  the  ear  of  kings  :  "  — 
Thus,  snorting  with  his  choler,  said 
The  Moorish  King,  and  doomed  him  dead 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 


Moor  Alfaqui !  Moor  Alfaqui ! 
Though  thy  beard  so  hoary  be, 
The  King  hath  sent  to  have  thee  seized, 
For  Alhama's  loss  displeased. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama  ! 

XVI. 
And  to  fix  thy  head  upon 
High  Alhambra's  loftiest  stone ; 
That  this  for  thee  should  be  the  law, 
And  others  tremble  when  they  saw. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

XVII. 
1  Cavalier,  and  man  of  worth  ! 
Let  these  words  of  mine  go  forth  ; 
Let  the  Moorish  Monarch  know, 
That  to  him  I  nothing  owe. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama! 

XVIII. 
1  But  on  my  soul  Alhama  weighs, 
And  on  my  inmost  spirit  preys ; 
And  if  the  King  his  land  hath  lost, 
Yet  others  may  have  lost  the  most. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

XIX. 

'  Sires  have  lost  their  children,  wives 
Their  lords,  and  valiant  men  their  lives ; 
One  what  best  his  love  might  claim 
Hath  lost,  another  wealth,  or  fame. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama! 


1  I  lost  a  damsel  in  that  hour, 
Of  all  the  land  the  loveliest  flower ; 
Doubloons  a  hundred  I  would  pay, 
And  think  her  ransom  cheap  that  day." 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama.' 

XXI. 

And  as  these  things  the  old  Moor  said, 
They  severed  from  the  trunk  his  head ; 
And  to  the  Alhambra's  wall  with  speed 
'Twas  carried,  as  the  King  decreed. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 


And  men  and  infants  therein  weep 
Their  loss,  so  heavy  and  so  deep ; 


92 


OCCASIONAL   PIECES. 


Lloravan  todas  las  damas 
Quantas  en  Granada  avia. 

Ay  de  mi,  Alhama! 

XXIII. 

Por  las  calles  y  ventanas 
Mucho  luto  parecia ; 
Llora  el  Rey  como  fembra, 
Qu'  es  mucho  lo  que  perdia. 

Ay  de  mi,  Alhama! 


SONETTO    DI   VITTORELLI. 

PER   MONACA. 

Sonetto  composto  in  nome  di  un  genitore,  a  cui 
(a  morta  poco  innanzi  una  figlia  appena  maritata, 
diretto  al  genitore  della  sacra  sposa. 

)[  due  vaghe  donzelle,  oneste,  accorte, 
Lieti  e  miseri  padri  il  ciel  ne  feo, 
II  ciel,  che  degne  di  piu  nobil  sorte 
L'  una  e  1'  altra  veggendo,  ambo  chiedeo. 

>a  mia  fu  tolta  da  veloce  morte 
A  le  fumanti  tede  d'  imeneo  : 
La  tua,  Francesco,  in  sugellate  porte 
Eterna  prigioniera  or  si  rendeo. 

Ma  tu  almeno  potrai  de  la  gelosa 
Irremeabil  soglia,  ove  s'  asconde, 
La  sua  tenera  udir  voce  pietosa. 

lo  verso  un  flume  d'  amarissim'  onde, 
Corro  a  quel  marmo,  in  cui  la  figlia  or  posa, 
Batto,  e  ribatto,  ma  nessun  risponde. 


Granada's  ladies,  all  she  rears 
Within  her  walls,  burst  into  tears. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

XXIII. 

And  from  the  windows  o'er  the  walls 
The  sable  web  of  mourning  falls; 
The  King  weeps  as  a  woman  o'er 
His  loss,  for  it  is  much  and  sore. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama! 


TRANSLATION  FROM  VITTORELLI. 

ON  A  NUN. 

Sonnet  composed  in  the  name  of  a  father,  whose 
daughter  had  recently  died  shortly  after  her  mar- 
riage; and  addressed  to  the  father  of  her  who  had 
lately  taken  the  veil. 

Of  two  fair  virgins,  modest,  though  admired, 

Heaven  made  us  happy  ;  and  now,  wretched 
sires, 

Heaven  for  a  nobler  doom  their  worth  de- 
sires, 

And  gazing  upon  either,  both  required. 
Mine,  while  the  torch  of  Hymen  newly  fired 

Becomes  extinguished,  soon  —  too  soon  — 
expires ; 

But  thine,  within  the  closing  grate  retired, 

Eternal  captive,  to  her  God  aspires. 
But  thou  at  least  from  out  the  jealous  door. 

Which  shuts  between  your  never-meeting 
eyes, 

May'st  hear  her  sweet  and  pious  voice  once 
more ; 
I  to  the  marble,  where  ihy  daughter  lies, 

Rush,  —  theswoln  flood  of  bitterness  I  pour, 

And  knock,  and  knock,  and  knock  —  but 
none  replies. 


ON  THE  BUST  OF  HELEN   BY 
CANOVA.* 

IN  this  beloved  marble  view, 

Above  the  works  and  thoughts  of  man, 
What  nature  could,  but  would  not,  do, 

And  beauty  and  Canova  can! 
Beyond  imagination's  power, 

Beyond  the  Bard's  defeated  art, 
With  immortality  her  dower, 

Behold  the  Helen  of  the  heart! 


1  f"  The  Helen  of  Canova  (a  bust  which  is  in  the 
house  of  Madame  the  Countess  d'Albrizzi)  is,"  says 
Byron,  "  without  exception,  to  my  mind,  the  most 
perfectly  beautiful  of  human  conceptions,  and  far  be- 
yond my  ideas  of  human  execution.  "J 


STANZAS   FOR   MUSIC. 

["THEY  SAY  THAT   HOPE   IS   HAPPINESS." 
1. 

They  say  that  Hope  is  happiness ; 

But  genuine  Love  must  prize  the  past, 
And  Memory  wakes  the  thoughts  that  bless : 

They  rose  the  first  —  they  set  the  last; 


And  all  that  Memory  loves  the  most 
Was  once  our  only  Hope  to  be, 

And  all  that  Hope  adored  and  lost 
Hath  melted  into  Memory. 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


93 


in. 

kias !  it  is  delusion  all : 

The  future  cheats  us  from  afar, 
Nor  can  we  be  what  we  recall, 

Nor  dare  we  think  on  what  we  are. 


SONG   FOR  THE  LUDDITES. 

I. 
As  the  Liberty  lads  o'er  the  sea 
Bought    their    freedom,    and    cheaply,  with 
blood, 
So  we,  boys,  we 
Will  die  fighting,  or  live  free, 
And  down  with  all  kings  but  King  Ludd ! 


When  the  web  that  we  weave  is  complete, 
And  the  shuttle  exchanged  for  the  sword, 

We  will  fling  the  winding  sheet 

O'er  the  despot  at  our  feet, 
And  dye  it  deep  in  the  gore  he  has  poured. 

III. 

Though  black  as  his  heart  its  hue, 
Since  his  veins  are  corrupted  to  mud, 

Yet  this  is  the  dew 
Which  the  tree  shall  renew 
Of  Liberty,  planted  by  Ludd ! 

December,  1816. 


VERSICLES.l 

I  READ  the  "  Christabel ; " 

Very  well : 
\  read  the"  Missionary;  " 

Pretty  —  very : 
I  tried  at  "  Ilderim;  " 

Ahem ! 
I  read  a  sheet  of"  Marg'ret  oiAnjou;"* 

Can  you  ? 
I  turned  a  page  of  Scott's  "  Waterloo ;  " 

Pooh !  pooh ! 
I  looked  at  Wordsworth's  milk-white  "  Ryl- 
stone  Doe ;  " 

Hillo ! 

Etc.,  etc.,  etc. 

March,  1817. 


1  [  "  I  have  been  ill  with  a  slow  fever,  which  at 
last  took  to  flying,  and  became  as  quick  as  need  be. 
But,  at  length,  after  a  week  of  half  delirium,  burning 
skin,  thirst,  hot  headache,  horrible  pulsation,  and  no 
sleep,  by  the  blessing  of  barley  water,  and  refusing 
to  see  my  physician,  I  recovered.  It  is  an  epi- 
demic of  the  place.  Here  are  some  versicles,  which 
I  made  one  sleepless  night."  —  Byron's  Letters. 
Venice,  March,  1817.J 

2[The"  Missionary/' was  written  by  Mr.  Bowles; 
"Ilderim"  by  Mr.  Gaily  Knight;  and  "Margaret 
of  Anjou  "  by  Miss  Holford.] 


SO  WE'LL  GO    NO  MORE  A  ROVING. 

I. 

So  we'll  go  no  more  a  roving 

So  late  into  the  night, 
Though  the  heart  be  still  as  loving, 

And  the  moon  be  still  as  bright. 

II. 
For  the  sword  outwears  its  sheath, 

And  the  soul  wears  out  the  breast, 
And  the  heart  must  pause  to  breathe, 

And  love  itself  have  rest. 

III. 
Though  the  night  was  made  for  loving, 

And  the  day  returns  too  soon, 
Yet  we'll  go  no  more  a  roving 

By  the  light  of  the  moon.  js™ 


TO  THOMAS   MOORE. 

What  are  you  doing  now, 

Oh  Thomas  Moore  ? 
What  are  you  doing  now, 

Oh  Thomas  Moore  ? 
Sighing  or  suing  now, 
Rhyming  or  wooing  now, 
Billing  or  cooing  now, 
Which,  Thomas  Moore  ? 

But  the  Carnival's  coming. 

Oh  Thomas  Moore ! 
The  Carnival's  coming, 
Oh  Thomas  Moore ! 
Masking  and  humming, 
Fifing  and  drumming, 
Guitarring  and  strumming, 
Oh  Thomas  Moore  1 


TO   MR.  MURRAY. 

To  hook  the  reader,  you,  John  Murray, 
Have  published  "  Anjou's  Margaret," 
Which  won't  be  sold  off  in  a  hurry 
(At  least,  it  has  not  been  as  yet) ; 
And  then,  still  further  to  bewilder  'em, 
Without  remorse  you  set  up  "  Ilderim ;  " 

So  mind  you  don't  get  into  debt, 
Because  as  how,  if  you  should  fail, 
These  books  would  be  but  baddish  bail. 

And  mind  you  do  not  let  escape 

These  rhymes  to  Morning  Post  or  Perry, 
Which  would  be  very  treacherous  —  very, 

And  get  me  into  such  a  scrape ! 
For,  firstly,  I  should  have  to  sally, 
All  in  my  little  boat,  against  a  Galley ; 


94 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


And,  should  I  chance  to  slay  the  Assyrian 

wight, 
Have  next  to  combat  with  the  female  knight. 
March  25,  1817. 


TO   THOMAS    MOORE. 
I. 
My  boat  is  on  the  shore, 

And  my  bark  is  on  the  sea; 
But,  before  I  go,  Tom  Moore, 
Here's  a  double  health  to  thee  ! 


Here's  a  sigh  to  those  who  love  me, 
And  a  smile  to  those  who  hate; 

And,  whatever  sky's  above  me, 
Here's  a  heart  for  every  fate. 

III. 
Though  the  ocean  roar  around  me, 

Yet  it  still  shall  bear  me  on  ; 
Though  a  desert  should  surround  me, 

It  hath  springs  that  may  be  won. 

IV. 
Were't  the  last  drop  in  the  well, 

As  I  gasped  upon  the  brink, 
Ere  my  fainting  spirit  fell, 

'Tis  to  thee  that  I  would  drink. 


With  that  water,  as  this  wine, 

The  libation  I  would  pour 
Should  be  —  peace  to  thine  and  mine, 

And  a  health  to  thee,  Tom  Moore. 

July,  1817. 


EPISTLE  FROM   MR.   MURRAY  TO 
DR.    POLIDORI.i 

Dear  Doctor,  I  have  read  your  play, 
Which  is  a  good  one  in  its  way,  — 
Purges  the  eyes  and  moves  the  bowels, 
And  drenches  handkerchiefs  like  towels 
With  tears,  that,  in  a  flux  of  grief, 
Afford  hysterical  relief 
To  shattered  nerves  and  quickened  pulses, 
Which  your  catastrophe  convulses. 


1  ["  I  never,"  says  Byron,  "  was  much  more  dis- 
gusted with  any  human  production  than  with  the 
eternal  nonsense,  and  tracasseries,  and  emptiness, 
and  ill-humor,  and  vanity  of  this  young  person;  but 
he  has  some  talent,  and  is  a  man  of  honor,  and  has 
dispositions  of  amendment.  Therefore  use  your  in- 
terest for  him,  for  he  is  improved  and  improvable. 
You  want  a  '  civil  and  delicate  declension  '  for  the 
medical  tragedy  ?  Take  it.  "  —  Byron  to  Mr.  Mu  r- 
ray,  August  21,  1817.] 


I  like  your  moral  and  machinery; 
Your  plot,  too,  has  such  scope  for  scenery; 
Your  dialogue  is  apt  and  smart ; 
The  play's  concoction  full  of  art; 
Your  hero  raves,  your  heroine  cries, 
All  stab,  and  every  body  dies. 
In  short,  your  tragedy  would  be 
The  very  thing  to  hear  and  see : 
And  for  a  piece  of  publication, 
If  I  decline  on  this  occasion, 
It  is  not  that  I  am  not  sensible 
To  merits  in  themselves  ostensible, 
Hut  — and  I  grieve  to  speak  it  —  plays 
Are  drugs  —  mere  drugs,  sir  —  now-a-days. 
I  had  a  heavy  loss  by  "  Manuel,"  — 
Too  lucky  if  it  prove  not  annual, — 
And  Sotheby,  with  his  "  Orestes," 
I  Which,  by  the  by,  the  author's  best  is,) 
Has  lain  so  very  long  on  hand 
That  I  despair  of  all  demand. 
I've  advertised,  but  see  my  books, 
Or  only  watch  my  shopman's  looks  ;  — 
Still  Ivan,  Ina,  and  such  lumber, 
My  back-shop  glut,  my  shelves  encumber. 

There's  Byron  too,  who  once  did  better, 
Has  sent  me,  folded  in  a  letter, 
A  sort  of — it's  no  more  a  drama 
Than  Darnley,  Ivan,  or  Kehama; 
So  altered  since  last  year  his  pen  is, 
I  think  he's  lost  his  nits  at  Venice. 
In  short,  sir,  what  with  one  and  t'other, 
I  dare'not  venture  on  another. 
I  write  in  haste  ;  excuse  each  blunder ; 
The  coaches  through  the  streets  so  thunder  ! 
My  room's  so  full  —  we've  Gifford  here 
Reading   MS.,  with  Hookham  Frere, 
Pronouncing  on  the  nouns  and  particles 
Of  some  of  our  forthcoming  Articles. 

The  Quarterly  —  Ah,  sir,  if  you 
Had  but  the  genius  to  review  !  — 
A  smart  critique  upon  St.  Helena, 
Or  if  you  only  would  but  tell  in  a 
Short  compass  what  —  but,  to  resume  : 
As  I  was  saying,  sir,  the  room  — 
The  room's  so  full  of  wits  and  bards, 
Crabbes,  Campbells,    Crockers,  Freres,  and 

Wards 
And  others,  neither  bards  nor  wits  :  — 
My  humble  tenement  admits 
All  persons  in  the  dress  of  gent., 
From  Mr.  Hammond  to  Dog  Dent 

A  party  dines  with  me  to-day, 
All  clever  men,  who  make  their  way ; 
Crabbe,  Malcolm,  Hamilton,  and  Chantrey 
Are  all  partakers  of  my  pantry. 
They're  at  this  moment  in  discussion 
On  poor  De  Stael's  late  dissolution. 
Her  book,  they  say,  was  in  advance  — 
Pray  Heaven,  she  tell  the  truth  of  France  ! 
Thus  run  our  time  and  tongues  away. — 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


95 


But,  to  return,  sir,  to  your  play : 
Sorry,  sir,  but  I  can  not  deal, 
Unless  'twere  acted  by  O'Neill. 
My  hands  so  full,  my  head  so  busy, 
I'm  almost  dead,  and  always  dizzy; 
And  so,  with  endless  truth  and  hurry, 
Dear  Doctor,  I  am  yours, 

John  Murray. 

EPISTLE  TO   MR.   MURRAY. 

My  dear  Mr.  Murray, 
You're  in  a  damned  hurry 

To  set  up  this  ultimate  Canto  ;* 
But  (if  they  don't  rob  us) 
You'll  see  Mr.  Hobhouse 

Will  bring  it  safe  in  his  portmanteau. 

For  the  Journal  you  hint  of, 
As  ready  to  print  off, 

No  doubt  you  do  right  to  commend  it ; 
But  as  yet  I  have  writ  off 
The  devil  a  bit  of 

Our  "  Beppo:  "  —  when  copied,  I'll  send  it. 

Then  you've  *  **  's  Tour, — 
No  great  things,  to  be  sure, — 

Y'ou  could  hardly  begin  with  a  less  work ; 
F"r  the  pompous  rascallion, 
Who  don't  speak  Italian 

Nor  French,  must  have  scribbled  by  guess- 
work. 

You  can  make  any  loss  up 
With  "  Spence  "  and  his  gossip, 

A  work  which  must  surely  succeed ; 
Then  Queen  Mary's  Epistle-craft, 
With  the  new  "  Fytte  "  of  "  Whistlecraft," 

Must  make  people  purchase  and  read. 

Then  you've  General  Gordon, 
Who  girded  his  sword  on, 

To  serve  with  a  Muscovite  master, 
And  help  him  to  polish 
A  nation  so  owlish, 

They  thought  shaving  their  beards  a  dis- 
aster. 

For  the  man,  "  poor  and  shrewd,"  2 
With  whom  you'd  conclude 

A  compact  without  more  delay, 
Perhaps  some  such  pen  is 
Still  extant  in  Venice ; 

But  please,  sir,  to  mention  your  pay. 

Venice,  January  8,  1818. 


TO   MR.   MURRAY. 

STRAHAN,  Tonson,  Lintot  of  the  times, 
Patron  and  publisher  of  rhymes, 


1  [The  fourth  Canto  of  "  Childe  Harold."] 

2  Vide  your  letter. 


For  thee  the  bard  up  Pindus  climbs. 
My  Murray. 

To  thee,  with  hope  and  terror  dumb, 
The  unfledged  MS.  authors  come ; 
Thou  printest  all  —  and  sellest  some  •— 
My  Murray. 

Upon  thy  table's  baize  so  green 
The  last  new  Quarterly  is  seen, — 
But  where  is  thy  new  Magazine, 
My  Murray  ? 

Along  thy  sprucest  bookshelves  shine 
The  works  thou  deemest  most  divine  — 
The  "  Art  of  Cookery,"  and  mine, 
My  Murray. 

Tours,  Travels,  Essays,  too,  I  wist, 
And  Sermons  to  thy  mill  bring  grist : 
And  then  thou  hast  the  "  Navy  List," 
My  Murray. 

And  Heaven  forbid  I  should  conclude 
Without  "the  Board  of  Longitude," 
Although  this  narrow  paper  would, 
My  Murray! 
Venice,  March  25,  1818. 


ON   THE  BIRTH   OF  JOHN   WIL- 
LIAM  RIZZO    HOPPNER. 

His  father's  sense,  his  mother's  grace, 
In  him,  I  hope,  will  always  fit  so ; 

With  —  still  to  keep  him  in  good  case  — 
The  health  and  appetite  of  Rizzo.3 


STANZAS  TO   THE   PO. 

[About  the  middle  of  April,  1819,  Byron  travelled 
from  Venice  to  Ravenna,  at  which  last  city  he  ex- 
pected to  find  the  Countess  Guiccioli.  The  following 
stanzas,  which  have  been  as  much  admired  as  any 
of  the  kind  he  ever  wrote,  were  composed,  according 
to  Madame  Guiccioli's  statement,  during  this  jour- 
ney, and  while  Byron  was  actually  sailing  on  the  Po. 
In  transmitting  them  to  England,  in  May,  1820,  he 
says,  —  "They  must  not  be  published:  pray  recol- 
lect this,  as  they  are  mere  verses  of  society,  and 
written  upon  private  feelings  and  passions."  They 
were  first  printed  in  1824.] 


3  [On  the  birth  of  this  child,  the  son  of  the  British 
vice-consul  at  Venice,  Byron  wrote  these  lines. 
They  are  in  no  other  respect  remarkable,  than  that 
they  were  thought  worthy  of  being  metrically  trans- 
lated into  no  less  than  ten  different  languages; 
namely,  Greek,  Latin,  Italian  (also  in  the  Venetian 
dialect),  German,  French,  Spanish,  Illyrian,  He-  ' 
brew,  Armenian ,  and  Samaritan.  The  original  lines, 
with  the  different  versions  above  mentioned,  were 
printed,  in  a  small  neat  volume,  in  the  seminary  oi 
Padua.] 


9b 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


River,  that  rollest  by  the  ancient  walls,1 
Where  dwells  the  lady  of  my  love,  when  she 

Walks  by  thy  brink,  and  there  perchance  re- 
calls 
A  faint  and  fleeting  memory  of  me ; 


What  if  thy  deep  and  ample  stream  should  be 

A  mirrow  of  my  heart,  where  she  may  read 

•  The  thousand  thoughts  I  now  betray  to  thee, 

Wild   as  thy  wave,  and   headlong  as   thy 

speed ! 

III. 
What  do  I  say  —  a  mirror  of  my  heart  ? 
Are  not    thy  waters  sweeping,  dark,   and 
strong  ? 
Such  as  my  feelings  were  and  are,  thou  art ; 
And  such  as  thou  art  were  my  passions  long. 

IV. 
Time  may  have  somewhat  tamed  them,  —  not 
for  ever ; 
Thou  overflow'st  thy  banks,  and  not  for  aye 
Thy  bosom  overboils,  congenial  river ! 
Thy  floods  subside,  and  mine  have  sunk 
away. 

V. 
But  left  long  wrecks  behind,  and  now  again, 
Borne  in    our  old    unchanged  career,  we 
move ; 
Thou  tendest  wildly  onwards  to  the  main, 
And  I  —  to  loving  one  I  should  not  love. 

VI. 
The  current  I  behold  will  sweep  beneath 

Her  native  walls  and  murmur  at  her  feet ; 
Her  eyes  will  look  on  thee,  when  she  shall 
breathe 
The  twilight  air,  unharmed  by  summer's 
heat. 

VII. 
She  will  look  on  thee,  —  I  have  looked  on  thee, 
Full  of  that  thought;  and  from  that  moment, 
ne'er 
Tliv  waters  could  I  dream  of,  name,  or  see, 
Without  the  inseparable  sigh  for  her  I 

VIII. 

Her  bright  eyes  will  be  imaged  in  thy  stream,  — 
Yes !  they  will  meet  the  wave  I  gaze  on  now : 

Mine  cannot  witness,  even  in  a  dream, 
That  happy  wave  repass  me  in  its  flow ! 


The  wave  that  bears  my  tears  returns  no  more  : 
Will  she  return  by  whom  that  wave  shall 
sweep  ?  — 


Both   tread   thy  banks,  both  wander  on    thy 
shore, 
I  by  thy  source,  she  by  the  dark-blue  deep. 

X. 

But  that  which  keepeth  us  apart  is  not 

Distance,  nor  depth  of  wave,  nor  space  oi 
earth, 

But  the  distraction  of  a  various  lot, 
As  various  as  the  climates  of  our  birth. 

XI. 

A  stranger  loves  the  lady  of  the  land, 

Born  far   beyond  the  mountains,  but    his 
blood 

Is  all  meridian,  as  if  never  fanned 
By  the  black  wind  that  chills  the  polar  flood. 


My  blood  is  all  meridian ;  were  it  not, 
I  had  not  left  my  clime,  nor  should  I  be, 

In  spite  of  tortures,  ne'er  to  be  forgot, 
A  slave  again  of  love,  —  at  least  of  thee. 


'Tis  vain  to  struggle  —  let  me  perish  young  — 
Live  as  I  lived,  and  love  as  I  have  loved ; 

To  dust  if  I  return,  from  dust  I  sprung, 
And  then,  at  least,  my  heart  can  ne'er  be 

moved.  April,  1819. 

f  

EPIGRAM. 
FROM    THE    FRENCH    OF    RULHIERES. 

If,  for  silver  or  for  gold, 

You  could  melt  ten  thousand  pimples 

Into  half  a  dozen  dimples, 
Then  your  face  we  might  behold, 

Looking,  doubtless,  much  more  snugly; 

Yet  even  then  'twould  be  d d  ugly. 

August  12,  1819. 


SONNET  TO  GEORGE  THE  FOURTH, 

ON  THE   REPEAL  OF  LORD  EDWARD 
FITZGERALD'S   FORFEITURE. 

To  be  the  father  of  the  fatherless, 

To  stretch  the  hand  from  the  throne's  height, 
and  raise 

His  offspring,  who  expired  in  other  days 
To  make  thy  sire's  sway  by  a  kingdom  less, — 
This  is  to  be  a  monarch,  and  repress 

Envy  into  unutterable  praise. 

Dismiss  thy  guard,  and  trust  thee  to  such 
traits,  


1  [Ravenna — a  city  to  which  Byron  afterwards 


declared  himself  more  attached  than  to  any  other 
place,  except  Greece.  He  resided  in  it  father  more 
than  two  years.] 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


9? 


For  who  would  lift  a  hand,  except  to  bless  ? 
Were  it  not  easy,  sir,  and  is't  not  sweet 
To  make  thyself  beloved  ?  and  to  be 
Omnipotent  by  mercy's  means  ?  for  thus 
Thv  sovereignty  would  grow  but  more  com- 
plete, 
A.  despot  thou,  and  yet  thy  people  free, 
And  by  the  heart,  not  hand,  enslaving  us. 
Bologna,  August  12,  1819.* 


STANZAS.2 

["COULD   LOVE  FOREVER."] 
I. 

Could  Love  forever 
Run  like  a  river, 
And  Time's  endeavor 

Be  tried  in  vain  — 
No  other  pleasure 
With  this  could  measure; 
And  like  a  treasure 

We'd  hug  the  chain. 
But  since  our  sighing 
Ends  not  in  dying, 
And,  formed  for  flying, 

Love  plumes  his  wing; 
Then  for  this  reason 
Let's  love  a  season ; 
But  let  that  season  be  only  Spring. 

II. 
When  lovers  parted 
Feel  broken-hearted, 
And,  all  hopes  thwarted, 

Expect  to  die ; 
A  few  years  older, 
Ah  !  how  much  colder 
They  might  behold  her 

For  whom  they  sigh  ! 
When  linked  together, 
In  every  weather, 
They  pluck  Love's  feather 

From  out  his  wing  — 


■  ["  So  the  prince  has  been  repealing  Lord  Fitz- 
gerald's forfeiture  ?  Ecco  un'  sonetto  ?  There,  you 
Qogs !  there's  a  sonnet  for  you :  you  wont  have  such 
as  that  in  a  hurry  from  Fitzgerald.  You  may  pub- 
lish it  with  my  name,  an'  ye  wool.  He  deserves  all 
praise,  bad  and  good :  it  was  a  very  noble  piece  of 
principality."  —  Byron  to  Mr.  Murray. .] 

2  [A  friend  of  Byron's,  who  was  with  him  at  Ra- 
venna when  he  wrote  these  stanzas,  says,  —  "  They 
were  composed,  like  many  others,  with  no  view  of 
publication,  but  merely  to  relieve  himself  in  a  mo- 
1  ment  of  suffering.  He  had  been  painfully  excited 
by  some  circumstances  which  appeared  to  make  it 
necessary  that  he  should  immediately  quit  Italy; 
a»id  in  the  day  and  the  hour  that  he  wrote  the  song 
was  laboring  under  an  access  of  fever."] 


He'll  stay  forever, 
But  sadly  shiver 
Without  his  plumage,  when  past  the  Spring^ 

III. 
Like  Chiefs  of  Faction, 
His  life  is  action  — 
A  formal  paction 

That  curbs  his  reign, 
Obscures  his  glory, 
Despot  no  more,  he 
Such  territory 

Quits  with  disdain. 
Still,  still  advancing, 
With  banners  glancing, 
His  power  enhancing, 

He  must  move  on  — 
Repose  but  cloys  him, 
Retreat  destroys  him, 
Love  brooks  not  a  degraded  throne. 

IV. 

Wait  not,  fond  lover ! 
Till  years  are  over, 
And  then  recover, 

As  from  a  dream. 
While  each  bewailing 
The  other's  failing, 
With  wrath  and  railing, 

All  hideous  seem  — 
While  first  decreasing, 
Yet  not  quite  ceasing, 
Wait  not  till  teasing 

All  passion  blight : 
If  once  diminished 
Love's  reign  is  finished  — 
Then   part   in   friendship,  —  and   bid  good 
night.4 

v. 
So  shall  Affection 
To  recollection 
The  dear  connection 

Bring  back  with  joy : 
You  had  not  waited 
Till,  tired  or  hated, 
Your  passions  sated 

Began  to  cloy. 
Your  last  embraces 
Leave  no  cold  traces  — 
The  same  fond  faces 

As  through  the  past ; 
And  eyes,  the  mirrors 
Of  your  sweet  errors, 
Reflect  but  rapture  —  not  least  though  last. 

VI. 

True,  separations 

Ask  more  than  patience ; 


3  [V.  L.  —  "  That  sped  his  Spring."] 

4  [V.  L.  —  "  One  last  embrace,  then,  and  bid  good« 
night." 


9S 


OCCASIONAL   PIECES. 


What  desperations 

From  such  have  risen ! 

But  yet  remaining, 

What  is't  but  chaining 

Hearts  which,  once  waning, 
Beat  'gainst  their  prison? 

Time  can  but  cloy  love, 

And  use  destroy  love : 

The  winged  boy,  Love, 
Is  but  for  boys  — 

Vou'll  find  it  torture 

Though  sharper,  shorter, 
To  wean,  and  not  wear  out  your  joys. 


1819. 


ON    MY   WEDDING   DAY. 

Here's  a  happy  new  year !  but  with  reason 
I  beg  you'll  permit  me  to  say  — 

Wisn  me  many  returns  of  the  season. 
But  as  few  as  you  please  of  the  day. 

January  2,  1820. 


EPITAPH   FOR  WILLIAM    PITT. 

WITH  death  doomed  to  grapple 
Beneath  this  cold  slab,  he 

Who  lied  in  the  Chapel 
Now  lies  in  the  Abbey. 

January,  1820. 


EPIGRAM. 

IN  digging  up  your  bones,  Tom  Paine, 
Will.  Cobbett  has  done  well: 

You  visit  him  on  earth  again, 
He'll  visit  you  in  hell. 

January,  1820. 


STANZAS. 

WHEN  a  man  hath  no  freedom  to  fight  for  at 

home, 

Let  him  combat  for  that  of  his  neighbors ; 

Let  him  think  of  the  glories  of  Greece  and  of 

Rome, 

And  get  knocked  on  the  head  for  his  labors. 

To  do  good  to  mankind  is  the  chivalrous  plan, 
And  is  always  as  nobly  requited ; 

Then  battle  for  freedon\  wherever  you  can, 
And,    if    not    shot    or   hanged,   you'll    get 
knighted.  November,  1820. 


EPIGRAM. 

The  world  is  a  bundle  of  hay, 
Mankind  are  the  asses  who  pull ; 

Each  tugs  it  a  different  way, 
And  the  greatest  of  all  is  John  Bull. 


THE   CHARITY   BALL. 

What  matter  the  pangs  of  a  husband  and 
father, 
If  his  sorrows  in  exile  be  great  or  be  small, 
So   the    Pharisee's   glories   around   her   she 
gather, 
And  the  saint  patronizes  her  "  charity  ball !  " 
What  matters  —  a  heart  which,  though  faulty, 
was  feeling, 
Be  driven  to  excesses  which  once  could  ap- 
pall- 
That  the  sinner  should  suffer  is  only  fair  deal- 
ing, 
As  the  saint  keeps  her  charity  back  for  "  the 
ball ! "  1 


EPIGRAM, 

ON  THE  BRAZIERS'  COMPANY  HAVING  RE- 
SOLVED TO  PRESENT  AN  ADDRESS  TO 
QUEEN  CAROLINE.2 

THE  braziers,  it  seems,  are  prep  iring  to  pass 
An  address,  and  present  it  themselves  all  in 

brass ; — 
A   superfluous   pageant — for,   by   the    Lord 

Harry ! 
They'll  find  where  they're  going  much  more 

than  they  carry.3 


EPIGRAM   ON    MY  WEDDING    DAY. 

TO   PENELOPE. 

THIS  day,  of  all  our  days,  hao  done 
The  worse  for  me  and  you  :  — 

'Tis  just  six  years  since  we  were  one, 
And  five  since  we  were  two. 

January  2,  1821. 

ON  MY  THIRTY-THIRD  BIRTH-DAY. 

JANUARY   22,    I82I.4 

THROUGH  life's  dull  road,  so  dim  and  dirty, 
I  have  dragged  to  three  and  thirty. 
What  have  these  years  left  to  me  ? 
Nothing  —  except  thirty-three. 


1  These  lines  were  written  on  reading  in  the  news- 
papers, that  Lady  Byron  had  been  patroness  of  a  ball 
in  aid  of  some  chanty  at  Hinckley. 

2  [The  procession  of  the  Braziers  to  Brandenburgh 
House  was  one  of  the  fooleries  cf  the  time  of  Queen 
Caroline's  trial.] 

3  [There  is  an  epigram  for  you,  is  it  not  ?  —  worthy 
Of  Wordsworth,  the  grand  metaquizzical  poet, 

A  man  of  vast  merit,  though  few  people  know  it; 
The  perusal  of  whom  (as  I  told  you  at  Mestri) 
I  owe,  in  great  part,  to  my  passion  for  pastry." 
Byron's  Letters,  January  22,  1821.3 

4  [In  Byron's  MS.  Diary  of  the  preceding  day 


OCCASIONAL   PIECES. 


W 


MARTIAL,  Lib.  I.  Epig.  I. 

Hie  est,  quem  legis,  ille,  quern  requiris, 
Tota  not  us  in  orbe  Martialis,  etc. 

He  unto  whom  thou  art  so  partial, 

Oh,  reader !  is  the  well-known  Martial, 

The  Epigrammatist :  while  living, 

Give  him  the  fame  thou  wouldst  be  giving; 

So  shall  he  hear,  and  feel,  and  know  it  — 

Post-obits  rarely  reach  a  poet. 


NEW   DUET 
To  the  tune  of  "  Why,  how  now,  saucy  jade  ?" 

Why,  how  now,  saucy  Tom  ? 

If  you  thus  must  ramble, 
I  will  publish  some 

Remarks  on  Mister  Campbell. 


Why,  how  now,  Billy  Bowles  ? 

Sure  the  priest  is  maudlin ! 
(  To  the  public)  How  can  you,  d — n  your  souls, 

Listen  to  his  twaddling  ? 

February  22,  1S21. 


EPIGRAMS. 

Oh,  Castlereagh  !  thou  art  a  patriot  now ; 
Cato  died  for  his  country,  so  didst  thou : 
He  perished  rather  than  see  Rome  enslaved, 
Thou  cutt'st  thy  throat  that  Britain  may  be 
saved ; 

So    Castlereagh  has   cut  his   throat  ! — The 

worst 
Of  this  is,  —  that  his  own  was  not  the  first. 


So    He   has  cut  his  throat    at    last !  —  He  ! 

Who  ? 
The  man  who  cut  his  country's  long  ago. 


EPITAPH. 

Posterity  will  ne'er  survey 
A  nobler  grave  than  this  : 

Here  lie  the  bones  of  Castlereagh : 
Stop,  traveller 


the  following  entry:  — "  To-morrow  is  my  birth-day 
—  that  is  to  say,  at  twelve  o'  the  clock,  midnight; 
i.e.  in  twelve  minutes,  I  shall  have  completed  thirty 
and  three  years  of  age ! ! !  —  and  I  go  to  my  bed  with 
a  heaviness  of  heart  at  having  lived  so  long,  and  to 
so  little  purpose.  *  *  *  *  * 

It  is  three  minutes  past  twelve  — ' 'Tis  the  middle 
of  night  by  the  castle-clock,'  and  I  am  now  thirty- 
rfiree!  — 


JOHN    KEATS.  1 

Who  killed  John  Keats  ? 

"I,"  says  the  Quarterly, 
So  savage  and  Tartarly  ; 

"  "Twas  one  of  my  feats." 

Who  shot  the  arrow  ? 

"  The  poet  priest  Miiman 
(So  ready  to  kill  man), 

"  Or  Southey,  or  Barrow." 

July. 


THE  CONQUEST. 

[This  fragment  was  found  amongst  Byron's  pa. 
pers,  after  his  departure  from  Genoa  for  Greece.] 
March  8-9,  1823. 

THE  Son  of  Love  and  Lord  of  War  I  sing ; 
Him    who    bade    England    bow    to    Nor- 
mandy, 
And  left  the  name  of  conqueror  more  than 
king 
To  his  unconquerable  dynasty. 
Not  fanned  alone  by  Victory's  fleeting  wing, 
He  reared  his  bold  and  brilliant  throne  on 
high : 
The  Bastard  kept,  like  lions,  his  prey  fast, 
And  Britain's  bravest  victor  was  the  last. 


TO   MR.   MURRAY. 

FOR  Orford  -  and  for  Waldegrave  3 
You  give  much  more  than  me  you  gave; 
Which  is  not  fairly  to  behave, 
My  Murray. 

Because  if  a  live  dog,  'tis  said, 
Be  worth  a  lion  fairly  sped, 
A  live  lord  must  be  worth  two  dead, 
My  Murray. 

And  if,  as  the  opinion  goes, 
Verse  hath  a  better  sale  than  prose  — 
Certes,  I  should  have  more  than  those, 
Mv  Murray. 


'  Eheu,  fugaces,  Posthume,  Posthume, 
Labuntur  anni;  '  — 
but  I  don't  regret  them  so  much  for  what  I  have 
done,  as  for  what  I  might  have  done."] 

1  [It  was  pretended  at  the  time,  that  the  death  af 
Keats  was  occasioned  by  a  sarcastic  article  on  his 
poetry  in  the  Quarterly  Review.  All  the  world 
knows  now  that  he  died  of  consumption,  and  not  of 
criticism.] 

2  [Horace  Walpole's  Memoirs  of  the  last  nine 
Years  of  the  Reign  of  George  II.] 

3  [Memoirs  by  James  Earl  Waldegrave,  Go*, 
ernor  of  George  III.  when  Prince  of  Wales.] 


^00 


OCCASIONAL   PIECES. 


But  now  this  sheet  is  nearly  crammed, 
So,  if  you  will,  /  shan't  be  shammed, 
And  if  you  won't,  you  may  be  damned, 
My  Murray.1 


THE  IRISH   AVATAR. 

"  And  Ireland,  like  a  bastinadoed  elephant,  kneel- 
ing to  receive  the  paltry  rider."  —  CuRRAN. 

I. 
ERE  the  daughter  of  Brunswick  is  cold  in  her 
grave, 
And  her  ashes  still  float  to  their  home  o'er 
the  tide, 
Lo !  George  the  triumphant  speeds  over  the 
wave, 
To  the  long-cherished  isle  which  he  loved 
like  his  —  bride. 

II. 
True,  the  great  of  her  bright  and  brief  era  are 
gone, 
The   rainbow-like   epoch  where    Freedom 
could  pause 
For  the  few  little  years,  out  of  centuries  won, 
Which  betrayed  not,  or  crushed  not,  or  wept 
not  her  cause. 

ill. 
True,  the  chains  of  the  Catholic  clank  o'er  his 
rags, 
The  castle  still  stands,  and  the  senate's  no 
more, 
And  the  famine  which  dwelt  on  her  freedom- 
less  crags 
Is  extending  its  steps  to  her  desolate  shore. 

IV. 
To  her  desolate  shore  —  where  the  emigrant 
stands 
For  a  moment  to  gaze  ere  he  flies  from  his 
hearth ; 
Tears  fall  on  his  chain,  though  it  drops  from 
his  hands, 
For  the  dungeon  he  quits  is  the  place  of 
his  birth. 

v. 

But  he  comes !  the  Messiah  of  royalty  comes ! 
Liks  a  goodly  Leviathan  rolled   from    the 
waves ! 


1  ["Can't  accept  your  courteous  offer.  These 
matters  must  be  arranged  with  Mr.  Douglas  Kin- 
naird.  He  is  my  trustee,  and  a  man  of  honor.  To 
him  you  can  state  all  your  mercantile  reasons,  which 
you  might  not  like  to  state  to  me  personally,  such 
as  '  heavy  season '  —  'flat  public '  — '  don't  go  off'  — 
1  lordship  writes  too  much '  — '  won't  take  advice  '  — 
'declining  popularity' — -'deduction  for  the  trade' 
•—  '  make  very  little  '  —  '  generally  lose  by  him  '  — 
'  pirated  edition  '  — '  foreign  edition  '  —  '  severe  criti- 
cisms,' etc.,  with  other  hints  and  howls  for  an  ora- 
tion which  I  leave  Douglas,  who  is  an  orator,  to 
unswer."  —  Byron  to  Mr.  Murray.] 


Then  receive  him  as  best  such  an  advent  be- 
comes, 
With  a  legion  of  cooks,  and   an  army  oi 
slaves ! 

VI. 

He  comes  in  the  promise  and  bloom  of  three- 
score, 
To  perform  in  the  pageant  the  sovereign's 
part  — 
But  long  live  the  shamrock  which  shadows  him 
o'er! 
Could  the  green  in  his  hat  be  transferred  to 
his  heart! 

VII. 

Could  that  long-withered  spot  but  be  verdant 
again, 
And    a    new    spring    of    noble    affections 
arise  — 
Then  might  freedom  forgive  thee  this  dance  in 
thy  chain, 
And  this  shout  of  thy  slavery  which  saddens 
the  skies. 

VIII. 
Is  it  madness  or  meanness  which  clings  to  thee 
now  ? 
Were  he  God  —  as  he  is  but  the  commonest 
clay, 
With  scarce  fewer  wrinkles  than  sins  on  his 
brow  — 
Such   servile   devotion   might   shame   him 
a\tay. 

IX. 

Ay,  roar  in  his  train !  let  thine  orators  lash 

Their  fanciful  spirits  to  pamper  his  pride- 
Not  thus  did  thy  Grattan  indignantly  Bash 
His  soul  o'er  the  freedom  implored  and  de- 
nied. 

X. 
Ever    glorious    Grattan!     the    best    of    the 


So  simple  in  heart,  so  sublime  in  the  rest ! 

With  all  which  Demosthenes  wanted  endued 

And  his  rival  or  victor  in  all  he  possessed, 


Ere  Tully  arose  in  the  zenith  of  Rome, 

Though  unequalled,  preceded,  the  task  was 
begun  — 
But  Grattan  sprung  up  like  a  god  from  the 
tomb 
Of  ages,  the  first,  last,  the  saviour,  the  one! 


With  the  skill  of  an  Orpheus  to  soften  the 
brute : 
With  the  fire  of  Prometheus  to  kindle  man- 
kind ; 
Even  Tyranny  listening  sate  melted  or  mute, 
And  Corruption  shrunk  scorched  rrom  the 
glance  of  his  mind. 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


101 


XIII. 

But  back  to  our  theme !    Back  to  despots  and 
slaves ! 
Feasts  furnished  by  Famine  !  rejoicings  by 
Pain ; 
True  freedom  but  welcomes,  while  slavery  still 
raves, 
When  a  week's  saturnalia  hath  loosened  her 
chain. 

XIV. 

Let  the  poor  squalid  splendor  thy  wreck  can 
afford 
(As  the  bankrupt's  profusion  his  ruin  would 
hide) 
Gild  over  the  palace,  Lo !  Erin,  thy  lord ! 
Kiss  his  foot  with  thy  blessing,  his  blessings 
denied ! 

XV. 

Or  if  freedom  past  hope  be  extorted  at  last, 

If  the  idol  of  brass  find  his  feet  are  of  clay, 
Must  what  terror  or  policy  wring  forth  be 
classed 
With  what   monarchs   ne'er  give,   but    as 
wolves  yield  their  prey  ? 


Each  brute  hath  its  nature,  a  king  is  to  reign,  — 
To  reign  !  in  that  word  see,  ye  ages,  com- 
prised 
The  cause  of  the  curses  all  annals  contain, 
From  Csesar  the  dreaded  to  George  the  de- 
spised ! 

XVII. 

Wear,  Fingal,  thy  trapping!  O'Connell,  pro- 
claim 
His   accomplishments!     His!!!    and   thy 
country  convince 
Half  an  age's  contempt  was  an  error  of  fame, 
And  that  "  Hal  is  the  rascaliest,  sweetest 
young  prince !  " 

XVIII. 

Will  thy  yard  of  blue  riband,  poor  Fingal,  recall 
The  fetters  from  millions  of  Catholic  limbs  ? 

Or,  has  it  not  bound  thee  the  fastest  of  all 
The  slaves,  who  now  hail  their  betrayer  with 
hymns  ? 

XIX. 

Ay !  "  Build  him  a  dwelling !  "  let  each  give 
his  mite ! 
Till,  like  Babel,  the  new  royal  dome  hath 
arisen ! 
Let   thy   beggars  and   helots    their  pittance 
unite  — 
And  a  palace  bestow  for  a  poor-house  and 
prison ! 

XX. 

Spread  —  spread,  for  Vitellius,  the  royal  repast, 
Till  the  gluttonous  despot  be  stuffed  to  the 
gorge ! 


And  the  roar  of  his  drunkards  proclaim  him 
at  last 
The  Fourth  of  the  fools   and   oppressors 
called  "  George  !  " 

XXI. 

Let  the  tables  be  loaded  with  feasts  till  they 
groan ! 
Till  they  groan  like  thy  people,  through  ages 
of  woe ! 
Let  the  wine  flow  around  the  old  Bacchanal's 
throne, 
Like   their  blood  which   has   flowed,  and 
which  yet  has  to  flow. 

XXII. 

But  let  not  his  name  be  thine  idol  alone  — 

On  his  right  hand  behold  a  Sejanus  appears  ! 
Thine  own  Castlereagh  !  let  him  still  be  thine 
own ! 
A  wretch,  never  named  but  with  curses  and 
jeers ! 

XXIII. 

Till  now,  when  the  isle  which  should  blush  for 
his  birth, 
Deep,  deep  as  the  gore  which  he  shed  on 
her  soil, 
Seems  proud  of  the  reptile  which   crawled 
from  her  earth, 
And  for  murder  repays   him  with   shouts 
and  a  smile ! 

XXIV. 
Without  one  single  ray  of  her  genius,  without 
The  fancy,  the  manhood,  the  fire  of  her 
race  — 
The  miscreant  who  well  might  plunge   Erin 
in  doubt 
If  she  ever  gave  birth  to  a  being  so  base. 

XXV. 

If  she  did  —  let  her  long-boasted  proverb  be 
hushed, 
Which  proclaims  that  from  Erin  no  reptile 
can  spring  — 
See  the  cold-blooded  serpent,  with  venom  full 
flushed, 
Still  warming  its  folds  in  the  breast  of  a  king ! 

XXVI. 

Shout,  drink,  feast,  and   flatter !     Oh !   Erin 
how  low 
Wert  thou  sunk  bv  misfortune  and  tyrannv, 
till 
Thy  welcome  of  tyrants  hath  plunged  thee 
below 
The  depth  of  thy  deep  in  a  deeper  gulf  still. 

XXVII. 
Mv  voice,  though  but  humble,  was  raised  for 
thy  right, 
My  vote,  as  a  freeman's,  still  voted  thee  free, 


102 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


This  hand,  though  but  feeble,  would  arm  in  thy 
fight, 
And  this  heart,  though  outworn,  had  a  throb 
still  for  thee  I 

XXVIII. 

Yes,  I  loved  thee  and  thine,  though  thou  art 
not  my  land, 
I  have  known  noble  hearts  and  great  souls 
in  thy  sons, 
And  I  wept  with  the  world  o'er  the  patriot  band 
Who  are  gone,  but  I  weep  them  no  longer 
as  once. 

XXIX. 

For  happy  are  they  now  reposing  afar, — 

Thy  Gr'attan,  thy  Curran,  thy  Sheridan,  all 
Who,  for  years,  were  the  chiefs  in  the  eloquent 
war, 
And  redeemed,  if  they  have  not  retarded, 
thy  fall. 

XXX. 

Yes,  happy  are  they  in  their  cold   English 
graves ! 
Their  shades  cannot  start  to  thy  shouts  of 
to-day  — 
Nor  the  steps  of  enslavers,  and  chain-kissing 
slaves 
Be  stamped  in  the  turf  o'er  their  fetterless 
clay. 

XXXI. 

Till  now  I  had  envied  thy  sons  and  their  shore, 
Though  their  virtues  were  hunted,  their  lib- 
erties fled ; 
There  was  something  so  warm  and  sublime  in 
the  core 
Of  an  Irishman's  heart,  that  I  envy  —  thy 
dead. 

XXXII. 

Or,  if  aught  in  my  bosom  can  quench  for  an 
hour 
My  contempt  for  a  nation  so  servile,  though 
sore, 
Which  though  trod  like  the  worm  will  not  turn 
upon  power, 
'Tis  the  glory  of  Grattan,  and  genius  of 
Moore !  * 


STANZAS  WRITTEN    ON  THE   ROAD 
BETWEEN    FLORENCE  AND    PISA. 


OH,  talk  not  to  me  of  a  name  great  in  story ; 
The  days  of  our  youth  are  the  days  of  our 
glory ; 

1  ["  The  enclosed  lines,  as  you  will  directly  per- 
ceive, are  written  by  the  Rev.  W.  L.  Bowles.  Of 
course  it  is  for  him  to  deny  them,  if  they  are  not." 
—  Lord  B.  to  Mr.  Moore,  September  ij,  1821.] 


And  the  myrtle  and   ivy  of  sweet  two-and- 

twenty 
Are  worth  all  your  laurels,  though  ever  so 

plenty. 

II. 

What  are  garlands  and  crowns  to  the  brow 
that  is  wrinkled  ? 

'Tis  but  as  a  dead-flower  with  May-dew  be- 
sprinkled. 

Then  away  with  all  such  from  the  head  that 
is  hoary ! 

What  care  I  for  the  wreaths  that  can  only  give 
glory  ? 

III. 

Oh   Fame!  —  if  I  e'er  took  delight  in  thy 

praises, 
'Twas  less  for  the  sake  of  thy  high-sounding 

phrases, 
Than  to  see  the  bright  eyes  of  the  dear  one 

discover 
She  thought  that  I  was  not  unworthy  to  love 

her. 

IV. 

There  chiefly  I  sought  thee,  there  only  I  found 
thee; 

Her  glance  was  the  best  of  the  rays  that  sur- 
round thee  ; 

When  it  sparkled  o'er  aught  that  was  bright 
in  my  story, 

I  kne\^  it  was  love,  and  I  felt  it  wras  glory.'2 


STANZAS : 

TO  A  HINDOO  AIR. 

[These  verses  were  written  by  Byron  a  little  be- 
fore he  left  Italy  for  Greece.  They  were  meant  to 
suit  the  Hindostanee  air — "Alia  Malla  Funca," 
which  the  Countess  Guiccioli  was  fond  of  singing.] 

Oh  !  —  my  lonely  —  lonely  —  lonely  —  Pillow ! 
Where  is  my  lover  ?  where  is  my  lover  ? 
Is  it  his  bark  which  my  dreary  dreams  dis- 
cover ? 
Far  —  far  away !  and  alone  along  the  billow  ? 

Oh  !  my  lonely  —  lonely —  lonely —  Pillow  ! 

Why  must  my  head  ache  where  his  gentle  brow 
lay? 

How  the  long  night  flags  lovelesslyand  slowly, 

And  my  head  droops  over  thee  like  the  wil- 
low.— 

Oh  !  thou,  my  sad  and  solitary  Pillow  ! 
Send  me  kind  dreams  to  keep  my  heart  from 
breaking ; 


2  ["  I  composed  these  stanzas  (except  the  fourth, 
added  now)  a  few  days  ago.  on  the  road  from  Flor- 
ence to  Pisa."  —  Byron's  Diary,  Pisa,  6th  Novem- 
ber, 1821.] 


OCCASIONAL   PIECES. 


103 


In  return  for  the  tears  I  shed  upon  thee 
waking, 

Let  me  not  die  till  he  comes  back  o'er  the  bil- 
low.— 

Then    if    thou    wilt  —  no    more    my    lonely 

Pillow, 
In  one  embrace  let  these  arms  again  enfold 

him, 
And  then  expire  of  the  joy  —  but  to  behold 

him  ! 
Oh!  my  lone  bosom! — oh!  my  lonely  Pillow! 


IMPROMPTU.! 

Beneath  Blessington's  eyes 
The  Reclaimed  Paradise 

Should  be  free  as  the  former  from  evil; 
But  if  the  new  Eve 
For  an  Apple  should  grieve, 

What  mortal  would  not  play  the  Devil  ?  2 

1823. 


TO   THE  COUNTESS   OF   BLESS- 
INGTON. 

YOU  have  asked  for  a  verse  :  —  the  request 
In  a  rhymer  'twere  strange  to  deny ; 

But  my  Hippocrene  was  but  my  breast, 
And  my  feelings  (its  fountain)  are  dry. 

Were  I  now  as  I  was,  I  had  sung 
What  Lawrence  has  painted  so  well ; 

But  the  strain  would  expire  on  my  tongue, 
And  the  theme  is  too  soft  for  my  shell. 

I  am  ashes  where  once  I  was  fire, 
And  the  bard  in  my  bosom  is  dead ; 

What  I  loved  I  now  merely  admire, 
And  my  heart  is  as  gray  as  my  head. 

My  life  is  not  dated  by  years  — 

There  are  moments  which  act  as  a  plough, 
And  there  is  not  a  furrow  appears 

But  is  deep  in  my  soul  as  my  brow. 

Let  the  young  and  brilliant  aspire 
To  sing  what  I  gaze  on  in  vain ; 

For  sorrow  has  torn  from  my  lyre 

The  string  which  was  worthy  the  strain. 


1  [This  impromptu  was  uttered  by  Byron  on  going 
with  Lord  and  Lady  Elessington  to  a  villa  at  Genoa 
called  " II  Paradiso,"  which  his  companions  thought 
of  renting.] 

2  [The  Genoese  wits  had  already  applied  this 
threadbare  jest  to  himself.  Taking  it  into  their 
heads  that  this  villa  had  been  the  one  fixed  on  for 
his  own  residence,  they  said,  "  II  Diavolo  e  ancora 
rntraiio  in  Paradiso."  —  Moore.\ 


ON   THIS   DAY   I   COMPLETE   MY 
THIRTY-SIXTH   YEAR. 

Missolonghi,  Jar  ^ary  22,  1824.' 

I. 

'TIS  time  this  heart  should  be  unmoved. 

Since  others  it  hath  ceased  to  move : 
Yet,  though  I  cannot  be  beloved, 
Still  let  me  love  ! 

II. 
My  days  are  in  the  yellow  leaf; 

The  flowers  and  fruits  of  love  are  gone; 
The  worm,  the  canker,  and  the  grief 
Are  mine  alone ! 

III. 
The  fire  that  on  my  bosom  preys 

Is  lone  as  some  volcanic  isle ; 
No  torch  is  kindled  at  its  blaze  — 
A  funeral  pile ! 

IV. 

The  hope,  the  fear,  the  jealous  care 

The  exalted  portion  of  the  pain 
And  power  of  love,  I  cannot  share, 
But  wear  the  chain. 


But  'tis  not  thus  —  and  'tis  not  here^ 
Such  thoughts  should  shake  my  soul,  not 
now. 
Where  glory  decks  the  hero's  bier, 
Or  binds  his  brow. 

VI. 
The  sword,  the  banner,  and  the  field, 
Glory  and  Greece,  around  me  see ! 
The  Spartan,  borne  upon  his  shield, 
Was  not  more  free. 


Awake !   (not  Greece  —  she  is  awake !) 

Awake,  my  spirit !     Think  through  zuhom 
Thy  life-blood  tracks  its  parent  lake, 
And  then  strike  home  ! 


Tread  those  reviving  passions  down, 
Unworthy  manhood  !  —  unto  thee 


3  [This  morning  Lord  Byron  came  from  his  bed- 
room into  the  apartment  where  Colonel  Stanhope 
and  some  friends  were  assembled,  and  said  with  a 
smile  —  "You  were  complaining,  the  other  day, 
that  I  never  write  any  poetry  now.  This  is  my 
birth-day,  and  I  have  just  finished  something  which, 
I  think,  is  better  than  what  I  usuallv  write."  He 
then  produced  these  noble  and  affecting  verses.  -» 
Count  Gamba.\ 


104 


ENGLISH  BARDS  AND   SCOTCH  REVIEWERS. 


Indifferent  should  the  smile  or  frown 
Of  beauty  be. 

IX. 

If  thou  regret'st  thy  youth,  why  live  f 

The  land  of  honorable  death 
Is  here  :  —  up  to  the  field,  and  give 
Away  thy  breath ! 

X. 

Seek  out  —  less  often  sought  than  found - 
A  soldier's  grave,  for  thee  the  best; 


Then  look  around,  and  choose  thy  ground, 
And  take  thy  rest.1 


1  [Taking  into  consideration  every  thing  con- 
nected with  these  verses,  —  the  last  tender  aspira- 
tions of  a  loving  spirit  which  they  breathe,  the  self- 
devotion  to  a  noble  cause  which  they  so  nobly  ex- 
press, and  that  consciousness  of  a  near  grave  glim- 
mering sadly  through  the  whole,  —  there  is  perhaps 
no  production  within  the  range  of  mere  human  com- 
position, round  which  the  circumstances  and  feelings 
under  which  it  was  written  cast  so  touching  an  inter- 
est. —  Moore. \ 


ENGLISH    BARDS   AND    SCOTCH    REVIEWERS 

A    SATIRE. 


"  I  had  rather  be  a  kitten,  and  cry  mew! 
Than  one  of  these  same  metre  ballad-mongers." 

Shakespeare. 

"  Such  shameless  bards  we  have;   and  yet  'tis  true, 
There  are  as  mad,  abandoned  critics  too." 

Pope. 


[The  first  edition  of  this  satire,  which  then  began  with  what  is  now  the  ninety-seventh  line  ("  Time  was, 
ere  yet,"  etc.),  appeared  in  March,  1809.  A  second,  to  which  the  author  prefixed  his  name,  followed  in 
October  of  that  year;  and  a  third  and  fourth  were  called  for  during  bis  first  pilgrimage,  in  1810  and  181 1. 
On  his  return  to  England,  a  fifth  edition  was  prepared  for  the  press  by  himself,  with  considerable  care, 
but  suppressed,  and,  except  one  copy,  destroyed,  when  on  the  eve  of  publication.  The  text  is  now  printed 
from  the  copy  that  escaped;  on  casually  meeting  with  which,  in  1816,  he  reperused  the  whole,  and  wrote 
on  the  margin  some  annotations,  which  in  this  edition  are  distinguished  by  the  insertion  of  their  dale,  from 
those  affixed  to  the  prior  editions. 

The  first  of  these  MS.  notes  of  1816  appears  on  the  fly-leaf,  and  runs  thus:  — "The  binding  of  this 
volume  is  considerably  too  valuable  for  the  contents;  and  nothing  but  the  consideration  of  its  being  the 
property  of  another,  prevents  me  from  consigning  this  miserable  record  of  misplaced  anger  and  indis- 
criminate acrimony  to  the  flames."] 


PREFACE. 1 

All  my  friends,  learned  and  unlearned,  have  urged  me  not  to  publish  this  Satire  with  my  name.  If  I 
were  to  be  "  turned  from  the  career  of  my  humor  by  quibbles  quick,  and  paper  bullets  of  the  brain,"  I 
should  have  complied  with  their  counsel.  But  I  am  not  to  be  terrified  by  abuse,  or  bullied  by  reviewers, 
with  or  without  arms.  I  can  safely  say  that  I  have  attacked  none  personally,  who  did  not  commence  on 
the  offensive.  An  author's  works  are  public  property:  he  who  purchases  may  judge,  and  publish  his 
opinion  if  he  pleases;  and  the  authors  I  have  endeavored  to  commemorate  may  do  by  me  as  I  have  done 
by  them.  I  dare  say  they  will  succeed  better  in  condemning  my  scribblings,  than  in  mending  their  own. 
But  my  object  is  not  to  prove  that  I  can  write  well,  but,  if  possible,  to  make  others  write  better. 

As  the  poem  has  met  with  far  more  success  than  I  expected,  I  have  endeavored  in  this  edition  to  make 
some  additions  and  alterations,  to  render  it  more  worthy  of  public  perusal. 

1  This  preface  was  written  for  the  second  edition,  and  printed  with  it.  The  noble  author  had  left  thip 
country  previous  to  the  publication  of  that  edition,  and  is  not  yet  returned.  —  Note  to  the  fourth  edt 
tion,  1811.  — [  "He  is,  and  gone  again."  —  Byron,  1816.] 


ENGLISH  BARDS  AND   SCOTCH  REVIEWERS. 


105 


In  the  first  edition  of  this  satire,  published  anonymously,  fourteen  lines  on  the  subject  oi'  Bowles's 
Pope  were  written  by,  and  inserted  at  the  request  of,  an  ingenious  friend  of  mine,1  who  has  now  in  the 
press  a  volume  of  poetry.  In  the  present  edition  they  are  erased,  and  some  of  my  own  substituted  in 
their  stead;  my  only  reason  for  this  being  that  which  I  conceive  would  operate  with  any  other  person  in 
the  same  manner,  —  a  determination  not  to  publish  with  my  name  any  production,  which  was  not  entirely 
and  exclusively  my  own  composition. 

With2  regard  to  the  real  talents  of  many  of  the  poetical  persons  whose  performances  are  mentioned  or 
alluded  to  in  the  following  pages,  it  is  presumed  by  the  author  that  there  can  be  little  difference  of  opinion 
in  the  public  at  large;  though,  like  other  sectaries,  each  has  his  separate  tabernacle  of  proselytes,  by  whom 
his  abilities  are  overrated,  his  faults  overlooked,  and  his  metrical  canons  received  without  scruple  and 
without  consideration.  But  the  unquestionable  possession  of  considerable  genius  by  several  of  the  writers 
here  censured  renders  their  mental  prostitution  more  to  be  regretted.  Imbecility  may  be  pitied,  or,  at 
worst,  laughed  at  and  forgotten;  perverted  powers  demand  the  most  decided  reprehension.  No  one  can 
wish  more  than  the  author  that  some  known  and  able  writer  had  undertaken  their  exposure;  but  Mr. 
Gifford  has  devoted  himself  to  Massinger,  and,  in  the  absence  of  the  regular  physician,  a  country  practi- 
tioner may,  in  cases  of  absolute  necessity,  be  allowed  to  prescribe  his  nostrum  to  prevent  the  extension 
of  so  deplorable  an  epidemic,  provided  there  be  no  quackery  in  his  treatment  of  the  malady.  A  caustic 
is  here  offered;  as  it  is  to  be  feared  nothing  short  of  actual  cautery  can  recover  the  numerous  patients 
afflicted  with  the  present  prevalent  and  distressing  rabies  for  rhyming.  —  As  to  the  Edinburgh  Review- 
ers,3 it  would  indeed  require  an  Hercules  to  crush  the  Hydra;  but  if  the  author  succeeds  in  merely 
':  bruising  one  of  the  heads  of  the  serpent,"  though  his  own  hand  should  suffer  in  the  encounter,  he  will 
be  amply  satisfied.* 

1  [Mr.  Hobhouse.] 

2  Here  the  preface  to  the  first  edition  commenced.] 

3  ["  I  well  recollect  the  effect  which  the  critique  of  the  Edinburgh  Reviewers,  on  my  first  poem,  had 
upon  me  —  it  was  rage  and  resistance,  and  redress,  but  not  despondency  nor  despair.  A  savage  review 
is  hemlock  to  a  sucking  author,  and  the  one  on  me  (which  produced  the  English  Bards,  etc.)  knocked 
me  down  —  but  I  got  up  again.  That  critique  was  a  master-piece  of  low  wit,  a  tissue  of  scurrilous  abuse. 
I  remember  there  was  a  great  deal  of  vulgar  trash,  about  people  being  '  thankful  for  what  they  could 
get,'  —  'not  looking  a  gift  horse  in  the  mouth,'  and  such  stable  expressions.  But  so  far  from  their  bully-- 
ing  me,  or  deterring  me  from  writing,  I  was  bent  on  falsifying  their  raven  predictions,  and  determined  to 
show  them,  croak  as  they  would,  that  it  was  not  the  last  time  they  should  hear  from  me."  —  Byron,  1821.] 

4  [■''  The  severity  of  the  criticism,"  Sir  Egerton  Brydges  has  observed,  "  touched  Lord  Byron  in  the 
point  where  his  original  strength  lay :  it  wounded  his  pride,  and  roused  his  bitter  indignation.  He  pub- 
lished '  English  Bards  and  Scotch  Reviewers,'  and  bowed  down  those  who  had  hitherto  held  a  despotic 
victory  over  the  public  mind.  There  was,  after  all,  more  in  the  boldness  of  the  enterprise,  in  the  fear- 
lessness of  the  attack,  than  in  its  intrinsic  force.  But  the  moral  effect  of  the  gallantry  of  the  assault, 
and  of  the  justice  of  the  cause,  made  it  victorious  and  triumphant.  This  was  one  of  those  lucky  devel- 
opments which  cannot  often  occur;  and  which  fixed  Lord  Byron's  fame.  From  that  day  he  engaged  the 
public  notice  as  a  writer  of  undoubted  talent  and  energy  both  of  intellect  and  temper."] 


Still  must  I   hear?*  —  shall  hoarse   Fitz- 
gerald 2  bawl 
His  creaking  couplets  in  a  tavern  hall,3 
And  I  not  sing,  lest,  haply,  Scotch  reviews 
Should  dub  me  scribbler,  and  denounce  my 
muse  ? 


1 IMIT.    "Semper    ego    auditor    tantum?       nun- 

quamne  reponam, 

Vexatus  toties  rauci  Theseide  Codri?" 

Jut).  Sat.  I. 

-["Hoarse    Fitzgerald."  —  "Right    enough; 

out   why   notice    such    a  mountebank."  —  Byron, 

1816.] 

3  Mr.  Fitzgerald,  facetiously  termed  by  Cobbett 
the  "  Small  Beer  Poet,"  inflicts  his  annual  tribute 


Prepare    for    rhyme  —  I'll   publish,  right    or 

wrong : 
Fools  are  my  theme,  let  satire  be  my  song. 

Oh  !  nature's  noblest  gift  —  my  gray  goose- 
quill  ! 
Slave  of  my  thoughts,  obedient  to  my  will, 


of  verse  on  the  Literary  Fund:  not  content  with 
writing,  he  spouts  in  person,  after  the  company 
have  imbibed  a  reasonable  quantity  of  bad  port, 
to  enable  them  to  sustain  the  operation.  —  [For 
the  long  period  of  thirty-two  years,  this  harmless 
poetaster  was  an  attendant  at  the  anniversary  din- 
ners of  the  Literary  Fund,  and  constantly  honored 
the  occasion  with  an  ode,  which  he  himself  recited 
with  most  comical  dignity  of  emphasis.] 


106 


ENGLISH  BARDS  AND   SCOTCH  REVIEWERS. 


Torn  from  thy  parent  bird  to  form  a  pen, 
That  mighty  instrument  of  little  men! 
The  pen  !  foredoomed  to  aid  the  mental  throes 
Of  brains  that  labor,  big  with  verse  or  prose, 
Thoughnymphs  forsake, and  critics  mayderide 
The  lover's  solace,  and  the  author's  pride. 
What  wits  !  what  poets  dost  thou  daily  raise  ! 
How  frequent  is  thy  use,  how  small  thy  praise  I 
Condemned  at  length  to  be  forgotten  quite, 
With  all  the  pages  which  'twas  thine  to  write. 
But  thou,  at  least,  mine  own  special  pen! 
Once  laid  aside,  but  now  assumed  again, 
Our  task  complete,  like  Hamet's  *  shall  be  free  ; 
Though  spurned  by  others,  yet  beloved  by  me  : 
Then  let  us  soar  to-day;  no  common  theme, 
No  eastern  vision,  no  distempered  dream  -i 
Inspires  —  our  path,  though  full  of  thorns,  is 

plain ; 
Smooth  be  the  verse,  and  easy  be  the  strain. 

When  Vice  triumphant  holds  her  sovereign 
sway, 
Obeyed  by  all  who  nought  beside  obey ; 
When  Folly,  frequent  harbinger  of  crime, 
Bedecks  her  cap  with  bells  of  every  clime; 
When  knaves  and  fools  combined  o'er  all  pre- 
vail, 
And  weigh  their  justice  in  a  golden  scale; 
E'en  then  the  boldest  start  from  public  sneers, 
Afraid  of  shame,  unknown  to  other  fears, 
More  darkly  sin,  by  satire  kept  in  awe, 
And  shrink  from  ridicule,  though  not  from  law. 

Such  is  the  force  of  wit !  but  not  belong 
To  me  the  arrows  of  satiric  song ; 
The  royal  vices  of  our  age  demand 
A  keener  weapon,  and  a  mightier  hand. 
Still  there  are  follies,  e'en  for  me  to  chase, 
And  yield  at  least  amusement  in  the  race : 
Laugh  when  I  laugh,  I  seek  no  other  fame; 
The  cry  is  up,  and  scribblers  are  my  game. 
Speed,  Pegasus  !  — ye  strains  of  great  and  small, 
Ode,  epic,  elegy,  have  at  you  all ! 
I  too  can  scrawl,  and  once  upon  a  time 
I  poured  along  the  town  a  flood  of  rhyme, 
A  schoolboy  freak,  unworthy  praise  or  blame  ; 
I  printed  —  older  children  do  the  same. 
'Tis  pleasant,  sure,  to  see  one's  name  in  print ; 
A  book's  a  book,  although  there's  nothing  in't. 
Not  that  a  title's  sounding  charm  can  save 
Or  scrawl  or  scribbler  from  an  equal  grave  : 
This  Lambe  must   own,  since  his   patrician 

name 
Failed   to  preserve  the  spurious    farce  from 

shame.8 


1  Cid  Hamet  Benengeli  promises  repose  to  his 
pen,  in  the  last  chapter  of  Don  Quixote.  Oh  !  that 
our  voluminous  gentry  would  follow  the  example 
of  Cid  Hamet  Benengeli. 

2  ["  This  must  have  been  written  in  the  spirit  of 
prophecy."  —  Byron,  1816.] 

3  This  ingenious  youth  is  mentioned  more  par- 
ticularly, with  his  production,  in  another  place. 


No  matter,  George  continues  still  to  write,4 
Though  now  the  name  is  veiled  from  public 

sight. 
Moved  by  the  great  example,  I  pursue 
The  self-same  road,  but  make  my  own  review  : 
Not  seek  great  Jeffrey's,  yet,  like  him,  will  be 
Self-constituted  judge  of  poesy. 

A  man  must  serve  his  time  to  every  trade 
Save  censure  —  critics  all  are  ready  made. 
Take  hackneyed  jokes  from  Miller,  got  by  rote, 
With  just  enough  of  learning  to  misquote; 
A  mind  well  skilled  to  find  or  forge  a  fault; 
A  turn  for  punning,  call  it  Attic  salt ; 
To  Jeffrey  go,  be  silent  and  discreet, 
His  pay  is  just  ten  sterling  pounds  per  sheet : 
Fear  not  to  lie,  'twill  seem  a  sharper  hit ; 
Shrink  not  from  blasphemy,  'twill  pass  for  wit; 
Care  not  for  feeling  —  pass  your  proper  jest, 
And  stand  a  critic,  hated  yet  caressed. 

And  shall  we  own  such  judgment  ?  no  —  as 
soon 
Seek  roses  in  December  —  ice  in  June; 
Hope  constancy  in  wind,  or  corn  in  chaff; 
Believe  a  woman  or  an  epitaph, 
Or  any  other  thing  that's  false,  before 
You  trust  in  critics,  who  themselves  are  sore; 
Or  yield  one  single  thought  to  be  misled 
By  Jeffrey's  heart,  or  Lambe's  Bceotian  head.5 
To  these  young  tyrants,6  by  themselves  mis- 
placed, 
Combined  usurpers  on  the  throne  of  taste ; 
To  these,  when  authors  bend  in  humble  awe, 
And  hail  their  voice  as  truth,  their  word  as  law — 
While  these  are  censors,  'twould  be  sin  to 

spare ; 
While  such  are  critics,  why  should  I  forbear  ? 
But  yet,  so  near  all  modern  worthies  run, 
'Tis  doubtful  whom  to  seek,  or  whom  to  shun  ; 
Nor  know  we  when  to  spare,  or  where  to  strike, 
Our  bards  and  censors  are  so  much  alike. 

Then  should  you  ask  me,"  why  I  venture  o'er 
The  path  which  Pope  and  Gifford  trod  before  ; 

4  In  the  Edinburgh  Review.  —  ["He's  a  very 
good  fellow,  and,  except  his  mother  and  sister,  the 
best  of  the  set,  to  my  mind."  —  Byron,  1816.] 

6  Messrs.  Jeffrey  and  Lambe  are  the  alpha  and 
omega,  the  first  and  last  of  the  Edinburgh  Review; 
the  others  are  mentioned  hereafter. 

["  This  was  not  just.  Neither  the  heart  nor  the 
head  of  these  gentlemen  are  at  all  what  they  are 
here  represented.  At  the  time  this  was  written,  I 
was  personally  unacquainted  with  either."  —  Byron, 
1816.] 

6  Imit.  "  Stulta  est  Clementia,  cum  tot  ubique 

occurrasperiturae  parcere  chartae." 

Juv.  Sat.  I. 

7  Imit.  "  Cur  tamen  hoc  libeat  potius  decurrere 

campo 
Per  quern  magnusequos  Auruncas  flexit 

alumnus: 
Si  vacat,  et  placidi  rationem  admittitis, 

edam."  Juv.  Sat.  I. 


ENGLISH  BARDS  AND   SCOTCH  REVIEWERS. 


1Q? 


if  not  yet  sickened,  you  can  still  proceed: 
Go  on ;  my  rhyme  will  tell  you  as  you  read. 
"  But  hold!  "  exclaims  a  friend,  —  "here's  some 

neglect : 
This  —  that  —  and  t'other  line  seem  incorrect." 
What  then  ?  the  self-same  blunder  Pope  has 

got, 
And   careless    Dryden  — "  Ay,   but   Pye   has 

not :  "  — 
Indeed !  —  'tis  granted,  faith  !  —  but  what  care 

I? 
Better  to  err  with  Pope,  than  shine  with  Pye. 

Time  was,  ere  yet  in  these  degenerate  days1 
Ignoble  themes  obtained  mistaken  praise, 
When  sense  and  wit  with  poesy  allied, 
No  fabled  graces,  flourished  side  by  side  ; 
From  the  same  fount  their  inspiration  drew, 
And,  reared  by  taste,  bloomgd  fairer  as  they 

grew. 
Then,  in  this  happy  isle,  a  Pope's  pure  strain 
Sought  the  rapt  soul  to  charm,  nor  sought  in 

vain  ; 
A  polished  nation's  praise  aspired  to  claim, 
And  raised  the  people's,  as  the  poet's  fame. 
Like  him  great  Dryden  poured  the  tide  of  song, 


1  [The  first  edition  of  the  Satire  opened  with  this 
line,  and  Byron's  original  intention  was  to  prefix 
the  following  — 

"  Argument. 

'  The  poet  considered!  times  past,  and  their  po- 
esy—  makes  a  sudden  transition  to  times  present  — 
is  incensed  against  bookmakers  —  revileth  Walter 
Scott  for  cupidity  and  ballad-mongering,  with  nota- 
ble remarks  on  M aster  Southey  —  complaineth  that 
Master  Southey  hath  inflicted  three  poems,  epic 
and  otherwise,  on  the  public  —  inveigheth  against 
William  Wordsworth,  but  laudeth  Mister  Coleridge 
and  his  elegy  on  a  young  ass  —  is  disposed  to  vitu- 
perate Mr.  Lewis  —  and  greatly  rebuketh  Thomas 
Little  (the  late)  and  the  Lord  Strangford  —  recom- 
mendeth  Mr.  Hayley  to  turn  his  attention  to  prose 
—  and  exhorteth  the  Moravians  to  glorify  Mr. 
Grahame  —  sympathized  with  the  Reverend 


Bowles  — and  deploreth  the  melancholy  fate  of 
James  Montgomery  —  breaketh  out  into  invective 
against  the  Edinburgh  Reviewers  —  calleth  them 
hard  names,  harpies  and  the  like  —  apostrophizeth 
Jeffrey,  and  prophesieth. — Episode  of  Jeffrey  and 
Moore,  their  jeopardy  and  deliverance;  portents 
on  the  morn  of  the  combat;  the  Tweed,  Tolbooth, 
Frith  of  Forth,  severally  shocked;  descent  of  a 
goddess  to  save  Jeffrey;  incorporation  of  the  bul- 
lets with  his  sinciput  and  occiput.  —  Edinburgh 
Reviewers  en  masse.  —  Lord  Aberdeen,  Herbert, 
Scott,  Hallam,  Pillans,  Lambe,  Sydney  Smith, 
Brougham,  etc.  —  The  Lord  Holland  applauded  for 
dinners  and  translations. — The  Drama;  Skeffing- 
ton,  Hook,  Reynolds,  Kenney,  Cherry,  etc.  — 
Sheridan,  Colman,  and  Cumberland  called  upon  to 
write.  —  Return  to  poesy  —  scribblers  of  all  sorts  — 
lords  sometimes  rhyme;  much  better  not  —  Hafiz, 
Rosa  Matilda,  and  X.  Y.  Z.  —  Rogers,  Campbell, 
Gifford,  etc.,  true  poets  —  Translators  of  the  Greek 
Anthology — Crabhe — Darwin's  style  —  Cambridge 

—  Seatonian  Prize  —  Smythe  —  Hodgson  —  Oxford 

—  Richards  —  Poeta  loquitur  —  Conclusion."] 


In   stream   less   smooth,  indeed,  yet   doubly 

strong. 
Then  Congreve's  scenes  could  cheer,  or  Ot- 

way's  melt — ■ 
For  nature  then  an  English  audience  felt. 
But  why  these  names,  or  greater  still,  retrace, 
When  all  to  feebler  bards  resign  their  place  ? 
Yet  to  such  times  our  lingering  looks  are  cast, 
When  taste  and  reason  with  those  times  are 

past. 
Now  look  around,  and  turn  each  trifling  paget 
Survey  the  precious  works  that  please  the  age ; 
This  truth  at  least  let  satire's  self  allow, 
No  dearth  of  bards  can  be  complained  of  now.2 
The  loaded  press  beneath  her  labor  groans, 
And  printers'  devils  shake  their  weary  bones; 
While   Southey's    epics    cram    the    creaking 

shelves, 
And  Little's  lyrics  shine  in  hot-pressed  twelves. 
Thus  saith  the  preacher:  "Nought  beneath 

the  sun 
Is  new ;  "  yet  still  from  change  to  change  we 

run : 
What  varied  wonders  tempt  us  as  they  pass. 
The  cow-pox,  tractors,  galvanism,  and  gas, 
In  turns  appear,  to  make  the  vulgar  stare, 
Till  the  swoln  bubble  bursts  —  and  all  is  air! 
Nor  less  new  schools  of  Poetry  arise, 
Where  dull  pretenders  grapple  for  the  prize : 
O'er  taste  awhile  these  pseudo-bards  prevail; 
Each  country  book-club  bows  the  knee  to  Baal, 
And,  hurling  lawful  genius  from  the  throne, 
Erects  a  shrine  and  idol  of  its  own  ; 3 
Some  leaden  calf — but  whom  it  matters  not. 
From   soaring   Southey  down   to   grovelling 

Stott.4 

Behold !   in  various  throngs  the  scribbling 
crew, 


2  ["  One  of  my  notions  is,  that  the  present  is  not 
a  high  age  of  English  poetry.  There  are  more  po- 
ets (soi-disant)  than  ever  there  were,  and  propor- 
tionably  less  poetry.  This  thesis  I  have  maintained 
for  some  years;  but,  strange  to  say,  it  meeteth  not 
with  favor  from  my  brethren  of  the  shell."  —  By- 
ron's Diary,  1821.J 

3  ["  With  regard  to  poetry  in  general,  I  am  con- 
vinced that  we  are  all  upon  a  wrong  revolutionary 
poetical  system,  not  worth  a  damn  in  itself,  and 
from  which  none  but  Rogers  and  Crabbe  are  free. 
I  am  the  more  confirmed  in  this  by  having  lately 
gone  over  some  of  our  classics,  particularly  Pope, 
whom  I  tried  in  this  way:  — I  took  Moore's  poems, 
and  my  own,  and  some  others,  and  went  over  them 
side  by  side  with  Pope's,  and  I  was  really  aston- 
ished and  mortified  at  the  ineffable  distance,  in 
point  of  sense,  learning,  effect,  and  even  imagina- 
tion, passion,  and  invention,  between  the  little 
Queen  Anne's  man,  and  us  of  the  Lower  Empire. 
Depend  upon  it,  it  is  all  Horace  then,  and  Claudian 
now,  among  us:  and  if  I  had  to  begin  again,  I 
would  mould  myself  accordingly."  —  Byron's  Di- 
ary, 1817.] 

4  Stott,  better  known  in  the  "  Morning  Post"  by 
the  name  of  Hafiz.     This  personage  is  at  present 


108 


ENGLISH  BARDS  AND   SCOTCH  REVIEWERS. 


For  notice  eager,  pass  in  long  review : 

Each  spurs  his  jaded  Pegasus  apace, 

And  rhyme  and  blank  maintain  an  equal  race  ; 

Sonnets  on  sonnets  crowd,  and  ode  on  ode  ; 

And  tales  of  terror  jostle  on  the  road ; 

Immeasurable  measures  move  along; 

For  simpering  folly  loves  a  varied  song, 

To  strange  mysterious  dulness  still  the  friend, 

Admires  the  strain  she  cannot  comprehend. 

Thus  Lays  of  Minstrels1  —  may  they  be  the 

last !  — 
On  half-strung  harps  whine  mournful  to  th' 

blast. 
While  mountain  spirits  prate  to  river  sprites, 
That  dames  may  listen  to  the  sound  at  nights  ; 
And  goblin  brats,  of  Gilpin  Horner's  brood, 
Decoy  young  border-nobles  though  the  wood, 
And  ski])  at  every  step,  Lord  knows  how  high, 
And  frighten  foolish  babes,  the  Lord  knows 

why ; 
While  high-born  ladies  in  their  magic  cell, 
Forbidding  knights  to  read  who  cannot  spell, 
Despatch  a  courier  to  a  wizard's  grave, 
And  fight  with  honest  men  to  shield  a  knave. 


the  most  profound  explorer  of  the  bathos.  I  re- 
member, when  the  reigning  family  left  Portugal,  a 
special  ode  of  Master  Stott's  beginning  thus:  — 
Stott  loquitur  quoad  Hibernia.  — 

"  Princely  offspring  of  Braganza, 
Erin  greets  thee  with  a  stanza,"  etc. 
Also  a  Sonnet  to  Rats,  well  worthy  of  the  subject, 
and  a  most  thundering  Ode,  commencing  as   fol- 
lows: — 

"  Oh!  for  a  Lay!  loud  as  the  surge 
That  lashes  Lapland's  sounding  shore." 
Lord   have  mercy  on   us!   the  "Lay  of  the   Last 
Minstrel  "  was  nothing  to  this. 

1  See  the  "  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel,"  passim. 
Never  was  any  plan  so  incongruous  and  absurd  as 
the  groundwork  of  this  production.  The  entrance 
of  Thunder  and  Lightning,  prologuizing  to  Bayes' 
tragedy  unfortunately  takes  away  the  merit  of  orig- 
inality from  the  dialogue  between  Messieurs  the 
Spirits  of  Flood  and  Fell  in  the  first  canto.  Then 
we  have  the  amiable  William  of  Deloraine,  "  a 
stark  moss-trooper,"  videlicet,  a  happy  compound 
of  poacher,  sheep-stealer,  and  highwayman.  The 
propriety  of  his  magical  lady's  injunction  not  to 
read  can  only  be  equalled  by  his  candid  acknowl- 
edgment of  his  independence  of  the  trammels  of 
spelling,  although,  to  use  his  own  elegant  phrase, 
"  'twas  his  neck-verse  at  Harribee,"  i.e.  the  gal- 
lows.—  The  biography  of  Gilpin  Horner,  and  the 
marvellous  pedestrian  page,  who  travelled  twice  as 
fast  as  his  master's  horse,  without  the  aid  of  seven- 
leagued  boots,  are  chefs-d'oeuvre  in  the  improve- 
ment of  taste.  For  incident  we  have  the  invisible, 
but  by  no  means  sparing  box  on  the  ear  bestowed  on 
the  page,  and  the  entrance  of  a  knight  and  charger 
into  the  castle,  under  the  very  natural  disguise  of  a 
wain  of  hay.  Marmion,  the  hero  of  the  latter  ro- 
mance, is  exactly  what  William  of  Deloraine  would 
have  been,  had  he  been  able  to  read  and  write.  The 
poem  was  manufactured  for  Messrs.  Constable, 
Murray,  and  Miller,  worshipful  booksellers,  in  con- 
sideration of  the  receipt  of  a  sum  of  money;   and 


Next  view  in  state,  proud  prancing  on  his 

roan, 
The  golden-crested  haughty  Marmion, 
Now  forging  scrolls,  now  foremost  in  the  fight, 
Not  quite  a  felon,  yet  but  half  a  knight, 
The  gibbet  or  the  field  prepared  to  grace ; 
A  mighty  mixture  of  the  great  and  base. 
And  thinkest  thou,  Scott!2  by  vain  conceit 

perchance 
On  public  taste  to  foist  thy  stale  romance, 
Though  Murray  with  his  Miller  may  combine 
J  yield  thy  muse  just  half-a-crown  per  line  ? 
No  !  when  the  sons  of  song  descend  to  trade, 
Their  bays  are  sear,  their  former  laurels  fade. 
Lei  such  forego  the  poet's  sacred  name, 
Who  rack  their  brains  for  lucre,3  not  for  fame  : 
Still  for  stern  Mammon  may  they  toil  in  vain  ! 
And  sadly  gaze  on  gold  they  cannot  gain ! 
Such  be  their  me'ed,  such  still  the  just  reward 
Of  prostituted  muse  and  hireling  bard  ! 
For  this  we  spurn  Apollo's  venal  son, 
And  bid  a  long  "good  night  to  Marmion."  4 

These  are  the  themes  that  claim  our  plaudits 

now, 
These  are  the  bards  to  whom  the  muse  must 

bow ; 
While  Milton,  Dryden,  Pope,  alike  forgot, 
Resign  their  hallowed  bays  to  Walter  Scott. 

The  time  has  been,  when  yet  the  muse  was 
young, 
When«Homer  swept  the  lyre,  and  Maro  sung, 
An  epic  scarce  ten  centuries  could  claim, 


truly,  considering  the  inspiration,  it  is  a  very  cred- 
itable production.  If  Mr.  Scott  will  write  for  hire, 
let  him  do  his  best  for  his  paymasters,  but  not  dis- 
grace his  genius,  which  is  undoubtedly  great,  by  a 
repetition  of  black-letter  ballad  imitations. 

'l  ["  When  Byron  wrote  his  famous  satire,  I  had 
my  share  of  flagellation  among  my  betters.  My 
crime  was  having  written  a  poem  for  a  thousand 
pounds:  which  was  no  otherwise  true,  than  that  I 
sold  the  copyright  for  that  sum.  Now,  not  to  men- 
tion that  an  author  can  hardly  be  censured  for  ac- 
cepting such  a  sum  as  the  booksellers  are  willing  to 
give  him,  especially  as  the  gentlemen  of  the  trade 
made  no  complaints  of  their  bargain,  I  thought  the 
interference  with  my  private  affairs  was  rather  be- 
yond the  limits  of  literary  satire.  I  was,  however, 
so  far  from  having  anything  to  do  with  the  offen- 
sive criticism  in  the  Edinburgh,  that  I  remonstrated 
against  it  with  the  editor,  because  I  thought  the 
"  Hours  of  Idleness"  treated  with  undue  severity. 
They  were  written,  like  all  juvenile  poetry,  rather 
from  the  recollection  of  what  had  pleased  the  author 
in  others,  than  what  had  been  suggested  by  his  own 
imagination;  but,  nevertheless,  I  thought  they  con- 
tained passages  of  noble  promise." — Sir  Walter 
Scott.] 

3  [Byron  set  out  with  the  determination  never  to 
receive  money  for  his  writings.  This  notion,  how- 
ever, he  soon  got  rid  of.j 

4  "  Good  night  to  Marmion  "  —  the  pathetic  and 
also  prophetic  exclamation  of  Henry  Blount,  Es- 
quire, on  the  death  of  honest  Marmion. 


ENGLISH  BARDS  AND   SCOTCH  REVIEWERS. 


109 


While  awe-struck  nations  hailed  the  magic 

name ; 
The  work  of  each  immortal  bard  appears 
The  single  wonder  of  a  thousand  years.1 
Empires  have  mouldered  from  the  face  of  earth, 
Tongues  have  expired  with  those  who  gave 

them  birth 
Without  the  glory  such  a  strain  can  give, 
As  even  in  ruin  bids  the  language  live. 
Not  so  with  us,  though  minor  bards  content, 
On  one  great  work  a  life  of  labor  spent : 
With  eagle  pinion  soaring  to  the  skies, 
Behold  the  ballad-monger  Southey  rise  ! 
To  him  let  Camoens,  Milton,  Tasso  yield, 
Whose  annual  strains,  like  armies,  take  the 

field. 
First  in  the  ranks  see  Joan  of  Arc  advance, 
The  scourge  of   England  and  the  boast   of 

France ! 
Though  burnt  by  wicked  Bedford  for  a  witch, 
Behold  her  statue  placed  in  glory's  niche ; 
Her  fetters  burst,  and  just  released  from  prison, 
A  virgin  phoenix  from  her  ashes  risen. 
Next  see  tremendous  Thalaba  come  on,2 
Arabia's  monstrous,  wild,  and  wond'rous  son  ;  3 
Domdaniel's  dread  destroyer,  who  o'erthrew 
More  mad  magicians  than  the  world  e'er  knew. 
Immortal  hero  !    all  thy  foes  o'ercome, 
For  ever  reign  —  the  rival  of  Tom  Thumb! 
Since  startled  metre  fled  before  thy  face, 
Well  wert  thou  doomed  the  last  of  all  thy  race  ! 
Well  might  triumphant  genii  bear  thee  hence, 
Illustrious  conqueror  of  common  sense! 
Now,  last  and  greatest,   Madoc  spreads  his 

sails, 
Cacique  in  Mexico,  and  prince  in  Wales ; 
Tells  us  strange  tales,  as  other  travellers  do, 
More  old  than  Mandeville's,  and  not  so  true. 
Oh,   Southey !    Southey !  4   cease   thy  varied 

song! 
A  bard  may  chant  too  often  and  too  long : 

1  As  the  Odyssey  is  so  closely  connected  with  the 
story  of  the  Iliad,  they  may  almost  be  classed  as 
one  grand  historical  poem.  In  alluding  to  Milton 
and  Tasso,  we  consider  the  "  Paradise  Lost,"  and 
"  Gierusalemme  Liberata,"  as  their  standard  ef- 
forts; since  neither  the  "Jerusalem  Conquered" 
of  the  Italian,  nor  the  "  Paradise  Regained"  of  the 
English  bard,  obtained  a  proportionate  celebrity  to 
their  former  poems.  Query:  which  of  Mr.  Southey's 
will  survive  ? 

2  "  Thalaba,"  Mr.  Southey's  second  poem,  is 
written  in  open  defiance  of  precedent  and  poetry. 
Mr.  S.  wished  to  produce  something  novel,  and 
succeeded  to  a  miracle.  "  Joan  of  Arc"  was  mar- 
vellous enough,  but  "Thalaba"  was  one  of  those 
poems  "  which,"  in  the  words  of  Porson,  "  will  be 
read  when  Homer  and  Virgil  are  forgotten,  but  — 
not  till  then." 

3  ["Of  Thalaba,  the  wild  and  wondrous  song."  — 
Southey  s  Madoc.] 

4  We  beg  Mr.  Southey's  pardon  :  "  Madoc  dis- 
dains the  degraded  title  of  epic."     See  his  preface. 


As  thou  art  strong  in  verse,  in  mercy,  spare ! 
A  fourth,  alas  !  were  more  than  we  could  bear. 
But  if,  in  spite  of  all  the  world  can  say, 
Thou  still  wilt  verseward  plod  thy  weary  way; 
If  still  in  Berkley  ballads  most  uncivil, 
Thou  wilt  devote  old  women  to  the  devil,5 
The  babe  unborn  thy  dread  intent  may  rue  : 
"  God  help  thee,"  Southey ,6  and  thy  readers 
too.7 

Next  comes  the  dull  disciple  of  thy  school, 
That  mild  apostate  from  poetic  rule, 
The  simple  Wordsworth,  framer  of  a  lay 
As  soft  as  evening  in  his  favorite  May,8 
Who  warns  his  friend  "  to  shake  off  toil  and 

trouble, 
And    quit   his    books,   for   fear   of    growing 

double;  "9 


Why  is  epic  degraded?  and  by  whom?  Certainly 
the  late  romaunts  of  Masters  Cottle,  Laureat  Pye, 
Ogilvy,  Hoole,  and  gentle  Mistress  Cowley,  have, 
not  exalted  the  epic  muse;  but  as  Mr.  Southey's 
poem  "  disdains  the  appellation,"  allow  us  to  ask 
—  has  he  substituted  any  thing  better  in  its  stead? 
or  must  he  be  content  to  rival  Sir  Richard  Black- 
more  in  the  quantity  as  well  as  quality  of  his  verse? 
B  See  "  The  old  women  of  Berkley,"  a  ballad,  by 
Mr.  Southey,  wherein  an  aged  gentlewoman  is 
carried  away  by  Beelzebub,  on  a  "  high-trotting 
horse." 

6  The  last  line,  "God  help  thee,"  is  an  evident  pla- 
giarism from  the  Anti-Jacobin  to  Mr.  Southey,  on  his 
Dactylics.  —  [Byron  here  alludes  to  Giflbrd's  parody 
on  Southey's  Dactylics,  which  ends  thus:  — 
"Ne'er  talk  of  ears  again!  look  at  thy  spelling- 
book; 

Dilworth  and  Dyche  are  both  mad  at  thy  quan- 
tities — 

Dactylics,  call'st  thou  'em  ?  — '  God  help  thee,  silly 
one.' "] 

7  [Byron  on  being  introduced  to  Southey  in  1813, 
at  Holland  House,  describes  him,  "  as  the  best 
looking  bard  he  had  seen  for  a  long  time."  —  "  To 
have  that  poet's  head  and  shoulders,  I  would,"  he 
says,  "  almost  have  written  his  Sapphics.  He  is 
certainly  a  prepossessing  person  to  look  on,  and  a 
man  of  talent,  and  all  that,  and  there  is  his  eulogy." 
In  his  Journal,  of  the  same  year,  he  says  — 
"Southey  I  have  not  seen  much  of.  His  appear- 
ance is  epic,  and  he  is  the  only  existing  entire  man 
of  letters.  All  the  others  have  some  pursuit  an- 
nexed to  their  authorship.  His  manners  are  mild, 
but  mot  those  of  a  man  of  the  world,  and  his  talents 
of  the  first  order.  His  prose  is  perfect.  Of  his 
poetry  there  are  various  opinions:  there  is,  per- 
haps, too  much  of  it  for  the  present  generation  — 
posterity  will  probably  select.  He  has  passages 
equal  to  any  thing.  At  present,  he  has  a  party,  but 
no  public  —  except  for  his  prose  writings.  His  Life 
of  Nelson  is  beautiful."  Elsewhere  and  later,  Byron 
pronounces  Southey's  Don  Roderick,  "  the  first 
poem  of  our  time."] 

8  ["  Unjust:'  — Byron,  1816.] 

9  Lyrical  Ballads,  p,  4.  —  "  The  Tables  Turned.' 
Stanza  1. 

"  Up,  up,  my  l'riend,  and  clear  your  looks; 


110 


ENGLISH  BARDS  AND   SCOTCH  REVIEWERS. 


Who,  both  by  precept  and  example,  shows 
That  prose  is  verse,  and  verse  is  merely  prose  ; 
Convincing  all,  by  demonstration  plain, 
Poetic  souls  delight  in  prose  insane ; 
And  Christmas  stories  tortured  into  rhyme 
Contain  the  essence  of  the  true  sublime. 
Thus,  when  he  tells  the  tale  of  Betty  Foy, 
Th(|  idiot  mother  of  "  an  idiot  boy ;  " 
A  moon-struck,  silly  lad,  who  lost  his  way, 
And,   like    his   bard,  confounded   night  with 

day ;  l 
So  close  on  each  pathetic  part  he  dwells, 
And  each  adventure  so  sublimely  tells, 
That  all  who  view  the  "  idiot  in  his  glory," 
Conceive  the  bard  the  hero  of  the  story. 

Shall  gentle  Coleridge  pass  unnoticed  here, 
To  turgid  ode  and  tumid  stanza  dear  ? 
Though  themes  of  innocence  amuse  him  best, 
Yet  still  obscurity's  a  welcome  guest. 
If  Inspiration  should  her  aid  refuse 
To  him  who  takes  a  pixy  for  a  muse,2 
Yet  none  in  lofty  numbers  can  surpass 
The  bard  who  soars  to  elegize  an  ass. 
So  well  the  subject  suits  his  noble  mind,  . 
He  brays,3  the  laureat  of  the  long-eared  kind.4 

Oh  !  wonderworking  Lewis  !5  monk.orbard, 
Who  fain  wouldst  make  Parnassus  a  church- 
yard ! 


Why  all  this  toil  and  trouble? 
Up,  up,  my  friend,  and  quit  your  books, 
Or  surely  you'll  grow  double." 

1  Mr.  W.  in  his  preface  labors  hard  to  prove,  that 
prose  and  verse  are  much  the  same;  and  certainly 
his  precepts  and  practice  are  strictly  conformable:  — 

"  And  thus  to  Betty's  questions  he 
Made  answer,  like  a  traveller  bold. 
The  cock  did  crow,  to-whoo,  to-whoo, 
And  the  sun  did  shine  so  cold,"  etc.  etc., 
p.  129. 

2  Coleridge's  Poems,  p.  n,  Songs  of  the  Pixies, 
i.e.  Devonshire  fairies;  p.  42,  we  have,  "Lines  to 
1  young  Lady:  "  and,  p.  52,  "  Lines  to  a  young 
Ass." 

3  [Thus  altered  by  Byron,  in  his  last  revision  of 
the  satire.     In  all  former  editions  the  line  stood, 

"A  fellow-feeling  makes  us  wond'rous  kind."] 

4  ["  Unjust"  says  Byron  in  1816.  —  In  a  letter 
to  Coleridge,  written  in  1S15,  he  says,  —  "You 
mention  my  '  Satire,'  lampoon,  or  whatever  you 
or  others  please  to  call  it.  I  can  only  say,  that  it 
was  written  when  I  was  very  young  and  very  angry, 
and  has  been  a  thorn  in  my  side  ever  since :  more 
particularly  as  almost  all  the  persons  animadverted 
upon  became  subsequently  my  acquaintances,  and 
some  of  them  my  friends;  which  is  'heaping  fire 
vipon  an  enemy's  head,'  and  forgiving  me  too  read- 
ily to  permit  me  to  forgive  myself.  The  part  ap- 
plied to  you  is  pert,  and  petulant,  and  shallow 
enough ;  but,  although  I  have  long  done  every  thing 
in  my  power  to  suppress  the  circulation  of  the 
whole  thing,  I  shall  always  regret  the  wantonness 
or  generality  of  many  of  its  attempted  attacks."] 

6  [Matthew  Gregory  Lewis,  M.  P.  for  Hindon, 


Lo  !  wreaths  of  yew,  not  laurel,  bind  thy  brow, 
Thy  muse  a  sprite,  Apollo's  sexton  thou! 
Whether  on  ancient  tombs  thou    takcst   thy 

stand, 
By   gibbering   spectres   hailed,   thy    kindred 

band; 
Or  tracest  chaste  descriptions  on  thy  page, 
To  please  the  females  of  our  modest  age ; 
All  hail,  M.  P. !  6  from  whose  infernal  brain 
Thin  sheeted  phantoms  glide,  a  grisly  train  ; 
At  whose  command  "  grim  women  "  throng  in 

crowds, 
And  kings  of  fire,  of  water,  and  of  clouds, 
With  "small  grey  men,"  "  wild  yagers,"  and 

what  not, 
To  crown  with  honor  thee  and  Walter  Scott ; 
Again  all  hail !  if  tales  like  thine  may  please, 
St.  Luke  alone  can  vanquish  the  disease; 
Even  Satan's  self  with  thee  might  dread  to 

dwell, 
And  in  thy  skull  discern  a  deeper  hell. 


never  distinguished  himself  in  Parliament,  but, 
mainly  in  consequence  of  the  clever  use  he  made  of 
his  knowledge  of  the  German  language,  then  a  rare 
accomplishment,  attracted  much  notice  in  the  liter- 
ary world,  at  a  very  early  period  of  his  life.  His 
Tales  of  Terror;  the  drama  of  the  Castle  Spectre; 
and  the  romance  called  the  Bravo  of  Venice  (which 
is,  however,  little  more  than  a  version  from  the 
Swiss  Zschokke) ;  but  above  all,  the  libidinous  and 
impious  novel  of  The  Monk,  invested  the  name  of 
Lewis  with  an  extraordinary  degree  of  celebrity, 
during  l^ie  poor  period  which  intervened  between 
the  obscuration  of  Cowper,  and  the  full  display  0 
Sir  Walter  Scott's  talents  in  the  "  Lay  of  the  Last 
Minstrel," — a  period  which  is  sufficiently  character- 
ized by  the  fact  that  Hayley  then  passed  for  a  Poet. 
Next  to  that  solemn  coxcomb,  Lewis  was  for  sev- 
eral years  the  fashionable  versifier  of  his  time;  but 
his  plagiarisms,  perhaps  more  audacious  than  had 
ever  before  been  resorted  to  by  a  man  of  real  talents, 
were  by  degrees  unveiled,  and  writers  of  greater 
original  genius,  as  well  as  of  purer  taste  and  mor- 
als, successively  emerging,  Monk  Lewis,  dying 
young,  had  already  outlived  his  reputation.  In 
society  he  was  to  the  last  a  favorite;  and  Byron, 
who  had  become  well  acquainted  with  him  during 
his  experience  of  London  life,  thus  notices  his 
death,  which  occurred  at  sea  in  181S:  —  "Lewis 
was  a  good  man,  a  clever  man,  but  a  bore.  My 
only  revenge  or  consolation  used  to  be  setting  him 
by  the  ears  with  some  viracious  person  who  hated 
bores  especially,  —  Madame  de  Stael  or  Hobhouse, 
for  example.  But  I  liked  Lewis;  he  was  the  jewel 
of  a  man,  had  he  been  better  set;  —  I  don't  mean 
personally,  but  less  tiresome,  for  he  was  tedious, 
as  well  as  contradictory  to  even'  thing  and  every 
body.  Poor  fellow!  he  died  a  martyr  to  his  new 
riches  —  of  a  second  visit  to  Jamaica:  — 

"  I'd  give  the  lands  of  Deloraine, 
Dark  Musgrave  were  alive  again!  " 
That  is,— 

"  I  would  give  many  a  sugar  cane, 
Mat  Lewis  were  alive  again  !  "] 
c  "  For  every  one  knows,  little  Matt's  an  M.  P."  — 
See  a  poem  to  Mr.  Lewis,  in  "  The  Statesman,"  sup- 
posed to  be  written  by  Mr.  Jekyll. 


ENGLISH  BARDS  AND   SCOTCH  REVIEWERS. 


HI 


Who  in  soft  guise,  surrounded  by  a  choir 
Of  virgins  melting,  not  to  Vesta's  fire, 
With  sparkling  eyes,  and   cheek   by  passion 

flushed, 
Strikes  his  wild  lyre,  whilst  listening  dames  are 

hushed  ? 
Tis  Little  !  young  Catullus  of  his  day, 
As  sweet,  but  as  immoral,  in  his  lay ! 
Grieved  to  condemn,1  the  muse  must  still  be 

just, 
Nor  spare  melodious  advocates  of  lust. 
Pure  is  the  flame  which  o'er  her  altar  burns ; 
From  grosser  incense  with  disgust  she  turns ; 
Yet  kind  to  youth,  this  expiation  o'er, 
She  bids  thee  "  mend   thy  line,   and  sin  no 

more." 

For  thee,  translator  of  the  tinsel  song, 
To  whom  such  glittering  ornaments  belong, 
Hibernian   Strangford !    with   thine    eyes    of 

blue,2 
And  boasted  locks  of  red  or  auburn  hue, 
Whose  plaintive  strain  each  love-sick  miss  ad- 
mires, 
And  o'er  harmonious  fustian  half  expires, 
Learn,  if  thou  canst,  to  yield  thine  author's 

sense, 
Nor  vend  thy  sonnets  on  a  false  pretence. 
Think'st  thou  to  gain  thy  verse  a  higher  place, 
By  dressing  Camoens3  in  a  suit  of  lace? 
Mend,  Strangford !  mend  thy  morals  and  thy 

taste ; 
Be  warm,  but  pure  ;  be  amorous,  but  be  chaste  : 
Cease  to  deceive ;  thy  pilfered  harp  restore, 
Nor  teach  the  Lusian  bard  to  copy  Moore. 

Behold! — ye  tarts!  one  moment  spare  the 

text  — 
Hayley's  last  work,  and  worst  —  until  his  next ; 
Whether  he  spin  poor  couplets  into  plays, 
Or  damn  the  dead  with  purgatorial  praise, 
His  style  in  youth  or  age  is  still  the  same, 
For  ever  feeble  and  for  ever  tame. 
Triumphant  first  see  "  Temper's  Triumphs  " 

shine ; 
At  least  I'm  sure  they  triumphed  over  mine. 


1  [In  very  early  life,  "  Little's  Poems "  were 
Byron's  favorite  study.  "Heigho!"  he  exclaims 
in  1820,  in  a  letter  to  Moore,  "  I  believe  all  the 
mischief  I  have  ever  done  or  sung  has  been  owing 
to  that  confounded  book  of  yours."] 

2  The  reader,  who  may  wish  for  an  explanation 
of  this  may  refer  to  "  Strangford's  Camoens,"  p. 
127,  note  to  p.  56,  or  to  the  last  page  of  the  Edin- 
burgh Review  of  Strangford's  Camoens.  [Lord 
Strangford,  after  declaring  "  auburn  locks  and  eyes 
of  blue  "  to  be  "  the  essence  of  loveliness,"  and  in- 
dicative of  the  most  amiable  disposition  and  the 
warmest  heart,  proceeded  to  intimate  that  he  was 
personally  possessed  of  all  these  advantages.] 

3  It  is  also  to  be  remarked,  that  the  things  given 
to  the  public  as  poems  of  Camoens  are  no  more  to 
be  found  in  the  original  Portuguese,  than  in  the 
bong  of  Solomon 


Of  "  Music's  Triumphs,"  all  who  read  may 

swear 
That  luckless  music  never  triumphed  there.4 

Moravians,  rise  !  bestow  some  meet  reward 
On  dull  devotion—  Lo  !  the  Sabbath  bard, 
Sepulchral  Grahame,5  pours  his  notes  sublime 
In  mangled  prose,  nor  e'en  aspires  to  rhyme  ; 
Breaks  into  blank  the  Gospel  of  St.  Luke, 
And  boldly  pilfers  from  the  Pentateuch  ; 
And,  undisturbed  by  conscientious  qualms, 
Perverts    the    Prophets,    and    purloins    the 
Psalms. 

Hail,  Sympathy !  thy  soft  idea  brings  6 
A  thousand  visions  of  a  thousand  things, 
And  shows,  still  whimpering  through  t'hi-ee- 

score  of  years, 
The  maudlin  prince  of  mournful  sonneteers. 
And  art  thou  not  their    prince,  harmonious 

Bowles ! 
Thou  first,  great  oracle  of  tender  souls  ? 
Whether  thou  sing'st  with  equal  ease,  and  grief, 
The  fall  of  empires,  or  a  yellow  leaf; 
Whether  thy  muse  most  lamentably  tells 
What    merry  sounds    proceed   from    Oxford 

bells/ 


4  Hayley's  two  most  notorious  verse  productions 
are  "  Triumphs  of  Temper,"  and  "  The  triumph 
of  Music."  He  has  also  written  much  comedy 
in  rhyme,  epistles,  etc.  etc.  As  he  is  rather  an 
elegant  writer  of  notes  and  biography,  let  us  rec- 
ommend Pope's  advice  to  Wycherley  to  Mr.  H.'s 
consideration,  namely,  "  to  convert  his  poetry 
into  prose,"  which  may  be  easily  done  by  taking 
away  the  final  syllable  of  each  couplet. 

5  Mr.  Grahame  has  poured  forth  two  volumes  of 
cant,  under  the  name  of  "  Sabbath  Walks,"  and 
"Biblical  Pictures."  —  [This  amiable  man,  and 
pleasing  poet,  began  life  as  an  advocate  at  the  Ed- 
inburgh bar,  where  he  had  little  success,  and  being 
of  a  melancholy  and  devout  temperament,  entered 
into  holy  orders,  and  died  in  1811.] 

6  [In  the  MS.  immediately  before  this  line,  we 
find  the  following,  which  Byron  omitted,  at  the  re- 
quest of  Mr.  Dallas,  who  was,  no  doubt,  a  friend  of 
the  scribbler  they  referred  to:  — 

"  In  verse  most  stale,  unprofitable,  flat  — 
Come,  let  us  change  the  scene,  and  ' glean* 

with  Pratt; 
In  him  an  author's  luckless  lot  behold, 
Condemned  to  make  the  books  which  once  he 

sold: 
Degraded  man!   again  resume  thy  trade  — 
The  votaries  of  the  Muse  are  ill  repaid, 
Though  daily  puff's  once  more  invite  to  buy 
A  new  edition  of  thy  '  Sympathy.'  " 
To  which  this  note  was  appended:  —  "  Mr.  Pratt, 
once  a  Bath  bookseller,  now  a  London  author,  has 
written   as  much,  to   as   little   purpose,  as   any  of 
his  scribbling  contemporaries.      Mr.  P.'s  '  Sympa- 
thy '   is   in   rhyme;  but   his   prose   productions  are 
the  most  voluminous."     The  more  popular  of  these 
last  were  entitled  "  Gleanings."] 

7  See  Bowles's  "  Sonnet  to  Oxford,"  and  "  Stan- 
zas on  hearing  the  Bells  of  Ostend." 


112 


ENGLISH  BARDS   AND   SCOTCH  REVIEWERS. 


Or,  still  in  bells  delighting,  finds  a  friend 
In  every  chime  that  jingled  from  Ostend ; 
Ah  !  how  much  juster  were  thy  muse's  hap, 
If  to  thy  bells  thou  wouldst  but  add  a  cap ! 
Delightful  Bowles  !  still  blessing  and  still  blest, 
All  love  thy  strain,  but  children  like  it  best. 
'Tis  thine,  with  gentle  Little's  moral  song, 
To  soothe  the  mania  of  the  amorous  throng! 
With  thee  our  nursery  damsels  shed  their  tears, 
Ere  miss  as  yet  completes  her  infant  years  : 
But  in  her  teens  thy  whining  powers  are  vain  ; 
She  quits  poor  Bowles  for  Little's  purer  strain. 
Now  to  soft  themes  thou  scornest  to  confine 
The  lofty  numbers  of  a  harp  like  thine  ; 
"  Awake  a  louder  and  a  loftier  strain,"  * 
Such  as  none  heard  before,  or  will  again  ! 
Where  all  Discoveries  jumbled  from  the  flood, 
Since  first  the  leaky  ark  reposed  in  mud, 
By  more  or  less,  are  sung  in  every  book, 
From  Captain  Noah  down  to  Captain  Cook. 
Nor  this  alone ;  but,  pausing  on  the  road, 
The  bard  sighs  forth  a  gentle  episode  ;  2 
And  gravely  tells  —  attend,  —  each  beauteous 

miss !  — 
When  first  Madeira  trembled  to  a  kiss. 
Bowles !  in  thy  memory  let  this  precept  dwell. 
Stick  to  thy  sonnets,  man  !  —  at  least  they  sell. 
But  if  some  new-born  whim,  or  larger  bribe, 
Prompt  thy  crude  brain,  and  claim  thee  for  a 

scribe ; 
If  chance  some  bard,  though  once  by  dunces 

feared, 
Now,  prone  in  dust,  can  only  be  revered ; 
If  Pope,  whose  fame  and  genius,  from  the  first, 
Have  foiled  the  best  of  critics,  needs  the  worst, 
Do  thou  essay  :  each  fault,  each  failing  scan ; 
The  first  of  poets  was,  alas!  but  man. 
Rake  from  each  ancient  dunghill  every  pearl, 
Consult  Lord  Fanny,  and  confide  in  Curll ;  3 


1  "  Awake  a  louder,"  etc.,  is  the  first  line  in 
Bowles's  "Spirit  of  Discovery;"  a  very  spirited 
and  pretty  dwarf-epic.  Among  other  exquisite  lines 
we  have  the  following:  — 

"  A  kiss 
Stole  on  the  list'ning  silence,  never  yet 
Here  heard;  they  trembled  even  as  if  the  power," 
etc.  etc. 
That  is,  the  woods  of  Madeira  trembled  to  a  kiss; 
very  much  astonished,  as  well  they  might  be,  at 
such  a   phenomenon. —  ["Misquoted  and  misun- 
derstood by  me;  but  not  intentionally.     It  was  not 
the  "  woods,"  but  the  people  in  them  who  trembled 
—  why,   Heaven  only  knows — unless   they  were 
overheard  making  the  prodigious  smack."  —  Byron, 
1816.] 

2  The  episode  above  alluded  to  is  the  story  of 
"  Robert  a  Machin  "  and  "  Anna  d'  Arfet,"  a  pair 
(of  constant  lovers,  who  performed  the  kiss  above 
mentioned,  that  startled  the  woods  of  Madeira. 

3  Curll  is  one  of  the  heroes  of  the  Dunciad,  and 
was  a  bookseller.  Lord  Fanny  is  the  poetical  name 
of  Lord  Hervey,  author  of  "  Lines  to  the  Imitator 
of  Horace." 


Let  all  the  scandals  of  a  former  age 
Perch  on  thy  pen,  and  flutter  o'er  thy  page; 
Affect  a  candor  which  thou  canst  not  feel, 
Clothe  envy  in  the  garb  of  honest  zeal ; 
Write,  as  if  St.  John's  soul  could  still  inspire, 
And  do  from  hate  what  Mallet  4  did  for  hire. 
Oh  !  hadst  thou  lived  in  that  congenial  time, 
To   rave  with    Dennis,    and  with    Ralph    to. 

rhyme ; 5 
Thronged  with  the  rest  around  his  living  head, 
Not  raised  thy  hoof  against  the  lion  dead  ;  8 
A  meet  reward  had  crowned  thy  glorious  gains, 
And  linked  thee  to  the  Dunciad  for  thy  pains.' 

Another  epic  !     Who  inflicts  again 
More  books  of  blank  upon  the  sons  of  men  ? 
Boeotian  Cottle,  rich  Bristowa's  boast, 
Imports  old  stories  from  the  Cambrian  coast, 
And  sends  his  goods  to  market  —  all  alive  ! 
Lines  forty  thousand,  cantos  twenty-five  ! 
Fresh  fish  from  Helicon  !  8  who'll  buy  ?  who'll 

buy? 
The  precious  bargain's  cheap  —  in  fnith,  not  I. 
Your  turtle-feeder's  verse  must  needs  be  flat, 
Though  Bristol  bloat  him  with  the  verdant  fat; 
If  Commerce   fills  the   purse,  she   clogs  the 

brain, 
And  Amos  Cottle  strikes  the  lyre  in  vain. 
In  him  an  author's  luckless  lot  behold, 
Condemned  to  make  the  books  which  once 

he  sold. 
Oh,  Amos  Cottle !  —  Phoebus !  what  a  name 
To  filf  the  speaking  trump  of  future  fame  !  — 

4  Lord  Bolingbroke  hired  Mallet  to  traduce  Pope 
after  his  decease,  because  the  poet  had  retained 
some  copies  of  a  work  by  Lord  Bolingbroke — the 
"Patriot  King,"  —  which  that  splendid,  but  ma- 
lignant, genius  had  ordered  to  be  destroyed. — 
["  Bolingbroke's  thirst  of  vengeance,"  says  Dr. 
Johnson,  "  incited  him  to  blast  the  memory  of  the 
man  over  whom  he  had  wept  in  his  last  struggles; 
and  he  employed  Mallet,  another  friend  of  Pope,  to 
tell  the  tale  to  the  public,  with  all  its  aggravations."] 

5  Dennis  the  critic,  and  Ralph  the  rhymester.  — 
"  Silence,  ye  wolves!  while  Ralph  to  Cynthia  howls, 

Making  night  hideous:  answer  him,  ye  owls!  " 

Dunciad. 

6  See  Bowles's  late  edition  of  Pope's  works,  for 
which  he  received  three  hundred  pounds.  Thus 
Mr.  B.  has  experienced  how  much  easier  it  is  to 
profit  by  the  reputation  of  another,  than  to  elevate 
his  own. 

7  [Byron's  MS.  note  of  1816  on  this  passage  is, 
—  "Too  savage  all  this  on  Bowles."  and  well 
might  he  say  so.  For  in  spite  of  all  the  criticism 
to  which  his  injudicious  edition  of  Pope  exposed 
Bowles  afterwards,  there  can  be  no  doubt  that 
Byron,  in  his  calmer  moments,  did  justice  to  that 
exquisite  poetical  genius  which,  by  their  own  con- 
fession, originally  inspired  both  Wordsworth  and 
Coleridge,  j 

8  ["  Fresh  fish  from  Helicon!  "  — "  Helicon"  is 
a  mountain  and  not  a  fish  pond.  It  should  have 
been  "  Hippocrene."  —  Byron,  1816.  j 


ENGLISH  BARDS  AND   SCOTCH  REVIEWERS. 


113 


On,  Amos  Cottle!  for  a  moment  think 
What  meagre  profits  spring  from  pen  and  ink  ! 
When  thus  devoted  to  poetic  dreams, 
Who  will  peruse  thy  prostituted  reams  ? 
Oh  pen  perverted !  paper  misapplied  ! 
Had  Cottle1  still  adorned  the  counter's  side, 
Bent  o'er  the  desk,  or,  born  to  useful  toils, 
Been  taught  to  make  the  paper  which  he  soils, 
Ploughed,  delved,  or  plied  the  oar  with  lusty 

limb, 
He  had  not  sung  of  Wales,  nor  I  of  him.2 

As  Sisyphus  against  the  infernal  steep 
Rolls  the  huge  rock  whose  motions  ne'er  may 

sleep, 
So  up  thy  hill,  ambrosial  Richmond,  heaves 
Dull  Maurice3  all  his  granite  weight  of  leaves  : 
Smooth,  solid  monuments  of  mental  pain  ! 
The  petrifactions  of  a  plodding  brain, 
That,  ere  they  reach  the  top,  fall  lumbering 

back  again. 

With  broken  lyre,  and  cheek  serenely  pale, 
Lo  !  sad  Alcaeus  wanders  down  the  vale ; 
Though    fair    they    rose,    and    might    have 

bloomed  at  last, 
His   hopes    have   perished   by  the   northern 

blast : 
Nipped  in  the  bud  by  Caledonian  gales, 
His  blossoms  wither  as  the  blast  prevails  ! 
O'er  his  lost  works  let  classic  Sheffield  weep ; 
May  no  rude  hand  disturb  their  early  sleep ! 4 

Yet  say !  why  should  the  bard  at  once  re- 
sign 
His  claim  to  favor  from  the  sacred  nine  ? 


1  Mr.  Cottle,  Amos,  Joseph,  I  don't  know  which, 
but  one  or  both,  once  sellers  of  books  they  did  not 
write,  and  now  writers  of  books  they  do  not  sell, 
have  published  a  pair  of  epics.  "  Alfred,"  —  (poor 
Alfred!  Pye  has  been  at  him  too!)  —  "Alfred," 
ind  the  "  Fall  of  Cambria." 

2  "All  right.  I  saw  some  letters  of  this  fellow 
^Joseph  Cottle)  to  an  unfortunate  poetess,  whose 
productions,  which  the  poor  woman  by  no  means 
thought  vainly  of,  he  attacked  so  roughly  and  bit- 
terly, that  I  could  hardly  resist  assailing  him,  even 
were  it  unjust,  which  it  is  not  —  for  verily  he  is  an 
ass."  —  Byron,  1816. 

3  Mr.  Maurice  hath  manufactured  the  compo- 
nent parts  of  a  ponderous  quarto,  upon  the  beau- 
ties of  "  Richmond  Hill,"  and  the  like:  —  it  also 
takes  in  a  charming  view  of  Turnham  Green,  Ham- 
mersmith, Brentford,  Old  and  New,  and  the  parts 
adjacent.  —  [The  Rev.  Thomas  Maurice  wrote 
:<  Westminster  Abbey,"  and  other  poems,  the 
"  History  of  Ancient  and  Modern  Hindostan,"  etc., 
and  his  own  "  Memoirs;  "  —  a  very  amusing  piece 
of  autobiography.  He  died  in  1824,  at  his  apart- 
ments in  the  British  Museum;  where  he  had  been 
for  some  years  assistant  keeper  of  MSS.] 

4  Poor  Montgomery,  though  praised  by  every 
English  Review,  has  been  bitterly  reviled  by  the 
Edinburgh.  After  all,  the  bard  of  Sheffield  is  a 
man  of  considerable  genius.  His  "  Wanderer  of 
Switzerland  "  is  worth  a  thousand  "  Lyrical  Bal- 
lads," and  at  least  fifty  "  degraded  epics." 


For  ever  startled  by  the  mingled  howl 

Of    northern   wolves,   that   still   in   darkness 

prowl ; 
A  coward  brood,  which  mangle  as  they  prey, 
By  hellish  instinct,  all  that  cross  their  way; 
Aged  or  young,  the  living  or  the  dead. 
No  mercy  find  —  these  harpies5  must  be  fed. 
Why  do  the  injured  unresisting  yield 
The  calm  possession  of  their  native  field  ? 
Why  tamely  thus  before  their  fangs  retreat, 
Nor  hunt  the  bloodhounds  back  to  Arthur's 

Sedt?6 

Health  to  immortal  Jeffrey !  once,  in  name, 
England  could  b  "last  a  judge  almost  the  same  ; 
In  soul  so  like,  so  merciful,  yet  just, 
Some  think  that  Satan  has  resigned  his  trust, 
And  given  the  spirit  to  the  world  again, 
To  sentence  letters,  as  he  sentenced  men. 
With  hand  less  mighty,  but  with  heart  as  black, 
\Vrith  voice  as  willing  to  decree  the  rack; 
Bred  in  the  courts  betimes,  though  all  that  law 
As  yet  hath  taught  him  is  to  find  a  flaw ; 
Since  well  instructed  in  the  patriot  school 
To  rail  at  party,  though  a  party  tool, 
Who  knows,  if  chance  his  patrons  should  re- 
store 
Back  to  the  sway  they  forfeited  before, 
His  scribbling  toils  some   recompense  may 

meet, 
And  raise  this  Daniel  to  the  judgment-seat  ?' 
Let  Jeffries'  shade  indulge  the  pious  hope, 
And  greeting  thus,  present  him  with  a  rope : 
"  Heir  to  my  virtues  !  man  of  equal  mind  ! 
Skilled  to  condemn  as  to  traduce  mankind, 
This  cord  receive,  for  thee  reserved  with  care. 
To  wield  in  judgment,  and  at  length  to  wear." 

Health  to  great  Jeffrey!  Heaven  preserve 

his  life, 
To  flourish  on  the  fertile  shores  of  Fife, 
And  guard  it  sacred  in  its  future  wars, 
Since   authors   sometimes   seek  the   field   oi 

Mars ! 
Can  none  remember  that  eventful  day,8 

6  [In  a  MS.  critique  on  this  satire,  by  the  late 
Reverend  William  Crowe,  public  orator  at  Oxford, 
the  incongruity  of  these  metaphors  is  thus  noticed: 
"  Within  the  space  of  three  or  four  couplets  he 
transforms  a  man  into  as  many  different  animals' 
allow  him  but  the  compass  of  three  lines,  and  he 
will  metamorphose  him  from  a  wolf  into  a  harpy, 
and  in  three  more  he  will  make  him  a  bloodhound." 
On  seeing  Mr.  Crowe's  remarks,  Byron  desired 
Mr.  Murray  to  substitute,  in  the  copy  in  his  pos- 
session, for  "  hellish,  instinct,"  "  br?ttal  instinct," 
for  "  harpies,"  "felons,"  and  for  "  blood-hounds," 
"  hell-hounds."] 

0  Arthur's  Seat;  the  hill  which  overhangs  Edin- 
burgh. 

7  ["Too  ferocious  —  this  is  mere  insanity."  — 
Byron,  181 6.] 

R  ["  All  this  is  bad,  because  personal."  —  Byron 
1816.] 


214 


ENGLISH  BARDS  AND   SCOTCH  REVIEWERS. 


That  ever  glorious,  almost  fatal  fray, 
When  Little's  leadless  pistol  met  his  eye, 
And  Bow-street  myrmidons   stood   laughing 

by?l 
Oh,  day  disastrous !     On  her  firm-set  rock, 
Dunedin's  castle  felt  a  secret  shock; 
Dark  rolled  the  sympathetic  waves  of  Forth, 
Low  groaned  the  startled  whirlwinds  of  the 
north ; 

ruffled  half  his  waves  to  form  a  tear, 
The  other  half  pursued  its  calm  career;2 
Arthur's  steep  summit  nodded  to  its  base, 
The  surly  Tolbooth  scarcely  kept  her  place. 
The  Tolbooth   felt  —  for   marble   sometimes 

can, 
On  such  occasions,  feel  as  much  as  man  — 
The  Tolbooth  felt  defrauded  of  his  charms, 
If  I'ffrey  died,  except  within  her  arms  :3 
Nay  last,  not  least,  on  that  portentous  morn, 
The  sixteenth  story,  where  himself  was  born, 
His  patrimonial  garret,  fell  to  ground, 
And  pale  Edina  shuddered  at  the  sound  : 
Strewed  were  the  streets  around  with  milk- 
white  reams,. 
Flowed  all  the  Canongate  with  inky  streams; 
This  of  his  candor  seemed  the  sable  dew, 
That  of  his  valor  showed  the  bloodless  hue ; 
And  all  with  justice  deemed  the  two  combined 
The  mingled  emblems  of  his  mighty  mind. 
But  Caledonia's  goddess  hovered  o'er 
The  field,  and  saved  him  from  the  wrath  of 

Moore; 
From  either  pistol  snatched  the  vengeful  lead, 


1  In  1806,  Messrs.  Jeffrey  and  Moore  met  at 
Chalk-Farm.  The  duel  was  prevented  by  the  in- 
terference of  the  magistracy;  and,  on  examination, 
the  balls  of  the  pistols  were  found  to  have  evapo- 
rated. This  incident  gave  occasion  to  much  wag- 
gery in  the  daily  prints. 

[For  this  note  Moore  sent  Byron  a  challenge, 
which  resulted  in  explanations  and  friendship,  in- 
stead of  a  duel.  The  note  was  then  omitted  from 
the  fifth  edition,  and  the  following  substituted  in  its 
place.] — "I  am  informed  that  Mr.  Moore  pub- 
lished at  the  time  a  disavowal  of  the  statements  in 
the  newspapers,  as  far  as  regarded  himself;  and,  in 
justice  to  him,  1  mention  this  circumstance.  As  I 
never  heard  of  it  before,  I  cannot  state  the  particu- 
lar, and  was  only  made  acquainted  with  the  fact 
very  lately.  —  November  4,  1811." 

2  The  Tweed  here  behaved  with  proper  decorum; 
it  would  have  been  highly  reprehensible  in  the 
English  half  of  the  river  to  have  shown  the  smallest 
symptom  of  apprehension. 

3  This  display  of  sympathy  on  the  part  of  the 
Tolbooth  (the  principal  prison  in  Edinburgh), 
which  truly  seems  to  have  been  most  affected 
on  this  occasion,  is  much  to  be  commended.  It 
was  to  be  apprehended,  that  the  many  unhappy 
criminals  executed  in  the  front  might  have  ren- 
dered the  edifice  more  callous.  She  is  said  to  be  of 
the  softer  sex  because  her  delicacy  of  feeling  on 
ihis  day  was  truly  feminine,  though,  like  most  fem- 
inine impulses,  perhaps  a  little  selfish. 


And  straight  restored  it  to  her  favorite's  head; 
That  head,  with  greater  than  magnetic  power, 
Caught  it,  as  Danae  caught  the  goiden  shower, 
And,  though  the  thickening  dross  will  scarce 

refine, 
Augments  its  ore,  and  is  i*self  a  mine. 
"My  son,"  she  cried,"  ne'erthirst  for  gore  again 
Resign  the  pistol,  and  resume  the  pen ; 
O'er  politics  and  poesy  preside, 
Boast  of  thy  country,  and  Britannia's  guide! 
For  long  as  Albion's  heedless  sons  submit, 
Or  Scottish  taste  decides  on  English  wit, 
So  long  shall  last  thine  unmolested  reign, 
Nor  any  dare  to  take  thy  name  in  vain. 
Behold,  a  chosen  band  shall  aid  thy  plan, 
And  own  thee  chieftain  of  the  critic  clan. 
First  in  the  oat-fed  phalanx  shall  be  seen 
The  travelled  thane,  Athenian  Aberdeen.4 
Herbert   shall   wield  Thor's    hammer,5  and 

sometimes, 
In  gratitude,  thou'lt  praise  his  rugged  rhymes. 
Smug  Sydney  6  too  thy  bitter  page  shall  seek, 
And  classic    Hallam, ^    much    renowned    foi 

Greek ; 


4  His  lordship  has  been  much  abroad,  is  a  mem- 
ber of  the  Athenian  Society,  and  reviewer  of"  Cell's 
Topography  of  Troy."  —  [In  1822,  the  Earl  of  Ab- 
erdeen published  an  "  Inquiry  into  the  Principles  of 
Beauty  in  Grecian  Architecture."] 

r'  Mr.  Herbert  is  a  translator  of  Iceland!*  and 
other  poetry.  One  of  the  principal  pieces  is  a 
"  SongVm  the  Recovery  of  Thor's  Hammer:  "  the 
translation  is  a  pleasant  chant  in  the  vulgar  tongue, 
and  endeth  thus  :  — 

"  Instead  of  money  and  rings,  I  wot, 

The  hammer's  bruises  were  her  lot. 

Thus  Odin's  son  his  hammer  got." 

[The  Hon.  William  Herbert,  brother  to  the  Earl  o\ 

Carnarvon.     He  also  published,  in  1811,  "  Helga," 

a  poem  in  seven  cantos.] 

8  The  Rev.  Sydney  Smith,  the  reputed  author  o\ 
Peter  Plymley's  Letters  and  sundry  criticisms. 

7  Mr.  Hallam  reviewed  Payne  Knight's"  Taste," 
and  was  exceedingly  severe  on  some  Greek  verses 
therein.  It  was  not  discovered  that  the  lines  were 
Pindar's  till  the  press  rendered  it  impossible  to 
cancel  the  critique,  which  still  stands  an  everlast- 
ing monument  of  Hallam's  ingenuity. 

Note  added  to  second  edition.  —  The  said  Hal- 
lam is  incensed  because  he  is  falsely  accused,  seeing 
that  he  never  dineth  at  Holland  House.  If  this  be 
true,  I  am  sorry  —  not  for  having  said  so,  but  on 
his  account,  as  I  understand  his  lordship's  feasts 
are  preferable  to  his  compositions.  —  If  he  did  not 
review  Lord  Holland's  performance,  I  am  glad,  be- 
cause it  must  have  been  painful  to  read,  and  irk- 
some to  praise  it.  If  .Mr.  Hallam  will  tell  me  who 
did  review  it,  the  real  name  shall  find  a  place  in  the 
text;  provided,  nevertheless,  the  said  name  be  of 
two  orthodox  musical  syllables,  and  will  come  into 
the  verse:  till  then,  Hallam  must  stand  for  want  of 
a  better.  —  [It  is  not  necessary  to  vindicate  the  au- 
thor of  the  Middle  Ages  "  and  the  "  Constitutional 
History  of  England"  from  the  insinuations  of  the 
juvenile  poet.] 


ENGLISH  BARDS  AND  sCOTCH  REVIEWERS. 


115 


Scott  may  perchance  his  name  and  influence 

lend, 
And  paltry  Pillans1  shall  traduce  his  friend  ; 
While  gay  Thalia's  luckless  votary,  Lambe,2 
Damned    like   the   devil,  and    devil-like  will 

damn. 
Known  be  thy  name,  unbounded  be  thy  sway  ! 
Thy  Holland's  banquets  shall  each  toil  repay  ; 
While  grateful  Britain  yields  the  praise  she 

owes 
To  Holland's  hirelings  and  to  learning's  foes. 
Yet  mark  one  caution  ere  thy  next  Review 
Spread  its  light  wings  of  3£ffron  and  of  blue, 
Beware  lest  blundering  Brougham  3  destroy  the 

sale, 
Turn  beef  to  bannocks,  cauliflowers  to  kail." 
Thus  having  said,  the  kilted  goddess  kist 
Her  son,  and  vanished  in  a  Scottish  mist.4 
Then  prosper,  Jeffrey !  pertest  of  the  train 
Whom  Scotland  pampers  with  her  fiery  grain  ! 
Whatever  blessing  waits  a  genuine  Scot, 
In  double  portion  swells  thy  glorious  lot; 
For  thee  Edina  culls  her  evening  sweets, 


1  Pillans  is  a  tutor  at  Eton. —  [Mr.  Pillans  be- 
came afterwards  Rector  of  the  High  School  at  Edin- 
burgh. There  was  not,  it  is  believed,  the  slightest 
foundation  for  the  charge  in  the  text.] 

2  The  Hon.  George  Lambe  reviewed  "  Beres- 
ford's  Miseries,"  and  is  moreover,  author  of  a  farce 
enacted  with  much  applause  at  the  Priory,  Stan- 
more;  and  damned  with  great  expedition  at  t'.~\e  late 
theatre,  Covent  Garden.  It  was  entitled  "  Whistle 
for  It."  —  [The  reviewer  of  "  Beresford's  Miseries  " 
was  Sir  Walter  Scott.  In  1821,  Mr.  Lambe  pub- 
lished a  translation  of  Catullus.  In  1832,  he  was 
Under  Secretary  of  State  for  the  Home  Department. 
He  died  in  1S33.] 

3  Mr.  Brougham,  in  No.  XXV.  of  the  Edinburgh 
Review,  throughout  the  article  concerning  Don 
Pedro  de  Cevallos,  has  displayed  more  politics  than 
policy;  many  of  the  worthy  burgesses  of  Edin- 
burgh being  so  incensed  at  the  infamous  principles 
it  evinces,  as  to  have  withdrawn  their  subscriptions. 
—  [Here  followed,  in  the  first  edition,  —  "  Th;  name 
of  this  personage  is  pronounced  Broom  in  the  south, 
but  the  truly  northern  and  musical  pronunciation 
is  Brough-am,  in  two  syllables;  "  but  for  this,  By- 
ron substituted  in  the  second  edition: — "It  seems 
that  Mr.  Brougham  is  not  a  Pict,  as  I  supposed, 
but  a  Borderer,  and  his  name  is  pronounced  Broom, 
from  Trent  to  Tay:  — so  be  it."  —  The  Cevallos  ar- 
ticle was  written  by  Jeffrey.] 

4  I  ought  to  apologize  to  the  worthy  deities  for 
introducing  a  new  goddess  with  short  petticoats  to 
their  notice;  but,  alas!  what  was  to  be  done?  I 
could  not  say  Caledonia's  genius,  it  being  well 
known  there  is  no  such  genius  to  be  found  from 
Clackmanan  to  Caithness;  yet,  without  supernat- 
ural agency,  how  was  Jeffrey  to  be  saved?  The 
national  "  kelpies  "  are  too  unpoetical,  and  the 
"  brownies  "  and  "  gude  neighbors  "  (spirits  of  a 
good  disposition)  refused  to  extricate  him.  A  god- 
dess, therefore,  has  been  called  for  the  purpose; 
and  great  ought  to  be  the  gratitude  of  Jeffrey,  see- 
ing h  is  the  only  communication  he  ever  held,  or  is 
'jk«ly  to  hold,  with  any  thing  heavenly. 


And  showers  their  odors  on  thy  candid  sheets. 

Whose  hue  and  fragrance  to  thy  work  ad- 
here— 

This  scents  its  pages,  and  that  gilds  its  rear.5 

Lo !  blushing  Itch,  coy  nymph,  enamoured 
grown, 

Forsakes  the  rest,  and  cleaves  to  thee  alone ; 

And,  too  unjust  to  other  Pictish  men, 

Enjoys  thy  person,  and  inspires  thy  pen! 

Illustrious  Holland  !  hard  would  be  his  lot, 
His  hirelings  mentioned,  and  himself  forgot  !6 
Holland,  with  Henry  Petty"  at  his  back, 
The  whipper-in  and  huntsman  of  the  pack. 
Blest   be   the   banquets    spread   at    Holland 

House,8 
Where  Scotchmen  feed,  and  critics  may  ca- 
rouse ! 
Long,  long  beneath  that  hospitable  roof 
Shall  Grub-street  dine,  while  duns  are  kept 

all  lOf. 

See  honest  Hallam  lay  aside  his  fork, 
Resume  his  pen,  review  his  Lordship's  work, 
And,  grateful  for  the  dainties  on  his  plate, 
Declare  his  landlord  can  at  least  translate ! 9 
Dunedin !  view  thy  children  with  delight, 
They  write  for  food  —  and  feed  because  they 

write ; 
And  lest,  when  heated  with  the  unusual  grape, 
Some  glowing  thoughts  should  to  the  press  es- 
cape, 
And  tinge  with  red  the  female  reader's  cheek, 
My  lady  skims  the  cream  of  each  critique ; 
Breathes  o'er  the  page  her  purity  of  soul, 
Reforms  each  error,  and  refines  the  whole.10 


5  See  the  color  of  the  back  binding  of  the  Edin- 
burgh Review. 

6  ["  Bad  enough,  and  on  mistaken  grounds  too." 
—  Byron,  1816.] 

7  [Lord  Henry  Petty; — now(i85s)  Marquess  of 
Lansdowne.] 

8  [In  1813,  Byron  dedicated  the  Bride  of  Abydos 
to  Lord  Holland;  and  we  find  in  his  Journal  (Nov. 
17th)  this  passage  :  —  "I  have  had  a  most  kind  let- 
ter from  Lord  Holland  on  the  Bride  of  Abydos, 
which  he  likes,  and  so  does  Lady  H.  This  is  very 
good-natured  in  both,  from  whom  I  don't  deserve 
any  quarter.  Yet  I  did  think  at  the  time  that  my 
cause  of  enmity  proceeded  from  Holland  House, 
and  am  glad  I  was  wrong,  and  wish  I  had  not  been 
in  such  a  hurry  with  that  confounded  Satire,  o* 
which  I  would  suppress  even  the  memory;  but  peo 
pie,  now  they  can't  get  it,  make  a  fuss,  I  verily  be- 
lieve out  of  contradiction."] 

9  Lord  Holland  has  translated  some  specimens  oi 
Lope  de  Vega,  inserted  in  his  life  of  the  author. 
Both  are  bepraised  by  his  disinterested  guests. — 
[Lord  Holland  afterwards  published  a  very  good 
version  of  the  28th  canto  of  the  Orlando  Furioso, 
in  an  appendix  to  one  of  Stewart  Rose's  volume;.] 

10  Certain  it  is,  her  ladyship  is  suspected  of  hav- 
ing displayed  her  matchless  wit  in  the  Edinburgh 
Review.  However  that  may  be,  we  know,  from 
good  authority,  that  the  manuscripts  are  submitted 
to  her  perusal  —  no  doubt,  for  correction. 


U6 


ENGLISH  BARDS  AND   SCOTCH  REVIEWERS. 


Now  to  the  Drama  turn  —  Oh  !  motley  sight ! 

What  precious  scenes  the  wondering  eyes  in- 
vite! 

Puns,  and  a  prince  within  a  barrel  pent,1 

And  Dibdin's  nonsense  yield  complete  content. 

Though  now,  thank  Heaven !  the  Roscio- 
mania's  o'er,2 

And  full-grown  actors  are  endured  once  more ; 

Yet  what  avail  their  vain  attempts  to  please, 

While  British  critics  suffer  scenes  like  these; 

While  Reynolds  vents  his  "dammes!" 
" poohs ! "  and  " zounds  !  " 3 

And  common-place  and  common  sense  con- 
founds ? 

While  Kenney's  "World"  —  ah!  where  is 
Kenney's  wit  ?  — 

Tires  the  sad  gallery,  lulls  the  listless  pit ; 

And  Beaumont's  pilfered  Caratach  affords 

A  tragedy  complete  in  all  but  words  ?  * 

Who  but  must  mourn,  while  these  are  all  the 
rage, 

The  degradation  of  our  vaunted  stage  ! 

Heavens  !  is  all  sense  of  shame  and  talent  gone? 

Have  we  no  living  bard  of  merit  ?  —  none ! 

Awake,  George  Colman  !  5  Cumberland,*  a- 
wake ! 


1  In  the  melo-drama  of  Tekeli,  that  heroic  prince 
is  clapt  into  a  barrel  on  the  stage;  a  new  asylum 
for  distressed  heroes. —  [In  the  original  MS.  the 
note  stands  thus  : —  "  In  the  melo-drama  of  Tekeli, 
that  heroic  prince  is  clapt  into  a  barrel  on  the  stage, 
and  Count  Evrard  in  the  fortress  hides  himself  in  a 
green-house  built  expressly  for  the  occasion.  'Tis 
a  pity  that  Theodore  Hook,  who  is  really  a  man  of 
talent,  should  confine  his  genius  to  such  paltry  pro- 
ductions as  the  '  Fortress,'  '  Music  Mad,'  etc.  etc." 
-—This  extraordinary  humorist  was  a  mere  boy  at 
the  date  of  Byron's  satire.] 

-  [Master  Betty,  "  the  young  Roscius,"  had  a  lit- 
tle before  been  the  rage  with  the  play-going  public] 

3  All  these  are  favorite  expressions  of  Mr.  Rey- 
nolds, and  prominent  in  his  comedies,  living  and 
defunct. 

4  Mr.  T.  Sheridan,  the  new  manager  of  Drury 
Lane  theatre,  stripped  the  tragedy  of  Bonduca  of 
the  dialogue,  and  exhibited  the  scenes  as  the  spec- 
tacle of  Caractacus.  Was  this  worthy  of  his  sire? 
or  of  himself?  —  [Thomas  Sheridan,  who  united 
much  of  the  convivial  wit  of  his  parent  to  many 
amiable  qualities,  was  '  afterwards  made  colonial 
paymaster  at  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope,  where  he 
died  in  September,  1817,  leaving  a  widow  whose 
novel  of  "Carwell"  obtained  much  approbation, 
and  several  children;  among  others,  the  Honorable 
Mrs.  Norton.] 

6  [Byron  entertained  a  high  opinion  of  George 
Colman's  conversational  powers.  —  "  If  I  had,"  he 
says,  "  to  choose,  and  could  not  have  both  at  a 
time,  I  should  say,  '  Let  me  begin  the  evening  with 
Sheridan,  and  finish  it  with  Colman.'  Sheridan  for 
dinner,  and  Colman  for  supper;  Sheridan  for  claret 
or  port,  but  Colman  for  every  thing.  Sheridan 
was  a  grenadier  company  of  life-guards,  but  Col- 
man a  whole  regiment  —  of  light  infantry,  to  be 
sure,  hi't  still  a  regiment."] 

6  [Richard  Cumberland,  the  author  of  the  "  West 


Ring  the  alarum  bell!  let  folly  quake! 
Oh,  Sheridan !  if  aught  can  move  thy  pen, 
Let  Comedy  assume  her  throne  again  ; 
Abjure  the  mummery  of  the  German  schools; 
Leave  new  Pizarros  to  translating  fools; 
Give,  as  thy  last  memorial  to  the  age, 
One  classic  drama,  and  reform  the  stage. 
Gods !  o'er  those  boards  shall  Folly  rear  her 

head, 
Where    Garrick   trod,   and   Siddons  lives  t« 

tread  ? ' 
On    those   shall  Farce    display   Buffoon'ry's 

mask, 
And  Hook  concealed  his  heroes  in  a  cask  ? 
Shall  sapient  managers  new  scenes  produce 
From     Cherry,     Skeffington,     and     Mother 

Goose  ? 
While  Shakspeare,  Otway,  Massinger,  forgot, 
On  stalls  must  moulder,  or  in  closets  rot  ? 
Lo  !  with  what  pomp  the  daily  prints  proclaim 
The  rival  candidates  for  Attic  fame! 
In  grim  array  though  Lewis'  spectres  rise, 
Still  Skeffington  and  Goose  divide  the  prize.8 
And  sure  great  Skeffington  must   claim  our 

praise, 
For  skirtless  coats  and  skeletons  of  plays 
Renowned  alike  ;  whose  genius  ne'er  confines 
Her  flight  to  garnish    Greenwood's   gay  de- 
signs ; 9 
Nor  sleeps  with  "  Sleeping  Beauties,"  but  anon 
In  five  facetious  acts  comes  thundering  on,1" 
While  poor  John  Bull,  bewildered  with   the 

scene, 
Stares,  wondering  what  the  devil  it  can  mean  ; 
But  as  some  hands  applaud,  a  venal  few! 
Rather  than  sleep,  why  John  applauds  it  too. 

Such  are  we  now.    Ah !  wherefore  should 
we  turn 
To  what  our  fathers  were,  unless  to  mourn  ? 
Degenerate  Britons !  are  ye  dead  to  shame, 
Or,  kind  to  dulness,  do  you  fear  to  blame  ? 
Well  may  the  nobles  of  our  present  race 


Indian,"  the  "  Observer,"  and  one  of  the  most  inter- 
esting of  autobiographies,  died  in  1811.] 

7  [In  all  editions  previous  to  the  fifth,  it  was, 
"  Kemble  lives  to  tread."  Byron  used  to  S£.y,  that, 
"  of  actors,  Cooke  was  the  most  natural,  Kemble 
the  most  supernatural,  Kean  the  medium  between 
the  two;  but  that  Mrs.  Siddons  was  worth  them  all 
put  together."  Such  effect,  however,  had  Kean's 
acting  on  his  mind,  that  once,  on  seeing  him  play 
Sir  Giles  Overreach,  he  was  seized  with  a  fit.] 

8  [Dibdin's  pantomime  of  Mother  Goose  had  a 
run  of  nearly  a  hundred  nights,  and  brought  more 
than  twenty  thousand  pounds  to  the  treasury  of 
Covent  Garden  theatre.] 

9  Mr  Greenwood  is,  we  believe,  scene-painter  to 
Drury  Lane  theatre  — as  such,  Mr.  Skeffington  is 
much  indebted  to  him. 

10  Mr.  [afterwards  Sir  Lumley]  Skeffington  is  the 
illustrious  author  of  the  "  Sleeping  Beauty;  "  and 
some  comedies,  particularly  "  Maids  and  Bache- 
lors:" Baccalaurii  baculo  magis  quam  lauro  digni. 


ENGLISH  BARDS  AND  SCOTCH  REVIEWERS. 


117 


Watch  each  distortion  of  a  Naldi's  face ; 
Well  may  they  smile  on  Italy's  buffoons, 
And  worship  Catalani's  pantaloons, l 
Since  their  own  drama  yields  no  fairer  trace 
Of  wit  than  puns,  of  hunjor  than  grimace.2 

Then  let  Ausonia,  skilled  in  every  art 
To  soften  manners,  but  corrupt  the  heart, 
Pour  her  exotic  follies  o'er  the  town, 
To  sanction  Vice,  and  hunt  Decorum  down : 
Let  wedded  strumpets  languish  o'er  Deshayes, 
And  bless  the  promise  which  his  form  dis- 
plays ; 
While  Gay  ton  bounds  before  th'  enraptured 

looks 
Of  hoary  marquises  and  stripling  dukes  : 
Let  high-born  lechers  eye  the  lively  Prfisle 
Twirl  her  light  limbs,  that  spurn  the  needless 

veil ; 
Let  Angiolini  bare  her  breast  of  snow, 
Wave  the  white  arm,  and  point  the  pliant  toe ; 
Collini  trill  her  love-inspiring  song, 
Strain  her  fair  neck,  and  charm  the  listening 

throng ! 
Whet  not  your  scythe,  suppressors  of  our  vice  ! 
Reforming  saints  !  too  delicately  nice  ! 
By  whose  decrees,  our  sinful  souls  to  save, 
No  Sunday  tankards  foam,  no  barbers  shave  ; 
And  beer  undrawn,  and  beards  unmown,  dis- 
play 
Your  holy  reverence  for  the  Sabbath-day. 

Or  hail  at  once  the  patron  and  the  pile 
Of  vice  and  folly,  Greville  and  Argyle  ! 3 


1  Naldi  and  Catalani  require  little  notice;  for  the 
visage  ol  the  one  and  the  salary  of  the  other,  will 
enable  us  long  to  recollect  these  amusing  vaga- 
bonds. Besides,  we  are  still  black  and  blue  from 
the  squeeze  on  the  first  night  of  the  lady's  appear- 
ance in  trousers. 

2  [The  following  twenty  lines  were  struck  ofi  one 
night  after  Byron's  return  from  the  Opera,  and  sent 
the  next  morning  to  the  printer.] 

3  To  prevent  any  blunder,  such  as  mistaking  a 
street  for  a  man,  I  beg  leave  to  state,  that  it  is  the 
institution,  and  not  the  duke  of  that  name,  which  is 
here  alluded  to.  A  gentleman,  with  whom  I  am 
slightly  acquainted,  lost  in  the  Argyle  Rooms  sev- 
eral thousand  pounds  at  backgammon.*  It  is  but 
justice  to  the  manager  in  this  instance  to  say,  that 
some  degree  of  disapprobation  was  manifested:  but 
why  are  the  implements  of  gambling  allowed  in  a 
place  devoted  to  the  society  of  both  sexes?  A  pleas- 
ant thing  for  the  wives  and  daughters  of  those  who 
are  blest  or  cursed  with  such  connections,  to  hear 
the  billiard  tables  rattling  in  one  room,  and  the  dice 
in  another!  That  this  is  the  case  I  myself  can  testify, 
as  a  lat-  unworthy  member  of  an  institution  which 
materially  aTects  the  morals  of  the  higher  orders, 
while  the  lower  may  not  even  move  to  the  sound  of 
a  tabor  and  fiddle,  without  a  chance  of  indictment 
for  riotous  behavior. 

*  ["  True.  It  was  Billy  Way  who  lost  the  money. 
I  knew  him,  and  was  a  subscriber  to  the  Argyle  at 
the  time  of  the  event."  — Byron,  1816.J 


Where  yon  proud  palace,  Fashion's  hallowed 

fane, 
Spreads  wide  her  portals  for  the  motley  train, 
Behold  the  new  Petronius4  of  the  day, 
Our  arbiter  of  pleasure  and  of  play  ! 
There  the  hired  eunuch,  the  Hesperian  choir; 
The  melting  lute,  the  soft  lascivious  lyre, 
The  song  from  Italy,  the  step  from  France, 
The  midnight  orgy,  and  the  mazy  dance, 
The  smile  of  beauty,  and  the  flush  of  wine, 
For  fops,  fools,  gamesters,  knaves,  and  lords 

combine 
Each  to  his  humor  —  Comus  all  allows  ; 
Champagne,  dice,  music,  or  your  neighbor's 

spouse. 
Talk  not  to  us,  ye  starving  sons  of  trade  ! 
Of  piteous  ruin,  which  ourselves  have  made  ; 
In  Plenty's  sunshine  Fortune's  minions  bask, 
Nor  think  of  poverty,  except  "en  masque," 
When  for  the  night  some  lately  titled  ass 
Appears  the  beggar  which  his  grandsire  was, 
The  curtain  dropped,  the  gay  burletta  o'er, 
The  audience  take  their  turn  upon  the  floor ; 
Now  round   the  room  the  circling  dow'gers 

sweep, 
N  ow  in  loose  waltz  the  thin-clad  daughters  leap  ; 
The  first  in  lengthened  line  majestic  swim, 
The  last  display  the  free  unfettered  limb ! 
Those  for  Hibernia's  lusty  sons  repair 
With  art  the  charms  which  nature  could  not 

spare ; 
These  after  husbands  wing  their  eager  flight, 
Nor  leave  much  mystery  for  the  nuptial  night. 

Oh  !  blest  retreats  of  infamy  and  ease, 
Where,  all  forgotten  but  the  power  to  please, 
Each  maid  may  give  a  loose  to  genial  thought, 
Each   swain   may  teach  new  systems,  or  be 

taught : 
There  the  blithe  youngster,  just  returned  from 

Spain, 
Cuts  the  light  pack,  or  calls  the  rattling  main ; 
The  jovial  caster's  set,  and  seven's  the  nick, 
Or — done  !  —  a  thousand  on  the  coming  trick! 
If,  mad  with  loss,  existence  'gins  to  tire, 
And  all  your  hope  or  wish  is  to  expire, 
Here's  Powell's  pistol  ready  for  your  life, 
And,  kinder  still,  two  Pagets  for  your  wife  ;  5 
Fit  consummation  of  an  earthly  race, 
Begun  in  folly,  ended  in  disgrace ; 
While  none  but  menials  o'er  the  bed  of  death, 
Wash  thy  red  wounds,  or  watch  thy  wavering 

breath ; 
Traduced  by  liars,  and  forgot  by  all, 
The  mangled  victim  of  a  drunken  brawl, 
To  live  like  Clodius,  and  like  Falkland  fall.6 


4  Petronius  "Arbiter  Elegantiarum "  to  Nero, 
"  and  a  very  pretty  fellow  in  his  day,"  as  Mr.  Con- 
greve's  "  Old  Bachelor  "  saith  of  Hannibal. 

5  [The  original  reading  was,  "a  Paget  for  youi 
wife."] 

6  I  knew  the  late  Lord  Falkland  well.     On  Sun« 


118 


ENGLISH  BARDS  AND   SCOTCH  REVIEWERS. 


Truth  !  rouse  some  genuine  bard,  and  guide 

his  hand 
To  drive  this  pestilence  from  out  the  land. 
E'en  I  —  least  thinking  of  a  thoughtless  throng, 
Just  skilled  to  know  the  right  and  choose  the 

wrong, 
Freed  at  that  age  when  reason's  shield  is  lost, 
To  fight  my  course  through  passion's  count- 
less host,  l 
Whom  every  path  of  pleasure's  flowery  way 
Has  lured  in  turn,  and  all  have  led  astray  — 
E'en  I  must  raise  my  voice,  e'en  I  must  feel 
Such   scenes,  such  men,  destroy  the  public 

weal ; 
Although  some   kind,  censorious  friend  will 

say, 
"  What  art  thou  better,  meddling  fool,2  than 

they  ?  " 
And  every  brother  rake  will  smile  to  see 
That  miracle,  a  moralist  in  me. 
No  matter  —  when  some  bard  in  virtue  strong, 
Gifford  perchance,  shall  raise  the  chastening 

song, 
Then  sleep  my  pen  for  ever !  and  my  voice 
Be  only  heard  to  hail  him,  and  rejoice; 
Rejoice,  and  yield  my  feeble  praise,  though  I 
May  feel  the  lash  that  Virtue  must  apply. 

As  for  the  smaller  fry,  who  swarm  in  shoals 
From  silly  Hafiz  up  to  simple  Bowles,8 
Why  should  we   call  them   from  their  dark 

abode, 
In  broad  St.  Giles's  or  in  Tottenham-road  ? 
Or  (since  some  men  of  fashion  nobly  dare 
To  scrawl  in  verse)  from  Bond-street  or  the 

Square  ? 
If  things  of  ton  their  harmless  lays  indite, 
Most  wisely  doomed  to  shun  the  public  sight, 


day  night  I  beheld  him  presiding  at  his  own  table, 
in  all  the  honest  pride  of  hospitality ;  on  Wednesday 
morning,  at  three  o'clock,  I  saw  stretched  before  me 
all  that  remained  of  courage,  feeling,  and  a  host  of 
passions.  He  was  a  gallant  and  successful  officer: 
his  faults  were  the  faults  of  a  sailor —  as  such,  Brit- 
ons will  forgive  them.  He  died  like  a  brave  man  in 
a  better  cause;  for  had  he  fallen  in  like  manner  on 
the  deck  of  the  frigate  to  which  he  was  just  appointed, 
his  last  moments  would  have  been  held  up  by  his 
countrymen  as  an  example  to  succeeding  heroes.  — 
[Lord  Falkland  was  killed  in  a  duel  by  Mr.  Powell, 
in  1809.  Though  his  own  difficulties  pressed  on  him 
at  the  time,  Byron  gave  five  hundred  pounds  to  the 
widow  and  children  of  his  friend.] 

1  ["Yes:  and  a  precious  chase  they  led  me."  — 
Byron,  1816.] 

2  ["  Fool  enough,  certainly,  then,  and  no  wiser 
since."  —  Byron,  1816.] 

3  What  would  be  the  sentiments  of  the  Persian 
Anacreon,  Hafiz,  could  he  rise  from  his  splendid 
sepulchre  at  Sheeraz,  (where  he  reposes  with  Fer- 
dousi  and  Sadi,  the  oriental  Homer  and  Catullus,) 
and  behold  his  name  assumed  by  one  Stott  of  Dro- 
more,  the  most  impudent  and  execrable  of  literary 
poachers  for  the  daily  prints? 


What  harm  ?     In  spite  of  every  otitic  elf, 
Sir  T.  may  read  his  stanzas  to  himself; 
Miles  Andrews4  still  his  strength  in  couplets 

try, 
And  live  in  prologues,  though  his  dramas  die. 
Lords  too  are  bards,  such  things  at  times  be- 
fall, 
And  'tis  some  praise  in  peers  to  write  at  all. 
Yet,  did  or  taste  or  reason  sway  the  times, 
Ah  1  who  would  take  their  titles  with   their 

rhymes  ?  5 
Roscommon!  Sheffield!  with  your  spirits  fled, 
Xo  future  laurels  deck  a  noble  head  ; 
No  muse  will  cheer,  with  renovating  smile, 
The  paralytic  puling  of  Carlisl  .'■ 
The  puny  schoolboy  and  his  early  lay 
Men  pardon,  if  his  follies  pass  away; 
But  who  forgives  the  senior's  ceaseless  verse, 
Whose  hairs  grow  hoary  as  his  rhymes  grow 

worse  ? 
What  heterogeneous  honors  deck  the  peer ! 
Lord,  rhymester,  petit-mahre,  pamphleteer!7 
So  dull  in  youth,  so  drivelling  in  his  age, 
His   scenes  alone  had  damned  our  sinking 

stage ; 
But  managers  for  once  cried,  "  Hold,  enough  !" 
Nor  drugged  their  audience  with  the  tragic 

stuff. 
Yet  at  their  judgment  let  his  lordship  laugh, 
And  case  his  volumes  in  congenial  calf; 
Yes  !  doff  that  covering,  where  morocco  shines, 
And  ha*g  a  calf-skin  8  on  those  recreant  lines.'J 


4  [Miles  Peter  Andrews,  many  years  M.  P.,  Colo- 
nel of  the  Prince  of  Wales's  Volunteers,  author  of 
numerous  prologues,  epilogues,  and  farces,  and  one 
the  heroes  of  the  Baviad.     He  died  in  1814  ] 

B  [In  the  original  manuscript  we  find  these  lines :  — 
"  In  these,  our  times,  with  daily  wonders  big, 
A  lettered  peer  is  like  a  lettered  pig; 
Both  know  their  alphabet,  bui  who,  from  thence 
Infers  that  peers  or  pigs  have  manly  sense? 
Still  less  that  such  should  woo  the  graceful  nine: 
Parnassus  was  not  made  for  lords  and  swine."] 
c  [On  being  told  that  it  was  believed  he  alluded 
to  Lord  Carlisle's  nervous  disorder  in  this  line,  By- 
ron exclaimed,  —  "I  thank  heaven  I  did  not  know 
it;  and  would  not,  could  not,  if  I  had.    I  must  natu- 
rally be  the  last  person  to  be  pointed  on  defects  or 
maladies."] 

'  The  Earl  of  Carlisle  has  lately  published  an 
eighteen-penny  pamphlet  on  the  state  of  the  stage, 
and  offers  his  plan  for  building  a  new  theatre.  It 
is  to  be  hoped  his  lordship  will  be  permitted  to 
bring  forward  any  thing  for  the  stage  —  •  xcept 
his  own  tragedies. 

8  "  Doff  that  lion's  hide, 

And  hang  a  calf-skin  on  those  recreant  limbs." 

Shakspeare:  King  John. 
LordCarlisIe's  works,  most  resplendently  bound,  form 
a  conspicuous  ornament  to  his  book-shelves:  — 
"  The  rest  is  all  but  leather  and  prunella." 

9  ["  Wrong  also  —  the  provocation  was  not  suffi- 
cient to  justify   the  acerbity."  —  Byron,   1816.  — 


ENGLISH  BARDS  AND  SCOTCH  REVIEWERS. 


119 


With  you,  ye  Druids !  rich  in  native  lead, 
Who  daily  scribble  for  your  daily  bread ; 
With  you  I  war  not :  Gifford's  heavy  hand 
Has  crushed,  without  remorse,  your  numer- 
ous band. 
On  "  all  the  talents  "  vent  your  venal  spleen ; 
Want  is  your  plea,  let  pity  be  your  screen. 
Let  monodies  on  Fox  regale  your  crew, 
And  Melville's  Mantle  l  prove  a  blanket  too  ! 
One  common  Lethe  waits  each  hapless  bard, 
And,  peace  be  with  you  !  'tis  your  best  reward. 
Such  damning  fame  as  Dunciads  only  give 
Could  bid  your  lines  beyond  a  morning  live ; 
But  now  at  once  your  fleating  labors  close, 
With  names  of  greater  note  in  blest  repose. 
Far  be't  from  me  unkindly  to  upbraid 
The  lovely  Rosa's  prose  in  masquerade, 
Whose  strains,  the  faithful  echoes  of  her  mind, 
Leave  wondering  comprehension  far  behind. 2 
Though  Crusca's  bards  no  more  our  journals 

fill, 
Some  stragglers  skirmish  round  the  columns 

still ; 
Last  of  the  howling  host  which  once  was  Bell's, 
Matilda  snivels  yet,  and  Hafiz  yells  ; 
And  Merry's  metaphors  appear  anew, 
Chained  to  the  signature  of  O.  P.  Q.3 


Byron  greatly  regretted  the  sarcasms  he  had  pub- 
lished  against  his    noble    relation,  under  the    mis- 
taken impression  that  Lord  Carlisle  had  intention- 
ally slighted  him.    In  a  letter  to  Mr.  Rogers,  written 
in  1814,  he  asks,  —  "  Is  there  any  chance  or  possi- 
bility of  making  it  up  with  Lord  Carlisle,  as  I  feel 
disposed  to  do  any  thing  reasonable  or  unreasona- 
ble to  effect  it?"     And  in  the  third  canto  of  Childe 
Harold,  he  thus  adverts  to  the  fate   of  the   Hon. 
Frederick  Howard,   Lord  Carlisle's  youngest  son, 
one  of  those  who  fell  gloriously  at  Waterloo:  — 
"  Their  praise  is  hymned  by  loftier  harps  than 
mine: 
Yet  one  I  would  select  from  that  proud  throng, 
Partly  because  they  blend  me  with  his  line, 
And  partly  that  I  did  his  Sire  some  wrong, 
And  partly  that  bright  names  will  hallow  song; 
And  his  was  of  the  bravest,  and  when  show- 
ered, 
The   death-bolts   deadliest   the   thinned   files 

along, 
Even  where  the  thickest  of  war's  tempests 
lowered, 
They  reached  no  nobler  breast  than  thine,  young, 
gallant  Howard  !  "] 

1  "  Melville's  Mantle,"  a  parody  on  "  Elijah's 
Mantle,"  a  poem. 

2  This  lovely  little  Jessica,  the  daughter  of  the 
noted  Jew  King,  seems  to  be  a  follower  of  the  Delia 
Crusca  school,  and  has  published  two  volumes  of 
very  respectable  absurdities  in  rhyme,  as  times  go; 
besides  sundry  novels  in  the  style  of  the  first  edition 
of  the  Monk.  —  ["  She  since  married  the  Morning 
Post  —  an  exceeding  good  match;  and  is  now  dead 
—  which  is  better." —  Byron,  1816.] 

3  These  are  the  signatures  of  various  worthies  who 
figure  in  the  poetical  departments  of  the  newspapers. 


When  some  brisk  youth,  the  tenant  of  a 

stal!,4 
Employs  a  pen  less  pointed  than  his  awl, 
Leaves  his  snug  shop,  forsakes  his  store  of 

shoes, 
St.  Crispin  quits,  and  cobbles  for  the  muse, 
Heavens  !  how  the  vulgar  stare  !  how  crowds 

applaud ! 
How  ladies  read,  and  literari  laud ! 5 
If  chance  some  wicked  wag  should  pass  his 

jest, 
'Tis  sheer  ill-nature  —  don't  the  world  know 

best? 
Genius   must  guide  when   wits   admire   the 

rhyme, 
And  Capel  LofftS  declares  'tis  quite  sublime. 
Hear,  then,  ye  happy  sons  of  needless  trade! 
Swains !    quit  the  plough,  resign  the  useless 

spade ! 
Lo!    Burns'"  and  Bloomfield,  nay,  a  greater 

far, 


4  [Joseph  Blackett,  the  shoemaker.  He  died  at 
Seaham,  in  1810.  His  poems  were  afterwards  col- 
lected by  Pratt;  and,  oddly  enough,  his  principal 
patroness  was  Miss  Milbanke,  then  a  stranger  to 
Byron.  In  a  letter  written  to  Dallas,  on  board  the 
Volage  frigate  at  sea,  in  June,  181 1,  Byron  says, — 
"  I  see  that  yours  and  Pratt's  protege,  Blackett  the 
cobbler  is  dead,  in  spite  of  his  rhymes,  and  is  proba- 
bly one  of  the*  instances  where  death  has  saved  a 
man  from  damnation.  You  were  the  ruin  of  that 
poor  fellow  amongst  you:  had  it  not  been  for  his 
patrons,  he  might  now  have  been  in  very  good 
plight,  shoe-  (not  verse-)  making;  but  you  have 
made  him  immortal  with  a  vengeance:  who  would 
think  that  anybody  would  be  such  a  blockhead  as 
to  sin  against  an  express  proverb,  —  '  Ne  sutor  ultra 
crepidam !  ' 
'  But  spare  him,  ye  Critics,  his  follies  are  past, 

For  the  Cobbler  is  come,  as  he  ought,  to  his  last.'  — 
Which  two  lines,  with  a  scratch  under  last,  to  show 
where  the  joke  lies,  I  beg  that  you  will  prevail  on 
Miss  Milbanke  to  have  inserted  on  the  tomb  of  her 
departed  Blackett."] 

6  ["  This  was  meant  for  poor  Blackett,  who  was 
then  patronized  by  A.  J.  B."  (Lady  Byron);  "but 
that  I  did  not  know,  or  this  would  not  have  been 
written,  at  least  I  think  not." — Byron,  1816.] 

6  Capel  Lofft,  Esq.,  the  Maecenas  of  shoemakers, 
and  preface-writer-general  to  distressed  versemen;  a 
kind  of  gratis  accoucheur  to  those  who  wish  to  be 
delivered  of  rhyme,  but  do  not  know  how  to  bring 
forth.  —  [Bloomfield  owed  his  first  celebrity  to  the 
notice  of  Capel  Lofft  and  Thomas  Hill,  who  recom. 
mended  his  "  Farmer's  Boy"  to  a  publisher,  and  by 
their  influence  attracted  attention  to  its  merits.  The 
public  sympathy  did  not  rest  permanently  on  the 
amiable  poet,  who  died  in  extreme  poverty  in  1823.] 

7  ["  Read  Burns  to-day.  What  would  he  have 
been  if  a  patrician?  We  should  have  had  more 
polish  —  less  force — just  as  much  verse,  but  no  im- 
mortality—  a  divorce  and  a  duel  or  two,  the  which 
had  he  survived,  as  his  potations  must  have  been 
less  spirituous,  he  might  have  lived  as  long  as  Sheri- 
dan, and  outlived  as  much  as  poor  Briusley."  —  By 
ron's  Journal,  1813.] 


120 


ENGLISH  BARDS  AND   SCOTCH  REVIEWERS. 


Gifford  was  born  beneath  an  adverse  star, 
Forsook  the  labors  of  a  servile  state, 
Stemmed  the  rude  storm,  and  triumphed  over 

fate: 
Then  why  no  more  ?   if  Phoebus  smiled  on 

you, 
Bloomfield  !  why  not  on  brother  Nathan  too  ?  1 
Him  too  the  mania,  not  the  muse,  has  seized; 
Not  inspiration,  but  a  rniad  diseased : 
And  now  no  boor  can  seek  his  last  abode, 
No  common  be  inclosed  without  an  ode. 
Oh !    since   increased   refinement   deigns   to 

smile 
On  Britain's  sons,  and  bless  our  genial  isle, 
Let  poesy  go  forth,  pervade  the  whole, 
Alike  the  rustic,  and  mechanic  soul ! 
Ye  tuneful  cobblers!  still  your  notes  prolong, 
Compose  at  once  a  slipper  and  a  song ; 
So  shall  the  fair  your  handywork  peruse, 
Your  sonnets  sure  shall  please  —  perhaps  your 

shoes. 
May  Moorland  weavers2  boast  Pindaric  skill, 
And  tailors'  lays  be  longer  than  their  bill ! 
While   punctual  beaux   reward  the  grateful 

notes, 
And  pay  for  poems  —  when  they  pay  for  coats. 

To  the  famed  throng  now  paid  the  tribute 

due, 
Neglected  genius  !  let  me  turn  to' you. 
Come  forth,  oh  Campbell ! 3  give  thy  talents 

scope ; 
Who  dares  aspire  if  thou  must  cease  to  hope  ? 
And  thou,  melodious  Rogers !  4  rise  at  last, 
Recall  the  pleasing  memory  of  the  past ; 
Arise  !  let  blest  remembrance  still  inspire, 


1  See  Nathaniel  Bloomfield's  ode,  elegy,  or  what- 
ever he  or  any  one  else  chooses  to  call  it,  on  the  in- 
closure  of  "  Honington  Green." 

2  Vide  "  Recollections  of  a  Weaver  in  the  Moor- 
lands of  Staffordshire." 

3  It  would  be  superfluous  to  recall  to  the  mind  of 
the  reader  the  authors  of  "  The  Pleasures  of  Mem- 
ory "  and  "  The  Pleasures  of  Hope,"  the  most  beau- 
tiful didactic  poems  in  our  language,  if  we  except 
Pope's  "  Essay  on  Man:  "  but  so  many  poetasters 
have  started  up,  that  even  the  names  of  Campbell 
and  Rogers  are  become  strange.  —  [Beneath  this 
note  Byron  scribbled,  in  1816, — 

Pretty  Miss  Jaqueline 
Had  a  nose  aquiline, 
And  would  assert  rude 
Things  of  Miss  Gertrude, 
While  Mr.  Marmion 
Led  a  great  army  on, 
Making  Kehama  look 
Like  a  fierce  Mameluke.] 

4  ["I  have  been  reading,"  says  Byron  in  1813, 
"  Memory  again,  and  Hope  together,  and  retain  all 
my  preference  of  the  former.  His  elegance  is  really 
wonderful  —  there  is  no  such  a  thing  as  a  vulgar  line 
in  his  book."  In  1816,  Byron  wrote  —  "  Rogers  has 
not  fulfilled  the  promise  of  his  first  poems,  but  has 
still  very  great  merit."] 


And  strike  to  wonted  tones  thy  hallowed  lyre; 
Restore  Apollo  to  his  vacant  throne, 
Assert  thy  country's  honor  and  thine  own. 
What !  must  deserted  Poesy  still  weep 
Where   her   last   hopes  with   pious   Cowper 

sleep  ? 
Unless,  perchance,   from   his   cold   bier  she 

turns, 
To   deck   the   turf  that  wraps  her  minstrel, 

Burns ! 
No !  though  contempt  hath  marked  the  spu- 
rious brood, 
The  race  who  rhyme  from  folly,  or  for  food, 
Yet  still  some  genuine  sons  'tis  hers  to  boast, 
Who,  least  affecting,  still  affect  the  most : 
Feel  as  they  write,  and  write  but  as  they  feel  — - 
Bear  witness  Gifford,5  Sotheby,6  Macneil." 

"  Why  slumbers  Gifford  ?  "  once  was  asked 

in  vain ; 
Why  slumbers  Gifford  ?  let  us  ask  again. 
Are  there  no  follies  for  his  pen  to  purge  ?  8 
Are  there  no  fools  whose  backs  demand  the 

scourge  ? 
Are  there  no  sins  for  satire's  bard  to  greet  ? 
Stalks  not  gigantic  Vice  in  every  street  ? 
Shall  peers  or  princes  tread  pollution's  path, 
And  'scape  alike  the  law's  and  muse's  wrath  ? 
Nor  blaze  with  guilty  glare  through  future  time, 
Eternal  beacons  of  consummate  crime  ? 
Arouse  thee,  Gifford  !  be  thy  promise  claimed, 
Make  bdd  men  better,  or  at  least  ashamed. 


5  Gifford,  author  of  the  Baviad  and  Majviad,  the 
first  satires  of  the  day,  and  translator  of  Juvenal.  — 
[The  opinion  of  Mr.  Gifford  had  always  great  weight 
with  Byron.  "  Any  suggestion  of  yours,"  he  says 
in  a  letter  written  in  1813,  "even  were  it  conveyed 
in  the  less  tender  shape  of  the  text  of  the  Baviad,  or 
a  Monk  Mason  note  in  Massinger,  would  be  obeyed." 
A  few  weeks  before  his  death,  on  hearing  from  Eng- 
land of  a  report  that  he  had  written  a  satire  on  Mr. 
Gifford,  he  wrote  instantly  to  Mr.  Murray:  — "  Who- 
ever asserts  that  I  am  the  author  or  abetter  of  any 
thing  of  the  kind  lies  in  his  throat.  It  is  not  true 
that  I  ever  did,  will,  would,  could,  or  should  write 
a  satire  against  Gifford,  or  a  hair  of  his  head.  I 
always  considered  him  as  my  literary  father,  and 
myself  as  his  '  prodigal '  son;  and  if  I  have  allowed 
his  '  fatted  calf '  to  grow  to  an  ox  before  he  kills  it 
on  my  return,  it  is  only  because  I  prefer  beef  to 
veal."] 

6  Sotheby,  translator  of  Wieland's  Oberon  and 
Virgil's  Georgics,  and  author  of  "  Saul,"  an  epic 
poem. 

7  Macneil,  whose  poems  are  deservedly  popular, 
particularly  "  Scotland's  Scaith,"  and  the  "  Waes  of 
War,"  of  which  ten  thousand  copies  were  sold  in 
one  month.  —  [Hector  Macneil  died  in  1818.] 

8  Mr.  Gifford  promised  publicly  that  the  Baviad 
and  Maeviad  should  not  be  his  last  original  works: 
let  him  remember  "  Mox  in  reluctantes  dracones." 
—  [Mr.  Gifford  became  the  editor  of  the  Quarterly- 
Review,  —  which  thenceforth  occupied  most  of  his 
time,  —  a  few  months  after  the  first  appearance  of 
English  Bards  and  Scotch  Reviewers.] 


ENGLISH  BARDS  AND   SCOTCH  REVIEWERS. 


121 


Unhappy   White ! l   while    life   was    in   its 

spring, 
And  thy  young  ftiuse  just  waved  her  joyous 

wing, 
The  spoiler  swept  that  soaring  lyre  away, 
Which  else  had  sounded  an  immortal  lay. 
Oh !  what  a  noble  heart  was  here  undone, 
When  Science'  self  destroyed  her  favorite  son  ! 
Yes,  she  too  much  indulged  thy  fond  pursuit, 
She  sowed  the  seeds,  but  death  has  reaped 

the  fruit. 
'Twas  thine  own  genius  gave  the  final  blow, 
And  helped  to  plant  the  wound  that  laid  thee 

low : 
So  the  struck  eagle,  stretched  upon  the  plain, 
No  more  through  rolling  clouds  to  soar  again, 
Viewed  his  own  feather  on  the  fatal  dart,'2 
And  winged  the  shaft  that  quivered   in   his 

heart ; 
Keen  were  his  pangs,  but  keener  far  to  feel 
He   nursed   the   pinion  which   impelled   the 

steel ; 
While  the  same  plumage  that  had  warmed  his 

nest 
Drank   the   last    life-drop    of    his    bleeding 

breast. 

There  be,  who   say,   in  these  enlightened 
days, 
That  splendid  lies  are  all  the  poet's  praise ; 
That  strained  invention,  ever  on  the  wing, 
Alone  impels  the  modern  bard  to  sing: 
'Tis  true,  that  all  who  rhyme  —  nay,  all  who 

write, 
Shrink  from  that  fatal  word  to  genius  —  trite; 


1  Henry  Kirke  White  died  at  Cambridge,  in  Octo- 
ber, 1806,  in  consequence  of  too  much  exertion  in 
the  pursuit  of  studies  that  would  have  matured  a 
mind  which  disease  and  poverty  could  not  impair, 
and  which  death  itself  destroyed  rather  than  sub- 
dued. His  poems  abound  in  such  beauties  as  must 
impress  the  reader  with  the  liveliest  regret  that  so 
short  a  period  was  allotted  to  talents  which  would 
have  dignified  even  the  sacred  functions  he  was  des- 
tined to  assume.  —  [In  a  letter  to  Mr.  Dallas,  in 
1811,  Byron  says,  —  "  I  am  sorry  you  don't  like 
Harry  White;  with  a  great  deal  of  cant,  which  in 
him  was  sincere  (indeed  it  killed  him,  as  you  killed 
Joe  Blackett),  certes  there  is  poesy  and  genius.  I 
don't  say  this  on  account  of  my  simile  and  rhymes; 
but  surely  he  was  beyond  all  the  Bloomfields  and 
Blackctts,  and  their  collateral  cobblers,  whom  Lofft 
and  Prat'  have  or  may  kidnap  from  their  calling  into 
the  service  of  the  trade.  Setting  aside  bigotry,  he 
surely  ranks  next  to  Chatterton.  It  is  astonishing 
how  little  he  was  known;  and  at  Cambridge  no  one 
thought  or  heard  of  such  a  man  till  his  death  ren- 
dered all  notices  useless.  For  my  part,  I  should 
have  been  most  proud  of  such  an  acquaintance  :  his 
very  prejudices  were  respectable."] 

?  [That  eagle's  fate  and  mine  are  one, 

Which  on  the  shaft  that  made  him  die, 
Espied  a  feather  of  his  own 

Wherewith  he  wont  to  soar  on  high. 

Waller.\ 


Yet  Truth   sometimes  will   lend   her  noblest 

fires, 
And  decorate  the  verse  herself  inspires  : 
This  fact  in  Virtue's  name  let  Crabbe  attest ; 
Though    nature's    sternest    painter,   yet  the 

best.3 

And  here  let  Shee4  and  Genius  find  a  place, 
Whose  pen  and  pencil  yield  an  equal  grace ; 
To  guide  whose  hand  the  sister  arts  combine, 
And  trace  the  poet's  or  the  painter's  line ; 
Whose  magic  touch  can  bid  the  canvas  glow 
Or  pour  the  easy  rhyme's  harmonious  flow  ; 
While  honors,  doubly  merited,  attend 
The  poet's  rival,  but  the  painter's  friend. 

Blest  is  the  man  who  dares  approach  the 

bower 
Where  dwelt  the  muses  at  their  natal  hour ; 
Whose   steps   have   pressed,  whose  eye   has 

marked  afar 
The  clime  that  nursed  the  sons  of  song  and 

war, 
The  scenes  which  glory  still  must  hover  o'er, 
Her  place  of  birth,  her  own  Achaian  shore. 
But  doubly  blest  is  he  whose  heart  expands 
With  hallowed  feelings  for  those  classic  lands  ; 
Who  rends  the  veil  of  ages  long  gone  by, 
And  views  their  remnants  with  a  poet's  eye ! 
Wright !  5  'twas  thy  happy  lot  at  once  to  view 
Those  shores  of  glory,  and  to  sing  them  too ; 
And  sure  no  common  muse  inspired  thy  pen 
To  hail  the  land  of  gods  and  godlike  men. 

And  you,  associate  bards !  6  who  snatched 
to  light 
Those  gems  too  long  withheld  from  modern 

sight ; 
Whose  mingling  taste  combined  to  cull  the 

wreath 
Where  Attic  flowers  Aonian  odors  breathe, 
And  all  their  renovated  fragrance  flung, 
To  grace  the  beauties  of  your  native  tongue  ; 
Now  let  those  minds,  that  nobly  could  trans- 
fuse 
The  glorious  spirit  of  the  Grecian  muse, 
Though  soft  the  echo,  scorn  a  borrowed  tone  : 
Resign  Achaia's  lyre,  and  strike  your  own. 


3  ["  I  consider  Crabbe  and  Coleridge  as  the  first 
of  these  times,  in  point  of  power  and  genius."  — 
Byron,  1816.] 

4  Mr.  Shee,  author  of  "  Rhymes  on  Art,"  and 
"  Elements  of  Art."  —  [Afterwards  Sir  Martin  Shee, 
and  President  of  the  Royal  Academy.] 

6  Waller  Rodwell  Wright,  late  consul-general  for 
the  Seven  Islands,  is  author  of  a  very  beautiful  poem, 
just  published:  it  is  entitled  "  Horse  Ionicse,"  and 
is  descriptive  of  the  isles  and  the  adjacent  coast  of 
Greece. 

*  The  translators  of  the  Anthology,  Bland  and 
Merivale,  have  since  published  separate  poems, 
which  evince  genius  that  only  requires  oppertu- 
nity  to  attain  eminence. 


122 


ENGLISH  BARDS  Atfv   aCOTCH  REVIEWERS. 


Let  these,  or  such  as  these,  with  just  applause 
Restore  the  muse's  violated  laws ; 
But  not  in  flimsy  Darwin's  pompous  chime, 
That  mighty  master  of  unmeaning  rhyme, 
Whose  gilded  cymbals,  more  adorned   than 

clear, 
The  eye  delighted,  but  fatigued  the  ear ; 
In  show  the  simple  lyre  could  once  surpass, 
But  now,  worn  down,  appear  in  native  brass; 
While  all  his  train  of  hovering  sylphs  around 
Evaporate  in  similes  and  sound: 
Him  let  them  shun,  with  him  let  tinsel  die: 
False  glare  attracts,  but  more  offends  the  eye.1 

Yet  let  them  not  to  vulgar  Wordsworth  stoop, 
The  meanest  object  of  the  lowly  group, 
Whose  verse,  of  all  but  childish  prattle  void, 
Seems  blessed  harmony  to  Lamb  and  Lloyd  :  2 
Let  them  —  but  hold,  my  muse,  nor  dare  to 

teach 
A  strain  far,  far  beyond  thy  humble  reach  : 
The  native  genius  with  their  being  given 
Will  point  the  path,  and  peal  their  notes  to 

heaven. 

And  thou,  too,  Scott !  3  resign  to  minstrels 

rude 
The  wilder  slogan  of  a  border  feud  : 
Let  others  spin  their  meagre  lines  for  hire; 
Enough  for  genius  if  itself  inspire  ! 
Let  Southey  sing,  although  his  teeming  muse, 
Prolific  every  spring,  be  too  profuse; 
Let  simple  Wordsworth4  chime  his  childish 

verse, 
And  Brother  Coleridge  lull  the  babe  at  nurse  ; 
Let  spectre-mongering  Lewis  aim,  at  most, 
To  rouse  the  galleries,  or  to  raise  a  ghost ; 
Let  Moore  still  sigh  ;  let  Strangford  steal  from 

Moore, 
And  swear  that  Camoens  sang  such  notes  of 

yore; 
Let  Hayley  hobble  on,  Montgomery  rave, 
And  godly  Grahame  chant  a  stupid  stave; 
Let  sonneteering  Bowles  his  strains  refine, 
And  whine  and  whimper  to  the  fourteenth  line; 
Let  Stott,  Carlisle,5  Matilda,  and  the  rest 


1  The  neglect  of  the  "  Botanic  Garden  "  is  some 
proof  of  returning  taste.      The  scenery  is  its  sole 

recor.iinendation. 

2  Messrs.  Lamb  and  Lloyd,  the  most  ignoble  fol- 
lowers of  Southey  and  Co. —  [In  1798,  Charles  Lamb 
and  Charles  Lloyd  published  in  conjunction  a  vol- 
ume, entitled,  "  Poems  in  Blank  Verse."] 

s  By  the  by,  I  hope  that  in  Mr.  Scott's  next  poem, 
his  hero  or  heroine  will  be  less  addicted  to  "Gra- 
marye,"  and  more  to  grammar,  than  the  Lady  of 
the  Lay  and  her  bravo,  William  of  Deloraine. 

4  ['•Unjust."  —  Byron,  1816.] 

5  It  may  be  asked,  why  I  have  censured  the  Earl 
of  Carlisle,  my  guardian  and  relative,  to  whom  I 
dedicated  a  volume  of  puerile  poems  a  few  years 
ago?  —  The  guardianship  was  nominal,  at  least  as 
tar  as  I  have  been  able  to  discover;  the  relationship 


Of  Grub-street,  and  of  Grosvenor-place  the 

best, 

Scrawl   on,   till   death    release   us    from   the 

strain, 
Or  Common  Sense  assert  her  rights  again. 
But  thou,  with  powers  that  mock  the  aid  of 

praise, 
Shouldst  leave  to  humbler  bards  ignoble  lays : 
Thy  country's  voice,  the  voice  of  all  the  nine, 
Demand  a  hallowed  harp  —  that  harp  is  thine. 
Say  :  will  not  Caledonia's  annals  yield 
The  glorious  record  of  some  nobler  field, 
Than  the  vile  foray  of  a  plundering  clan, 
Whose  proudest  deeds  disgrace  the  name  of 

man  ? 
Or  M, irmion's  acts  of  darkness,  fitter  food 
For  Sherwood's  outlaw  tales  of  Robin  Hood  ? 
Scotland!  still  proudly  claim  thy  native  bard, 
And  be  thy  praise  his  first,  his  best  reward ! 
Yet  not  with  thee  alone  his  name  should  live, 
But  own  the  vast  renown  a  world  can  give; 
Be   known,   perchance,   when   Albion   is   no 

more, 
And  tell  the  tale  of  what  she  was  before; 
To  future  times  her  faded  fame  recall, 
And  save  her  glory,  though  his  country  fai*;. 

Yet  what  avails  the  sanguine  poet's  hope. 
To  conquer  ages,  and  with  time  to  cope  ? 
New  eras  spread  their  wings,  new  nations  rise, 
And  other  victors  fill  the  applauding  skies; 
A  few  brjef  generations  fleet  along, 
Whose  sons  forget  the  poet  and  his  song : 

I  cannot  help,  and  am  very  sorry  for  it;  but  as  his 
lordship  seemed  to  forget  it  on  a  very  essential  oc- 
casion to  me,  I  shall  not  burden  my  memory  with 
the  recollection.  I  do  not  think  that  personal  dif- 
ferences sanction  the  unjust  condemnation  of  a 
brother  scribbler;  but  I  see  no  reason  why  they 
should  act  as  a  preventive,  when  the  author,  noble, 
or  ignoble,  has,  for  a  series  of  years,  beguiled  a 
"discerning  public"  (as  the  advertisements  have 
it)  with  divers  reams  of  most  orthodox,  imperial 
nonsense.  Besides,  I  do  not  step  aside  to  vituperate 
the  earl:  no  —  his  works  come  fairly  in  review  with 
those  of  other  patrician  literati.  If,  before  I  es- 
caped from  my  teens,  I  said  any  thing  in  favor  of 
his  lordship's  paper  books,  it  was  in  the  way  of  du- 
tiful dedication,  and  more  from  the  advice  of  others 
than  my  own  judgment,  and  I  seize  the  first  oppor- 
tunity of  pronouncing  my  sincere  recantation.  I 
have  heard  that  some  persons  conceive  me  to  be 
under  obligations  to  Lord  Ca-lisle:  if  so,  I  shall  be 
most  particularly  happy  to  learn  what  they  are,  and 
when  conferred,  that  they  may  be  duly  appreciated 
and  publicly  acknowledged.  What  1  have  humbly 
advanced  as  an  opinion  on  his  printed  things,  I  am 
prepared  to  support,  if  necessary,  by  quotations 
from  elegies,  eulogies,  odes,  episodes,  and  certain 
facetious  and  dainty  tragedies  bearing  his  name  and 
mark :  — 
"  What  can  ennoble  knaves,  or  fools,  or  cowards? 
Alas!  not  nil  the  blood  of  all  the  Howards." 
So  says  Pope.  Amen!  —  ["Much  too  savage, 
whatever  the  found  ition  miahtb*-"  —  ''  1816. 1 


ENGLISH  BARDS  AND   SCOTCH  REVIEWERS. 


123 


E'en  now,  what  once-loved  minstrel  scarce 

may  claim 
The  transient  mention  of  a  dubious  name! 
When  fame's  loud  trump  hath  blown  its  no- 
blest blast, 
Though  long  the  sound,  the  echo  sleeps  at 

last; 
And  glory,  like  the  phoenix 1  'midst  her  fires, 
Exhales  her  odors,  blazes,  and  expires. 

Shall  hoary  Granta  call  her  sable  sons, 
Expert  in  science,  more  expert  at  puns  ? 
Shall  these  approach  the  muse  ?  ah,  no  !  she 

flies, 
Even  from  the  tempting  ore  of  Seaton's  prize  ; 
Though  printers  condescend  the  press  to  soil 
With  rhyme  by  Hoare,'2  and  epic  blank  by 

Hoy'le :  3 
Not  him  whose  page,  if  still  upheld  by  whist, 
Requires  no  sacred  theme  to  bid  us  list.4 
Ye !  who  in  Granta's  honors  would  surpass, 
Must  mount  her  Pegasus,  a  full-grown  ass; 
A  foal  well  worthy  of  her  ancient  dam, 
Whose  Helicon  is  duller  than  her  Cam. 

There   Clarke,  still  striving  piteously  "to 
please," 
Forgetting  doggrel  leads  not  to  degrees, 
A  would-be  satirist,  a  hired  buffoon, 
A  monthly  scribbler  of  some  low  lampoon,5 
Condemned  to  drudge,  the  meanest  of  the 

mean, 
And  furbish  falsehoods  for  a  magazine, 
Devotes  to  scandal  his  congenial  mind; 
Himself  a  living  libel  on  mankind.6 

Oh  !  dark  asylum  of  a  Vandal  race  !  " 
At  once  the  boast  of  learning,  and  disgrace  ! 


1  ["'  The  devil  take  that  phcenix!  How  came  it 
there?"  —  Byron,  1816.] 

2  [The  Rev.  Charles  James  Hoare  published,  in 
1808,  the  "  Shipwreck  of  St.  Paul,"  a  Seatonian 
prize  poem.] 

s  [The  Rev.  Charles  Hoyle,  author  of  "  Exo- 
dus," an  epic  in  thirteen  books,  and  several  other 
Seatonian  prize  poems.] 

4  The  "  Games  of  Hoyle,"  well  known  to  the 
votaries  of  whist,  chess,  etc.,  are  not  to  be  super- 
seded by  the  vagaries  of  his  poetical  namesake, 
whose  poem  comprised,  as  expressly  stated  in  the 
advertisement,  all  the  "  plagues  of  Egypt." 

s  ["  Right  enough:  this  was  well  deserved,  and 
well  laid  on." —  Byron,  1816.] 

6  This  person,  who  has  lately  betrayed  the  most 
rabid  symptoms  of  confirmed  authorship,  is  writer 
of  a  poem  denominated  the  "  Art  of  Pleasing,"  as 
"  lucus  a  non  lucendo,"  containing  little  pleasantry 
and  less  poetry.  He  also  acts  as  monthly  stipendi- 
ary and  collector  of  calumnies  for  the  "  Satirist." 
If  this  unfortunate  young  man  would  exchange  the 
magazines  for  the  mathematics,  and  endeavor  to 
take  a  decent  degree  in  his  university,  it  might 
eventually  prove  more  serviceable  than  his  present 
salary.  —  [Mr.  Hewson  Clarke  was  also  the  author 
of"  The  Saunterer,"  and  a  "  History  of  the  Cam- 
paign in  Russia."] 

7  "  Into   Cambridgeshire    the    Emperor   Probus 


So  lost  to  Phoebus,  that  nor  Hodgson's  8  verse 
Can  make  thee  better,  nor  poor  Hewson's9 

worse. 
But  where  fair  Isis  rolls  her  purer  wave, 
The  partial  muse  delighted  loves  to  lave ; 
On  her  green  banks  a  greener  wreath   she 

wove, 
To  crown  the  bards  that  haunt  her  classic 

grove ; 
Where  Richards  wakes  a  genuine  poet's  fires, 
And  modern  Britons  glory  in  their  sires.10 

For  me,  who,  thus  unasked,  have  dared  to 

tell 
My  country,  what  her  sons  should  know  too 

well, 
Zeal  for  her  honor  bade  me  here  engage 
The  host  of  idiots  that  infest  her  age  ; 
No  just  applause  her  honored  name  shall  lose, 
As  first  in  freedom,  dearest  to  the  muse. 
Oh  !  would  thy  bards  but  emulate  thy  fame, 
And  rise  more  worthy,  Albion,  of  thy  name! 
What  Athens  was  in  science,  Rome  in  power, 
What  Tyre  appeared  in  her  meridian  hour, 
'Tis  thine  at  once,  fair  Albion  !  to  have  been  — 
Earth's  chief  dictatress,  ocean's  lovely  queen  : 
But  Rome  decayed,  and  Athens  strewed  the 

plain, 
And  Tyre's  proud  piers  lie  shattered  in  the 

main ; 
Like   these,  thy  strength  may  sink,   in  ruin 

hurled, 
And  Britain  fall,  the  bulwark  of  the  world. 
But  let  me  cease,  and  dread  Cassandra's  fate, 
With  warning  ever  scoffed  at,  till  too  late; 
To  themes  less  lofty  still  my  lay  confine, 
And  urge  thy  bards  to  gain  a  name  like  thine.11 

Then,  hapless  Britain  !  be  thy  rulers  blest, 
The  senate's  oracles,  the  people's  jest! 
Still  hear  thy  motley  orators  dispense 
The  flowers  of  rhetoric,  though  not  of  sense, 
WhileCanning'scolleagueshatehimforhiswit, 


transported  a  considerable  body  of  Vandals.  — 
Gibbons'  Decline  and  Fall,  vol.  ii.  p.  83.  There  is 
no  reason  to  doubt  the  truth  of  this  assertion;  the 
breed  is  still  in  high  perfection. 

8  This  gentleman's  name  requires  no  praise:  the 
man  who  in  translation  displays  unquestionable  ge- 
nius may  be  well  expected  to  excel  in  original  com- 
position, of  which  it  is  to  be  hoped  we  shall  soon 
see  a  splendid  specimen. —  [Besides  a  translation 
of  Juvenal,  Mr.  Hodgson  published  "  Lady  Jane. 
Grey,"  "  Sir  Edgar,"  and  "  The  Friends,"  a  poem 
in  four  books.  He  also  translated,  in  conjunction 
with  Dr.  Butler,  Lucien  Bonaparte's  unreadable 
epic  of  "  Charlemagne."] 

9  Hewson  Clarke,  Esq.,  as  it  is  written. 

10  The  "Aboriginal  Britons,"  an  excellentpoemby 
Richards.  [The  Rev.  George  Richards,  D. p. .au- 
thor of  "  Songs  of  the  Aboriginal  Bards  of  Britain," 
"  Modern  France,"  two  volumes  of  Miscellaneous 
Poems,  and  Bampton  Lectures  "On  the  Divine  Ori- 
gin of  Prophecy."] 

11  [With  this  verse  the  Satire  originally  ended.] 


124 


ENGLISH  BARDS  AND   SCOTCH  REVIEWERS. 


And  old  dame  Portland  1  fills  the  place  of  Pitt. 
Yet  once  again,  adieu !  ere  this  the  rail 
That  wafts  me  hence  is  sf  ivering  in  the  gale ; 
And  Afric's  coast  and  Calpe's  adverse  height, 
And  Stamboul's  minarets  must  greet  my  sight : 
Thence  shall  I  stray  through  beauty's  native 

clime,2 
Where  Kaff3  is  clad  in  rocks,  and  crowned 

with  snows  sublime. 
But  should  I  back  return,  no  tempting  press  * 
Shall  drag  my  journal  from  the  desk's  recess  : 
Let  coxcombs,  printing  as  they  come  from  far, 
Snatch  his  own  wreath  of  ridicule  from  Carr  ;  5 
Let  Aberdeen  and  Elgin6  still  pursue 
The  shade  of  fame  through  regions  of  virtu  ; 
Waste  useless   thousands   on  their   Phidian 

freaks, 
Misshapen  monuments  and  maimed  antiques  ; 
And  make  their  grand  saloons  a  general  mart 
For  all  the  mutilated  blocks  of  art. 
Of  Dardan  tours  let  dilettanti  tell, 
I  leave  topography  to  rapid  "  Gell ;  8 


1  A  friend  of  mine  being  asked,  why  his  Grace 
of  Portland  was  likened  to  an  old  woman?  replied, 
"  he  supposed  it  was  because  he  was  past  bearing." 
—  His  Grace  is  now  gathered  to  his  grandmothers, 
where  he  sleeps  as  sound  as  ever;  but  even  his 
sleep  was  better  than  his  colleagues'  waking.    1811. 

2  Georgia.  3  Mount  Caucasus. 
4  [These  four  lines  originally  stood, — 

"  But  should  I  back  return,  no  lettered  sage 
Shall  drag  my  common-place  book  on  the  stage; 
Let  vain  Valentia*  rival  luckless  Carr.t 
And  equal  him  whose  work  he  sought  to  mar."] 
B  [In  a  letter  written  from  Gibraltar  to  his  friend 
Hodgson,   Byron  says,  —  "I    have  seen  Sir  John 
Carr  at  Seville  and  Cadiz,  and,  like  Swift's  barber, 
have  been  down  on  my  knees  to  beg  he  would  not 
put  me  into  black  and  white."] 

6  Lord  Elgin  would  fain  persuade  us  that  all  the 
figures,  with  and  without  noses,  in  his  stoneshop  are 
the  work  of  Phidias!   "  Credat  Judzeus!  " 

7  [The  original  epithet  was  "  classic."  Byron 
altered  it  in  the  fifth  edition,  and  added  this  note  — 
"'Rapid,'  indeed!  He  topographized  and  typo- 
graphized  King  Priam's  dominions  in  three  days! 
I  called  him  '  classic  '  before  I  saw  the  Troad,  but 
since  have  learned  better  than  to  tack  to  his  name 
what  don't  belong  to  it."] 

8  Mr.  Gell's  Topography  of  Troy  and  Ithaca  can- 


*  Lord  Valentia  (whose  tremendous  travels  are 
forthcoming  with  due  decorations,  graphical,  topo- 
graphical, typographical)  deposed,  on  Sir  John 
Carr's  unlucky  suit,  that  Mr.  Dubois's  satire  pre- 
vented his  purchase  of  the  "  Stranger  in  Ireland." 
—  Oh,  fie,  my  lord!  has  your  lordship  no  more  feel- 
ing for  a  fellow-tourist  r —  but  "two  of  a  trade," 
they  say,  etc. 

f  [From  the  many  tours  he  made,  Sir  John  was 
called  "  The  Jaunting  Car."  Edward  Dubois  hav- 
ing severely  lashed  him  in  a  publication,  called 
"My  Pocket  Book;  or  Hints  for  a  Ryght  Merrie 
and  Conceited  Tour,"  Sir  John  brought  an  action 
of  damages  against  the  publisher;  but  as  the  work 
contained  only  what  the  court  deemed  legitimate 
criticism,  the  knight  was  nonsuited.] 


And,  quite  content,  no  more  shall  interpose 
To  stun  the  public  ear  —  at  least  with  prose.* 

Thus  far  I've  held  my  undisturbed  career, 
Prepared  for  rancor,  steeled  'gainst  selfish  fear : 
This  thing  of  rhyme  I  ne'er  disdained  to  own  — 
Though  not  obtrusive,  yet  not  quite  unknown  : 
My  voice  was  heard  again,  though  not  so  loud, 
My  page,  though  nameless,  never  disavowed ; 
And  now  at  once  I  tear  the  veil  away :  — 
Cheer  on  the  pack  !  the  quarry  stands  at  bay, 
Unscared  by  all  the  din  of  Melbourne  house,*0 
By    Lambe's    resentment,   or    by   Holland's 

spouse, 
By  Jeffrey's  harmless  pistol,  Hallam's  rage, 
Edina's  brawny  sons  and  brimstone  page. 
Our  men  in  buckram  shall  have  blows  enough, 
And  feel  they  too  are  "penetrable  stuff:  " 
And  though  I  hope  not  hence  unscathed  to  go, 
Who  conquers  me  shall  find  a  stubborn  foe. 
The  time  hath  been,  when  no  harsh  sound 

would  fall 
From  lips  that  now  may  seem  inbued  with  gall ; 
Nor  fools  nor  follies  tempt  me  to  despise 
The  meanest  thing  that  crawled  beneath  my 

eyes : 
But  now,  so  callous  grown,  so  changed  since 

youth, 
I've  "learned  to  think,  and  sternly  speak  the 

truth ; 
Learned  to  deride  the  critic's  starch  decree, 
And  break  him  on  the  wheel  he  meant  for  me  ; 
To  spurn  the  rod  a  scribbler  bids  me  kiss, 
Nor  care  if  courts  and  crowds  applaud  or  hiss  : 
Nay  more,  though   all   my  rival   rhymesters 

frown, 
I  too  can  hunt  a  poetaster  down ; 
And,  armed  in  proof,  the  gauntlet  cast  at  once 
To  Scotch  marauder,  and  to  southern  dunce. 
Thus  much  I've  dared  ;  if  my  incondite  lav 
Hath  wronged  these  righteous  times,  let  others 

say : 


not  fail  to  insure  the  approbation  of  every  man  pos- 
sessed of  classical  taste,  as  well  for  the  information 
Mr.  Gell  conveys  to  the  mind  of  the  reader,  as  for  the 
ability  and  research  the  respective  works  display.  — 
["  Since  seeing  the  plain  of  Troy,  my  opinions  are 
somewhat  changed  as  to  the  above  note.  Gell's 
survey  was  hasty  and  superficial."  —  Byron-,  1816. 
Shortly  after  his  return  from  Greece,  in  1811,  Byron 
wrote  a  critique  on  Sir  William  Gell's  works  for 
the  Monthly  Review.] 

9  [Byron  set  out  on  his  travels  with  the  determi- 
nation to  keep  no  journal.  In  a  letter  to  his  friend 
Henry  Drury,  when  on  the  point  of  sailing,  he 
pleasantly  says,  — "  Hobhouse  has  made  woundy 
preparations  for  a  book  on  his  return:  —  one  hun- 
dred pens,  two  gallons  of  japan  ink,  and  several 
volumes  of  best  blank,  is  no  bad  provision  for  a  dis- 
cerning public.  I  have  laid  down  my  pen,  but  have 
promised  to  contribute  a  chapter  on  the  state  ol 
morals,  etc.  etc."] 

10  ["  Singular  enough,  and  din  enough,  God 
knows."  —  Byron,  1816.] 


ENGLISH  BARDS  AND   SCOTCH  REVIEWERS. 


12> 


This,  let  the  world,  which  knows  not  how  to 

spare, 
Vet  rarely  blames  unjustly,  now  declare.1 


1  ["  The  greater  part  of  this  satire  I  most  sin- 


POSTSCRIPT  TO  THE   SECOND   EDITION. 

I  have  been  informed,  since  the  present  edition  went  to  the  press,  that  my  trusty  and  well-beloved 
cousins,  the  Edinburgh  Reviewers,  are  preparing  a  most  vehement  critique  on  my  poor,  gentle,  unre~ 
sisting,  Muse,  whom  they  have  already  so  be-deviled  with  their  ungodly  ribaldry: 

"  Tantsene  animis  ccelestibus  irae!  " 

I  suppose  I  must  say  of  Jeffrey,  as  Sir  Andrew  Aguecheek  saith,  "  an  I  had  known  he  was  so  cunning 
of  fence,  I  had  seen  him  damned  ere  I  had  fought  him."  What  a  pity  it  is  that  I  shall  be  beyond  the 
Bosphorus  before  the  next  number  has  passed  the  Tweed  !  But  I  yet  hope  to  light  my  pipe  with  it  in 
Persia. 

My  northern  friends  have  accused  me,  with  justice,  of  personality  towards  their  great  literary  anthro- 
pophagus,  Jeffrey;  but  what  else  was  to  be  done  with  him  and  his  dirty  pack,  who  feed  by  "  lying  and 
slandering,"  and  slake  their  thirst  by  "evil  speaking*?"  I  have  adduced  facts  already  well  known,  and 
of  Jeffrey's  mind  I  have  stated  my  free  opinion,  nor  has  he  thence  sustained  any  injury;  —  what  scaven- 
ger was  ever  soiled  by  being  pelted  with  mud  ?  It  may  be  said  that  I  quit  England  because  I  have  cen- 
sured there  "  persons  of  honor  and  wit  about  town ;  "  but  I  am  coming  back  again,  and  their  vengeance 
will  keep  hot  till  my  return.  Those  who  know  me  can  testify  that  my  motives  for  leaving  England  are 
very  different  from  fears,  literary  or  personal :  those  who  do  not,  may  one  day  be  convinced.  Since  the 
publication  of  this  thing,  my  name  has  not  been  concealed;  I  have  been  mostly  in  London,  ready  to 
answer  for  my  transgressions,  and  in  daily  expectation  of  sundry  cartels;  but,  alas!  "  the  age  of  chiv- 
alry is  over,"  or,  in  the  vulgar  tongue,  there  is  no  spirit  now-a-days. 

There  is  a  youth  ycleped  Hewson  Clarke  (subaudi  esquire),  a  sizer  of  Emanuel  College,  and,  I  be- 
lieve, a  denizen  of  Berwick-upon-Tweed,  whom  I  have  introduced  in  these  pages  to  much  better  company 
than  he  has  been  accustomed  to  meet;  he  is,  notwithstanding,  a  very  sad  dog,  and  for  no  reason  that  I 
can  discover,  except  a  personal  quarrel  with  a  bear,  kept  by  me  at  Cambridge  to  sit  for  a  fellowship,  and 
whom  the  jealousy  of  his  Trinity  contemporaries  prevented  from  success,  has  been  abusing  me,  and, 
what  is  worse,  the  defenceless  innocent  above  mentioned,  in  "  The  Satirist  "  for  one  year  and  some 
months.  I  am  utterly  unconscious  of  having  given  him  any  provocation;  indeed,  I  am  guiltless  of  hav- 
ing heard  his  name  till  coupled  with  "  The  Satirist."  He  has  therefore  no  reason  to  complain,  and  I 
dare  say  that,  like  Sir  Fretful  Plagiary,  he  is  rather  pleased  than  otherwise.  I  have  now  mentioned  all 
who  have  done  me  the  honor  to  notice  me  and  mine,  that  is,  my  bear  and  my  book,  except  the  editor  of 
"The  Satirist,"  who,  it  seems,  is  a  gentleman  —  God  wot!  I  wish  he  could  impart  a  little  of  his  gen- 
tility to  his  subordinate  scribblers.  I  hear  that  Mr.  Jerningham  is  about  to  take  up  the  cudgels  for  his 
Maecenas,  Lord  Carlisle.  I  hope  not  :  he  was  one  of  the  few,  who,  in  the  very  short  intercourse  I  had 
■with  him,  treated  me  with  kindness  when  a  boy;  and  whatever  he  may  say  or  do,  "  pour  on,  I  will  en- 
dure." I  have  nothing  further  to  add,  save  a  general  note  of  thanksgiving  to  readers,  purchasers,  and 
publishers,  and,  in  the  words  of  Scott,  I  wish 

"  To  all  and  each  a  fair  good  night, 
And  rosy  dreams  and  slumbers  light." 


[The  article  referred  to  in  the  beginning  of  the  above  Postscript  never  appeared  in  the  Edinburgh 
Review,  and  in  the  "  Hints  from  Horace,"  Byron  has  triumphantly  taunted  Jeffrey  with  a  silence  which 
?eemed  to  indicate  that  the  critic  was  beaten  from  the  field.] 


HINTS    FROM    HORACE: 

BEING  AN  ALLUSION   IN   ENGLISH   VERSE   TO  THE   EPISTLE   "AD   PISONES,    Dfi 

ARTE   POETICA,"   AND   INTENDED   AS   A   SEQUEL  TO   "  ENGLISH 

BARDS    AND    SCOTCH    REVIEWERS." 

•"  Ergo  fungar  vice  cotis,  acutum 


Reddere  quae  ferrum  valet,  exsors  ipsa  secandi." 

Horace's  De  Arte  Poet. 

"  Rhymes  are  difficult  things  —  they  are  stubborn  things,  sir." 
Fielding's  Amelia. 


[Byron  wrote  "  Hints  from  Horace"  at  Athens,  in  1811,  and  brought  it  home  in  the  same  desk  will 
the  firbt  two  cantos  of  Childe  Harold.  He  professed  to  think  it  superior  to  Childe  Harold  aiio.  w»s.  .v.th 
apparent  difficulty  persuaded  by  Ins  friends  to  forego  its  publication.  The  favorable  reception  of  Childe 
Harold  by  the  public  seems  to  have  softened  his  feelings  towards  the  critics,  and  as  he  soon  became  per- 
sonally acquainted  with  some  of  the  persons  whom  he  had  satirized  in  the  "  Hints,"  he  did  not  insist  upon 
its  publication  until  1820,  when  he  wrote  thus  to  Mr.  Murray  :  —  "  Oct  from  Mr.  Hobhouse  and  send  me 
a  proof  of  my  '  Hints  from  Horace: '  it  has  now  the  nonion  prematur  in  annum  complete  for  its  pro- 
duction. I  have  a  notion  that  with  some  omissions  of  names  and  passages  it  will  do;  and  I  could  put 
my  late  observations  for  Pope  amongst  the  notes.  As  far  as  versification  goes,  it  is  good;  and  in  looking 
back  at  what  I  wrote  about  that  period,  I  am  astonished  to  ^ee  how  little  I  have  trained  on.  I  wrote 
better  then  than  now;  but  that  comes  of  my  having  fallen  into  the  atrocious  bad  taste  of  the  times."  On 
hearing,  however,  that  in  Mr.  Hobhouse's  opinion  the  verses  would  require  "  a  good  deal  of  slashing" 
to  suit  the  times,  the  notion  of  printing  them  was  once  more  abandoned.  They  were  first  published  in 
1831,  seven  years  after  the  author's  death.  The  editor  of  Murray's  edition  remarks:  —  "  No  part  of  the 
poem  is  much  above  mediocrity,  and  not  a  little  is  below  it.  The  versification,  which  Lord  Byron  singles 
out  for  praise,  has  no  distinguishing  excellence,  and  was  surpassed  by  his  later  iambics  in  every  metrical 
quality, —  in  majesty,  in  melody,  in  freedom,  and  in  spirit.  Authors  are  frequently  as  bad  judges  of  their 
own  works  as  men  in  general  are,  proverbially,  in  their  own  cause,  and  of  all  the  literary  hallucinations 
upon  record  there  are  none  which  exceed  the  mistaken  preferences  of  Lord  Byron.  Shortly  after  the 
appearance  of  '  The  Corsair,'  he  fancied  that  'English  Bards '  was  still  his  masterpiece;  when  all  his 
greatest  works  had  been  produced,  he  contended  that  his  translation  from  Pulci  was  his  '  grand  perform- 
ance,—  the  best  thing  he  ever  did  in  his  life;  '  and  throughout  the  whole  of  his  literary  career  he  re- 
garded these  '  Hints  from  Horace '  with  the  fondness  which  parents  are  said  to  feel  for  their  least  favored 
offspring."] 


Athens,  Capuchin  Convent,  ) 
March  12,  1811.       ) 

Who  would  not  laugh,  if  Lawrence,  hired  to 

grace 
His  costly  canvas  with  each  flattered  face, 
Abused  his  art,  till  Nature,  with  a  blush, 
Saw  cits  grow  centaurs  underneath  his  brush  ? 
Or,  should  some  limner  join,  for  show  or  sale, 
A  maid  of  honor  to  a  mermaid's  tail  ? 
Or  low   Dubost1  —  as   once   the  world    has 

seen  — 


Degrade    God's    creatures    in    his    graphic 

spleen  ? 
Not  all  that  forced  politeness,  which  defends 
Fools  in  their  faults,  could  gag  his  grinning 

friends. 


H as   a  "beast,"  and   the   consequent   action, 

etc.  The  circumstance  is,  probably,  too  well  known 
to  require  further  comment.  —  [Thomas  Hope,  the 
author  of  "  Anastasius,"  having  offended  Dubost, 
that  painter  revenged  himself  by  a  picture  called 
"  Beauty  and  the  Beast,"  in  which  Mr.  Hope  and 
his  lady  were  represented    according   to   the  well- 


1  In  an  English  newspaper,  which  finds  its  way  known  fairy  story.  The  exhibition  of  it  is  said  to 
abroad  wherever  there  are  Englishmen,  I  read  in  have  fetched  thirty  pounds  in  a  day.  A  brother  01 
account   of  this   dirty  dauber's   caricature  of  Mr.     Mrs.  Hope  thrust  his  sword  through  the  canvas; 


HINTS  FROM  HORACE. 


127 


Believe  me,  Moschus.l  like  that  picture  seems 
The   book  which,  sillier   than  a  sick   man's 

dreams, 
Displays  a  crowd  of  figures  incomplete, 
Poetic  nightmares,  without  head  or  feet. 

Poets  and  painters,  as  all  artists  2  know, 
May  shoot  a  little  with  a  lengthened  bow ; 
We  claim  this  mutual  mercy  for  our  task, 
And  grant  in  turn  the  pardon  which  we  ask ; 
But  make  not    monsters  spring   from  gentle 

dams  — 
Birds  breed  not  vipers,  tigers  nurse  not  lambs. 

A  labored,  long  exordium,  sometimes  tends 
(Like  patriot  speeches)  but  to  paltry  ends  ; 
And  nonsense  in  a  lofty  note  goes  down, 
As  pertness  passes  with  a  legal  gown  : 
Thus  many  a  bard  describes  in  pompous  strain 
The  clear  brook  babbling  through  the  goodly 

plain : 
The  groves  of  Granta,  and  her  gothic  halls, 
King's  Coll.,  Cam's  stream,  stained  windows, 

and  old  walls ; 
Or,  in  adventurous  numbers,  neatly  aims 
To  paint  a  rainbow,  or  —  the  river  Thames.3 

You  sketch   a  tree,  and   so   perhaps   may 

shine  — 
But  daub  a  shipwreck  like  an  alehouse  sign ; 
You  plan  a  vase —  it  dwindles  to  a. pot ; 
Then  glide  down    Grub-street  —  fasting  and 

forgot, 
Laughed  into  Lethe  by  some  quaint  Review, 
Whose  wit  is  never  troublesome  till  —  true.4 

In  fine,  to  whatsoever  you  aspire, 
Let  it  at  least  be  simple  and  entire. 

The  greater  portion  of  the  rhyming  tribe 
(Give  ear,  my  friend,  for  thou   hast   been  a 

scribe) 
Are  led  astray  by  some  peculiar  lure. 
I  labor  to  be  brief  —  become  obscure; 
One  falls  while  following  elegance  too  fast ; 
Another  soars,  inflated  with  bombast ; 
Too  low  a  third  crawls  on,  afraid  to  fly, 
He  spins  his  subject  to  satiety; 
Absurdly  varying,  he  at  last  engraves 
Fish  in  the  woods,  and   boars   beneath   the 
waves ! 

Unless  your   care's   exact,  your  judgment 
nice, 
The  flight  from  folly  leads  but  into  vice  ; 


and  M.  Dubost  had  the  consolation  to  get  five 
pounds  damages.  The  affair  made  much  noise  at 
the  time.] 

'["Moschus."  —  In  the  original  MS.,  "Hob- 
house."] 

:[  "  All  artists."  —  Originally,  "  We  scribblers."] 

3  "  Where  pure  description  held  the  place  of 
sense."  —  Pope. 

4  [This  is  pointed,  and  felicitously  expressed.  — 
McKre.\ 


None  are  complete,  all  wanting  in  some  part. 

Like  certain  tailors,  limited  in  art. 

For  galligaskins  Slowshears  is  your  man  ; 

But  coats  must  claim  another  artisan.5 

Now  this  to  me,  I  own,  seems  much  the  same 

As  Vulcan's  feet  to  bear  Apollo's  frame  :  6 

Or,  with  a  fair  complexion,  to  expose 

Black  eyes,  black  ringlets,  but  —  a  bottle  nose ! 

Dear   authors!    suit  your   topics    to  your 
strength, 
And  ponder  well  your  subject,  and  its  length  ; 
Nor  lift  your  load,  before  you're  quite  aware 
What  weight  your  shoulders  will,  or  will  not, 

bear. 
But  lucid  Order,  and  Wit's  siren  voice, 
Await  the  poet,  skilful  in  his  choice ; 
With  native  eloquence  he  soars  along, 
Grace  in  his  thoughts,  and  music  in  his  song. 

Let  judgment  teach  him  wisely  to  combine 
With  future  parts  the  now  omitted  line : 
This  shall  the  author  choose,  or  that  reject, 
Precise  in  style,  and  cautious  to  select ; 
Nor  slight  applause  will  candid  pens  afford 
To  him  who  furnishes  a  wanting  word. 
Then  fear  not  if  'tis  needful  to  produce 
Some  term  unknown,  or  obsolete  in  use, 
(As  Pitt  ~>  has  furnished  us  a  word  or  two, 
Which  lexicographers  declined  to  do;) 
So  you  indeed,  with  care, —  (but  be  content 
To  take  this  license  rarely)  —  may  invent. 
New  words  find  credit  in  these  latter  days 
If  neatly  grafted  on  a  Gallic  phrase. 
What  Chaucer,  Spenser  did,  we  scarce  refuse 
To  Dryden's  or  to  Pope's  maturer  muse. 
If  you  can  add  a  little,  say  why  not, 
As  well  as  William  Pitt,  and  Walter  Scott  ? 
Since  they,  by  force  of  rhyme  and  force  of 

lungs, 
Enriched  our  island's  ill-united  tongues ; 
Tis  then  —  and  shall  be  —  lawful  to  present 
Reform  in  writing,  as  in  parliament. 

As  forests  shed  their  foliage  by  degrees, 
So  fade  expressions  which  in  season  please ; 
And  we  and  ours,  alas !  are  due  to  fate, 
And  works  and  words  but  dwindle  to  a  date. 
Though  as  a  monarch  nods,  and  commerce 

calls, 
Impetuous  rivers  stagnate  in  canals; 


5  Mere  common  mortals  were  commonly  content 
with  one  tailor  and  with  one  bill,  but  the  more  par- 
ticular gentlemen  found  it  impossible  to  confide 
their  lower  garments  to  the  makers  of  their  body 
clothes.  I  speak  of  the  beginning  of  1809:  what 
reform  may  have  since  taken  place  I  neither  know, 
nor  desire  to  know. 

6  [MS.     "  As   one   leg   perfect,   and    the   other  ' 
lame."] 

7  Mr.  Pitt  was  liberal  in  his  additions  to  our  par- 
liamentary tongue:  as  may  be  seen  in  many  publi- 
cations, particularly  the  Edinburgh  Review. 


12& 


HINTS  FROM  HORACE. 


Though     swamps     subdued,     and     marshes 

drained,  sustain 
The  heavy  ploughshare  and  the  yellow  grain, 
And  rising  ports  along  the  busy  shore 
Protect  the  vessel  from  old  Ocean's  roar, 
All,  all  must  perish  ;  but,  surviving  last. 
The  love  of  letters  half  preserves  the  past. 
True,  some  decay,  yet  not  a  few  revive ; l 
Though  those  shall  sink,  which  now  appear 
i         to  thrive, 

!  As  custom  arbitrates,  whose  shifting  sway 
\  Our  life  and  language  must  alike  obey. 

1  The  immortal  wars  which  gods  and  angels 
wage, 

Are  they  not  shown  in  Milton's  sacred  page  ? 

His  strain  will  teach  what  numbers  best  be- 
long 

To  themes  celestial  told  in  epic  song. 

The  slow,  sad  stanza  will  correctly  paint 
The  lover's  anguish,  or  the  friend's  complaint. 
But   which    deserves   the    laurel  —  rhyme   or 

blank? 
Which  holds  on  Helicon  the  higher  rank  ? 
Let  squabbling  critics  by  themselves  dispute 
This  point,  as  puzzling  as  a  Chancery  suit. 

Satiric    rhyme    first    sprang    from    selfish 
spleen. 
You  doubt  —  see  Dryden,  Pope,  St.  Patrick's 
dean.'2 

Blank  verse  3  is  now,  with  one  consent,  allied 
To  Tragedy,  and  rarely  quits  her  side. 
Though  mad  Almanzor  rhymed  in  Dryden's 

days, 
No  sing-song  hero  rants  in  modern  plays  ; 


1  Old  ballads,  old  plays,  and  old  women's  stories, 
are  at  present  in  as  much  request  as  old  wine  or 
new  speeches.  In  fact,  this  is  the  millennium  of 
black  letter:  thanks  to  our  Hebers,  Webers,  and 
Scotts!  —  [There  was  a  good  deal  of  malice  in  thus 
putting  Weber,  a  poor  German  hack,  a  mere  aman- 
uensis of  Sir  Walter  Scott,  between  the  two  other 
names.] 

-  "  Mac  Flecknoe,"  the  "  Dunciad,"  and  all 
Swift's  lampooning  ballads.  Whatever  their  other 
works  may  be,  these  originated  in  personal  feelings, 
and  angry  retort  on  unworthy  rivals;  and  though 
the  ability  of  these  satires  elevates  the  poetical, 
their  poignancy  detracts  from  the  personal  character 
of  the  writers. 

3  [Like  Dr.  Johnson,  Byron  maintained  .the  ex- 
cellence of  rhyme  over  blank  verse  in  English  poe- 
try. "  Blank  verse,"  he  says,  in  his  long  lost  letter  to 
the  editor  of  Blackwood's  Magazine,  "  unless  in  the 
drama,  no  one  except  Milton  ever  wrote  who  could 
rhyme.  I  am  aware  that  Johnson  has  said,  after 
some  hesitation,  that  he  could  not  '  prevail  upon 
himself  to  wish  that  Milton  had  been  a  rhymer.' 
The  opinions  of  that  truly  great  man,  whom,  like 
Pope,  it  is  the  present  fashion  to  decry,  will  ever  be 
received  by  me  with  that  deference  which  time  will 
restore  to  him  from  all;  but,  with  all  humility,  I 
am  not  persuaded  that  the  '  Paradise  Lost '  would 


While  modest  Comedy  her  verse  foregoes 
For  jest  and/««4  in  very  middling  prose. 
Not  that  our  Bens  or  Beaumonts   show  the 

worse, 
Or  lose  one  point,  because  they  wrote  in  verse. 
But  so  Thalia  pleases  to  appear, 
Poor  virgin !    damned   some  twenty  times  a 

year! 

Whate'er  the  scene,  let  this  advice   have 

weight :  — 
Adapt  your  language  to  your  hero's  state. 
At  times  Melpomene  forgets  to  groan. 
And  brisk  Thalia  takes  a  serious  tone; 
Nor  unregarded  will  the  act  pass  by 
Where  angry  Townly5  lifts  his  voice  on  high. 
Again,  our  Shakspeare  limits  verse  to  kings, 
When  common  prose  will  serve  for  common 

things ; 
And  lively  Hal  resigns  heroic  ire, 
To  "  hollowing  Hotspur"6  and  the  sceptred 

sire. 

'Tis  not  enough,  ye  bards,  with  all  your  art, 
To  polish  poems ; — they  must  touch  the  heart : 
Where'er  the  scene  be  laid,  whate'er  the  song, 
Still  let  it  bear  the  hearer's  soul  along ; 
Command  your  audience  or  to  smile  or  weep, 
Whiche'er   may  please  you  —  anything  but 

sleep. 
The  poet  claims  our  tears;  but,  by  his  leave, 
Before  I  shed  them,  let  me  see  him  grieve. 

I  f  baViished  Romeo  feigned  nor  sigh  nor  tear, 
Lulled  by  his  languor,  I  should  sleep  or  sneer. 
Sad  words,  no  doubt,  become  a  serious  face, 
And  men  look  angry  in  the  proper  place. 
At  double  meanings  folks  seem  wondrous  sly, 
And  sentiment  prescribes  a  pensive  eye ; 
For  nature  formed  at  first  the  inward  man, 
And  actors  copy  nature  — when  they  can. 
She  bids  the  beating  heart  with  rapture  bound, 
Raised  to  the  stars,  or  levelled  with  the  ground ; 
And  for  expression's  aid,  'tis  said,  or  sung, 


not  have  been  more  nobly  conveyed  to  posteritv; 
not  perhaps  in  heroic  couplets,  —  although  even  they 
could  sustain  the  subject,  if  well  balanced,  —  but  in 
the  stanza  of  Spenser,  or  of  Tasso,  or  in  the  terz.t 
rima  of  Dante,  which  the  powers  of  Milton  could 
easily  have  grafted  on  our  language.  The  '  Sea- 
sons '  of  Thomson  would  have  been  better  in  rhyme, 
although  still  inferior  to  his  '  Castle  of  Indolence ;  ' 
and  Mr.  Southey's  '  Joan  of  Arc  '  no  worse."] 

4  With  all  the  vulgar  applause  and  critical  abhor- 
rence of  puns,  they  have  Aristotle  on  their  side; 
who  permits  them  to  orators,  and  gives  them  con- 
sequence by  a  grave  disquisition.  ["  Cicero  also," 
says  Addison,  "  has  sprinkled  several  of  his  works 
with  them;  and,  in  his  book  on  Oratory,  quotes 
abundance  of  sayings  as  pieces  of  wit,  which,  upon 
examination,  prove  arrant  puns."] 

•''fin  Vanbrugh's  comedy  of  the  "Provoked 
Husband."] 

0  "  And  in  his  ear  I'll  hollow,  Mortimer!  ' — » 
Henry  IV. 


HINTS  FROM  HORACE. 


129 


She  gave  our  mind's  interpreter  —  the  tongue, 
Who,  worn  with  use,  of  late  would  fain  dispense 
(At  least  in  theatres)  with  common  sense ; 
O'erwhelm  with  sound  the  boxes,  gallery,  pit, 
And  raise  a  laugh  with  any  thing — but  wit. 

To  skilful  writers  it  will  much  import, 
Whence   spring  their  scenes,  from  common 

life  or  court ; 
Whether  they  seek  applause  by  smile  or  tear, 
To  draw  a  "  Lying  Valet,"  or  a  "  Lear," 
A  sage,  or  rakish  youngster  wild  from  school, 
A  wandering  "  Peregrine,"   or  plain   "  John 

Bull ;  " 
All  persons  please  when  nature's  voice  prevails, 
Scottish  or  Irish,  born  in  Wilts  or  Wales. 

Or  follow  common  fame,  or  forge  a  plot. 
Who  cares  if  mimic  heroes  lived  or  not  ? 
One  precept  serves  to  regulate  the  scene  :  — 
Make  it  appear  as  if  it  might  have  been. 

If  some  Drawcansir 1  you  aspire  to  draw, 
Present  him  raving,  and  above  all  law : 
If  female  furies  in  your  scheme  are  planned, 
Macbeth 's  fierce  dame  is  ready  to  your  hand  ; 
For  tears  and  treachery,  for  good  or  evil, 
Constance,  King  Richard,  Hamlet,  and   the 

Devil! 
But  if  a  new  design  you  dare  essay, 
And  freely  wander  from  the  beaten  way, 
True  to  your  characters,  till  all  be  past, 
Preserve  consistency  from  first  to  last. 

'Tis  hard  to  venture  where  our  betters  fail, 
Or  lend  fresh  interest  to  a  twice-told  tale ; 
And  yet,  perchance,  'tis  wiser  to  prefer 
A  hackneyed  plot,  than  choose  a  new,  and  err  ; 
Yet  copy  not  too  closely,  but  record, 
More  justly,  thought  for  thought  than  word 

for  word, 
Nor  trace  your  prototype  through  narrow  ways, 
But  only  follow  where  he  merits  praise. 

For  you,  young  baru !  whom  luckless  fate 

may  lead 
To  tremble  on  the  nod  of  all  who  read, 
>"re  your  first  score  of  cantos  time  unrolls, 
Beware — for   God's   sake,  don't    begin   like 

Bowles ! 2 


1  ["  Johnson.  Pray,  Mr.  Bayes,  who  is  that 
Drawcansir? 

"Bayes.  Why,  Sir,  a  great  hero,  that  frights 
his  mistress,  snubs  up  kings,  baffles  armies,  and 
does  what  he  will  without  regard  to  numbers,  good 
sense,  or  justice."  —  Rehearsal. ~\ 

-  About  two  years  ago  a  young  man,  named 
Townsend,  was  announced   by  Mr.  Cumberland  * 


*  [Cumberland  died  in  May,  1811,  and  had  the 
honor  to  be  buried  in  Westminster  Abbey,  and  to 
be  eulogized,  while  the  company  stood  round  the 
grave,  in  the  following  manly  style  by  the  then 
dean,  Dr.  Vincent,  his  schoolfellow,  and  through 
life  his  friend.  —  "Good  people!    the  person  you 


"Awake  a  louder  and  a  loftier  strain,"  — 
And  pray,   what    follows    from    his    boiling 

brain?  — 
He  sinks  to  Southey's  level  in  a  trice, 
Whose  epic  mountains  never  fail  in  mice ! 
Not  so  of  yore  awoke  your  mighty  sire, 
The  tempered  warblings  of  his  master-lyre  ; 
Soft  as  the  gentler  breathing  of  the  lute, 
"  Of  man's  first  disobedience  and  the  fruit " 

(in  a  review  f  since  deceased)  as  being  engaged  in 
an  epic  poem  to  been  titled  "  Armageddon."  The 
plan  and  specimen  promise  much;  but  I  hope 
neither  to  offend  Mr.  Townsend,  nor  his  friends,  by 
recommending  to  his  attention  the  lines  of  Horace 
to  which  these  rhymes  allude.  If  Mr.  Townsend 
succeeds  in  his  undertaking,  as  there  is  reason  to 
hope,  how  much  will  the  world  be  indebted  to  Mr. 
Cumberland  for  bringing  him  before  the  public! 
But,  till  that  eventful  day  arrives,  it  may  be  doubted 
whether  the  premature  display  of  his  plan  (sublime 
as  the  ideas  confessedly  are)  has  not,  —  by  raising 
expectation  too  high,  or  diminishing  curiosity,  by 
developing  his  argument,  —  rather  incurred  the 
hazard  of  injuring  Mr.  Townsend's  future  pros- 
pects. Mr.  Cumberland  (whose  talents  I  shall  not 
depreciate  by  the  humble  tribute  of  my  praise)  and 
Mr.  Townsend  must  not  suppose  me  actuated  by 
unworthy  motives  in  this  suggestion.  I  wish  the 
author  all  the  success  he  can  wish  himself,  and 
shall  be  truly  happy  to  see  epic  poetry  weighed  up 
from  the  bathos  where  it  lies  sunken  with  Southey, 
Cottle,  Cowley  (Mrs.  or  Abraham) ,  Ogilvy,  Wilkie, 
Pye,  and  all  the  "  dull  of  past  and  present  days." 
Even  if  he  is  not  a  Milton,  he  may  be  better  than 
Blackmore ;  if  not  a  Homer,  an  Antimachus. 
I  should  deem  myself  presumptuous,  as  a  young 
man,  in  offering  advice,  were  it  not  addressed  to  one 


see  now  deposited  is  Richard  Cumberland,  an  au- 
thor of  no  small  merit:  his  writings  were  chiefly  for 
the  stage,  but  of  strict  moral  tendency:  they  were 
not  without  faults,  but  they  were  not  gross,  abound- 
ing with  oaths  and  libidinous  expressions,  as,  I  am 
shocked  to  observe,  is  the  case  of  many  of  the  pres- 
ent day.  He  wrote  as  much  as  any  one  :  few  wrote 
better;  and  his  works  will  be  held  in  the  highest  es- 
timation, as  long  as  the  English  language  will  be 
understood.  He  considered  the  theatre  a  school 
for  moral  improvement,  and  his  remains  are  truly 
worthy  of  mingling  with  the  illustrious  dead  which 
surround  us.  Read  his  prose  subjects  on  divinity! 
there  you  will  find  the  true  Christian  spirit  of  a  man 
who  trusted  in  our  Lord  and  Saviour  Jesus  Christ. 
May  God  forgive  him  his  sins;  and,  at  the  resur- 
rection of  the  just,  receive  him  into  everlasting 
glory!  "] 

j  [The  "  London  Review,"  set  up  in  1809,  under 
Mr.  Cumberland's  editorial  care,  did  not  outlive 
many  numbers.  He  spoke  great  things  in  the  pro- 
spectus, about  the  distinguishing  feature  of  the  jour- 
nal, namely,  its  having  the  writer's  name  affixed  to 
the  articles.  This  plan  has  succeeded  pretty  well 
both  in  France  and  Germany,  but  has  failed  utterly 
as  often  as  it  has  been  tried  in  England.  It  is  need- 
less, however,  to  go  into  any  speculation  on  the 
principle  here;  for  the  "  London  Review,"  whether 
sent  into  the  world  with  or  without  names,  must 
soon  have  died  of  the  original  disease  of  duluess.J 


130 


HINTS  FROM  HORACE. 


He  speaks,  but,  as  his  subject  swells  along, 
Earth,  Heaven,  and  Hades  echo  with  the  song.1 
Still  to  the  midst  of  things  he  hastens  on, 
As  if  we  witnessed  all  already  done; 
Leaves  on  his  path  whatever  seems  too  mean 
To  raise  the  subject,  or  adorn  the  scene ; 
Cl'ves,  as  each  page  improves  upon  the  sight, 
Not  smoke  from  brightness,  but  from  dark- 
ness—  light ; 
And  truth  and  fiction  with  such  art  compounds, 
We  know  not  where  to  fix  their  several  bounds. 
If  you  would  please  the  public,  deign  to  hear 
What  soothes  the  many-headed  monster's  ear ; 
If  your  heart  triumph  when  the  hands  of  all 

nil  in  thunder  at  the  curtain's  fall, 
D  serve  those  plaudits  —  study  nature's  page, 
And  sketch  the  striking  traits  of  every  age; 
While  varying  man  and  varying  years  unfold 
Life's  little  tale,  so  oft,  so  vainly  told. 
Obseive  his  simple  childhood's  dawning  days, 
His  pranks,  his  prate,  his  playmates,  and  his 

plays; 
Till  time  at  length  the  mannish  tyro  weans, 
And  prurient  vice  outstrips  his  tardy  teens ! 

Behold  him  Freshman !  forced  no  more  to 

groan 

O'er  Virgil's2  devilish  verses  and  —  his  own  ; 

Prayers  are  too  tedious,  lectures  too  abstruse, 

He  flies  from  Tavell's  frown  to  "  Fordham's 

Mews;  " 


still  younger.  Mr.  Townsend  has  the  greatest  dif- 
ficulties to  encounter:  but  in  conquering  them  he 
will  find  employment;  in  having  conquered  them, 
his  reward.  I  know  too  well  "  the  scribbler's  scoff, 
the  critic's  contumely;  "  and  I  am  afraid  time  will 
teach  Mr.  Townsend  to  know  them  better.  Those 
who  succeed,  and  those  who  do  not,  must  bear  this 
alike,  and  it  is  hard  to  say  which  have  most  of  it. 
I  trust  that  Mr.  Townsend's  share  will  be  from 
envy;  —  he  will  soon  know  mankind  well  enough 
not  to  attribute  this  expression  to  malice. —  [This 
note  Dyron  says  was  written  at  Athens  before  he 
had  heard  of  the  death  of  Cumberland,  who  died  in 
May,  1S11.  On  his  return  to  England  Byron  wrote 
to  a  friend;  —  "There  is  a  sucking  epic  poet  at 
Granta,  a  Mr.  Townsend,  protege  of  the  late  Cum- 
berland. Did  you  ever  hear  of  him  and  his  '  Arma- 
geddon'? I  think  his  plan  (the  man  I  don't  know) 
borders  on  the  sublime;  though,  perhaps,  the  anti- 
cipation of  the  '  Last  Day'  is  a  little  too  daring:  at 
least,  it  looks  like  telling  the  Almighty  what  he  is 
to  do;  and  might  remind  an  ill-natured  person  of 
the  line  — 

'  And  fools  rush  in  where  angels  fear  to  tread.' " 
Mr.  Townsend,  in  1815,  was  induced  to  publish 
eight  of  the  twelve  books  of  which  his  poem  was  to 
consist.     Their  reception  realized  Byron's  ominous 
predictions.] 

1  [There  is  more  of  poetry  in  these  verses  upon 
Milton  than  in  any  other  passage  throughout  the 
paraphrase.  — Moore.] 

1  Harvey,  the  circulator  of  the  circulation  of 
the  olood,  used  to  fling  away  Virgil  in  his  ecstasy 


(Unlucky  Tavell !  3  doomed  to  daily  cares 
By  pugilistic  pupils,  and  by  bears,)  * 
Fines,  tutors,  tasks,  conventions  threat  in  vain, 
Before  hounds, hunters,  and  Newmarket  plain  ; 
Rough  with  his  elders,  with  his  equals  rash, 
Civil  to  sharpers,  prodigal  of  cash  ; 
Constant  to  nought —  save  hazard  and  a  whore, 
Yet  cursing  both  —  for  both  have  made  him 

sore  ; 
Unread  (unless,  since  books  beguile  disease, 
The  p — x  becomes  his  passage  to  degrees)  ; 
Fooled,  pillaged,  dunned,  he  wastes  his  term 

away, 
And,  unexpelled  perhaps,  retires  M.  A. ; 
Master  of  arts!  as  hells  and  clubs*  proclaim, 
Where   scarce  a  blackleg  bears  a  brighter 

name ! 

Launched  into  life,  extinct  his  early  fire, 
He  apes  the  selfish  prudence  of  his  sire  ; 
Marries  for  money,  chooses  friends  for  rank, 
Buys  land,  and  shrewdly  trusts  not  to  the  Bank ; 
Sits  in  the  Senate ;  gets  a  son  and  heir; 
Sends  him  to  Harrow,  for  himself  was  there. 
Mute,  though  he  votes,  unless  when  called  to 

cheer, 
His  son's  so  sharp — he'll  see  the  dog  a  peer! 

Manhood  declines  —  age  palsies  every  limb  ; 
He  quits  the  scene  —  or  else  the  scene  quits 

him ; 
Scrapes  wealth,  o'er  each   departing  penny 

grieves, 
And  avarice  seizes  al'  ambition  leaves; 
Counts  cent  per  c  3nt,  and  smiles,  or  vainly  frets, 
O'er  hoards  diminished  by  young  Hopeful's 

debts ; 
Weighs  well  and  wisely  what  to  sell  or  buy, 
Complete  in  all  life's  lessons  —  but  to  die; 
Peevish  and  spiteful,  doting,  hard  to  please, 


of  admiration,  and  say,  "the  book  had  a  devil." 
Now,  such  a  character  as  I  am  copying  would  prob- 
ably fling  it  away  also,  but  rather  wish  that  the 
devil  had  the  book;  not  from  any  dislike  to  the 
poet,  but  a  well-founded  horror  of  hexameters.  In- 
deed, the  public  school  penance  of  "  Long  and 
Short"  is  enough  to  beget  an  antipathy  to  poetry 
for  the  residue  of  a  man's  life,  and,  perhaps,  so  far 
may  be  an  advantage. 

3  "  Infandum,  regina,  jubes  renovare  dolorem." 
I  dare  say  Mr.  Tavell  (to  whom  I  mean  no  affront) 
will  understand  me;  and  it  is  no  matter  whether 
any  one  else  does  or  no.  —  To  the  above  events, 
"  quaeque  ipse  miserrima  vidi,  et  quorum  pars  mag- 
na fui,"  all  times  and  terms  bear  testimony. 

4  [The  Rev.  G.  F.  Tavell  was  a  fellow  and  tutor 
of  Trinity  College,  Cambridge,  during  Byron's  res- 
idence, and  owed  this  notice  to  the  zeal  with  which 
he  had  protested  against  his  juvenile  vagaries. 

B  "  Hell,"  a  gaming-house  so  called,  where  you 
risk  little,  and  are  cheated  a  good  deal.  "  Club,"  a 
pleasant  purgatory  where  you  lose  more,  acd  Wi 
not  supposed  to  be  cheated  at  all. 


HINTS  FROM  HORACE. 


131 


Commending  every  time,  save  times  like  these ; 
Crazed,  querulous,  forsaken,  half  forgot, 
Expires  unwept — is  buried  —  let  him  rot! 

But  from  the  Drama  let  me  not  digress, 
Nor  spare  my  precepts,  though  the)'  please 

you  less. 
Though  woman  weep,  and  hardest  hearts  are 

stirred 
When  what  is  done  is  rather  seen  than  heard, 
Yet  many  deeds  preserved  in  history's  page 
Are  better  told  than  acted  on  the  stage ; 
The  ear  sustains  what  shocks  the  timid  eye, 
And  horror  thus  subsides  to  sympathy. 
True  Briton  all  beside,  I  here  am  French-  — 
Bloodshed  'tis  surely  better  to  retrench  ; 
The  gladiatorial  gore  we  teach  to  flow 
In  tragic  scenes  disgusts,  though  but  in  show ; 
We  hate  the  carnage  while  we  see  the  trick, 
And  find  small  sympathy  in  being  sick. 
Not  on  the  stage  the  regicide  Macbeth 
Appals  an  audience  with  a  monarch's  death ; 
To  gaze  when  sable  Hubert  threats  to  sear 
Young  Arthur's  eyes,  can  ours  or  nature  bear  ? 
A  haltered  heroine  t  Johnson  sought  to  slay  — 
We  saved  Irene,  but  half  damned  the  play, 
And  ( Heaven  be  praised  !)  ourtolerating  times 
Stint  metamorphoses  to  pantomimes; 
And  Lewis'  self,  with  all  his  sprites,  would 

quake 
To  change  Earl  Osmond's  negro  to  a  snake  ! 
Because,  in  scenes  exciting  joy  or  grief, 
We  loathe  the  action  which  exceeds  belief: 
And  yet,  God  knows  !  what  may  not  authors  do, 
Whose  postscripts  prate  of  dyeing  "heroines 

blue?  "2 

Above  all  things,  Dan  Poet,  if  you  can, 
Eke  out  your  acts,  I  pray,  with  mortal  man  ; 
Nor  call  a  ghost,  unless  some  cursed  scrape 
Must  open  ten  trap-doors  for  your  escape. 
Of  all  the  monstrous  things  I'd  fain  forbid, 
I  loathe  an  opera  worse  than  Dennis  did  ; 3 
Where  good  and  evil  persons,  right  or  wrong, 
Rage,  love,  and  aught  but  moralize,  in  song. 


1  "  Irene  had  to  speak  two  lines  with  the  bow- 
string round  her  neck ;  but  the  audience  cried  out 
'Murder!  '  and  she  was  obliged  to  go  off  the  stage 
alive."  —  Boswell's  Johnso?t.  [These  two  lines 
were  afterwards  struck  out,  and  Irene  was  carried 
off,  to  be  put  to  death  behind  the  scenes.] 

2  In  the  postscript  to  the  "  Castle  Sceptre,"  Mr. 
Lewis  tells  us,  that  though  blacks  were  unknown 
in  England  at  the  period  of  his  action,  yet  he  has 
made  the  anachronism  to  set  off  the  scene  :  and  if 
he  could  have  produced  the  effect  "by  making  his 
heroine  blue,"  —  I  quote  him  —  "blue  he  would 
have  made  her!  " 

3  [In  1706,  Dennis,  the  critic,  wrote  an  "  Essay 
on  the  Operas  after  the  Italian  manner,  which  are 
about  to  be  established  on  the  English  Stage;  "  to 
show  that  they  were  more  immoral  than  the  most 
licentious  play.] 


Hail,  last  memorial  of  our  foreign  friends 
Which  Gaul  allows,  and  still  Hesperia  lends ! 
Napoleon's  edicts  no  embargo  lay 
On  whores,  spies,  singers  wisely  shipped  away 
Our  giant  capital,  whose  squares  are  spread 
Where  rustics  earned,  and  now  may  beg,  their 

bread, 
In  all  iniquity  is  grown  so  nice, 
It  scorns  amusements  which  are  not  of  price. 
Hence  the  pert  shopkeeper,  whose  throbbing 

ear 
Aches  with  orchestras  which  he  pays  to  hear, 
Whom  shame,  not  sympathy,  forbids  to  snore, 
His  anguish  doubling  by  his  own  "  encore ;" 
Squeezed  in  "  Fop's   Alley,"   jostled   by  the 

beaux, 
Teased  with  his  hat,  and  trembling  for  his  toes  ; 
Scarce  wrestles  through  the  night,  nor  tastes 

of  ease 
Till  the  dropped  curtain  gives  a  glad  release : 
Why    this,   and   more,   he   suffers  —  can    ye 

guess  ?  — 
Because  it  costs  him  dear,  and  makes  him 

dress ! 

So  prosper  eunuchs  from  Etruscan  schools ; 
Give  us  but  fiddlers,  and  they're  sure  of  fools  ! 
Ere  scenes  were  played  by  many  a  reverend 

clerk4 
(What   harm,  if  David   danced  before    the 

ark?)  5 
In  Christmas  revels,  simple  country  folks 
Were    pleased   with    morrice-mumm'ry  and 

coarse  jokes. 
Improving  years,  with  things  no  longer  known, 
Produced  blithe  Punch  and  merry  Madame 

Joan, 
Who  still  frisk  on  with  feats  so  lewdly  low, 
'Tis  strange  Benvolio6  suffers  such  a  show;7 
Suppressing  peer !  to  whom  each  vice  gives 

place, 
Oaths,  boxing,  begging,  —  all,  save  rout  and 

race. 


4  "  The  first  theatrical  representations,  entitled 
'  Mysteries  and  Moralities,'  were  generally  enacted 
at  Christmas,  by  monks  (as  the  only  persons  who 
could  read),  and  latterly  by  the  clergy  and  students 
of  the  universities.  The  dramatis  persona:  were 
usually  Adam,  Pater  Coelestis,  Faith,  Vice,"  etc. 
etc.  —  See  IVarton's  History  of  English  Poetry. 

5  Here  follows,  in  the  original  MS. — 

"  Who  did  what  Vestris — -yet,  at  least,  cannot, 
And  cut  his  kingly  capers  sans  culotte." 

6  Benvolio  does  not  bet;  but  every  man  who 
maintains  race-horses  is  a  promoter  of  all  the  con 
comitant  evils  of  the  turf.  Avoiding  to  bet  is  a  lit 
tie  pharisaical.  Is  it  an  exculpation?  I  think  not 
I  never  yet  heard  a  bawd  ^raised  for  chastity  be- 
cause she  herself  did  not  commit  fornication. 

7  [For  Benvolio  the  original  MS.  had  "  Earl 
Grosvenor;  "  and  for  the  next  couplet  — 

"  Suppressing  peer!  to  whom  each  vice  gires  place, 
Save  gambling  —  for  his  Lordship  loves  a  race."] 


132 


NIXTS  FRO.V  HORACE. 


Farce  followed  Comedy,  and  reached  her 
prime 

In  ever-laughing  Foote's  fantastic  time  : 

Mad  wag !  who  pardoned  none,  nor  spared 
the  best, 

And  turned  some  very  serious  things  to  jest. 

Nor  church  nor  state  escaped  his  public  sneers, 

Arms  nor  the  gown,  priests,  lawyers,  volun- 
teers : 

"  Alas,  poor  Yorick  !  "  now  for  ever  mute ! 

Whoever  loves  a  laugh  must  sigh  for  Foote. 

We  smile,  perforce,  when  histrionic  scenes 
Ape  the  swoln  dialogue  of  kings  and  queens, 
When  "  Chrononhotonthologos  must  die," 
And  Arthur  struts  in  mimic  majesty. 

Moschus !  with  whom  once  more  I  hope  to 

sit 
And  smile  at  folly,  if  we  can't  at  wit; 
Yes,  friend  !  for  thee  I'll  quit  my  cynic  cell, 
And  bear  Swift's  motto,  "  Vive  la  bagatelle!  " 
Which  charmed   our   days  in   each  ^Egean 

clime, 
As  oft  at  home,  with  revelry  and  rhyme.1 
Then  may  Euphrosyne,  who  sped  the  past, 
Soothe  thy  life's  scenes,  nor  leave  thee  in  the 

last; 
But  find  in  thine,  like  pagan  Plato's  bed,2 
Some  merry  manuscript  of  mimes,  when  dead. 

Now  to  the  Drama  let  us  bend  our  eyes, 
Where  fettered  by  whig  Walpole  low  she  lies  ;8 
Corruption    foiled   her,   for    she  feared   her 

glance ; 
Decorum  left  her  for  an  opera  dance ! 
Yet  Chesterfield,4  whose  polished  pen  inveighs 
'Gainst  laughter,  fought  for  freedom  to  our 
plays ; 


1  [In  dedicating  the  fourth  canto  of  "  Childe 
Harold"  to  his  fellow  traveller,  Hobhouse,  Byron 
describes  him  as  "  one  to  whom  he  was  indebted 
for  the  social  advantages  of  an  enlightened  friend- 
ship; one  whom  he  had  long  known  and  accompa- 
nied far,  whom  he  had  found  wakeful  over  his  sick- 
ness and  kind  in  his  sorrow,  glad  in  his  prosperity 
and  firm  in  his  adversity,  true  in  counsel  and  trusty 
in  peril;  "  — while  Hobhouse,  in  describing  a  short 
tour  to  Negroponte,  in  which  his  noble  friend  was 
unable  to  accompany  him,  regrets  the  absence  of  a 
companion,  "  who,  to  quickness  of  observation  and 
ingenuity  of  remark,  united  that  gay  good  humor 
which  keeps  alive  the  attention  under  the  pressure 
of  fatigue,  and  softens  the  aspect  of  every  difficulty 
and  danger."] 

2  Under  Plato's  pillow  a  volume  of  the  Mimes  of 
Sophron  was  found  the  day  he  died.  —  I  'idc  Bar- 
thelemi,  De  Pauw,  or  Diogenes  Laertius,  if  agree- 
able. De  Pauw  calls  it  a  jest-book.  Cumberland, 
in  his  Observer,  terms  it  moral,  like  the  sayings  of 
Publius  Syrus. 

3  The  English  Act  of  Parliament  regulating  and 
restraining  theatres  was  introduced  in  1737  by  Sir 
Robert  Walpole. 

*  His  speech  on  the  Licensing  Act  is  one  of  his 
most  eloquent  efforts. 


Unchecked  by  megrims  of  patrician  brains, 
And  damning  dulness  of  lord  chamberlains. 
Repeal  that  act!  again  let  Humor  roam 
Wild  o'er  the  stage  —  we've  time  for  tears  a> 

home; 
Let  "  Archer"  plant  the  horns  on  "  Sullen's" 

brows, 
And  "  Estifania  "  gull  her  "  Copper  "5  spouse ; 
The  moral's  scant  —  but  that  may  be  excused, 
Men  go  not  to  be  lectured,  but  amused. 
He  whom  our  plays  dispose  to  good  or  ill 
Must  wear  a  head  in  want  of  Willis'  skill  ;6 
Ay,   but    Macheath's   example  —  psha! — no 

more ! 
It  formed  no  thieves  —  the  thief  was  formed 

before ; 
And,  spite  of  puritans  and  Collier's  curse," 
Plays  make  mankind  no  better,  and  no  worse. 
Then  spare  our  stage,  ye  methodistic  men  ! 
Nor  burn  damned  Drury  if  it  rise  again. 
But  why  to  brain-scorched  1  pilots  thus  appeal 
Can  heavenly  mercy  dweD  with  earthly  zeal 
For  times  of  fire  and  fagot  let  them  hope ! 
Times  dear  alike  to  puritan  or  pope. 
As  pious  Calvin  saw  Servetus  blaze, 
So  would  new  sects  on  newer  victims  gaze. 
E'en  now  the  songs  of  Solyma  begin  ; 
Faith  cants,  perplexed  apologist  of  sin! 
While  the  Lord's  servant  chastens  whom  he 

loves, 
And     Simeon8    kicks,    where    Baxter    only 

"  shoves."  9 

Whom  nature  guides,  so  writes,  that  every 
dunce, 
Enraptured,  thinks  to  do  the  same  at  once ; 
But  after  inky  thumbs  and  bitten  nails, 
And  twenty  scattered  quires,  the  coxcomb  fails. 

Let  Pastoral  be  dumb ;  for  who  can  hope 
To  match  the  youthful  eclogues  of  our  Pope ; 
Yet  his  and  Phillips'  faults,  of  different  kind, 
For  art  too  rude,  for  nature  too  refined, 
Instruct  how  hard  the  medium  'tis  to  hit 
Twixt  too  much  polish  and  too  coarse  a  wit. 

A  vulgar  scribbler,  certes,  stands  disgraced 
In  this  nice  age,  when  all  aspire  to  taste ; 


5  Michael  Perez,  the"  Copper  Captain,"  in  "  Rule 
a  Wile  and  have  a  Wife." 

6  [Willis  was  the  physician  who  had  charge  of 
George  III.  in  the  earlier  stages  of  his  insanity.] 

7  Jerry  Collier's  controversy  with  Congreve,  etc. 
on  the  subject  of  the  drama,  is  too  well  known  to 
require  further  comment. 

'  Mr.  Simeon  is  the  very  bully  of  beliefs,  and 
castigator  of"  good  works."  He  is  ably  supported 
by  John  Stickles,  a  laborer  in  the  same  vineyard  :  — 
but  I  say  no  more,  for,  according  to  Johnny  in  full 
congregation.  "  JVo  /topes  for  them  as  laughs."  ■ — 
[The  Rev.  Charles  Simeon,  —  a  zealous  Calvinist, 
had  several  warm  disputations  with  other  divines.] 

"  "  Baxter's  Shove  to  heavy-a — d  Christians  "  — 
the  veritable  title  of  a  book  once  in  good  repute, 
and  likely  enough  to  be  so  again. 


HINTS  FROM  HORACE. 


133 


The  dirty  language,  and  the  noisome  jest, 
Which    pleased    in   Swift   of  yore,  we    now 

detest ; 
Proscribed  not  only  in  the  world  polite, 
But  even  too  nasty  for  a  city  knight ! 

Peace  to  Swift's  faults !  his  wit  hath  made 

them  pass, 
Unmatched  by  all,  save  matchless  Hudibras  ! 
Whose  author  is  perhaps  the  first  we  meet, 
Who  from  our  couplet  lopped  to  final  feet ; 
Nor  less  in  merit  than  the  longer  line, 
This  measure  moves  a  favorite  of  the  Nine. 
Though  at  first  view  eight  feet  may  seem  in  vain 
Formed,  save  in  ode,  to  bear  a  serious  strain, 
Yet  Scott  has  shown  our  wondering  isle  of  late 
This  measure  shrinks  not  from  a  theme  of 

weight, 
And,  varied  skilfully,  surpasses  far 
Heroic  rhyme,  but  most  in  love  and  war, 
Whose  fluctuations,  tender  or  sublime, 
Are  curbed  too  much  by  long-recurring  rhyme. 

But  many  a  skilful  judge  abhors  to  see, 
What  few  admire  —  irregularity. 
This  some  vouchsafe  to  pardon  ;  but  'tis  hard 
When  such  a  word  contents  a  British  bard. 

And  must  the  bard  his  glowing  thoughts 
confine, 
Lest  censure  hover  o'er  some  faulty  line  ? 
Remove  whate'er  a  critic  may  suspect, 
To  gain  the  paltry  suffrage  of  "  correct?  " 
Or  prune  the  spirit  of  each  daring  phrase, 
To  fly  from  error,  not  to  merit  praise  ? 

Ye,  who  seek  finished  models,  never  cease, 
By  day  and  night,  to  read  the  works  of  Greece. 
But  our  good  fathers  never  bent  their  brains 
To  heathen  Greek,  content  with  native  strains. 
The  few  who  read  a  page,  or  used  a  pen, 
Were  satisfied  with  Chaucer  and  old  Ben  ; 
The  jokes  and  numbers  suited  to  their  taste 
Were    quaint    and    careless,   any   thing    but 

chaste ; 
Yet  whether  right  or  wrong  the  ancient  rules, 
It  will  not  do  to  call  our  fathers  fools  ! 
Though  you  and  I,  who  eruditely  know 
To  separate  the  elegant  and  low, 
Can  also,  when  a  hobbling  line  appears, 
Detect  with  fingers,  in  default  of  ears. 

In  sooth  I  do  not  know,  or  greatly  care 
To  learn,  who  our  first  English  strollers  were  ; 
Or  if,  till  roofs  received  the  vagrant  art, 
Our  Muse,  like  that  of  Thespis,  kept  a  cart; 
But  this  is  certain,  since  our  Shakspeare's  days, 
There's  pomp  enough,  if  little  else  in  plays  ; 
Nor  will  Melpomene  ascend  her  throne 
Without  high  heels,  white  plume,  and  Bristol 
'        stone. 

Old  comedies  still  meet  with  much  applause, 
Though  too  licentious  for  dramatic  laws: 


At  least,  we  moderns,  wisely,  'tis  confest, 
Curtail,  or  silence,  the  lascivious  jest. 

Whate'er  their  follies,  and  their  faults  be- 

side, 
Our  enterprising  bards  pass  nought  untried  ; 
Nor  do  they  merit  slight  applause  who  choose 
An  English  subject  for  an  English  muse, 
And  leave  to  minds  which  never  dare  invent 
French  flippancy  and  German  sentiment. 
Where  is  that  living  language  which  could 

claim 
Poetic  more,  as  philosophic,  fame. 
If  all  our  bards,  more  patient  of  delay, 
Would  stop,  like  Pope,1  to  polish  by  the  way? 

Lords  of  the  quill,  whose  critical  assaults 
Overthrow  whole  quartos  with  their  quires  of 

faults, 
Who  soon  detect,  and  mark  where'er  we  fail, 
And  prove  our  marble  with  too  nice  a  nail ! 
Democritus  himself  was  not  so  bad ; 
He  only  thought,  but  you  would  make,  us  mad  ! 

But  truth  to  say,  most  rhymers  rarely  guard 
Against  that  ridicule  they  deem  so  hard ; 
In  person  negligent,  they  wear,  from  sloth, 
Beards  of  a  week,  and  nails  of  annual  growth  ; 
Reside  in  garrets,  fly  from  those  they  meet, 
And  walk  in  alleys,  rather  than  the  street. 

With  little  rhyme,  less  reason,  if  you  please, 
The  name  of  poet  may  be  got  with  ease, 
So  that  not  tuns  of  helleboric  juice 
Shall  ever  turn  your  head  to  any  use; 
Write   but   like   Wordsworth,   live  beside   a 
Lake,2 


1  ["  They  support  Pope,  I  see.  in  the  Quarterly," 
—  wrote  Byron  in  1820,  from  Ravenna  — "it  is  a 
sin,  and  a  shame,  and  a  damnation,  that  Pope!! 
should  require  it:  but  he  does.  Those  miserable 
mountebanks  of  the  day,  the  poets,  disgrace  them- 
selves, and  deny  God,  in  running  down  Pope,  the 
most  faultless  of  poets."  Again,  in  1821  :  —  "Nei- 
ther time,  nor  distance,  nor  grief,  nor  age,  can  ever 
diminish  my  veneration  for  him  who  is  the  great 
moral  poet  of  all  times,  of  all  climes,  of  all  feelings, 
and  of  all  stages  of  existence.  The  delight  of  my 
boyhood,  the  study  of  my  manhood,  perhaps  (if 
allowed  to  me  to  attain  it)  he  may  be  the  conso- 
lation of  my  age.  His  poetry  is  the  book  of  life. 
Without  canting,  and  yet  without  neglecting  relig- 
ion, he  has  assembled  all  that  a  good  and  great  man 
can  gather  together  of  moral  wisdom  clothed  in  con- 
summate beauty.  Sir  William  Temple  observes, 
'  that  of  all  the  members  of  mankind  that  live  within 
the  compass  of  a  thousand  years,  for  one  man  that 
is  born  capable  of  making  a  great  poet,  there  may 
be  a  thousand  born  capable  of  making  as  great 
generals  and  ministers  of  state  as  any  in  story.' 
Here  is  a  statesman's  opinion  of  poetry;  it  is  hon- 
orable to  him  and  to  the  art.  Such  a  '  poet  of  a 
thousand  years  '  was  Pope.  A  thousand  years  wil! 
roll  away  before  such  another  can  be  hoped  for  it? 
our  literature.  But  it  can  •want  them  :  he  is  him- 
self a  literature."] 

2  ["  That  this  is  the  age  of  the  decline  of  English 


134 


HINTS  FROM  HORACE. 


And    keep   your   bushy   locks  a  year   from 

Blake ;  1 
Then  print  your  book,  once  more  return  to 

town, 
And  boys  shall  hunt  your  hardship  up  and 

down. 

Am  I  not  wise,  if  such  some  poets'  plight, 
To  purge  in  spring — like  Bayes2  —  before  I 

write  ? 
If  this  precaution  softened  not  my  bile, 
I  know  no  scribbler  with  a  madder  style; 
But  since  (perhaps  my  feelings  are  too  nice) 
I  cannot  purchase  fame  at  such  a  price, 
I'll  labor  gratis  as  a  grinder's  wheel, 
And,  blunt  myself,  give  edge  to  others'  steel, 
Nor  write  at  all,  unless  to  teach  the  art 
To  those  rehearsing  for  the  poet's  part ; 


poetry,  will  be  doubted  by  few  who  have  calmly  con- 
sidered the  subject.  That  there  are  men  of  genius 
among  the  present  poets,  makes  little  against  the 
fact;  because  it  has  been  well  said,  that,  'next  to 
him  who  forms  the  taste  of  his  country,  the  greatest 
genius  is  he  who  corrupts  it.'  No  one  has  ever  de- 
nied genius  to  Marini,  who  corrupted,  not  merely 
the  taste  of  Italy,  but  that  of  all  Europe,  for  nearly 
a  century.  The  great  cause  of  the  present  deplor- 
able state  of  English  poetry  is  to  be  attributed  to 
that  absurd  and  systematic  depreciation  of  Pope,  in 
which,  for  the  last  few  years,  there  has  been  a  kind 
of  epidemic  concurrence.  The  Lakers  and  their 
school,  and  everybody  else  with  their  school,  and 
even  Moore  without  a  school,  and  dilettanti  lec- 
turers at  institutions,  and  elderly  gentlemen  who 
translate  and  imitate,  and  young  ladies  who  listen 
and  repeat,  and  baronets  who  draw  indifferent  fron- 
tispieces for  bad  poets,  and  noblemen  who  let  them 
dine  with  them  in  the  country,  the  small  body  of 
the  wits  and  the  great  body  of  the  blues,  have  latterly 
united  in  a  depreciation,  of  which  their  forefathers 
would  have  been  as  much  ashamed  as  their  children 
will  be.  In  the  mean  time  what  have  we  got  in- 
stead? The  Lake  School,  which  began  with  an  epic 
poem  '  written  in  six  weeks,'  (so  '  Joan  of  Arc  '  pro- 
claimed herself,)  and  finished  with  a  ballad  com- 
posed in  twenty  years,  as  '  Peter  Bell's  '  creator 
takes  care  to  inform  the  few  who  will  inquire. 
What  have  we  got  instead?  A  deluge  of  flimsy 
and  unintelligible  romances,  imitated  from  Scott 
and  myself,  who  have  both  made  the  best  of  our 
had  materials  and  erroneous  system.  What  have 
we  got  instead?  Madoc,  which  is  neither  an  epic 
nor  any  thing  else,  Thalaba,  Kehama,  Gebir,  and 
such  gibberish,  written  in  all  metres,  and  in  no  lan- 
guage."—  Byron's  Letters,  1819.] 

1  As  famous  a  tonsor  as  Licinus  himself,  and  bet- 
ter paid,  and  may,  like  him,  be  one  day  a  senator, 
having  a  better  qualification  than  one  half  of  the 
heads  he  crops,  namely,  —  independence. 

2  ["  Bayes.  If  I  am  to  write  familiar  things,  as 
sonnets  to  Armida,  and  the  like,  I  make  use  of 
stewed  prunes  only;  but  when  I  have  a  grand  de- 
sign in  hand,  I  ever  take  physic  and  let  blood:  for 
when  you  have  pure  swiftness  of  thought,  and  fiery 
flights  of  fancy,  you  must  have  a  care  of  the  pen- 
sive part.  In  fine,  you  must  purge." —  The  Re- 
hearsal.] 


From  Horace  show  the  pleasing  paths  of  song, 
And  from  my  own  example  —  what  is  wrong. 

Though  modern  practice  sometimes  differs 
quite, 
"Tis  just  as  well  to  think  before  you  write  ; 
Let  every  book  that  suits  your  theme  be  read. 
So  shall  you  trace  it  to  the  fountain-bead. 

He  who  has  learned  the  duty  which  he  owes 
To  friends  and  country,  and  to  pardon  foes ; 
Who  models  his  deportment  as  may  best 
Accord  with  brother,  sire,  or  stranger  guest ; 
Who  takes  our  laws  and  worship  as  they  are, 
Nor  roars  reform  for  senate,  church,  and  bar ; 
In  practice,  rather  than  loud  precept,  wise, 
Bids  not  his  tongue,  but  heart  philosophize: 
Such  is  the  man  the  poet  should  rehearse, 
As  joint  exemplar  of  his  life  and  verse. 

Sometimes  a  sprightly  wit,  and  tale  well  told. 
Without  much  grace,  or  weight,  or  art,  will 

hold 
A  longer  empire  o'er  the  public  mind 
Than  sounding  trifles,  empty,  though  refined. 

Unhappy  Greece !  thy  sons  of  ancient  days 
The  muse  may  celebrate  with  perfect  praise, 
Whose  generous  children  narrowed  not  their 

hearts 
With  commerce,  given  alone  to  arms  and  arts- 
Our  boys  (save  those  whom  public  schools 

compel 
To  "  long  and  short "  before  they're  taught  to 

spell) 
From  frugal  fathers  soon  imbibe  by  rote, 
"  A  penny  saved,  my  lad,  's  a  penny  got." 
Babe  of  a  city  birth  !  from  sixpence  take 
The  third,  how   much    will    the    remainder 

make  ?  — 
"A  groat." — "Ah,  bravo!     Dick  hath  done 

the  sum ! 
He'll  swell  my  fifty  thousand  to  a  plum." 

They  whose  young  souls  receive  this  rust 
betimes, 
'Tis  clear,  are  fit  for  any  thing  but  rhymes ; 
And  Locke  will  tell  you,  that  the  father's  right 
Who  hides  all  verses  from  his  children's  sight ; 
For  poets  (says  this  sage,3  and  many  more,) 
Make  sad  mechanics  with  their  lyric  lore ; 
And  Delphi  now,  however  rich  of  old 


3  I  have  not  the  original  by  me,  but  the  Italian 
translation  runs  as  follows: — "E  una  cosa  a  mio 
credere  molto  stravagante,  che  un  padre  desideri,  o 
permetta,  che  suo  figliuolo,  coltivi  e  perfezioni  questo 
talento."  A  little  further  on:  "  Si  trovano  di  rado 
nel  Parnaso  le  miniere  d' oro  e  d'  argento."  —  Edit- 
cazione  dei  Fanciulli  del  Signor  Locke.  ["  If 
the  child  have  a  poetic  vein,  it  is  to  me  the  strangest 
thing  in  the  world,  that  the  father  should  desire  or 
suffer  it  to  be  cherished  or  improved."  —  "  It  is  very 
seldom  seen,  that  any  one  discovers  mines  of  gold 
or  silver  on  Parnassus."] 


HINTS  FROM  HORACE. 


13-5 


Discovers  little  silver,  and  less  gold, 
Because  Parnassus,  though  a  mount  divine, 
Is  poor  as  Irus,1  or  an  Irish  mine.2 

Two  objects  always  should  the  poet  move, 
Or  one  or  both,  —  to  please  or  to  improve. 
Whate'er  you  teach,  be  brief,  if  you  design 
For  our  remembrance  your  didactic  line; 
Redundance  places  memory  on  the  rack, 
For  brains  may  be  o'erloaded,  like  the  back. 

Fiction  does  best  when  taught  to  look  like 
truth, 
And  fairy  fables  bubble  none  but  youth: 
Expect  no  credit  for  too  wondrous  tales, 
Since  Jonas  only  springs  alive  from  whales! 

Young  men  with  aught  but  elegance  dis- 
pense ; 

Maturer  years  require  a  little  sense. 

To  end  at  once ;  — that  bard  for  all  is  fit 

Who  mingles  well  instruction  with  his  wit; 

For  him  reviews  shall  smile,  for  him  o'erflow 

The  patronage  of  Paternoster-row  ; 

His  book,  with  Longman's  liberal  aid,  shall 
pass 

(Who  ne'er  despises  books  that  bring  him 
brass) ; 

Through  three  long  weeks  the  taste  of  Lon- 
don lead, 

And  cross  St.  George's  Channel  and  the 
Tweed. 

But  every  thing  has  faults,  nor  is't  unknown 
That  harps  and  fiddles  often  lose  their  tone, 
And  wayward  voices,  at  their  owner's  call, 
With  all  his  best  endeavors,  only  squall; 
Dogs  blink  their  covey,  flints  withhold  the 

spark,3 
And  double-barrels  (damn  them!)  miss  their 

mark.4 

Where  frequent  beauties  strike  the  reader's 
view 
We  must  not  quarrel  for  a  blot  or  two ; 
But  pardon  equally  to  books  or  men, 
The  slips  of  human  nature  and  the  pen. 


1  "  Iro  pauperior:  "  this  is  the  same  beggar  who 
boxed  with  Ulysses  for  a  pound  of  kid's  fry,  which 
he  lost,  and  half  a  dozen  teeth  besides.  —  See  Odys- 
sey, b.  18. 

2  The  Irish  gold  mine  of  Wicklow,  which  yields 
iust  ore  enough  to  swear  by,  or  gild  a  bad  guinea. 

3  [This  couplet  is  amusingly  characteristic  of  that 
mixture  of  fun  and  bitterness  with  which  their  author 
sometimes  spoke  in  conversation ;  so  much  so,  that 
those  who  knew  him  might  almost  fancy  they  hear 
him  utter  the  words.  —  Moore. ,] 

4  As  Mr.  Pope  took  the  liberty  of  damning  Homer, 
to  whom  he  was  under  great  obligations — "And  Ho- 
mer (damn  him!)  calls"  —  it  may  be  presumed 
that  anybody  or  any  thing  may  be  damned  in  verse 
by  poetical  license;  and,  in  case  of  accident,  I  beg 
Veave  to  plead  so  illustrious  a  precedent. 


Yet  if  an  author,  spite  of  foe  or  friend, 
Despises  all  advice  too  much  to  mend, 
But  ever  twangs  the  same  discordant  string, 
Give  him  no  quarter,  howsoe'er  he  sing. 
Let  Havard's  5  fate  o'ertake  him,  who,  for  once, 
Produced  a  play  too  dashing  for  a  dunce  : 
At  first  none  deemed  it  his  ;  but  when  his  name 
Announced  the  fact  —  what  then  ?  —  it  lost  its 

fame. 
Though  all  deplore  when   Milton  deigns  t« 

doze, 
In  a  long  work  'tis  fair  to  steal  repose. 

As  pictures,  so  shall  poems  be  ;  some  stand 
The  critic  eye,  and  please  when  near  at  hand  ; 
But  others  at  a  distance  strike  the  sight ; 
This  seeks  the  shade,  but  that  demands  the 

light, 
Nor  dreads  the  connoisseur's  fastidious  view, 
But,  ten  times  scrutinized,  is  ten  times  new. 

Parnassian  pilgrims !  ye  whom  chance,  or 
choice, 
Hath  led  to  listen  to  the  Muse's  voice, 
Receive  this  counsel,  and  be  timely  wise ; 
Few  reach  the  summit  which  before  you  lies. 
Our  church  and  state,  our  courts  and  camps 

concede 
Reward  to  very  moderate  heads  indeed  ! 
In  these  plain  common  sense  will  travel  far; 
All  are  not  Erskines  who  mislead  the  bar : 
But  poesy  between  the  best  and  worst 
No  medium  knows  ;  you  must  be  last  or  first ; 
For  middling  poets'  miserable  volumes 
Are  damned  alike  by  gods,  and  men,  and  col- 
umns.6 

c  For  the  story  of  Billy  Havard's  tragedy,  see 
"  Davies's  Life  of  Garrick."  I  believe  it  is  "  Regu- 
Ius,"  or  "  Charles  the  First."  The  moment  it  was 
known  to  be  his  the  theatre  thinned,  and  the  book- 
seller refused  to  give  the  customary  sum  for  the 
copyright.  —  [Charles  the  First  was  the  name  of 
Havard's  tragedy.] 

0  [Here,  in  the  original  MS.,  we  find  the  follow- 
ing couplet  and  note:  — 
"  Though  what '  Gods,  men,  and  columns '  interdict 

The  Devil  and  Jeffrey  pardon  —  in  a  Pict.* 


*  "  The  Devil  and  Jeffrey  are  here  placed  anti- 
thetically to  gods  and  men,  such  being  their  usual 
position,  and  their  due  one  —  according  to  the  face- 
tious saying,  '  If  God  won't  take  you,  the  Devil 
must;  '  and  I  am  sure  no  one  durst  object  to  his 
taking  the  poetry  which,  rejected  by  Horace,  is 
accepted  by  Jeffrey.  That  these  gentlemen  are  in 
some  cases  kinder,  —  the  one  to  countrymen,  and 
the  other  from  his  odd  propensity  to  prefer  evil  te 
good,  —  than  the  '  gods,  men,  and  columns '  of  Hor- 
ace, may  be  seen  by  a  reference  to  the  review  of 
Campbell's  '  Gertrude  of  Wyoming;  '  and  in  No.  31 
of  the  Edinburgh  Review  (given  to  me  the  other  day 
by  the  captain  of  an  English  frigate  off  Salamis), 
there  is  a  similar  concession  to  the  mediocrity  ot 
Jamie  Graham's  '  British  Gcorgics.'    It  is  fortunate 


136 


HINTS  FROM  HORACE. 


Again,  my  Jeffrey !  —  as  that  sound  inspires, 
How  wakes  my  bosom  to  its  wonted  fires ! 
Fires,  such  as  gentle  Caledonians  feel 
When  Southrons  writhe  upon  their  critic  wheel, 
Or  mild  Eclectics,1  when   some,  worse  than 

Turks, 
Would   rob   poor   Faith  to   decorate  "good 
works." 


1  To 'the  Eclectic  or  Christian  Reviewers  I  have 
to  return  thanks  for  the  fervor  of  that  charity  which, 
in  1809,  induced  them  to  express  a  hope  that  a  thing 
then  published  by  me  might  lead  to  certain  conse- 
quences, which,  although  natural  enough,  surely 
came  but  rashly  from  reverend  lips.  I  refer  them 
to  their  own  pages,  where  they  congratulated  them- 
selves on  the  prospect  of  a  tilt  between  Mr.  Jeffrey 
and  myself,  from  which  some  great  good  was  to  ac- 
crue, provided  one  or  bath  were  knocked  on  the 
head.  Having  survived  two  years  and  a  half,  those 
"  Elegies  "  which  they  were  kindly  preparing  to  re- 
view, I  have  no  peculiar  gusto  to  give  them  "  so 
joyful  a  trouble,"  except,  indeed,  "  upon  compul- 
sion, Hal;  "  but  if,  as  David  says  in  the  "  Rivals," 
it  should  come  to  "  bloody  sword  and  gun  fighting," 
we  "won't  run,  will  we,  Sir  Lucius?"  1  do  not 
know  what  I  had  done  to  these  Eclectic  gentlemen  : 
my  works  are  their  lawful  perquisite,  to  be  hewn  in 
pieces  like  Agag,  if  it  seem  meet  unto  them  :  but 

for  Campbell,  that  his  fame  neither  depends  on  his 
last  poem,  nor  the  puff  of  the  Edinburgh  Review. 
The  catalogues  of  our  English  are  also  less  fastidi- 
ous than  the  pillars  of  the  Roman  librarians.  —  A 
word  more  with  the  author  of '  Gertrude  of  Wyom- 
ing.' At  the  end  of  a  poem,  and  even  of  a  couplet, 
we  have  generally  '  that  unmeaning  thing  we  call 
a  thought;  '  so  Mr.  Campbell  concludes  with  a 
thought  in  such  a  manner  as  to  fulfil  the  whole  of 
Pope's  prescription,  and  be  as  '  unmeaning'  as  the 
best  of  his  brethren: 

'  Because  I  may  not  stain  with  grief 
The  death-song  of  an  Indian  chief.' 
When  I  was  in  the  fifth  form,  I  carried  to  my  master 
the  translation  of  a  chorus  in  Prometheus,  wherein 
was  a  pestilent  expression  about  '  staining  a  voice,' 
which  met  with  no  quarter.  Little  did  1  think  that 
Mr.  Campbell  would  have  adopted  my  fifth  form 
'sublime'  —  at  least  in  so  conspicuous  a  situation. 
'  Sorrow  '  has  been  '  dry '  (in  proverbs) ,  and  '  wet,' 
(in  sonnets) ,  this  many  a  day ;  and  now  it '  stains,' 
and  stains  a  sound,  of  all  feasible  things!  To  be 
sure,  death-songs  might  have  been  stained  with  that 
same  grief  to  very  good  purpose,  if  Outalissi  had 
clapped  down  his  stanzas  on  wholesome  paper  for 
the  Edinburgh  Evening  Post,  or  any  other  given 
hyperborean  gazette;  or  if  the  said  Outalissi  had 
been  troubled  with  the  slightest  second  sight  of  his 
own  notes  embodied  on  the  last  proof  of  an  over- 
charged quarto :  but  as  he  is  supposed  to  have  been 
an  improvisatore  on  this  occasion,  and  probably  to 
the  last  tune  he  ever  chanted  in  this  world,  it  would 
have  done  him  no  discredit  to  have  made  his  exit 
with  a  mouthful  of  common  sense.  Talking  of 
'staining,'  as  (Caleb  Quotem  says)  '  puts  me  in 
mind '  of  a  certain  couplet,  which  Mr.  Campbell 
will  find  in  a  writer  for  whom  he,  and  his  school, 
Wave  no  small  contempt:  — 
'  E'en  copious  Dryden  wanted,  or  forgot, 
The  last  and  greatest  art  —  the  art  to  blot  I ' "] 


Such  are  the  genial  feelings  thou  canst  claim .  ~ 
My  falcon  flies  not  at  ignoble  game. 
Mightiest  of  all  Dunedin's  beasts  of  chase! 
For  thee  my  Pegasus  would  mend  his  pace. 
Arise,  my  Jeffrey  !  or  my  inkless  pen 
Shall  never  blunt  its  edge  on  meaner  men; 
Till  thee  or  thine  mine  evil  eye  discerns, 
"Alas!  I  cannot  strike  at  wretched  kernes.'  * 
Inhuman  Saxon!  wilt  thou  then  resign 
A  muse  and  heart  by  choice  so  wholly  thine  ? 
Dear,  d — d  contemner  of  my  schoolboy  songs. 
Hast  thou  no  vengeance  for  my  manhood's 

wrongs 
If  unprovoked  thou  once  could  bid  me  bleed, 
Hast  thou  no  weapon  for  my  daring  deed  ? 
What !  not  a  word !  —  and  am  I  then  so  low  ? 
Wilt  thou  forbear,  who  never  spared  a  foe  ? 
I  last  thou  no  wrath,  or  wish  to  give  it  vent  ? 
No  wit  for  nobles,  dunces  by  descent  ? 
No  jest  on  "  minors,"  quibbles  on  a  name,8 
Nor  one  facetious  paragraph  of  blame? 
Is  it  for  this  on  llion  I  have  stood, 
And  thought  of  Homer  less  than  Holyrood  ? 
On  shore  of  Euxine  or  ^Egean  sea, 
My  hate,  untravelled,  fondly  turned  to  thee. 
Ah  !  let  me  cease ;  in  vain  my  bosom  burns, 
From  Corydon  unkind  Alexis  turns  :  4 
Thy  rhymes  are  vain ;  thy  Jeffrey  then  forego, 
Nor  woo  that  anger  which  he  will  not  show. 
What  then  ?  —  Edina  starves  some  lanker  son, 
To  write  an  article  thou  canst  not  shun ; 


why  they  should  be  in  such  a  hurry  to  kill  off  their 
author,  I  am  ignorant.  "  The  race  is  not  always 
to  the  swift,  nor  the  battle  to  the  strong:  "  and  now, 
as  these  Christians  have"  smote  me  on  one  cheek," 
I  hold  them  up  the  other;  and,  in  return  for  their 
good  wishes,  give  them  an  opportunity  of  repeating 
them.  Had  any  other  set  of  men  expressed  such 
sentiments,  I  should  have  smiled,  and  left  them  to 
the  "  recording  angel;  "  but  from  the  pharisees  of 
Christianity  decency  might  be  expected.  I  can  as- 
sure these  brethren,  that,  publican  and  sinner  as  1 
am,  I  would  not  have  treated  "  mine  enemy's  dog 
thus."  To  show  them  the  superiority  of  my  broth- 
erly love,  if  ever  the  Reverend  Messrs.  Simeon  or 
Ramsden  should  be  engaged  in  such  a  conflict  as 
that  in  which  they  requested  me  to  fall,  1  hope  they 
may  escape  with  being  "  winged  "  only,  and  that 
Heaviside  may  be  at  hand  to  extract  the  ball. — 
( The  following  is  the  passage  in  the  Eclectic  Re- 
view of  which  Byron  speaks:  — 

"  If  the  noble  lord  and  the  learned  advocate  have 
the  courage  requisite  to  sustain  their  mutual  in- 
sults, we  shall  probably  soon  hear  the  explosions  of 
another  kind  of  /a/?r-war  after  the  fashion  of  the 
ever  memorable  duel  which  the  latter  is  said  to  have 
fought,  or  seemed  to  fight,  with  '  Little  Moore.' 
We  confess  there  is  sufficient  provocation,  if  not  in 
the  critique,  at  least  in  the  satire,  to  urge  a  '  man 
of  honor '  to  defy  his  assailant  to  mortal  combat. 
Of  this  we  shall  no  doubt  hear  more  in  due  time. "J 

'-  [Macbeth.] 

3  [See  the  critique  of  the  Edinlmrgh  Review  00 
"  Hours  of  Idleness,"  vol.  i.  p.  188.] 

4  Invenies  alium,  si  te  hie  fastidit  Alexin. 


HINTS  FROM  HORACE. 


137 


Some    less    fastidious    Scotchman    shall   be 

found, 
As  bold  in  Billingsgate,  though  less  renowned. 

As  if  at  table  some  discordant  dish 
Should  shock  our  optics,  such  as  frogs  for  fish  ; 
As  oil  in  lieu  of  butter  men  decry, 
And  poppies  please  not  in  a  modern  pie; 
if  all  such  mixtures  then  be  half  a  crime, 
We  must  have  excellence  to  relish  rhyme. 
Mere  roast  and  boiled  no  epicure  invites  ; 
Thus  poetry  disgusts,  or  else  delights. 

Who  shoot  not  flying  rarely  touch  a  gun  : 
Will  he  who  swims  not  to  the  river  run  ? 
And  men  unpractised  in  exchanging  knocks 
Must  go  to  Jackson  1  ere  they  dare  to  box. 
Whate'er  the  weapon,  cudgel,  fist,  or  foil, 
None  reach  expertness  without  years  of  toil ; 
But  fifty  dunces  can,  with  perfect  ease, 
Tag  twenty  thousand    couplets,  when   they 

please. 
Why  not?  —  shall  I,  thus  qualified  to  sit 
For  rotten  boroughs,  never  show  my  wit  ? 
Shall  I,  whose  fathers  with  the  quorum  sate, 
And  lived  in  freedom  on  a  fair  estate ; 
Who  left  me  heir,  with  stables,  kennels,  packs, 
To  all  their  income,  and  to  —  twice  its  tax; 
Whose  form  and  pedigree  have  scarce  a  fault, 
Shall  I,  I  say,  suppress  my  attic  salt  ? 

Thus  think  "  the  mob  of  gentlemen ;  "  but 

you, 
Besides  all  this,  must  have  some  genius  too. 
Be  this  your  sober  judgment,  and  a  rule, 
And  print  not  piping  hot  from  Southey's  school, 
Who  (ere  another  Thalaba  appears), 
I  trust,  will  spare  us  for  at  least  nine  years. 
And  hark  'ye,  Southey  !  -  pray  —  but  don't  be 

vexed  — 
Burn  all  your  last  three  works  —  and  half  the 

next. 


1  [Byron's  taste  for  boxing  brought  him  ac- 
quainted, at  an  early  period,  with  this  distinguished 
professor  of  the  pugilistic  art:  for  whom,  through- 
»ut  life,  he  continued  to  entertain  a  sincere  regard. 
In  a  note  to  the  eleventh  canto  of  Don  Juan,  he 
calls  him  "  his  old  friend,  and  corporeal  pastor  and 
master."] 

2  Mr.  Southey  has  lately  tied  another  canister  to 
his  tail  in  the  "  Curse  of  Kehama,"  maugre  the 
neglect  of  Madoc,  etc.,  and  has  in  one  instance  had 
a  wonderful  effect.  A  literary  friend  of  mine,  walk- 
ing out  one  lovely  evening  last  summer,  on  the 
eleventh  bridge  of  the  Paddington  canal,  was 
alarmed  by  the  cry  of  "one  in  jeopardy:"  he 
rushed  along,  collected  a  body  of  Irish  haymakers 
(supping  on  butter-milk  in  an  adjacent  paddock), 
procured  three  rakes,  one  eel-spear,  and  a  landing- 
net,  and  at  last  (horresco  referens)  pulled  out  —  his 
own  publisher.  The  unfortunate  man  was  gone  for 
ever,  and  so  was  a  large  quarto  wherewith  he  had 
taken  the  leap,  which  proved,  on  inquiry,  to  have 
been  Mr.  Southey's  last  work.  Its  "alacrity  of 
sinking  "  was  so  great,  that  it  has  never  since  been 


But  why  this  vain   advice  ?  once   published, 

books 
Can  never  be  recalled  —  from  pastry-cooks! 
Though  "  Madoc,"  with  "Pucelle,"3  instead 

of  punk, 
May  travel  back  to  Quito  —  on  a  trunk!* 


heard  of;  though  some  maintain  that  it  is  at  this 
moment  concealed  at  Alderman  Birch's  pastry 
premises,  Cotnhill.  Be  this  as  it  may,  the  coroner's 
inquest  brought  in  a  verdict  of"  Felo  de  bibliopola" 
against  a  "  quarto  unknown;"  and  circumstantial 
evidence  being  since  strong  against  the  "  Curse  of 
Kehama"  (of  which  the  above  words  are  an  exact 
description),  it  will  be  tried  by  its  peers  next  ses- 
sion, in  Grub  Street.  —  Arthur,  Alfred,  Davideis, 
Richard  Cceur  de  Lion,  Exodus,  Exodia,  Epigoniadj 
Calvary,  Fall  of  Cambria,  Siege  of  Acre,  Don  Rod- 
erick, and  Tom  Thumb  the  Great,  are  the  names  of 
the  twelve  jurors.  The  judges  are  Pye,  Bowles, 
and  the  bellman  of  St.  Sepulchre's.  The  same  ad- 
vocates, pro  and  con,  will  be  employed  as  are  now 
engaged  in  Sir  F.  Burdett's  celebrated  cause  in  the 
Scotch  courts.  The  public  anxiously  await  the 
result,  and  all  live  publishers  will  be  subpcenaed  as 
witnesses.  —  But  Mr.  Southey  has  published  the 
"  Curse  of  Kehama,"  —  an  inviting  title  to  quibblers. 
By  the  by,  it  is  a  good  deal  beneath  Scott  and  Camp- 
bell, and  not  much  above  Southey,  to  allow  the 
booby  Ballantyne  to  entitle  them,  in  the  Edinburgh 
Annual  Register  (of  which,  by  the  by,  Southey  is 
editor)  "  the  grand  poetical  triumvirate  of  the  day." 
But,  on  second  thoughts,  it  can  be  no  great  degree 

f  praise  to  be  the  one-eyed  leaders  of  the  blind, 
though  they  might  as  well  keep  to  themselves 
"  Scott's  thirty  thousand  copies  sold,"  which  must 
sadly  discomfit  poor  Southey's  unsaleables.  Poor 
Southey,  it  should  seem,  is  the  "  Lepidus  "  of  this 
poetical  triumvirate.  I  am  only  surprised  to  see 
him  in  such  good  company. 
"  Such  things,  we  know,  are  neither  rich  nor  rare, 

But  wonder  how  the  devil  he  came  there." 
The  trio  are  well  defined  in  the  sixth  proposition 
of  Euclid:  "  Because,  in  the  triangles  DBC,  ACB, 
DB  is  equal  to  AC,  and  BC  common  to  both; 
the  two  sides  DB,  BC,  are  equal  to  the  two  AC, 
CB,  each  to  each,  and  the  angle  DBC  is  equal  to 
the  angle  ACB:  therefore,  the  base  DC  is  equal 
to  the  base  AB,  and  the  triangle  DBC  (Mr. 
Southey)  is  equal  to  the  triangle  ACB,  the  less  to 
the  gre  ter,  which  is  absurd,"  etc.  —  The  editor 
of  the  Edinburgh  Register  will  find  the  rest  of  the 
theorem  hard  by  his  stabling;  he  has  only  to  cross 
the  river;  'tis  the  first  turnpike  t'other  side  "  Pons 
Asinorum."* 

3  Voltaire's  "  Pucelle  "  is  not  quite  so  immaculate 
as  Mr.  Southey's  "  Joan  of  Arc,"  and  yet  I  an, 
afraid  the  Frenchman  has  both  more  truth  and 
poetry  too  on  his  side —  (they  rarely  go  together)  — 
than  our  patriotic  minstrel,  whose  first  essay  was  in 
praise  of  a  fanatical  French  strumpet,  whose  title  of 
witch  would  be  correct  with  the  change  of  the  first 
letter. 

4  Like  Sir  Bland  Burgess's  "Richard;"  the 
tenth  book  of  which  I  read  at  Malta,  on  a  trunk  of 
Eyres,  19  Cockspur  Street.  If  this  be  doubted,  I 
shall  buy  a  portmanteau  to  quote  from. 


This  Latin  has  sorely  puzzled  the  LTniversity  0/ 


138 


HINTS  FROM  HORACE. 


Orpheus,  we  learn  from  Ovid  and   Lem- 

priere, 
Led  all  wild  beasts  but  women  by  the  ear ; 
And  had  he  fiddled  at  the  present  hour, 
We'd  seen  the  lions  waltzing  in  the  Tower ; 
And  old  Amphion,  such  were  minstrels  then, 
Had  built  St.  Paul's  without  the  aid  of  Wren. 
Verse  too  was  justice,  and  the  bards  of  Greece 
Did  more  than  constables  to  keep  the  peace ; 
Abolished  cuckoldom  with  much  applause, 
Called  county  meetings,  and  enforced  the  laws, 
Cut  down   crown   influence   with   reforming 

scythes, 
And  served  the  church  —  without  demanding 

tithes; 
And  hence,  throughout  all  Hellas  and  the  East, 
Each  poet  was  a  prophet  and  a  priest, 
Whose  old-established  board  of  joint  controls 
Included  kingdoms  in  the  cure  of  souls. 

Next  rose  the  martial  Homer,  Epic's  prince, 
And  fighting's  been  in  fashion  ever  since; 
And  old  Tyrtasus,  when  the  Spartans  warred, 
(A  limping  leader,  but  a  lofty  bard,)  l 
Though  walled  Ithome  had  resisted  long. 
Reduced  the  fortress  by  the  force  of  song. 
When  oracles  prevailed,  in  times  of  old, 
In  song  alone  Apollo's  will  was  told. 
Then  if  your  verse  is  what  all  verse  should  be, 
And  gods  were  not  ashamed  on't,  why  should 

we? 

The  Muse, like  mortal  females,  may  be  wooed; 
In  turns  she'll  seem  a  Paphian,  or  a  prude; 
Fierce  as  a  bride  when  first  she  feels  affright, 
Mild  as  the  same  upon  the  second  night; 
Wild  as  the  wife  of  alderman  or  peer, 
Now  for  his  grace,  and  now  a  grenadier ! 
Her  eyes  beseem,  her  heart  belies,  her  zone, 
Ice  in  a  crowd,  and  lava  when  alone. 

If  verse  be  studied  with  some  show  of  art, 
Kind  Nature  always  will  perform  her  part; 
Though  without  genius,  and  a  native  vein 
Of  wit,  we  loathe  an  artificial  strain  — 
Yet  art  and  nature  joined  will  win  the  prize, 
Unless  they  act  like  us  and  our  allies. 

The  youth  who  trains  to  ride,  or  run  a  race, 
Must  bear  privations  with  unruffled  face, 
Be  called  to  labor  when  he  thinks  to  dine, 
And,  harder  still,  leave  wenching  and  his  wine. 
Ladies  who  sing,  at  least  who  sing  at  sight, 
Have   followed   music   through   her  farthest 
flight ; 


1  [Byron  had  originally  written  — 

"  As  lame  as  I  am,  but  a  better  bard."] 

Edinburgh.  Ballantyne  said  it  meant  the  "  Bridge 
of  Berwick,"  but  Southey  claimed  it  as  half  English ; 
Scott  swore  it  was  the  "  Brig  o'  Sterling;  "  he  had 
just  passed  two  King  James's  and  a  dozen  Doug- 
lasses over  it.  At  last  it  was  decided  by  Jeffrey, 
that  it  meant  nothing  more  nor  less  than  the  "  coun- 
ter of  Archy  Constable's  shop." 


But  rhymers  tell  you  neither  more  nor  less, 
"  I've  got  a  pretty  poem  for  the  press ;  " 
And  that's  enough ;  then  write  and  print  st 

fast;  — 
If  Satan  take  the  hindmost,  who'd  be  last? 
They  storm  the  types,  they  publish,  one  and  all, 
They  leap  the  counter,  and  they  leave  the  stall 
Provincial  maidens,  men  of  high  command, 
Yea,  baronets  have  inked  the  bloody  hand  !  - 
Cash  cannot  quell  them;  Pollio3  piayed  this 

prank, 
(Then  Phoebus  first  found  credit  in  a  bank!) 
Not  all  the  living  only,  but  the  dead, 
Fool  on,  as  fluent  as  an  Orpheus'  head;  * 
Damned   all   their  days,  they  posthumously 

thrive  — 
Dug  up  from  dust,  though  buried  when  alive  ! 
Reviews  record  this  epidemic  crime, 
Those  Books  of  Martyrs  to  the  rage  for  rhyme, 
Alas  !  woe  worth  the  scribbler  !  often  seen 
In  Morning  Post,  or  Monthly  Magazine. 
There   lurk   his   earlier  lays;  but  soon,  hot- 
pressed, 
Behold  a  quarto  !  — Tarts  must  tell  the  rest. 
Then   leave,  ye  wise,   the   lyre's  precarious 

chords 
To  muse-mad  baronets,  or  madder  lords, 
Or  country  Crispins,  now  grown   somewhat 

stale, 
Twin  Doric  minstrels,  drunk  with  Doric  ale ! 
Hark  to  those  notes,  narcotically  soft, 
The  cobbler^-laureats6  sing  to  Capel  Lofft !  6 


-  [The  Red  Hand  of  Ulster,  introduced  generally 
in  a  canton,  marks  the  shield  of  a  baronet  of  the 
United  Kingdom.] 

3  ["  Pollio."  —  In  the  original  MS.  "  Rogers."] 
*  "  Turn  quoque,  marmorea  caput  acervice  revulsum 
Gurgite  cum  medio  portans  CEagrius  Hebrus 
Volveret,  Eurydicen  vox  ipsa,  et  frigida  lingua 
Ah,  miseram  Eurydicen !  anima  fugiente  voca- 

bat; 
Eurydicen    toto    referebant     flumine    ripse." — 

Georgic.  iv.  523. 
6  I  beg  Nathaniel's  pardon:  he  is  not  a  cobbler; 
it  is  a  tailor,  but  begged  Capel  Lofft  to  sink  the 
profession  in  his  preface  to  two  pair  of  panta  — 
psha! — of  cantos,  which  he  wished  the  public  to 
try  on;  but  the  sieve  of  a  patron  let  it  out,  and  so 
far  saved  the  expense  of  an  advertisement  to  his 
country  customers.  — Merry's  "  Moorhelds  whine'' 
was  nothing  to  all  this.  The  "Delia  Cruscans 
were  people  of  some  education,  and  no  profession 
but  these  Arcadians  ("  Arcades  ambo  "  —  bumpkin, 
both)  send  out  their  native  nonsense  without  the 
smallest  alloy,  and  leave  all  the  shoes  and  small- 
clothes in  the  parish  unrepaired,  to  patch  up  Ele- 
gies on  Enclosures  and  Pjeans  to  Gunpowder.  Sit- 
ting on  a  shopboard,  they  describe  fields  of  battle, 
when  the  only  blood  they  ever  saw  w»s  shed  from 
the  finger;  and  an  "Essay  on  War"  is  produced 
by  the  ninth  part  of  a  "  poet." 

"  And  own  that  nine  such  poets  made  »  Tate." 
Did  Nathan  ever  read  that  line  of  Pope  f  and  if  he 
did,  why  not  take  it  as  his  motto  ? 

3  This  w;ll-meaning  gentleman  has  spoiled  some 


HINTS  FROM  HORACE. 


139 


Till,  lo !  that  modern  Midas,  as  he  hears, 
Adds  an  ell  growth  to  his  egregious  ears ! 

There  lives  one  druid,  who  prepares  in  time 

'Gainst  future  feuds  his  poor  revenge  of  rhyme  ; 

Racks  his  dull  memory,  and  his  duller  muse, 

To  publish  faults  which  friendship  should  ex- 
cuse. 

If  friendship's  nothing,  self-regard  might  teach 

More  polished  usage  of  his  parts  of  speech. 

But  what  is  shame,  or  what  is  aught  to  him  ? 

He  vents  his  spleen,  or  gratifies  his  whim. 

Some  fancied  slight  has  roused  his  lurking 
hate, 

Some  folly  crossed,  some  jest,  or  some  debate  ; 

Up  to  his  den  Sir  Scribbler  hies,  and  soon 

The  gathered  gall  is  voided  in  lampoon. 

Perhaps  at  some  pert  speech  you've  dared  to 
frown, 

Perhaps  your  poem  may  have  pleased  the 
town : 


excellent  shoemakers,  and  been  accessary  to  the 
poetical  undoing  of  many  of  the  industrious  poor. 
Nathaniel  Bloomfield  and  his  brother  Bobby  have 
set  all  Somersetshire  singing;  nor  has  the  malady 
confined  itself  to  one  county.  Pratt  too  (who  once 
was  wiser)  has  caught  the  contagion  of  patronage, 
and  decoyed  a  poor  fellow  named  Blackett  into 
poetry;  but  he  died  during  the  operation,  leaving 
one  child  and  two  volumes  of  "  Remains"  utterly 
destitute.  The  girl,  if  she  don't  take  a  poetical 
twist,  and  come  forth  as  a  shoemaking  Sappho,  may 
do  well;  but  the  "tragedies"  are  as  rickety  as  if 
they  had  been  the  offspring  of  an  Earl  or  a  Seato- 
nian  prize  poet.  The  patrons  of  this  poor  lad  are 
certainly  answerable  for  his  end;  and  it  ought  to  be 
an  indictable  offence.  But  this  is  the  least  they 
have  done;  for,  by  a  refinement  of  barbarity,  they 
have  made  the  (late)  man  posthumously  ridiculous, 
by  printing  what  he  would  have  had  sense  enough 
never  to  print  himself.  Certes  these  rakers  of"  Re- 
mains" come  under  the  statute  against  "  resurrec- 
tion men."  What  does  it  signify  whether  a  poor 
dear  dead  dunce  is  to  be  stuck  up  in  Surgeons'  or 
in  Stationers'  Hall?  Is  it  so  bad  to  unearth  his 
bones  as  his  blunders?  Is  it  not  better  to  gibbet 
his  body  on  a  heath,  than  his  soul  in  an  octavo  ? 
"  We  know  what  we  are,  but  we  know  not  what  we 
may  be;  "  and  it  is  to  be  hoped  we  never  shall 
know,  if  a  man  who  has  passed  through  life  with  a 
sort  of  £clat,  is  to  find  himself  a  mountebank  on 
the  other  side  of  Styx,  and  made,  like  poor  Joe 
Blackett,  the  laughing-stock  of  purgatory.  The 
plea  of  publication  is  to  provide  for  the  child;  now, 
might  not  some  of  this  "  Sutor  ultra  Crepidam's  " 
friends  and  seducers  have  done  a  decent  action 
without  inveigling  Pratt  into  biography?  And  then 
his  inscription  split  into  so  many  modicums!  — "  To 
the  Duchess  of  Somuch,  the  Right  Hon.  So-and-So, 
and  Mrs.  and  Miss  Somebody,  these  volumes  are, 
etc.  etc."  —  why,  this  is  doling  out  the  "soft  milk 
of  dedication,"  in  gills,  —  there  is  but  a  quart,  and 
he  divides  it  among  a  dozen.  Why,  Pratt,  hadst 
thou  not  a  puff  left?  Dost  thou  think  six  families 
of  distinction  can  share  this  in  quiet  ?  There  is  a 
child,  a  book,  and  a  dedication:  send  the  girl  to  her 
grace,  the  volumes  to  the  grocer,  and  the  dedication 
to  the  devil. 


If  so,  alas  !  'tis  nature  in  the  man  — 
May  Heaven  forgive  you,  for  he  never  can! 
Then  be  it  so ;  and  may  his  withering  bays 
Bloom   fresh   in  satire,  though   they  fade  in 

praise ! 
While  his  lost  songs  no  more  shall  steep  and 

stink, 
The  dullest,  fattest  weeds  on  Lethe's  brink, 
But    springing   upwards   from    the   sluggish 

mould, 
Be  (what  they  never  were  before)  be — sold  ! 
Should  some  rich  bard  (but  such  a  monster 

now, 
In  modern  physics,  we  can  scarce  allow), 
Should    some    pretending    scribbler  of   the 

court, 
Some  rhyming  peer1  —  there's  plenty  of  the 

sort  —  2 


1  [In  the  original  MS. — 

"  Some  rhyming  peer  —  Carlisle  or  Carysfort." 
To  which  is  subjoined  this  note: — "Of  'John 
Joshua,  Earl  of  Carysfort '  I  know  nothing  at  pres- 
ent, but  from  an  advertisement  in  an  old  newspaper 
of  certain  Poems  and  Tragedies  by  his  Lordship, 
which  I  saw  by  accident  in  the  Morea.  Being  a 
rhymer  himself,  he  will  forgive  the  liberty  I  take 
with  his  name,  seeing,  as  he  must,  how  very  com- 
modious it  is  at  the  close  of  that  couplet;  and  as 
for  what  follows  and  goes  before,  let  him  place  it  to 
the  account  of  the  other  Thane;  since  I  cannot, 
under  these  circumstances,  augur  pro  or  con  the 
contents  of  his  'foolscap  crown  octavos.'"  —  John 
Joshua  Proby,  first  Earl  of  Carysfort,  was  joint 
postmaster-general  in  1805,  envoy  to  Berlin  in  1806, 
and  ambassador  to  Petersburgh  in  1807.  Besides 
his  poems,  he  published  two  pamphlets,  to  show  the 
necessity  of  universal  suffrage  and  short  parlia- 
ments.    He  died  in  1828.] 

2  Here  will  Mr.  Gifford  allow  me  to  introduce 
once  more  to  his  notice  the  sole  survivor,  the  "  ul- 
timus  Romanorum,"  the  last  of  the  Cruscanti!  — 
"  Edwin  "  the  "  profound,"  by  our  Lady  of  Punish- 
ment! here  he  is,  as  lively  as  in  the  days  of"  wel.( 
said  Baviad  the  correct."  I  thought  Fitzgerald  had 
been  the  tail  of  poesy;  but,  alas!  he  is  only  the  pe- 
nultimate. 

A   FAMILIAR   EPISTLE   TO   THE    EDITOR   OF  THE 
MORNING   CHRONICLE. 

"  What  reams  of  paper,  floods  of  ink," 
Do  some  men  spoil,  who  never  think! 
And  so  perhaps  you'll  say  of  me, 
In  which  your  readers  may  agree. 
Still  I  write  on,  and  tell  you  why; 
Nothing's  so  bad,  you  can't  deny, 
Bui  may  instruct  or  entertain 
'Without  the  risk  of  giving  pain,  etc  etc. 

ON  SOME  MODERN  QUACKS  AND  REFORMIST? 

In  tracing  of  the  human  mind 
Through  all  its  various  courses, 

Though  strange,  'tis  true,  we  often  find 
It  knows  not  its  resources: 

And  men  through  life  assume  a  part 
For  which  no  talents  they  possess. 


HO 


HINTS  FROM  HORACE. 


All  but  one  poor  dependent  priest  withdrawn 
(Ah !  too  regardless  of  his  chaplain's  yawn  !) 
Condemn  the  unlucky  curate  to  recite 
Their  last  dramatic  work  by  candle-light, 
How  would  the  preacher  turn  each  rueful  leaf, 
Dull  as  his  sermons,  but  not  half  so  brief! 
Yet,  since  'tis  promised  at  the  rector's  death, 
He'll  risk  no  living  for  a  little  breath. 
Then  spouts  and  foams,  and  cries  at  every  line, 
(The  Lord  forgive  him  !)  "  Bravo  !  grand  !  di- 
vine! " 
Hoarse  with  those  praises  (which,  by  flattery 

fed, 
Dependence  barters  for  her  bitter  bread), 
He  strides  and  stamps  along  with  creaking 

boot, 
Till  the  floor  echoes  his  emphatic  foot; 
Then  sits  again,  then  rolls  his  pious  eye, 
As  when  the  dying  vicar  will  not  die ! 
Nor  feels,  forsooth,  emotion  at  his  heart;  — 
But  all  dissemblers  overact  their  part. 

Ye,  who  aspire  to  "  build  the  lofty  rhyme,"  l 
Believe  not  all  who  laud  your  false  "  sublime ;  " 
But  if  some  friend  shall  hear  your  work,  and 

say, 
"  Expunge  that  stanza,  lop  that  line  away," 
And,  after  fruitless  efforts,  you  return 
Without      amendment,    and     he      answers, 

"Burn!" 
That  instant  throw  your  paper  in  the  fire, 
Ask  not  his  thoughts,  or  follow  his  desire ; 
But  (if  true  bard!)  you  scorn  to  condescend, 
And  will  not  alter  what  you  can't  defend, 
If  you  will  breed  this  bastard  of  your  brains,  —  2 
We'll  have  no  words  —  I've  only  lost  my  pains. 

Yet,  if  you  only  prize  your  favorite  thought, 
As  critics  kindly  do,  and  authors  ought; 
If  your  cool  friend  annoy  you  now  and  then, 
And  cross  whole  pages  with  his  plaguy  pen  ; 
No  matter,  throw  your  ornaments  aside, — 
Better  let  him  than  all  the  world  deride. 
Give  light  to  passages  too  much  in  shade, 
Nor  let  a  doubt   obscure  one  verse  you've 

made ; 
Your  friend's  "  a  Johnson,"  not  to  leave  one 

word, 
However  trifling,  which  may  seem  absurd ; 
Such  erring  trifles  lead  to  serious  ills, 
And  furnish  food  for  critics,3  or  their  quills. 

As  the  Scotch  fiddle,  with  its  touching  tune, 
Or  the  sad  influence  of  the  angry  moon, 


Yet  wonder  that,  with  all  their  art, 
They  meet  no  better  with  success,  etc.  etc. 

1  [Milton's  Lycidas.1 

2  "Bastard  of  your  brains."  —  Minerva  being 
the  first  by  Jupiter's  headpiece,  and  a  variety  of 
equally  unaccountable  parturitions  upon  earth,  such 
as  Madoc,  ete.  etc.  etc. 

3  "  A  crust  for  the  critics."  —  Bayes,  in  the  "Re- 
hearsal." 


All  men  avoid  bad  writers'  ready  tongues, 
As  yawning  waiters  fly4  Fitzscribble's5  lungs: 
Yet   on   he   mouths — ten  minutes  —  tedious 

each 
As  prelate's  homily,  or  placeman's  speech; 
Long  as  the  last  years  of  a  lingering  lease, 
When  riot  pauses  until  rents  increase. 
While  such  a  minstrel,  muttering  fustian,  strayt 
O'er  hedge  and  ditch,  through  unfrequented 

ways, 
If  by  some  chance  he  walks  into  a  well, 
And  shouts  for  succor  with  stentorian  yell, 
"  A    rope !  help  Christians,  as    ye    hope  foi 

grace !  " 
Nor  woman,  man,  nor  child  will  stir  a  pace; 
Fur  there  his  carcass  he  might  freely  fling, 
From  frenzy,  or  the  humor  of  the  thing. 
Though   this   has  happened   to  more   bards 

than  one; 
I'll  tell  you  Budgell's  story,  —  and  have  done. 

Budgell,  a  rogue  and  rhymester,  for  no  good 
(Unless  his  case  be  much  misunderstood) 
When  teased  with  creditors'  continual  claims 
"  To  die  like  Cato,"6  leapt  into  the  Thames! 
And  therefore  be  it  lawful  through  the  town 
For  any  bard  to  poison,  hang,  or  drown. 
Who  saves  the  intended  suicide  receives 
Small  thanks  from  him  who  loathes  the  life  he 
leaves 


4  And  the  "  waiters"  are  the  only  fortunate  peo- 
ple who  can  "  fly"  from  them;  all  the  rest,  namely, 
the  sad  subscribers  to  the  "  Literary  Fund,"  being 
compelled,  by  courtesy,  to  sit  out  the  recitation 
without  a  hope  of  exclaiming,  "  Sic"  (that  is,  by 
choking  Fitz  with  bad  wine,  or  worse  poetry)  "  me 
servavit  Apollo !  " 

5  ["  Fitzscribble,"  originally  "  Fitzgerald."] 

0  On  his  table  were  found  these  words:  "  What 
Cato  did,  and  Addison  approved,  cannot  be 
wrong."  But  Addison  did  not  "  approve;  "  and  if 
he  had,  it  would  not  have  mended  the  matter.  He 
had  invited  his  daughter  on  the  same  water-party; 
but  Miss  Budgell,  by  some  accident,  escaped  this 
last  paternal  attention.  Thus  fell  the  sycophant  of 
"  Atticus,"  and  the  enemy  of  Pope!  —  [Eustace 
Budgell,  a  friend  and  relative  of  Addison's,  "  leapt 
into  the  Thames  "  to  escape  a  prosecution,  on  ac- 
count of  forging  the  will  of  Dr.  Tindal;  in  which 
Eustace  had  provided  himself  with  a  legacy  of  two 
thousand  pounds.  To  this  Pope  alludes  — 
"  Let  Budgell  charge  low  Grub  Street  on  my  quill 
And  write  whate'er  he  please  —  except  my  will." 
"  We  talked  (says  Boswell)  of  a  man's  drowning 
himself.  —  Johnson.  '  I  should  never  think  it  time 
to  make  away  with  myself.'  I  put  the  case  of  Eus- 
tace Budgell,  who  was  accused  of  forging  a  will,  and 
sunk  himself  in  the  Thames,  before  the  trial  of  its 
authenticity  came  on.  '  Suppose,  Sir,'  said  I,  '  that 
a  man  is  absolutely  sure  that,  if  he  lives  a  few  days 
longer,  he  shall  be  detected  in  a  fraud,  the  conse- 
quence of  which  will  be  utter  disgrace,  and  expuh 
sion  from  society.'  Johnson.  '  Then,  Sir,  let  him 
go  abroad  to  a  distant  country;  let  him  go  to  some 
place  where  he  is  not  known.  Don't  let  him  go  to 
the  devil,  where  he  is  known.' "] 


THE   CURSE    OF  MINERVA. 


141 


And,  sooth  to  say,  mad  poets  must  not  lose 
The  glory  of  that  death  they  freely  choose. 
Nor  is  it  certain  that  some  sorts  of  verse 
Prick  not  the  poet's  conscience  as  a  curse ; 
Dosed1  with  vile  drams  on  Sunday  he  was 
found, 


1  If"  dosed  with,"  etc.  be  censured  as  low,  [  beg 
leave  to  refer  to  the  original  for  something  still 
lower:  and  if  any  reader  will  translate  "  Minxerit 
in  patrios  cineres,"  etc.  into  a  decent  couplet,  I  will 
nsert  said  couplet  in  lieu  of  the  present. 


Or  got  a  child  on  consecrated  ground  ! 

And  hence  is  haunted  with  a  rhyming  rage — ■ 

Feared    like   a   bear  just  bursting  from  his 

cage. 
If  free,  all  fly  his  versifying  fit, 
Fatal  at  once  to  simpleton  or  wit. 
But  Aim,  unhappy!  whom  he  seizes,  —  him 
He  flays  with  recitation  limb  by  limb; 
Probes  to  the  quick  where'er  he  makes  his 

breach, 
And  gorges  like  a  lawyer  —  or  a  leech. 


THE   CURSE   OF   MINERVA. 


:  Pallas  te  hoc  vulnere,  Pallas 


Immolat,  et  pcenam  scelerato  ex  sanguine  sumit."_ 
JEneid,  lib.  xii. 


[The  Curse  of  Minerva  was  written  at  Athens  in  1811.  It  was  prompted  by  Byron's  indignation  at 
Lord  Elgin,  who  had  just  carried  from  Greece  a  large  collection  of  antique  sculptures  torn  from  the  Par- 
thenon and  other  edifices.  This  collection  was  purchased  in  1816  by  the  British  Government  and  placed 
in  the  British  Museum.  In  justice  to  Lord  Elgin  it  may  be  said  with  truth  that  he  rescued  these  precious 
relics  of  ancient  art  from  barbarism  and  decay,  and  placed  them  where  they  are  likely  to  be  preserved, 
admired,  and  studied  for  ages  to  come. 

The  first  authentic  edition  of  The  Curse  of  Minerva  was  published  in  1S2S,  but  Byron  speaks  in  a 
letter,  dated  March,  1816,  of  a  miserable  and  stolen  copy  printed  in  some  magazine.  The  first  four 
paragraphs  were,  however,  printed  as  the  beginning  of  the  third  canto  of  the  Corsair.] 


Athens,  Capuchin  Convent,  ) 
March  17,  1811.       ( 

SLOW  sinks,  more  lovely  ere  his  race  be  run, 
Along  Morea's  hills  the  setting  sun ; 
Not,  as  in  northern  climes,  obscurely  bright, 
But  one  unclouded  blaze  of  living  light ; 
O'er  the  hushed  deep    the  yellow   beam    he 

throws 
Gilds  the  green  wave  that  trembles  as  it  glows  ; 
On  old  rEgina's  rock  and  Hydra's  isle 
The  god  of  gladness  sheds  his  parting  smile  ; 
O'er  his  own  regions  lingering  loves  to  shine, 
Though  there  his  altars  are  no  more  divine. 
Descending  fast,  the  mountain-shadows  kiss 
Thy  glorious  gulf,  unconquered  Salamis  ! 
Their  azure  arches  through  the  long  expanse, 
More    deeply  purpled,  meet   his    mellowing 

glance, 
And  tenderest  tints,  along  their  summits  driven, 
Mark  his  gay  course,  and   own  the   hues  of 

heaven ; 


Till,  darkly  shaded  from  the  land  and  deep, 
Behind  his  Delphian  rock  he  sinks  to  sleep. 

On  such  an  eve  his  palest  beam  he  cast 
When,  Athens  !  here  thy  wisest  looked  his  last 
How  watched  thy  better  sons  his  farewell  ray, 
That  closed  their  murdered  sage's  *  latest  day ! 
Not  yet — not  yet — Sol  pauses  on  the  hill, 
The  precious  hour  of  parting  lingers  still ; 
But  sad  his  light  to  agonizing  eyes, 
And  dark  the  mountain's  once  delightful  dyes ; 
Gloom  o'er  the  lovely  land  he  seemed  to  pour, 
The  land  where  Phoebus  never  frowned  be- 
fore; 
But  ere  he  sunk  below  Citheron's  head, 
The  cup  of  woe  was  quaffed  —  the  spirit  fled; 
The  soul  of  him  that  scorned  to  fear  or  fly, 
Who  lived  and  died  as  none  can  live  or  die. 

1  Socrates  drank  the  hemlock  a  short  time  before 
sunset  (the  hour  of  execution),  notwithstanding  the 
entreaties  of  his  disciples  to  wait  till  the  sun  wcut 
down. 


H2 


THE    CURSE    OF  MINERVA. 


But,  lo !  from  high  Hymettus  to  the  plain 
The  que':n  of  night  asserts  her  silent  reign  ;  J 
No  murky  vapor,  herald  of  the  storm, 
Hides  her  fair  face,  or  girds  her  glowing  form. 
With  cornice  glimmering  as  the  moonbeams 

play, 
There  the  white  column  greets  her  grateful  ray, 
And  bright  around,  with  quivering  beams  be- 
set, 
Her  emblem  sparkles  o'er  the  minaret : 
The  groves  of  olive  scattered  dark  and  wide, 
Where  meek  Cephisus  sheds' his  scanty  tide, 
The  cypress  saddening  by  the  sacred  mosque, 
The  gleaming  turret  of  trie  gay  kiosk,2 
And  sad  and  sombre  mid  the  holy  calm, 
Near  Theseus'  fane,  yon  solitary  palm  ; 
All,  tinged  with  varied  hues,  arrest  the  eye; 
And  dull  were  his  that  passed  them  heedless 
by.a 

Again  the  yEgean,  heard  no  more  afar, 
Lulls  his  chafed  breast  from  elemental  war; 
Again  his  waves  in  milder  tints  unfold 
Their  long  expanse  of  sapphire  and  of  gold, 
Mixed  with  the  shades  of  many  a  distant  isle, 
That   frown,  where   gentler  ocean  deigns  to 
smile. 

As  thus,  within  the  walls  of  Pallas'  fane, 
I  marked  the  beauties  of  the  land  and  main, 
Alone,  and  friendless,  on  the  magic  shore, 
Whose  arts  and  arms  but  live  in  poets'  lore ; 
Oft  as  the  matchless  dome  I  turned  to  scan, 
Sacred  to  gods,  but  not  secure  from  man, 
The  past  returned,  the  present  seemed  to  cease, 
And  Glory  knew  no  clime  beyond  her  Greece  ! 

Hours  rolled  along,  and  Dian's  orb  on  high 
Had  gained  the  centre  of  her  softest  skv ; 
And  yet  unwearied  still  my  footsteps  trod 
O'er  the  vain  shrine  of  many  a  vanished  god  : 
But    chiefly,    Pallas!   thine;    when    Hecate's 

glare, 
Checked  by  thy  columns,  fell  more  sadly  fair 
O'er  the  chill  marble,  where  the  startling' tread 
Thrills  the  lone  heart  like  echoes  from  the  dead. 
Long  had  I  mused,  and  treasured  everv  trace 
The  wreck  of  Greece  recorded  of  her  race, 
When,  lo !  a  giant  form  before  me  strode, 
And  Pallas  hailed  me  in  her  own  abode ! 


1  The  twilight  in  Greece  is  much  shorter  than 
in  our  own  country;  the  days  in  winter  are  longer, 
but  in  summer  ofless  duration. 

2  The  kiosk  is  a  Turkish  summer-house;  the 
palm  is  without  the  present  walls  of  Athens,  not  far 
from  the  Temple  of  Theseus  between  which  and 
the  tree  the  wall  intervenes.  Cephisus'  stream  is 
indeed  scanty,  and  Ilissus  has  no  stream  at  all. 

3  [The  Temple  of  Theseus  is  the  most  perfect 
ancient  edifice  in  the  world.  In  this  fabric,  the 
most  enduring  stability,  and  a  simplicity  of  design 
peculiarly  striking,  are  united  with  the  highest  ele- 
gance and  accuracy  of  workmanship.  —  Hobhousc] 


Yes,  'twas   Minerva's   self;   but,   ah!    how 

changed 
Since  o'er  the  Dardan  field  in  arms  she  ranged  ! 
Not  such  as  erst,  by  her  divine  command, 
Her  form  appeared  from  Phidias'  plastic  hand  : 
Gone  were  the  terrors  of  her  awful  brow, 
Her  idle  Eegis  bore  no  Gorgon  now ; 
Her  helm  was  dinted,  and  the  broken  lance 
Seemed  weak  and   shaftless  e'en    to    mortal 

glance ; 
The  olive  branch,  which  still  she  deigned  to 

clasp, 
Shrunk  from  her  touch,  and  withered  in  her 

grasp ; 
And,  ah  !  though  still  the  brightest  of  the  sky. 
Celestial  tears  bedimmed  her  large  blue  eye; 
Round  the  rent  casque  her  owlet  circled  slow, 
And  mourned   his  mistress  with  a  shriek  of 

woe! 

"Mortal!"  —  'twas  thus  she  spake  —  "that 

blush  of  shame 
Proclaims  thee  Briton,  once  a  noble  name; 
First  of  the  mighty,  foremost  of  the  free, 
Now  honored  less  by  all,  and  least  by  me  : 
Chief  of  thy  foes  shall  Pallas  still  be  found. 
Seek'st   thou   the   cause  of  loathing  ?  —  look 

around. 
Lo  !  here,  despite  of  war  and  wasting  fire, 
I  saw  successive  tyrannies  expire. 
'Scaped  from  the  ravage  of  the  Turk  and  Goth, 
Thy  country  se,nds  a  spoiler  worse  than  both.4 
Survey  this  vacant,  violated  fane ; 
Recount  the  relics  torn  that  yet  remain  : 
These  Cecrops  placed,  this  Pericles  adorned,5 
That  Adrian  reared  when  drooping  Science 

mourned. 
What  more  I  owe  let  gratitude  attest  — 
Know,  Alaric  and  Elgin  did  the  rest. 
That  all  may  learn  from  whence  the  plunderer 

came 
The  insulted  wall  sustains  his  hated  name  : 
For  Elgin's  fame  thus  grateful  Pallas  pleads, 
Below,  his  name  —  above,  behold  his  deeds! 
Be  ever  hailed  with  equal  honor  here 
The  Gothic  monarch  and  the  Pictish  peer : 
Arms  gave  the  first  his  right,  the  last  had  none, 
But  basely  stole  what  less  barbarians  won. 
So  when  the  lion  quits  his  fell  repast, 
Next  prowls  the  wolf,  the  filthy  jackal  last: 
Flesh,  limbs,  and  blood  the  former  make  their 

own, 
The  last  poor  brute  securely  gnaws  the  bone. 


4  [In  the  original  MS. — 
"  Ah,  Athens!  scarce  escaped  from  Turk  and  Goth. 
Hell  sends  a  paltry  Scotchman  worse  than  both."] 

6  This  is  spoken  of  the  city  in  general,  and  not 
of  the  Acropolis  in  particular.  The  temple  of  Jupi- 
ter Olympius,  by  some  supposed  the  Pantheon,  was 
finished  by  Hadrian ;  sixteen  columns  are  standing, 
of  the  most  beautiful  marble  and  architecture. 


THE   CURSE    OF  MINERVA. 


143 


£et  still  the  gods  are   just,  and   crimes  are 

crossed : 
See  nere  what  Elgin  won,  and  what  he  lost ! 
Another  name  with  his  pollutes  my  shrine  : 
Behold  where  Dian's  beams  disdain  to  shine  ! 
Some  retribution  still  might  Pallas  claim, 
When  Venus  half  avenged  Minerva's  shame."  1 

She  ceased  awhile,  and  thus  I  dared  reply, 
To  soothe  the  vengeance  kindling  in  her  eye  : 
"  Daughter  of  Jove  !  in  Britain's  injured  name, 
A  true-born  Briton  may  the  deed  disclaim. 
Frown  not  on  England ;  England  owns  him 

not: 
Athena,  no  !  thy  plunderer  was  a  Scot. 
Ask'st  thou  the  difference  ?  From  fair  Phyles' 

towers 
Survey  Boeotia ;  —  Caledonia's  ours. 
And  well  I  know  within  that  bastard  land  2 
Hath   Wisdom's   goddess   never   held   com- 
mand ; 
A  barren  soil,  where  Nature's  germs,  confined 
To  stern  sterility,  can  stint  the  mind  ; 
Whose  thistle  well  betrays  the  niggard  earth, 
Emblem  of  all  to  whom  the  land  gives  birth  ; 
Each  genial  influence  nurtured  to  resist; 
A  land  of  meanness,  sophistry,  and  mist. 
Each  breeze  from  foggy  mount  and  marshy 

plain 
Dilutes  with  drivel  every  drizzly  brain, 
Till,  burst  at  length,  each  watery  head  o'er- 

flows, 
Foul  as  their  soil,  and  frigid  as  their  snows. 
Then   thousand  schemes  of  petulance   and 

pride 
Despatch    her  scheming    children    far  and 

wide : 
Some  east,  some  west,  some  everywhere  but 

north, 
In  quest  of  lawless  gain,  they  issue  forth. 
And  thus  —  accursed  be  the  day  and  year  !  — 
She  sent  a  Pict  to  play  the  felon  here. 
Vet  Caledonia  claims  some  native  worth, 
As  dull  Boeotia  gave  a  Pindar  birth ; 
So  may  her  few,  the  lettered  and  the  brave, 
Bound  to  no  clime,  and  victors  of  the  grave, 
Shake  off  the  sordid  dust  of  such  a  land, 
And  shine  like  children  of  a  happier  strand  ; 
As  once,  of  yore,  in  some  obnoxious  place, 
Ten  names  (if  found)  had  saved  a  wretched 

race." 

"  Mortal ! "  the  blue-eyed   maid   resumed, 
"  once  more 
Bear  back  my  mandate  to  thy  native  shore. 


1  His  lordship's  name,  and  that  of  one  who  no 
longer  bears  it,  are  carved  conspicuously  on  the 
Parthenon;  above,  in  a  part  not  far  distant,  are  the 
torn  remnants  of  the  basso  relievos,  destroyed  in  a 
vain  attempt  to  remove  them. 

2  "  Irish  bastards,"  accordin2  to  Sir  Callaghan 
O'Brallaghan. 


Though   fallen,  alas!   this  vengeance  yet  is 

mine, 
To  turn  my  counsels  far  from  lands  like  thine. 
Hear  then  in  silence  Pallas'  stern  behest; 
Hear  and  believe,  for  Time  will  tell  the  rest. 

"  First  on  the  head  of  him  who  did  this  deed 
My  curse  shall  light,  —  on  him  and  all  his  seed, 
Without  one  spark  of  intellectual  fire, 
Be  all  the  sons  as  senseless  as  the  sire : 
If  one  with  wit  the  parent  brood  disgrace, 
Believe  him  bastard  of  a  brighter  race  : 
Still  with  his  hireling  artists  let  him  prate, 
And  folly's  praise  repay  for  Wisdom's  hate; 
Long  of  their  patron's  gusto  let  them  tell, 
Whose  noblest,  native  gusto  is  —  to  sell : 
To  sell,  and  make  —  may  Shame  record  the 

day!  — 
The  state  receiver  of  his  pilfered  prey. 
Meantime,  the  flattering,  feeble  dotard,  West, 
Europe's  worst  dauber,  and  poor  Britain's  best, 
With  palsied  hand  shall  turn  each  model  o'er, 
And  own  himself  an  infant  of  fourscore.3 
Be  all  the  bruisers  culled  from  all  St.  Giles' 
That  art  and  nature  may  compare  their  styles ; 
While  brawny  brutes  in  stupid  wonder  stare, 
And  marvel  at  his  lordship's  '  stone  shop  ' 4 

there. 
Round  the  thronged  gate  shall  sauntering  cox- 
combs creep, 
To  lounge  and  lucubrate,  to  prate  and  peep ; 
While   many  a   languid   maid,  with   longing 

sigh, 
On  giant  statues  casts  the  curious  eye ; 
The  room  with  transient  glance  appears  to 

skim, 
Yet  marks  the  mighty  back  and  length  of  limb  ; 
Mourns  o'er  the  difference  of  nozv  and  titer  ; 
Exclaims,  '  These  Greeks  indeed  were  proper 

men ! ' 
Draws  sly  comparisons  of  these  with  those. 
And  envies  Lai's  all  her  Attic  beaux. 
When  shall  a  modern  maid  have  swains  lilre 

these ! 
Alas  !  Sir  Harry  is  no  Hercules  ! 
And  last  of  all,  amidst  the  gaping  crew, 
Some  calm  spectator,  as  he  takes  his  view, 
In  silent  indignation  mixed  with  grief, 
Admires  the  plunder,  but  abhors  the  thief 
Oh,  loathed  in  life,  nor  pardoned  in  the  dusf 
May  hate  pursue  his  sacrilegious  lust ! 
Linked  with  the  fool  that  fired  the  Ephesiah 

dome, 
Shall  vengeance  follow  far  beyond  the  tomb, 


3  Mr.  West,  on  seeing  the  "  Elgin  Collection  " 
(I  suppose  we  shall  hear  of  the  "  Abershaw  "  and 
"Jack  Shephard  "  collection),  declared  himself"  a 
mere  tyro  "  in  art. 

4  Poor  Crib  was  sadly  puzzled  when  the  marbles 
were  first  exhibited  at  Elgin  House;  he  asked  if  il 
was  not  "  a  stone  shop?"  —  He  was  right;  it  it  a 
shoo. 


£44 


THE    CURSE    OF  MINERVA. 


And  Eratostratus  and  Elgin  shine 
In  many  a  branding  page  and  burning  line; 
Alike  reserved  for  aye  to  stand  accursed, 
Perchance  the  second  blacker  than  the  first. 

"  So  let  him  stand,  through  ages  yet  unborn, 
Fixed  statue  on  the  pedestal  of  Scorn  ; 
Though  not  for  him  alone  revenge  shall  wait, 
But  fits  thy  country  for  her  coming  fate : 
Hers  were  the  deeds  that  taught  her  lawless 

son 
To  do  what  oft  Britannia's  self  had  done. 
Look  to  the  Baltic  —  blazing  from  afar, 
Your  old  ally  yet  mourns  perfidious  war.1 
Not  to  such  deeds  did  Pallas  lend  her  aid, 
Or  break  the   compact   which   herself    had 

made ; 
Far  from   such   councils,  from   the   faithless 

field 
She  fled  —  but  left  behind  her  Gorgon  shield  : 
A  fatal  gift  that  turned  your  friends  to  stone, 
And  left  lost  Albion  hated  and  alone. 

"  Look  to  the  East,  where  Ganges'  swarthy 
race 
Shall  shake  your  tyrant  empire  to  its  base ; 
Lo  !  there  Rebellion  rears  her  ghastly  head, 
And  glares  the  Nemesis  of  native  dead; 
Till  Indus  rolls  a  deep  purpureal  flood, 
And  claims  his  long  arrear  of  northern  blood. 
So  may  ye  perish  !  —  Pallas,  when  she  gave 
Your  free-born  rights,  forbade  ye  to  enslave. 

"  Look  on  your  Spain !  —  she   clasps  the 

hand  she  hates, 
But  boldly  clasps,  and  thrusts  you  from  her 

gates. 
Bear  witness,  bright  Barossa !  thou  canst  tell 
Whose  were  the  sons  that  bravely  fought  and 

fell. 
But  Lusitania,  kind  and  dear  ally, 
Can  spare  a  few  to  fight,  and  sometimes  fly. 
Oh  glorious  field  !  by  Famine  fiercely  won, 
The  Gaul  retires  for  once,  and  all  is  done ! 
But  when  did  Pallas  teach,  that  one  retreat 
Retrieved  three  long  olympiads  of  defeat  ? 

"Look  last  at  home  —  ye  love  not  to  look 

there 
On  tiie  grim  smile  of  comfortless  despair  : 
Your  city  saddens  :  loud  though  Revel  howls, 
Here    Famine    faints,   and    yonder    Rapine 

prowls. 
See  all  alike  of  more  or  less  bereft ; 
No  misers  tremble  when  there's  nothing  left. 
'  Blest  paper  credit ; '  '2  who  shall  dare  to  sing  ? 
It  clogs  like  lead  Corruption's  weary  wing. 
Yet  Pallas  plucked  each  premier  by  the  ear, 
Who  gods  and  men  alike  disdained  to  hear; 


1  [The  affair  of  Copenhagen.] 
'  "  Blest  paper  credit!   last  and  best  supplv. 
That  lends  Corruption  lighter  wings  to  fly!  " 

Pote. 


But  one,  repentant  o'er  a  bankrupt  state, 
On  Pallas  calls,  —  but  calls,  alas!  too  late: 
Then  raves  for  *  *  ;  to  that  Mentor  bends, 
Though  he  and  Pallas  never  yet  were  friends 
Him  senates  hear,  whom  never  yet  they  heard 
Contemptuous  once,  and  now  no  less  absurd. 
So,  once  of  yore,  each  reasonable  frog 
Swore  faith  and  fealty  tohis  sovereign  '  log.' 
Thus  hailed  your  rulers  their  patrician  clod. 
As  Egypt  chose  an  onion  for  a  god. 

"  Now  fare  ye  well !  enjoy  your  Httle  hour ; 
Go,  grasp  the  shadow  of  your  vanished  power  ; 
Gloss  o'er  the  failure  of  each  fondest  scheme  ; 
Your  strength  a  name,  your  bloated  wealth  a 

dream. 
Gone  is  that  gold,  the  marvel  of  m.inkind, 
And  pirates  barter  all  that's  left  behind.3 
No  more  the  hirelings,  purchased  near  and 

far. 
Crowd  to  the  ranks  of  mercenary  war. 
The  idle  merchant  on  the  useless  quay 
Droops   o'er  the  bales   no   bark   may   bear 

away ; 
Or,  back  returning,  sees  rejected  stores 
Rot    piecemeal    on    his    own    encumbered 

shores : 
The  starved  mechanic  breaks  his  rusting  loom, 
And  desperate  mans  him  'gainst  ihe  coming 

doom. 
Then  in  the  senate  of  your  sinking  state, 
Show  me  the  jnan  whose  counsels  may  have 

weight. 
Vain  is  each  voice  where  tones  could  once 

command ; 
E'en  factions  cease  to  charm  a  factious  land : 
Yet  jarring  sects  convulse  a  sister  isle, 
And  light  with  maddening  hands  the  mutual 

pile. 

"  'Tis  done,  'tis  past,  since  Pallas  warns  in 

vain  ; 
The  Furies  seize  her  abdicated  reign : 
Wide  o'er  the  realm  they  wave  their  kindling 

brands. 
And  wring  her  vitals  with  their  fiery  hands. 
But  one  convulsive  struggle  still  remains, 
And   Gaul   shall   weep  ere  Albion  wear  her 

chains. 
The  bannered  pomp  of  war,  the  glittering  files, 
O'er  whose  gay  trappings  stern  Bellona  smiles  ; 
The  brazen  trump,  the  spirit-stirring  drum, 
That  bid  the  foe  defiance  ere  they  come  ; 
The  hero  bounding  at  his  country's  call, 
The  glorious  death  that  consecrates  his  fall, 
Swell  the  young  heart  with  visionary  charms, 
And  bid  it  antedate  the  joys  of  arms. 
But  know,  a  lesson  you  may  yet  be  taught, 
With  death  alone  are  laurels  cheaply  bought 
Not  in  the  conflict  Havoc  seeks  delight, 
His  day  of  mercy  is  the  da]  of  fight. 


3  The  Deal  and  Dover  traffickers  in  specie. 


THE    WALTZ. 


US 


But  when  the  field  is  fought,  the  battle  won, 
Though  drenched  with  gore,  his  woes  are  but 

begun. 
His  deeper  deeds  as  yet  ye  know  by  name ; 
The   slaughtered  'peasant  and   the   ravished 

dame, 
The  rifled  mansion  and  the  foe-reaped  field, 
111  suit  with  souls  at  home,  untaught  to  yield. 
Say  with  what  eye  along  the  distant  down 
Would  flying  burghers  mark  the  blazing  town? 
How  view  the  column  of  ascending  flames 
Shake    his    red    shadow    o'er    the    startled 

Thames  ? 
Nay,  frown  not,  Albion !    for  the  torch  was 

thine 
That  lit  such  pyres  from  Tagus  to  the  Rhine  : 
Now  should  they  burst  on  thy  devoted  coast, 
Go,  ask  thy  bosom  who  deserves  them  most. 
The  law  of  heaven  and  earth  is  life  for  life, 
And  she   who    raised,   in   vain   regrets,   the 

strife."  l 

1  ["  The   beautiful   but   barren    Hymettus,    the 


whole  coast  of  Attica,  her  hills  and  mountains, 
Pentelicus,  Anchesmus,  Philopapus,  etc.  etc.  are 
in  themselves  poetical;  and  would  be  so  if  the  name 
of  Athens,  of  Athenians,  and  her  very  ruins,  were 
swept  from  the  earth.  But,  am  I  to  be  told  that 
the  "nature"  of  Attica  would  be  more  poetical 
without  the  "  art"  of  the  Acropolis?  of  the  Tem- 
ple of  Theseus?  and  of  the  still  all  Greek  and  glori- 
ous monuments  of  her  exquisitely  artificial  genius? 
Ask  the  traveller  what  strikes  him  as  most  poetical, 
the  Parthenon,  or  the  rock  on  which  it  stands?  The 
columns  of  Cape  Colonna,  or  the  Cape  itself?  The 
rocks  at  the  foot  of  it,  or  the  recollection  that  Fal- 
coner's ship  was  bulged  upon  them?  There  are  a 
thousand  rocks  and  capes  far  more  picturesque  than 
those  of  the  Acropolis  and  Cape  Sunium  in  them- 
selves. But  it  is  the  "art"  the  columns,  the 
temples,  the  wrecked  vessel,  which  give  them  theit 
]  antique  and  their  modern  poetry,  and  not  the  spots 
'  themselves.  I  opposed,  and  will  ever  oppose,  the 
i  robbery  of  ruins  from  Athens,  to  instruct  the  Eng- 
lish in  sculpture;  but  why  did  I  do  so?  The  ruins 
are  as  poetical  in  Piccadilly  as  they  were  in  the 
Parthenon;  but  the  Parthenon  and  its  rock  are  less 
i  so  without  them.  Such  is  the  poetry  of  art." — 
Byron's  Letters,  1821.] 


THE   WALTZ:    AN    APOSTROPHIC    HYMN. 


"  Qualis  in  Eurotae  ripis,  aut  per  juga  Cynthi, 
Exercet  Diana  choros."  Virgil. 

"  Such  on  Eurota's  banks,  or  Cynthia's  height, 
Diana  seems:  and  so  she  charms  the  sight, 
When  in  the  dance  the  graceful  goddess  leads 
The  quire  of  nymphs,  and  overtops  their  heads." 

Dryden's  Virgil. 


[This  trifle  was  written  at  Cheltenham  in  the  autumn  of  1S12,  and  published  anonymously  in  the 
spring  of  the  following  year.  It  was  not  very  well  received  at  the  time  by  the  public;  and  Byron  was 
by  no  means  anxious  that  it  should  be  considered  as  his  handiwork.  "  I  hear,"  he  says,  in  a  letter  to  a 
friend,  "  that  a  certain  malicious  publication  on  waltzing  is  attributed  to  me.  This  report,  I  suppose, 
you  will  take  care  to  contradict;  as  the  author,  I  am  sure,  will  not  like  that  I  should  wear  his  cap  and 
bells."] 


TO  THE   PUBLISHER. 


Sir,  —  I  am  a  country  gentleman  of  a  midland  county.  I  might  have  been  a  parliament-man  for  n 
certain  borough;  having  had  the  offer  of  as  many  votes  as  General  T.  at  the  general  election  in  1812.' 
But  I  was  all  for  domestic  happiness;  as,  fifteen  years  ago,  on  a  visit  to  London,  I  married  a  middle-agad 
maid  of  honor.  We  lived  happily  at  Hornem  Hall  till  last  season,  when  my  wife  and  I  were  invited  by 
the  Countess  of  Waltzaway  (a  distant  relation  of  my  spouse)  to  pass  the  winter  in  town-  Thinking  no 
harm,  and  our  girls  being  come  to  a  marriageable  (or,  as  they  call  it,  marketable')  age,  and  havipg 
besides  a  Chancery  suit  inveterately  entailed  upon  the  family  estate,  we  came  up  in  our  old  chariot, —  » 

1  State  of  the  poll  (last  day),  5. 


146  THE    WALTZ. 

•-vhich,  by  the  by,  my  wife  grew  so  much  ashamed  in  less  than  a  week,  that  I  was  obliged  to  buy  a  s-jconi. 
hand  barouche,  of  which  I  might  mount  the  box,  Mrs.  H.  says,  if  I  could  drive,  bit  never  see  the  inside 
—  that  place  being  reserved  for  the  Honorable  Augustus  Tiptoe,  her  partner-general  and  opera-knight. 
Hearing  great  praises  of  Mrs.  H.'s  dancing  (she  was  famous  for  birthnight  minuets  in  the  latter  end  of 
the  last  century).  I  unbooted,  and  went  to  a  ball  at  the  Countess's,  expecting  to  see  a  country  dance,  or. 
at  most,  cotillions,  reels,  and  all  the  old  paces  to  the  newest  tunes.  But,  judge  of  my  surprise,  on  arriv- 
ing, to  see  poor  dear  Mrs.  Hornem  with  her  arms  half  round  the  loins  of  a  huge  hussar-looking  gentle- 
man I  never  set  eyes  on  before;  and  his,  to  say  truth,  rather  more  than  half  round  her  waist,  turning 

round,  and  round,  and  round,  to  a  d d  see-saw  up-and-down  sort  of  a  tune,  that  reminded  me  of  the 

"  Black  joke,"  only  more  "  affettuoso"  till  it  made  me  quite  giddy  with  wondering  they  were  not  so. 
By  and  by  they  stopped  a  bit,  and  I  thought  they  would  sit  or  fall  down:  —  but  no;  with  Mrs.  H  's  hand 
On  his  shoulder,  "  quam  familiar  Her  "  '  (as  Terence  said,  when  I  was  at  school),  they  walked  about  a 
minute,  and  then  at  it  again,  like  two  cockchafers  spitted  on  the  same  bodkin.  I  asked  what  all  this 
meant,  when,  with  a  loud  laugh,  a  child  no  older  than  our  Wilhelmina  (a  name  I  never  heard  but  in  the 
Vicar  of  Wakefield,  though  her  mother  would  call  her  after  the  Princess  of  Swappenbach),  said,  "  Lord! 
Mr.  Hornem,  can't  you  see  they  are  valtzing?  "  or  waltzing  (I  forget  which) ;  and  then  up  she  got,  and 
her  mother  and  sister,  and  away  they  went,  and  round-abouted  it  till  supper  time.  Now,  that  I  know  what 
it  is,  I  like  it  of  all  things,  and  so  does  Mrs.  H.  (though  I  have  broken  my  shins,  and  four  times  over- 
turned Mrs.  Hornem's  maid,  in  practising  the  preliminary  steps  in  a  morning).  Indeed,  so  much  do  I 
like  it,  that  having  a  turn  for  rhyme,  tastily  displayed  in  some  election  ballads,  and  songs  in  honor  of  all 
the  victories  (but  till  lately  I  have  had  little  practice  in  that  way),  I  sat  down,  and  with  the  aid  of  William 
Fitzgerald.  Esq.,2  and  a  few  hints  from  Dr.  Busby  (whose  recitations  I  attend,  and  am  monstrous  fond 
of  Master  Busby's  manner  of  delivering  his  father's  late  successful  "  Drury  Lane  Address,")  I  composed 
the  following  hymn,  wherewithal  to  make  my  sentiments  known  to  the  public;  whom,  nevertheless,  I 
heartily  despise,  as  well  as  the  critics. 

I  am,  Sir,  yours,  etc.  etc. 

Horace  Hornem. 

1  My  Latin  is  all  forgotten,  if  a  man  can  be  said  to  have  forgotten  what  he  never  remembered;  but  I 
bought  my  title-page  motto  of  a  Catholic  priest  for  a  three-shilling  bank  token,  after  much  haggling  for 
the  even  sixpence.  I  grudged  the  money  to  a  papist,  being  all  for  the  memory  of  Perceval  and  "  Ng 
popery,"  and  quite  regretting  the  downfall  of  the  pope,  because  we  can't  burn  him  any  more. 

2  [The  "  hoarse  Fitzgerald  "  of  the  opening  lines  of"  English  Bards  and  Scotch  Reviewers."] 


Muse  of  the   many-twinkling  feet ! '   whose    And  own  —  impregnable  to  most  assaults, 
charms  Thy  not  too  lawfully  begotten  "  Waltz." 

Are  now  extended  up  from  legs  to  arms ; 

Terpsichore  !  —  too  long  misdeemed  a  maid  — 

Reproachful    term  —  bestowed    but    to    up- 
braid — 

Henceforth  in  all  the   bronze   of  brightness 
shine, 

The  least  a  vestal  of  the  virgin  Nine. 

Far  be  from  thee  and  thine  the  name  of  prude  ; 

Mocked,  yet  triumphant ;  sneered  at,  unsub- 
dued ; 

Thy  legs  must  move  to  conquer  as  they  fly, 

If  but  thy  coats  are  reasonably  high ; 

Thy  breast  —  if  bare   enough  —  requires   no 
shield ; 

Dance  forth  —  sans  armour  thou   shalt   take 


Hail,  nimble  nymph!  to  whom  the  young 

hussar, 
The  whiskered  votary  of  waltz  and  war, 
His  night  devotes,  despite  of  spur  and  boots 
A  sight  unmatched   since  Orpheus   and   his 

brutes : 
Hail,  spirit-stirring  Waltz!  —  beneath  whose 

banners 
A  modern  hero  fought  for  modish  manners ; 
On  Hounslow's   heath   to  rival  Wellesley's; 

fame, 


2  To  rival  Lord  Wellesley's,  or  his  nephew's,  as 

the    reader   pleases :  —  the    one    gained    a    pretty 

woman,  whom   he  deserved,   by  fighting  for;    and 

the  field  "  '  tne  otner  nas  been  fighting  in  the  Peninsula  many 

"  'ong  day, "  by  Shrewsbury  clock,"  without  gaining 


*  "  Glance  their  many-twinkling  feet."  —  Gray.      any  thing  in  that  country  but  the  title  of  "  the  Greaf 


THE    WALTZ. 


147 


Cocked  —  fired  —  and  missed  his  man  —  but 

gained  his  aim ; 
Hail,  moving  Muse !  to  whom  the  fair  one's 

breast 
Gives  all  it  can,  and  bids  us  take  the  rest. 
Oh  !  for  the  flow  of  Busby,  or  of  Fitz, 
The  latter's  loyalty,  the  former's  wits, 
To  "  energize  the  object  I  pursue,"  l 
And   give  both   Belial  and   his  dance  their 

due! 

Imperial  Waltz!  imported  from  the  Rhine 
(Famed  for  the  growth   of   pedigrees    and 

wine), 
Long  be  thine  import  from  all  duty  free, 
And  hock  itself  be  less  esteemed  than  thee ; 
In  some  few  qualities  alike  —  for  hock 
Improves  our  cellar—  thou  our  living  stock. 
The  head  to  hock  belongs  —  thy  subtler  art 
Intoxicates  alone  the  heedless  heart: 
Through   the   full   veins   thy  gentler  poison 

swims, 
And  wakes  to  wantonness  the  willing  limbs. 

Oh,  Germany !  how  much  to  thee  we  owe, 
As  heaven-born  Pitt  can  testify  below, 

Lord,"  and  "  the  Lord:  "  which  savors  of  profana- 
tion, having  been  hitherto  applied  only  to  that  Be- 
ing to  whom  "  Te  Deums"  for  carnage  are  the 
rankest  blasphemy.  —  It  is  to  be  presumed  the  gen- 
eral will  one  day  return  to  his  Sabine  farm;  there 

"  To  tame  the  genius  of  the  stubborn  plain, 
Almost  as  quickly  as  he  conquered  Spain!  " 

The  Lord  Peterborough  conquered  continents  in 
a  summer;  we  do  more  —  we  contrive  both  to  con- 
quer and  lose  them  in  a  shorter  season.  If  the 
"great  Lord's"  Cincinnation  progress  in  agricul- 
ture be  no  speedier  than  the  proportional  average 
of  time  in  Pope's  couplet,  it  will,  according  to  the 
farmers'  proverb,  be  "  ploughing  with  dogs." 

By  the  by  —  one  of  this  illustrious  person's  new 
titles  is  forgotten  — it  is,  however,  worth  remember- 
ing—  "  Salvador  del  mundo  !  "  credite,  poster i  ! 
If  this  be  the  appellation  annexed  by  the  inhabitants 
of  the  Peninsula  to  the  name  of  a  man  who  has  not 
yet  saved  them  —  query  —  are  they  worth  saving, 
even  in  this  world?  for,  according  to  the  mildest 
modifications  of  any  Christian  creed,  those  three 
words  make  the  odds  much  against  them  in  the 
next.  —  "  Saviour  of  the  world,"  quotha!  — it  were 
to  be  wished  that  he,  or  any  one  else,  could  save  a 
corner  of  it  —  his  country.  Yet  this  stupid  mis- 
nomer, although  it  shows  the  near  connection  be- 
tween superstition  and  impiety,  so  far  has  its  use, 
that  it  proves  there  can  be  little  to  dread  from  those 
•Catholics  (inquisitorial  Catholics  too)  who  can  con- 
fes  such  an  appellation  on  a  Protestant.  I  suppose 
next  year  he  will  be  entitled  the  "  Virgin  Mary:  " 
if  so,  Lord  George  Gordon  himself  would  have 
nothing  to  object  to  such  liberal  bastards  of  our 
Lady  of  Babylon. 

1  [Among  the  addresses  sent  in   to   the   Drury 
Lane  Comnv'ttee  (parodied  in  Rejected  Addresses) 
»ras  one  by  Dr.  Busby,  which  began  by  asking  — 
"  When  energizing  objects  men  pursue, 
What  are  the  prodigies  they  cannot  do  ?  "] 


Ere  cursed  confederation  made  thee  France's, 
And  only  left  us  thy  d — d  debts  and  dances ! 
Of  subsidies  and  Hanover  bereft, 
We  bless  thee  still  —  for  George  the  Third  is 

left! 
Of  kings  the  best  —  and  last,  not  least  in  wDrth, 
For  graciously  begetting  George  the  Fourth. 
To  Germany,  and  highnesses  serene, 
Who   owe   us   millions  —  don't  we   owe   the 

queen  ? 
To  Germany,  what  owe  we  not  besides  ? 
So  oft  bestowing  Brunswickers  and  brides ; 
Who  paid  for  vulgar,  with  her  royal  blood, 
Drawn  from  the  stem  of  each  Teutonic  stud  : 
Who  sent  us  —  so  be  pardoned  all  her  faults  — 
A  dozen  dukes,  some  kings,  a  queen  —  and 

Waltz. 

But  peace  to  her — .her  emperor  and  diet, 
Though    now    transferred    to    Buonaparte's 

"fiat!" 
Back  to  my  theme  —  O  Muse  of  motion  !  say, 
How  first  to  Albion  found  thy  Waltz  her  way  ? 

Borne  on  the  breath  of  hyperborean  gales, 
From  Hamburg's  port  (while  Hamburg  yet 

had  mails), 
Ere  yet  unlucky  Fame  —  compelled  to  creep 
To  snowy  Gottenburg — was  chilled  to  sleep; 
Or,  starting  from  her  slumbers,  deigned  arise, 
Heligoland  !  to  stock  thy  mart  with  lies  ; 
While  unburnt   Moscow2  yet  had  news  to 

send, 
Nor  owed  her  fiery  exit  to  a  friend, 
She  came — Waltz  came  —  and  with  her  cer- 
tain sets 
Of  true  despatches,  and  as  true  gazettes ; 
Then  flamed  of  Austerlitz  the  blest  despatch, 
Which    Moniteur    nor    Morning    Post    can 
match ; 


2  The  patriotic  arson  of  our  amiable  allies  cannot 
be  sufficiently  commended  —  nor  subscribed  for. 
Amongst  other  details  omitted  in  the  various  de- 
spatches of  our  eloquent  ambassador,  he  did  not 
state  (being  too  much  occupied  with  the  exploits  of 
Colonel  C ,  in  swimming  rivers  frozen,  and  gal- 
loping over  roads  impassable,)  that  one  entire  prov- 
ince perished  by  famine  in  the  most  melancholy 
manner,  as  follows:  —  In  General  Rostopchin's 
consummate  conflagration,  the  consumption  of 
tallow  and  train  oil  was  so  great,  that  the  market 
was  inadequate  to  the  demand:  and  thus  one  hun- 
dred and  thirty-three  thousand  persons  were  starved 
to  death,  by  being  reduced  to  wholesome  diet !  The 
lamplighters  of  London  have  since  subscribed  a  pin( 
(of  oil)  apiece,  and  the  tallow-chandlers  have  unan- 
imously voted  a  quantity  of  best  moulds  (four  to 
the  pound) ,  to  the  relief  of  the  surviving  Scythians : 
—  the  scarcity  will  soon,  by  such  exertions,  and  a 
proper  attention  to  the  quality  rather  than  the 
quantity  of  provision,  be  totally  alleviated.  It  ii 
said,  in  return,  that  the  untouched  Ukraine  has 
subscribed  sixty  thousand  beeves  for  a  day's  meal 
to  our  suffering  manufacturers. 


1+8 


THE    WALTZ. 


And  —  almost  crushed  beneath  the  glorious 

news  — 
Ten  plays,  and  forty  tales  of  Kotzebue's ; 
One  envoy's  letters,  six  composers'  airs, 
And  loads  from  Frankfort  and  from   Leipsic 

fairs ; 
Meiner's  four  volumes  upon  womankind, 
Like  Lapland  witches  to  insure  a  wind ; 
Brunck's   heaviest   tome   for  ballast,  and,  to 

back  it, 
'  Of  Heyne,  such  as  should  not  sink  the  packet. 

i     Fraught  with  this   cargo  —  and  her  fairest 

freight, 
Delightful  Waltz,  on  tiptoe  for  a  mate, 
The  welcome  vessel  reached  the  genial  strand, 
And  round  her  flocked  the  daughters  of  the 

land. 
Not  decent  David,  when,  before  the  ark, 
His  grand  pas-seul  excited  some  remark; 
Not    love-lorn    Quixote,  when    his    Sancho 

thought 
The  knight's  fandango  friskier  than  it  ought ; 
Not  soft  Herodias,  when,  with  winning  tread, 
Her  nimble  feet  danced  off  another's  head  ; 
Not  Cleopatra  on  her  galley's  deck, 
Displayed  so  much  of  leg,  or  more  of  neck, 
Than  thou,  ambrosial  Waltz,  when  first  the 

moon 
Beheld  thee  twirling  to  a  Saxon  tune ! 

To  you,  ye  husbands  of  ten  years !  whose 
brows 
Ache  with  the  annual  tributes  of  a  spouse ; 
To  you  of  nine  years  less,  who  only  bear 
The  budding  sprouts  of  those  that  you  shall 

wear, 
With  added  ornaments  around  them  rolled 
Of  native  brass,  or  law-awarded  gold  ; 
To  you,  ye  matrons,  ever  on  the  watch 
To  mar  a  son's,  or  make  a  daughter's,  match  ; 
To  you,  ye  children  of — whom   chance  ac- 
cords — 
Always  the  ladies,  and  sometimes  their  lords  ; 
To  you,  ye  single  gentlemen,  who  seek 
Torments  for  life,  or  pleasures  for  a  week ; 
As  Love  or  Hymen  your  endeavors  guide, 
To  gain  your  own,  or  snatch  another's  bride  ;  — 
To  one  and  all  the  lovely  stranger  came, 
And  every  ball-room  echoes  with  her  name. 

Endearing  Waltz  ! — to  thy  more  melting  tune 

Bow  Irish  jig,  and  ancient  rigadoon. 

Scotch  reels,  avaunt !  and  country-dance,  fore- 
go 

Your  future  claims  to  each  fantastic  toe ! 

Waltz  —  Waltz  alone  —  both  legs  and  arms 
demands, 

Liberal  of  feet,  and  lavish  of  her  hands  ; 

Hands  which  may  freely  range  in  public  sight 

Where  ne'er  before  —  but  —  pray"  put  out  the 
light." 

Methinks  the  glare  of  yonder  chandelier 


Shines  much  too  far  —  or  I  am  much  too  near; 
And  true,  though  strange  —  Waltz  whispers 

this  remark, 
"  My  slippery  steps  are  safest  in  the  dark  !  " 
But  here  the  Muse  with  due  decorum  halts, 
And  lends  her  longest  petticoat  to  Waltz. 

Observant  travellers  of  every  time! 
Ye  quartos  published  upon  every  clime! 
O  say,  shall  dull  Romaika's  heavy  round, 
Fandango's  wriggle,  or  Bolero's  bound ; 
Can  Egypt's  Almas  1 —  tantalizing  group — - 
Columbia's  caperers  to  the  warlike  whoop — . 
Can  aught  from  cold  Kamschatka  to  Cape 

Horn 
With  Waltz  compare,  or  after  Waltz  be  borne  ? 
Ah,  no !  from  Morier's  pages  down  to  Gait's, 
Each  tourist  pens  a  paragraph  for  "  Waltz." 

Shades  of  those  belles  whose  reign  began 

of  yore, 
With  George  the  Third's  —  and  ended  long 

before !  — 
Though  in  your  daughters'  daughters  yet  you 

thrive, 
Burst  from  your  lead,  and  be  yourselves  alive  ! 
Back  to  the  ball-room  speed  your  spectred 

host : 
Fool's  Paradise  is  dull  to  that  you  lost. 
No    treacherous    powder    bids    conjecture 

quake ; 
No  stiff-starched  stays  make  meddling  fingers 

ache ;    * 
(Transferred  to  those  ambiguous  things  that 

ape 
Goats  in  their  visage,2  women  in  their  shape  ;) 
No  damsel  faints  when  rather  closely  pressed, 
But   more   caressing  seems  when   most   ca- 
ressed ; 
Superfluous  hartshorn,  and  reviving  salts, 
Both    banished    by    the    sovereign    cordial 

"  Waltz." 

Seductive  Waltz !  —  though  on  thy  native 
shore 
Even  Werter's  self  proclaimed  thee  half  a 

whore ; 
Werter — to  decent  vice  though  much  inclined, 
Yet  warm,  not  wanton  ;  dazzled,  but  not  blind— 


1  Dancing  girls  —  who  do  for  hire  what  Waltz 
doth  gratis. 

2  It  cannot  be  complained  now,  as  in  the  Lady 
Baussiere's  time,  of  the  "  Sieur  de  la  Croix,"  that 
there  be  "  no  whiskers;  "  but  how  far  these  are  in- 
dications of  valor  in  a  field,  or  elsewhere,  may  still 
be  questionable.  Much  may  be,  and  hath  been, 
avouched  on  both  sides.  In  the  olden  time  philoso- 
phers had  whiskers,  and  soldiers  none — ScipU 
himself  was  shaven  —  Hannibal  thought  his  one 
eye  handsome  enough  without  a  beard;  but  Adrian, 
the  emperor,  wore  a  beard  (having  warts  on  his 
chin,  which  neither  the  Empress  Sabina  nor  even 
the  courtiers  could  abide)  — Turenne  had  whiskers, 
Marlborough   none  —  Buonaparte   is  unwhiskersd. 


THE    WALTZ. 


149 


Though  gentle  Genlis,  in  her  strife  with  Staei, 
Would  even  proscribe  thee  from  a  Paris  ball ; 
The  fashion  hails  —  from  countesses  to  queens, 
A.nd  maids  and  valets  waltz  behind  the  scenes  ; 
Wide    and    more  wide  thy  witching  circle 

spreads, 
And    turns  —  if  nothing   else  —  at   least   our 

heads  ; 
With  thee  even  clumsy  cits  attempt  to  bounce, 
And  cockneys  practise  what  they  can't  pro- 
nounce. 
'Gods  !  how  the  glorious  theme  my  strain  exalts, 
And  rhyme  finds  partner  rhyme  in  praise  of 
"  Waltz !  " 

Blest  was  the  time  Waltz  chose  for  her  de- 
but; 
The  court,  the  Regent,  like  herself  were  new  ; 1 
New  face  for  friends,  for  foes  some  new  re- 
wards ; 
New  ornaments  for  black  and  royal  guards  ; 
New  laws  to  hang  the  rogues  that  roared  for 

bread ; 
New  coins  (most  new)  "  to  follow  those  that 

fled; 
New  victories  —  nor  can  we  prize  them  less, 
Though  Jenky  wonders  at  his  own  success  ; 
Mew  wars,  because  the  old  succeed  so  well, 
["hat  most  survivors  envy  those  who  fell ; 
New  mistresses  —  no,  old  —  and  yet  'tis  true, 
Though  they  be  old,  the  thing  is  something 

new; 
Each  new,  quite  new —  (except  some  ancient 
tricks),3 

the  Regent  whiskered;  "  argal"  greatness  of  mind 
and  whiskers  may  or  may  not  go  together:  but  cer- 
tainly the  different  occurrences,  since  the  growth  of 
the  last  mentioned,  go  further  in  behalf  of  whiskers 
than  the  anathema  of  Anselm  did  against  long 
hair  in  the  reign  of  Henry  I.  —  Formerly,  red  was 
a  favorite  color.  See  Lodowick  Barry's  comedy  of 
Ram  Alley,  1661;  Act  I.  Scene  1. 

"  Taffeta.  Now  for  a  wager  —  What  colored 
*>eard  comes  next  by  the  window  ? 

"  Adriana.     A  black  man's,  I  think. 

"  Taffeta.  I  think  not  so:  I  think  a  red,  for 
that  is  most  in  fashion." 

There  is  "  nothing  new  under  the  sun;  "  but  red, 
then  a  favorite,  has  now  subsided  into  a  favorite's 
color. 

1  An  anachronism  —  Waltz  and  the  battle  of 
Austerlitz  are  before  said  to  have  opened  the  ball 
together:  the  bard  means  (if  he  means  any  thing), 
Waltz  was  not  so  much  in  vogue  till  the  Regent  at- 
tained the  acme  of  his  popularity.  Waltz,  the 
comet,  whiskers,  and  the  new  government,  illumi- 
nated heaven  and  earth,  in  all  their  glory,  much 
about  the  same  time:  of  these  the  comet  only  has 
disappeared;  the  other  three  continue  to  astonish 
us  still.  —  Printer  s  Devil. 

2  Amongst  others  a  new  ninepence  —  a  creditable 
coin  now  forthcoming,  worth  a  pound,  in  paper,  at 
the  fairest  calculation. 

3  "  Oh  that  right  should  thus  overcome  might!  " 
Who  does  not  remember  the  "delicate  investiga- 
tion "  in  the  "  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor  "? — 


New  white-sticks,  gold-sticks,  broom-sticks,  all 

new  sticks ! 
With  vests  or  ribands  —  decked  alike  in  hue. 
New  troopers   strut,  new  turncoats  blush  in 

blue : 

So  saith  the  muse  :  my ,4  what  say  you  ? 

Such  was  the  time  when  Waltz  might  best 

maintain 
Her  new  preferments  in  this  novel  reign ; 
Such  was  the  time,  nor  ever  yet  was  such ; 
Hoops  are  no  more,  and  petticoats  not  much. 
Morals  and  minuets,  virtue  and  her  stays, 
And    tell-tale    powder  —  all   have   had   theit 

days. 
The  ball  begins  —  the  honors  of  the  house 
First  duly  done  by  daughter  or  by  spouse, 
Some  potentate  —  or  royal  or  serene  — 
With   Kent's  gay  grace,  or  sapient  Gloster's 

mien, 
Leads  forth  the  ready  dame,  whose  rising  flush 
Might  once  have  been  mistaken  for  a  blush. 
From  where  the  garb  just  leaves  the  bosont 

free, 
That  spot  where  hearts5  were  once  supposed 

to  be ; 
Round  all  the  confines  of  the  yielded  waist, 
The  strangest  hand  may  wander  undisplaced , 
The  lady's  in  return  may  grasp  as  much 
As  princely  paunches  offer  to  her  touch. 
Pleased  round  the  chalky  floor  how  well  they 

trip, 
One  hand  reposing  on  the  royal  hip  ; 
The  other  to  the  shoulder  no  less  royal 
Ascending  with  affection  truly  loyal ! 
Thus  front  to  front  the  partners  move  or  stand, 
The  foot  may  rest,  but  none  withdraw  the  hand , 
And  all  in  turn  may  follow  in  their  rank, 
The  Earl  of — Asterisk  —  and  Lady  —  Blank; 


"Ford.  Pray  you,  come  near:  if  I  suspect 
without  cause,  why  then  make  sport  at  me;  ther, 
let  me  be  your  jest;  I  deserve  it.  How  now? 
whither  bear  you  this  ? 

"Mrs.  Ford.  What  have  you  to  do  whither 
they  bear  it?  —  you  were  best  meddle  with  buck- 
washing." 

4  The  gentle,  or  ferocious,  reader  may  fill  up  the 
blank  as  he  pleases  —  there  are  several  dissyllabic 
names  at  his  service  (being  already  in  the  Regent's) : 
it  would  not  be  fair  to  back  any  peculiar  initial 
against  the  alphabet,  as  every  month  will  add  to  the 
list  now  entered  for  the  sweepstakes: — a  distin- 
guished consonant  is  said  to  be  the  favorite,  much 
against  the  wishes  of  the  knowing  ones. 

5  "We  have  changed  all  that,"  says  the  Mock 
Doctor — 'tis  all  gone  —  Asmodeus  knows  where. 
After  all,  it  is  of  no  great  importance  how  women's 
hearts  are  disposed  of;  they  have  nature's  privilege 
to  distribute  them  as  absurdly  as  possible.  But 
there  are  also  some  men  with  hearts  so  thoroughly 
bad,  as  to  remind  us  of  those  phenomena  often 
mentioned  in  natural  history;  namely,  a  mass  of 
solid  stone  —  only  to  be  opened  by  force  —  and  when 
divided,  you  discover  a  toad  in  the  centre  lively, 
and  with  the  reputation  of  being  venomous. 


150 


THE    WALTZ. 


Sir  —  Such-a-one — with    those    of    fashion's 

host, 
For  whose  blest  surnames  —  vide  "Morning 

Post" 
(Or  if  for  that  impartial  print  too  late, 
Search  Doctors'  Commons  six  months  from 

my  date)  — 
Thus  all  and  each,  in  movement  swift  or  slow, 
The  genial  contact  gently  undergo  ; 
Till  some  might  marvel,  with  the  modest  Turk, 
If  "  nothing  follows  all  this  palming  work  ?  "t 
True,   honest   Mirza! — you   may    trust    my 

rhyme  — 
Something  does  follow  at  a  fitter  time ; 
The  breast  thus  publicly  resigned  to  man, 
In  private  may  resist  him if  it  can. 

O  ye  who  loved  our  grandmothers  of  yore, 
Fitzpatrick,  Sheridan,  and  many  more! 
And  thou,  my  prince !  whose  sovereign  taste 

and  will 
It  is  to  love  the  lovely  beldames  still ! 
Thou  ghost  of  Queensbury!    whose  judging 

sprite 
Satan  may  spare  to  peep  a  single  night, 
Pronounce  —  if  ever  in  your  days  of  bliss 
Asmodeus  struck  so  bright  a  stroke  as  this ; 
To  teach  the  young  ideas  how  to  rise, 
Flush  in  the  cheek,  and  languish  in  the  eyes ; 
Rush  to  the  heart,  and  lighten  through  the 

frame, 
With  half-told  wish  and  ill-dissembled  flame, 


1  In  Turkey  a  pertinent,  here  an  impertinent  and 
superfluous  question  —  literally  put,  as  in  the  text, 
by  a  Persian  to  Morier  on  seeing  a  waltz  in  Pera. — 
Vide  Morier's  TrattU. 


For  prurient  nature  still  will  storm  the  breast— • 
Who,  tempted  thus,  can  answer  for  the  rest  t 

But  ye  —  who  never  felt  a  single  thought 
For  what  our  morals  are  to  be,  or  ought ; 
Who  wisely  wish  the  charms  you  view  to  reap, 
Say  —  would  you  make  those  beauties  quite  so 

cheap  ? 
Hot  from  the  hands  promiscuously  applied, 
Round  the  slight  waist,  or  down  the  glowing 

side, 
Where  were  the  rapture  then  to  clasp  the  form 
From    this   lewd  grasp  and  lawless   contact 

warm  ? 
At  once  love's  most  endearing  thought  resign, 
To  press  the  hand  so  pressed  by  none  but 

thine; 
To  gaze  upon  that  eye  which  never  met 
Another's  ardent  look  without  regret ; 
Approach  the  lip  which  all,  without  restraint, 
Come  near  enough  —  if  not  to  touch  —  to  taint ; 
If  such  thou  lovest  —  love  her  then  no  more, 
Or  give  —  like  her  —  caresses  to  a  score  ; 
Her  mind  with  these  is  gone,  and  with  it  go 
The  little  left  behind  it  to  bestow. 

Voluptuous  Waltz!  and  dare  I  thus  blas- 
pheme ? 
Thy  bard  forgot  thy  praises  were  his  theme. 
Terpsichore,  forgive!  —  at  every  ball 
My  wife  nozv  waltzes  —  and  ray  daughters  shall; 
My  son —  (0/  stop  —  'tis  needless  to  inquire  — 
These  little  accidents  should  ne'er  transpire  ; 
Some  ages  hence  our  genealogic  tree 
Will  wear  as  green  a  bough  for  him  as  me) — 
Waltzing  shall  rear,  to  make  our  name  amends, 
Grandsons  for  me  —  in  heirs  to  all  his  friends. 


ODE   TO    NAPOLEON    BUONAPARTE. 


"  Expende  Annibalem: 
Invenies?  " 


•quot  libras  in  duce  summo 

Juvenal,  Sai.  X.1 


"  The  Emperor  Nepos  was  acknowledged  by  the  Senate,  by  the  Italians,  and  by  the  Provincials  of  Gaul; 
his  moial  virtues,  and  military  talents,  were  loudly  celebrated;  and  those  who  derived  any  private  benefit 
from  his  government  announced  in  prophetic  strains  the  restoration  of  public  felicity. 

************* 
************* 
By  this  shameful  abdication,  he  protracted  his  life  a  few  years,  in  a  very  ambiguous  state,  between  aa 
Emperor  and  an  Exile,  till "  Gibbon's  Decline  and  Fall,  vol.  vi.  p.  2zo.2 


[Byron,  when  publishing  "The  Corsair,"  in  January,  1814,  announced  an  apparently  quite  seri- 
ous resolution  to  withdraw,  for  some  years  at  least,  from  poetry.  His  letters  of  the  February  and  March 
following  abound  in  repetitions  of  the  same  determination.  On  the  morning  of  the  ninth  of  April, 
he  writes  —  "No  more  rhyme  for  —  or  rather  from  — me.  I  have  taken  my  leave  of  that  stage,  and 
henceforth,  will  mountebank  it  no  longer."  In  the  evening,  a  Gazette  Extraordinary  announced  the 
abdication  of  Fontainebleau,  and  the  poet  violated  his  vows  next  morning  by  composing  this  Ode, 
which  he  immediately  published,  though  without  his  name.  His  diary  says,  "  April  10.  _  To-day  I 
have  boxed  one  hour  —  written  an  Ode  to  Napoleon  Buonaparte  —  copied  it  —  eaten  six  biscuits  —  drunk 
four  bottles  of  soda  water,  and  redde  away  the  rest  of  my  time."] 


1  ["  Produce  the  urn  that  Hannibal  contains, 

And  weigh  the  mighty  dust  which  yet  remains: 

And  is  this  all!  "  — 
I  know  not  that  this  was  ever  done  in  the  old  world;  at  least,  with  regard  to  Hannibal;  but,  in  the 
Statistical  Account  of  Scotland,  I  find  that  Sir  John  Paterson  had  the  curiosity  to  collect,  and  weigh,  the 
ashes  of  a  person  discovered  a  few  years  since  in  the  parish  of  Eccles;  which  he  was  happily  enabled  to 
do  with  great  facility,  as  "  the  inside  of  the  coffin  was  smooth,  and  the  whole  body  visible."  Wonderful 
to  relate,  he  found  the  whole  did  not  exceed  in  weight  one  ounce  and  a  half!  And  is  this  all!  Alas! 
the  quot  libras  itself  is  a  satirical  exaggeration.  —  Gifford.] 

2  ["I  send  you  an  additional  motto  from  Gibbon,  which  you  will  find  singularly  appropriate."  — 
Byron  te  Mr.  Murray,  April  12,  1814.] 


'TIS  done — but  yesterday  a  King! 

And  armed  with  Kings  to  strive  — 
And  now  *hou  art  a  nameless  thing: 

So  abject  —  yet  alive  ! 
Is  this  the  man  of  thousand  thrones, 
Who  strewed  our  earth  with  hostile  bones, 

And  can  he  thus  survive  ?  1 
Since  he,  miscalled  the  Morning  Star, 
Nor  man  nor  fiend  hath  fallen  so  far. 


1  ["I  don't  know  —  but  I  think  /,  even  /  (an 
insect  compared  with  this  creature),  have  set  my 
life  on  casts  not  a  millionth  part  of  this  man's.  But, 
after  all,  a  crown  may  not  be  worth  dying  for.  Yet, 
to  outlive   Lodi  for  this!!'.      Oh  that  Juvenal  or 


II. 

Ill-minded  man!  why  scourge  thy  kind 
Who  bowed  so  low  the  knee  ? 

By  gazing  on  thyself  grown  blind, 
Thou  taught'st  the  rest  to  see. 


Johnson  could  rise  from  the  dead!  'Expende  — 
quot  libras  in  duce  summo  invenies?  '  I  knew  they 
were  light  in  the  balance  of  mortality;  but  I  thought 
their  living  dust  weighed  more  carats.  Alas!  this 
imperial  diamond  hath  a  flaw  in  it,  and  is  now  hardly 
fit  to  stick  in  a  glazier's  pencil; — the  pen  of  the 
historian  won't  rate  it  worth  a  ducat.  Psha!  '  some- 
thing too  much  of  this.'  But  I  won't  give  him  up 
even  now;  though  all  his  admirers  have,  like  the 
Thanes,  fallen  from  him."  —  Byron's  Diary,  April 
0,  1814.] 


152 


ODE    TO  NAPOLEON  BUONAPARTE. 


With  might  unquestioned,  —  power  to  save,- 
Thine  only  gift  hath  been  the  grave 

To  those  that  worshipped  thee ; 
Nor  till  thy  fall  could  mortals  guess 
Ambition's  less  than  littleness  ! 

III. 
Thanks  for  that  lesson  —  it  will  teach 

To  after-warriors  more 
Than  high  Philosophy  can  preach, 

And  vainly  preached  before. 
That  spell  upon  the  minds  of  men 
Breaks  never  to  unite  again, 

That  led  them  to  adore 
Those  Pagod  things  of  sabre  sway, 
With  fronts  of  brass,  and  feet  of  clay. 

IV. 

The  triumph,  and  the  vanity, 

The  rapture  of  the  strife  i  — 
The  earthquake  voice  of  Victory, 

To  thee  the  breath  of  life  ; 
The  sword,  the  sceptre,  and  that  sway 
Which  man  seemed  made  but  to  obey, 

Wherewith  renown  was  rife  — 
All  quelled  !  —  Dark  Spirit !  what  must  be 
The  madness  of  thy  memory  I 

v. 

The  Desolator  desolate ! 

The  Victor  overthrown ! 
The  Arbiter  of  others'  fate 

A  Suppliant  for  his  own  ! 
Is  it  some  yet  imperial  hope 
That  with  such  change  can  calmly  cope  ? 

Or  dread  of  death  alone  ? 
To  die  a  prince  —  or  live  a  slave  — 
Thy  choice  is  most  ignobly  brave ! 


He  who  of  old  would  rend  the  oak,2 
Dreamed  not  of  the  rebound  ; 

Chained  by  the  trunk  he  vainly  broke  — 
Alone  —  how  looked  he  round  ? 

Thou  in  the  sternness  of  thy  strength 

An  equal  deed  hast  done  at  length, 
And  darker  fate  hast  found : 

He  fell,  the  forest  prowlers'  prey; 

But  thou  must  eat  thy  heart  away ! 


1  "  Certam'nis  gaudia  "  —  the  expression  of  At- 
tila  in  his  h»rangue  to  his  army,  previous  to  the 
battle  of  Chalons,  given  in  Cassiodorus. 

2  ["Out  of  town  six  days.  On  my  return,  find 
my  poor  little  pagod,  Napoleon,  pushed  off  his  ped- 
estal. It  is  his  own  fault.  Like  Milo,  he  would 
rend  the  oak;  but  it  closed  again,  wedged  his  hands, 
and  now  the  beasts  —  lion ,  bear,  down  to  the  dirtiest 
jackal  —  may  all  tear  him.  That  Muscovite  winter 
•wedged  his  arms;  — ever  since,  he  has  fought  with 
his  feet  and  teeth.  The  last  may  still  leave  their 
marks:  and  'I  guess  now'  (as  the  Yankees  say), 
that  he  will  yet  play  them  a  pass."  —  Byron's 
Diary,  April  8.] 


VII. 
The  Roman,3  when  his  burning  heart 

Was  slaked  with  blood  of  Rome, 
Threw  down  the  dagger  —  dared  depart, 

In  savage  grandeur,  home. — 
He  dared  depart  in  utter  scorn 
Of  men  that  such  a  yoke  had  borne, 

Yet  left  him  such  a  doom ! 
His  only  glory  was  that  hour 
Of  self-upheld  abandoned  power. 


The  Spaniard,4  when  the  lust  of  sway 
Had  lost  its  quickening  spell,5 

Cast  crowns  for  rosaries  away, 
An  empire  for  a  cell ; 

A  strict  accountant  of  his  beads, 

A  subtle  disputant  on  creeds, 
His  dotage  trifled  well : 

Yet  better  had  he  neither  known 

A  bigot's  shrine,  nor  despot's  throne. 

IX. 

But  thou  —  from  thy  reluctant  hand 

The  thunderbolt  is  wrung  — 
Too  late  thou  leav'st  the  high  command 

To  which  thy  weakness  clung ; 
All  Evil  Spirit  as  thou  art, 
It  is  enough  to  grieve  the  heart 

To  see  thine  own  unstrung ; 
To  think  that  God's  fair  world  hath  been 
The  footstool* of  a  thing  so  mean ; 


And  Earth  hath  spilt  her  blood  for  him, 

Who  thus  can  hoard  his  own  ! 
And  Monarchs  bowed  the  trembling  limb, 

And  thanked  him  for  a  throne ! 
Fair  Freedom  !  we  may  hold  thee  dear, 
When  thus  thy  mightiest  foes  their  fear 

In  humblest  guise  have  shown. 
Oh  !  ne'er  may  tyrant  leave  behind 
A  brighter  name  to  lure  mankind ! 


s  Sylla.  —  [We  find  the  germ  of  this  stanza  in 
the  Diary  of  the  evening  before  it  was  written:  — 
"  Methinks  Sylla  did  better;  for  he  revenged,  and 
resigned  in  the  height  of  his  sway,  red  with  the 
slaughter  of  his  foes  —  the  finest  instance  of  glorious 
contempt  of  the  rascals  upon  record.  Dioclesian 
did  well  too  —  Amurath  not  amiss,  had  he  become 
aught  except  a  dervise  —  Charles  the  Fifth  but  so 
so;  but  Napoleon  worst  of  all."  —  Byron's  Diary, 
April  g.] 

4  Charles  the  Fifth. 

5  ["  Alter  'potent  spell'  to  'quickening  spell:' 
the  first  (as  Polonius  says)  'is  a  vile  phrase,' and 
means  nothing,  besides  being  commonplace  and 
Rosa-Matildaish.  After  the  resolution  of  not  pub- 
lishing, though  our  Ode  is  a  thing  of  little  length 
and  less  consequence,  it  will  be  better  altogetht/ 
that  it  is  anonymous."  —  Byron  to  Mr.  Murray, 
April  n.] 


ODE    TO  NAPOLEON  BUONAPARTE. 


153 


XI. 

Thine  evil  deeds  are  writ  in  gore, 

Nor  written  thus  in  vain  — 
Thy  triumphs  tell  of  fame  no  more, 

Or  deepen  every  stain  : 
If  thou  hadst  died  as  honor  dies, 
Some  new  Napoleon  might  arise, 

To  shame  the  world  again  — 
But  who  would  soar  the  solar  height, 
To  set  in  such  a  starless  night  ?  x 


Weighed  in  the  balance,  hero  dust 

Is  vile  as  vulgar  clay ; 
Thy  scales,  Mortality  !  are  just 

To  all  that  pass  away : 
But  yet  methought  the  living  great 
Some  higher  sparks  should  animate, 

To  dazzle  and  dismay : 
Nor  deemed  Contempt  could  thus  make  mirth 
Of  these,  the  Conquerors  of  the  earth. 


And  she,  proud  Austria's  mournful  flower, 

Thy  still  imperial  bride  ; 
How  bears  her  breast  the  torturing  hour  ? 

Still  clings  she  to  thy  side  ? 
Must  she  too  bend,  must  she  too  share 
Thy  late  repentance,  long  despair, 

Thou  throneless  Homicide  ? 
If  still  she  loves  thee,  hoard  that  gem, 
"Tis  worth  thy  vanished  diadem  ! 2 


Then  haste  thee  to  thy  sullen  Isle, 

And  gaze  upon  the  sea ; 
That  element  may  meet  thy  smile — ■ 

It  ne'er  was  ruled  by  thee ! 
Or  trace  with  thine  all  idle  hand 
In  loitering  mood  upon  the  sand 

That  Earth  is  now  as  free ! 
That  Corinth's  pedagogue  3  hath  now 
Transferred  his  by-word  to  thy  brow. 

XV. 
Thou  Timour!  in  his  captive's  cage4 
What  thoughts  will  there  be  thine, 


1  [In  the  original  MS. — 

"  But  who  would  rise  in  brightest  day 
To  set  without  one  parting  ray?"] 

2  [Count  Neipperg,  a  gentleman  in  the  suite  of 
the  Lmperor  of  Austria,  who  was  first  presented  to 
Maria  Louisa  within  a  few  days  after  Napoleon's 
abdication,  became,  in  the  sequel,  her  chamberlain, 
and  then  her  husband.  He  is  said  to  have  been  a 
man  of  remarkably  plain  appearance.  He  died  in 
1831.] 

3  [Dionysius  the  Younger,  esteemed  a  greater  ty- 
rant than  his  father,  on  being  for  the  second  time 
banished  from  Syracuse,  retired  to  Corinth,  where 
he  was  obliged  to  turn  schoolmaster  for  a  subsist- 
ence.] 

4  The  cage  of  Bajazet,  by  order  of  Tamerlane. 


While  brooding  in  thy  prisoned  rage  ? 

But  one  —  "  The  world  was  mine !  " 
Unless,  like  he  of  Babylon, 
All  sense  is  with  thy  sceptre  gone, 

Life  will  not  long  confine 
That  spirit  poured  so  widely  forth  — 
So  long  obeyed  —  so  little  worth! 

XVI. 
Or,  like  the  thief  of  fire  from  heaven,6 

Wilt  thou  withstand  the  shock  ? 
And  share  with  him,  the  unforgiven, 

His  vulture  and  his  rock! 
Foredoomed  by  God  —  by  man  accurst,* 
And  that  last  act,  though  not  thy  worst, 

The  very  Fiend's  arch  mock ;  1 
He  in  his  fall  preserved  his  pride, 
And,  if  a  mortal,  had  as  proudly  died! 

XVII. 

There  was  a  day  —  there  was  an  hour,8 

While  earth  was  Gaul's  —  Gaul  thine  — 
When  that  immeasurable  power 

Unsated  to  resign 
Had  been  an  act  of  purer  fame 
Than  gathers  round  Marengo's  name 

And  gilded  thy  decline, 
Through  the  long  twilight  of  all  time, 
Despite  some  passing  clouds  of  crime. 

XVIII. 

But  thou  forsooth  must  be  a  king, 

And  don  the  purple  vest, — 
As  if  that  foolish  robe  could  wring 

Remembrance  from  thy  breast. 
Where  is  that  faded  garment  ?  where 
The  gewgaws  thou  wert  fond  to  wear. 

The  star  —  the  string  —  the  crest? 
Vain  froward  child  of  empire  !  say, 
Are  all  thy  playthings  snatched  away  ? 


0  Prometheus. 

6  [In  first  draught  — 

"  He  suffered  for  kind  acts  to  men, 
Who  have  not  seen  his  like  again, 
At  least  of  kingly  stock; 
Since  he  was  good,  and  thou  but  great, 
Thou  canst  not  quarrel  with  thy  fate."] 

7        "  The  very  fiend's  arch  mock  — 

To  lip  a  wanton,  and  suppose  her  chaste." 

Shakspeare. 
[He  alludes  to  the  unworthy  amour  in  which  Napo- 
leon engaged  on  the  evening  of  his  arrival  at  Fon- 
tainebleau.] 

8  [The  three  last  stanzas,  which  Byron  had  been 
solicited  by  Mr.  Murray  to  write,  to  avoid  the  stamp 
duty  then  imposed  upon  publications  not  exceeding 
a  sheet,  were  not  published  with  the  rest  of  the 
poem.  "  I  don't  like  them  at  all,"  said  Lord 
Byron,  "  and  they  had  better  be  left  out.  The  fact 
is,  I  can't  do  any  thing  I  am  asked  to  do,  however 
gladly  I  would;  and  at  the  end  of  a  week  my  inter' 
est  in  a  composition  goes  off."] 


154 


HEBREW  MELODIES. 


XIX. 

Where  may  the  wearied  eye  repose 

When  gazing  on  the  Great ; 
Where  neither  guilty  glory  glows, 

Nor  despicable  state  ? 
Yes  —  one  —  the  first  —  the  last  —  the  best  — 
The  Cincinnatus  of  the  West, 

Whom  envy  dared  not  hate, 
Bequeathed  the  name  of  Washington, 
To  make  men  blush  there  was  but  one !  * 


1  On  being  reminded  by  a  friend  of  his   recent 


promise  not  to  write  any  more  for  years  —  "  There 
was,"  replied  Byron,  "  a  mental  reservation  in  mj 
pact  with  the  public,  in  behalf  of  anonymes;  and, 
even  had  there  not,  the  provocation  was  such  as  to 
make  it  physically  impossible  to  pass  over  this 
epoch  of  triumphant  tameness.  "Tis  a  sad  busi- 
ness; and,  after  all,  I  shall  think  higher  of  rhyme 
and  reason,  and  very  humbly  of  your  heroic  people, 
till — Elba  becomes  a  volcano,  and  sends  him  oul 
again.     I  can't  think  it  is  all  over  yet."] 


HEBREW    MELODIES. 


[Byron  never  alludes  to  his  share  in  these  Melodies  with  complacency.  Moore  having,  on  one  oc- 
casion, rallied  him  a  little  on  the  manner  in  which  some  of  them  had  been  set  to  music,  —  "  Sunburn 
Nathan,"  he  exclaims,  "  why  do  you  always  twit  me  with  his  Ebrew  nasalities?  Have  I  not  told  you 
it  was  all  Kinnaird's  doing,  and  my  own  exquisite  facility  of  temper? 


ADVERTISEMENT. 

The  subsequent  poems  were  written  at  the  request  of  my  friend,  the  Hon.  D.  Kinnaird,  for  a  Selection 
*f  Hebrew  Melodies,  and  have  been  published  with  the  music,  arranged  by  Mr.  Braham  and  Mr.  Nathan, 
January,  1815. 


SHE  WALKS   IN   BEAUTY.* 

1. 

She  walks  in  beauty,  like  the  night 
Of  cloudless  climes  and  starry  skies  ; 

And  all  that's  best  of  dark  and  bright 
Meet  in  her  aspect  and  her  eyes  : 

Thus  mellowed  to  that  tender  light 
Which  heaven  to  gaudy  day  denies. 

II. 

One  shade  the  more,  one  ray  the  less, 
Had  half  impaired  the  nameless  grace, 

Which  waves  in  every  raven  tress, 
Or  softly  lightens  o'er  her  face ; 

Where  thoughts  serenely  sweet  express 
How  pure,  how  dear  their  dwelling-place. 


1  [These  stanzas  were  written  by  Byron,  on  re- 
turning from  a  ball,  where  Lady  Wilinot  Horton 
had  appeared  in  mourning  with  numerous  spangles 
on  her  dress,] 


III. 

And  on  that  cheek,  and  o'er  that  brow, 
So  soft,  so  calm,  yet  eloquent, 

The  smiles  that  win,  the  tints  that  glow, 
But  tell  of  days  in  goodness  spent. 

A  mind  at  peace  with  all  below, 
A  heart  whose  love  is  innocent ! 


THE    HARP    THE    MONARCH    MIN- 
STREL SWEPT. 


THE  harp  the  monarch  minstrel  swept, 
The  King  of  men,  the  loved  of  Heaven, 

Which  Music  hallowed  while  she  wept 
O'er  tones  her  heart  of  hearts  had  given, 
Redoubled  be  her  tears,  its  chords  are  riven 

It  softened  men  of  iron  mould, 

It  gave  them  virtues  not  their  own  ; 

No  ear  so  dull,  no  soul  so  cold 


HEBREW  MELODIES. 


155 


That  felt  not,  fired  not  to  the  tone, 
Till  David's  lyre  grew  mightier  than  his 
throne ! 

II. 

Tt  told  the  triumphs  of  our  King, 

It  wafted  glory  to  our  God ; 
It  made  our  gladdened  valleys  ring, 

The  cedars  bow,  the  mountains  nod ; 

Its  sound   aspired   to   Heaven   and   there 
abode ! 
Since  then,  though  heard  on  earth  no  more, 

Devotion,  and  her  daughter  Love 
Still  bid  the  bursting  spirit  soar 

To  sounds  that  seem  as  from  above, 

In  dreams  that   day's  broad  light  cannot 
remove. 


IF  THAT  HIGH  WORLD. 


If  that  high  world,  which  lies  beyond 

Our  own,  surviving  Love  endears ; 
If  there  the  cherished  heart  be  fond, 

The  eye  the  same,  except  in  tears  — 
How  welcome  those  untrodden  spheres ! 

How  sweet  this  very  hour  to  die! 
To  soar  from  earth  and  find  all  fears 

Lost  in  thy  light  —  Eternity ! 

II. 

It  must  be  so :  'tis  not  for  self 

That  we  so  tremble  on  the  brink ; 
And  striving  to  o'erleap  the  gulf, 

Yet  cling  to  Being's  severing  link. 
Oh  !  in  that  future  let  us  think 

To  hold  each  heart  the  heart  that  shares, 
With  them  the  immortal  waters  drink, 

And  soul  in  soul  grow  deathless  theirs ! 


THE  WILD   GAZELLE. 


The  wild  gazelle  on  Judah's  hills 

Exulting  yet  may  bound, 
And  drink  from  all  the  living  rills 

That  gush  on  holy  ground ; 
Its  airy  step  and  glorious  eye 
May  glance  in  tameless  transport  by:- 


A  step  as  fleet,  an  eye  more  bright, 
Hath  Judah  witnessed  there  ; 

And  o'er  her  scenes  of  lost  delight 
Inhabitants  more  fair. 

The  cedars  wave  on  Lebanon, 

But  Judah's  statelier  maids  are  gone  I 


More  blest  each  palm  that  shades  those  plains 

Than  Israel's  scattered  race; 
For,  taking  root,  it  there  remains 

In  solitary  grace : 
It  cannot  quit  its  place  of  birth, 
It  will  not  live  in  other  earth. 


But  we  must  wander  witheringly, 

In  other  lands  to  die; 
And  where  our  fathers'  ashes  be, 

Our  own  may  never  lie : 
Our  temple  hath  not  left  a  stone, 
And  Mockery  sits  on  Salem's  throne. 


OH!   WEEP   FOR  THOSE. 
I. 

OH !   weep  for  those  that  wept  by   Babel's 

stream, 
Whose  shrines  are  desolate,  whose  land  a 

dream ; 
Weep  for  the  harp  of  Judah's  broken  shell ; 
Mourn  —  where  their  God  hath  dwelt  the  God- 
less dwell ! 

II. 
And  where  shall  Israel  lave  her  bleeding  feet ' 
And  when  shall  Zion's  songs  again  seem  sweet? 
And  Judah's  melody  once  more  rejoice 
The  hearts  that  leaped  before  its  heavenly 
voice  ? 

III. 
Tribes  of  the  wondering  foot  and  weary  breast, 
How  shall  ye  flee  away  and  be  at  rest ! 
The  wild-dove  hath  her  nest,  the  fox  his  cave, 
Mankind  their  country —  Israel  but  the  grave ! 


ON   JORDAN'S   BANKS. 


On  Jordan's  banks  the  Arab's  camels  stray, 
On  Sion's  hill  the  False  One's  votaries  pray, 
The  Baal-adorer  bows  on  Sinai's  steep  — 
Yet  there  —  even  there — Oh  God!  thy  fhun* 

ders  sleep. 

II. 
There  —  where  thy  finger  scorched  [he  tablet 

stone, 
There  —  where   thy  shadow  to    thy    people 

shone ! 
Thy  glory  shrouded  in  its  garb  of  fire  : 
Thyself — none  living  see  and  not  expire! 


Oh  !  in  the  lightning  let  thy  glance  appear ; 
Sweep  from  his  shivered  hand  the  oppressor's 


156 


HEBREW  MELODIES. 


How  long  by  tyrants  shall  thy  land  be  trod ! 
How  long  thy  temple  worshipless,  Oh  God ! 


JEPHTHA'S   DAUGHTER. 


SINCE  our  Country,  our  God  —  Oh,  my  Sire ! 
Demand  that  thy  Daughter  expire ; 
Since  thy  triumph  was  bought  by  thy  vow  — 
Strike  the  bosom  that's  bared  for  thee  now ! 


ind  the  voice  of  my  mourning  is  o'er, 
^,nd  the  mountains  behold  me  no  more : 
If  the  hand  that  I  love  lay  me  low, 
There  cannot  be  pain  in  the  blow  1 


And  of  this,  oh,    my  Father!  be  sure  — 
That  the  blood  of  thy  child  is  as  pure 
As  the  blessing  I  beg  ere  it  flow, 
And  the  last  thought  that  soothes  me  below. 


Though  the  virgins  of  Salem  lament, 
Be  the  judge  and  the  hero  unbent ! 
I  have  won  the  great  battle  for  thee, 
And  my  Father  and  Country  are  free ! 


When  this  blood  of  thy  giving  hath  gushed, 
When  the  voice  that  thou  lovest  is  hushed, 
Let  my  memory  still  be  thy  pride, 
And  forget  not  I  smiled  as  I  died  I 


OH!   SNATCHED  AWAY  IN  BEAUTY'S 
BLOOM. 


Oh  !  snatched  away  in  beauty's  bloom, 
On  thee  shall  press  no  ponderous  tomb ; 
But  on  thy  turf  shall  roses  rear 
Their  leaves,  the  earliest  of  the  year; 
And  the  wild  cypress  wave  in  tender  gloom : 

II. 
And  oft  by  yon  blue  gushing  stream 

Shall  Sorrow  lean  her  drooping  head. 
And  teed  deep  thought  with  many  a  dream, 
And  lingering  pause  and  lightly  tread ; 
Fond  wretch !  as  if  her  step  disturbed  the 
dead! 

III. 
Away  \  we  know  that  tears  are  vain, 

That  death  nor  heeds  nor  hears  distress  : 
Will  this  unteach  us  to  complain  ? 

Or  make  one  mourner  weep  the  less  ? 
And  thou  —  who  tell'st  me  to  forget, 
Thy  'ooks  are  wan,  thine  eyes  are  wet. 


MY  SOUL  IS   DARK. 


MY  soul  is  dark  —  Oh  !  quickly  string 

The  harp  I  yet  can  brook  to  hear ; 
And  let  thy  gentle  fingers  fling 

Its  melting  murmurs  o'er  mine  ear. 
If  in  this  heart  a  hope  be  dear, 

That  sound  shall  charm  it  forth  again : 
If  in  these  eyes  there  lurk  a  tear, 

'Twill  flow,  and  cease  to  burn  my  braim 


But  bid  the  strain  be  wild  and  deep, 

Nor  let  thy  notes  of  joy  be  first: 
I  tell  thee,  minstrel,  I  must  weep, 

Or  else  this  heavy  heart  will  burst; 
For  it  hath  been  by  sorrow  nursed, 

And  ached  in  sleepless  silence  long; 
And  now  'tis  doomed  to  know  the  worst, 

And  break  at  once  —  or  yield  to  song. 


I   SAW  THEE  WEEP. 

I. 

I  SAW  thee  weep  —  the  big  bright  tear 

Came  o'er  that  eye  of  blue  ; 
And  then  methought  it  did  appear 

A  violet  dropping  dew  : 
I  saw  thee  smile  —  the  sapphire's  blaze 

Beside  thee  ceased  to  shine; 
It  couldAio.  match  the  living  rays 

That  filled  that  glance  of  thine. 


As  clouds  from  yonder  sun  receive 

A  deep  and  mellow  dye, 
Which  scarce  the  shade  of  coming  eve 

Can  banish  from  the  sky, 
Those  smiles  unto  the  moodiest  mind 

Their  own  pure  joy  impart ; 
Their  sunshine  leaves  a  glow  behind 

That  lightens  o'er  the  heart. 


THY   DAYS  ARE  DONE. 
I. 
Thy  days  are  done,  thy  fame  begun ; 

Thy  country's  strains  record 
The  triumphs  of  her  chosen  Son, 

The  slaughters  of  his  sword  ! 
The  deeds  he  did,  the  fields  he  won, 
The  freedom  he  restored ! 


Though  thou  art  fallen,  while  we  are  free 
Thou  shalt  not  taste  of  death  ! 

The  generous  blood  that  flowed  from  thee 
Disdained  to  sink  beneath: 

Within  our  veins  its  currents  be, 
Thy  spirit  on  our  breath ! 


HEBREW  MELODIES. 


157 


Thy  name,  our  charging  hosts  along, 

Shall  be  the  battle-word  ! 
Thy  fall,  the  theme  of  choral  song 

From  virgin  voices  poured  ! 
To  weep  would  do  thy  glory  wrong ; 

Thou  shalt  not  be  deplored. 


SONG  OF  SAUL  BEFORE  HIS  LAST 
BATTLE. 


Warriors  and  chiefs!  should  the  shaft  or 

the  sword 
Pierce  me  in  leading  the  host  of  the  Lord, 
Heed  not  the  corse,  though  a  king's,  in  your 

path : 
Bury  your  steel  in  the  bosoms  of  Gath ! 

II. 

Thou  who  art  bearing  my  buckler  and  bow, 
Should  the  soldiers  of  Saul  look  away  from 

the  foe, 
Stretch  me  that  moment  in  blood  at  thy  feet ! 
Mine  be  the  doom  which  they  dared  not  to 

meet. 

III. 
Farewell  to  others  but  never  we  part, 
Heir  to  my  royalty,  son  of  my  heart ! 
Bright  is  the  diadem,  boundless  the  sway, 
Or  kingly  the  death,  which  awaits  us  to-day ! 


SAUL. 


THOU  whose  spell  can  raise  the  dead, 
Bid  the  prophet's  form  appear. 

"  Samuel,  raise  thy  buried  head  ! 
King,  behold  the  phantom  seer!  " 
Earth  yawned  ;  he  stood  the  centre  of  a  cloud  : 
Light    changed    its   hue,   retiring   from    his 

shroud. 
Death  stood  all  glassy  in  his  fixed  eye ; 
His  hand  was  withered,  and  his  veins  were 

dry; 
His  foot,  in  bony  whiteness,  glittered  there, 
Shrunken  and  sinewless,  and  ghastly  bare ; 
From  lips  that  moved  not  and  unbreathing 

frame, 
Like  caverned  winds,  the  hollow  accents  came. 
Saul  saw,  and  fell  to  earth,  as  falls  the  oak, 
At  once,  and  blasted  by  the  thunder-stroke. 

II. 
"  Why  is  my  sleep  disquieted  ? 
Who  is  he  that  calls  the  dead  ? 
Is  it  thou,  O  King  ?     Behold, 
Bloodless  are  these  limbs,  and  cold: 


Such  are  mine  ;  and  such  shall  be 
Thine  to-morrow,  when  with  me: 
Ere  the  coming  day  is  done, 
Such  shalt  thou  be,  such  thy  son. 
Fare  thee  well,  but  for  a  day, 
Then  we  mix  our  mouldering  clay„ 
Thou,  thy  race,  lie  pale  and  low, 
Pierced  by  shafts  of  many  a  bow ; 
And  the  falchion  by  thy  side 
To  thy  heart  thy  hand  shall  guide; 
Crownless,  breathless,  headless  fall, 
Son  and  sire,  the  house  of  Saul !  "  * 


"ALL  IS   VANITY,   SAITH   THE 
PREACHER." 


FAME,  wisdom,  love,  and  power  were  mine, 

And  health  and  youth  possessed  me  ; 
My  goblets  blushed  from  every  vine, 

And  lovely  forms  caressed  me ; 
I  sunned  my  heart  in  beauty's  eyes, 

And  felt  my  soul  grow  tender; 
All  earth  can  give,  or  mortal  prize, 

Was  mine  of  regal  splendor. 

II. 
I  strive  to  number  o'er  what  days 

Remembrance  can  discover, 
Which  all  that  life  or  earth  displays 

Would  lure  me  to  live  over. 
There  rose  no  day,  there  rolled  no  hour 

Of  pleasure  unembittered ; 
And  not  a  trapping  decked  my  power 

That  galled  not  while  it  glittered. 

III. 
The  serpent  of  the  field,  by  art 

And  spells,  is  won  from  harming; 
But  that  which  coils  around  the  heart, 

Oh  !  who  hath  power  of  charming  ? 
It  will  not  list  to  wisdom's  lore, 

Nor  music's  voice  can  lure  it ; 
But  there  it  stings  for  evermore 

The  soul  that  must  endure  it. 


1  ["  Since  we  have  spoken  of  witches,"  said  By- 
ron at  Cephalonia,  in  1823,  "  what  think  you  of  the 
witch  of  Endor?  I  have  always  thought  this  the 
finest  and  most  finished  witch-scene  that  ever  was 
written  or  conceived;  and  you  will  be  of  my  opin- 
ion, if  you  consider  all  the  circumstances  and  the 
actors  in  the  case,  together  with  the  gravity,  sim- 
plicity, and  dignity  of  the  language.  It  beats  all 
the  ghost  scenes  I  ever  read.  The  finest  concep- 
tion on  a  similar  subject  is  that  of  Goethe's  Devil, 
Mephistopheles;  and  though,  of  course,  you  will 
give  the  priority  to' the  former,  as  being  inspired, 
yet  the  latter,  if  you  know  it,  will  appear  to  you  — 
at  least  it  does  to  me  —  one  of  the  finest  and  most 
sublime  specimens  of  human  conception. "J 


158 


HEBREW  MELODIES. 


WHEN   COLDNESS   WRAPS   THIS 
SUFFERING   CLAY. 


WHEN  coldness  wraps  this  suffering  clay, 

Ah  !  whither  strays  the  immortal  mind? 
It  cannot  die,  it  cannot  stay, 

But  leaves  its  darkened  dust  behind. 
Then  unembodied,  doth  it  trace 

By  steps  each  planet's  heavenly  way  ? 
Or  fill  at  once  the  realms  of  space, 

A  thing  of  eyes,  that  all  survey  ? 


Eternal,  boundless,  undecayed, 

A  thought  unseen,  but  seeing  all, 
All,  all  in  earth,  or  skies  displayed, 

Shall  it  survey,  shall  it  recall: 
Each  fainter  trace  that  memory  holds 

So  darkly  of  departed  years, 
In  one  broad  glance  the  soul  beholds, 

And  all,  that  was,  at  once  appears. 


Before  Creation  peopled  earth, 

Its  eye  shall  roll  through  chaos  back; 
And  where  the  furthest  heaven  had  birth, 

The  spirit  trace  its  rising  track. 
And  where  the  future  mars  or  makes, 

Its  glance  dilate  o'er  all  to  be. 
While  sun  is  quenched  or  system  breaks, 

Fixed  in  its  own  eternity. 

IV. 
Above  or  Love,  Hope,  Hate,  or  Fear, 

It  lives  all  passionless  and  pure: 
An  age  shall  fleet  like  earthly  year ; 

Its  years  as  moments  shall  endure. 
Away,  away,  without  a  wing. 

O'er  all,  through  all,  its  thought  shall  fly; 
A  nameless  and  eternal  thing, 

Forgetting  what  it  was  to  die. 


VISION    OF   BELSHAZZAR. 

I. 
THE  King  was  on  his  throne, 

The  Satraps  thronged  the  hall; 
A  thousand  bright  lamps  shone 

O'er  that  high  festival. 
A  thousand  cups  of  gold, 

In  Judah  deemed  divine  — 
Jehovah's  vessels  hold 

The  godless  Heathen's  wine. 

II. 
In  that  same  hour  and  hall, 

The  fingers  of  a  hand 
Came  forth  against  the  wall, 


And  wrote  as  if  on  sand: 
The  fingers  of  a  man ;  — 

A  solitary  hand 
Along  the  letters  ran, 

And  traced  them  like  a  wand 

III. 
The  monarch  saw,  and  shook, 

And  bade  no  more  rejoice ; 
All  bloodless  waxed  his  look, 

And  tremulous  his  voice. 
"  Let  the  men  of  lore  appear, 

The  wisest  of  the  earth, 
And  expound  the  words  of  fear, 

Which  mar  our  royal  mirth." 


Chaldea's  seers  are  good, 

But  here  they  have  no  skill; 
And  the  unknown  letters  stood 

Untold  and  awful  still. 
And  Babel's  men  of  age 

Are  wise  and  deep  in  lore; 
But  now  they  were  not  sage, 

They  saw  —  but  knew  no  more. 

v. 
A  captive  in  the  land, 

A  stranger  and  a  youth, 
He  heard  the  king's  command, 

He  s#w  that  writing's  truth. 
The  lamps  around  were  bright, 

The  prophecy  in  view ; 
He  read  it  on  that  night, — 

The  morrow  proved  it  true. 


"  Belshazzar's  grave  is  made. 

His  kingdom  passed  away, 
He,  in  the  balance  weighed, 

Is  light  and  worthless  clay. 
The  shroud,  his  robe  of  state, 

His  canopy  the  stone; 
The  Mede  is  at  his  gate ! 

The  Persian  on  his  throne!" 


SUN   OF  THE  SLEEPLESS! 

Sun  of  the  sleepless!  melancholy  star! 
Whose  tearful  beam  glows  tremulously  far, 
That   show'st  the   darkness  thou   canst   noi 

dispel, 
How  like  art  thou  to  joy  remembered  well ! 
So  gleams  the  past,  the  light  of  other  days, 
Which  shines,  but  warms  not  with  its  power 

less  rays ; 
A  night-beam  Sorrow  watcheth  to  behold, 
Distinct,   but   distant  —  clear  —  but,  oh   how 

cold! 


HEBREW  MELODIES. 


159 


WERE  MY   BOSOM   AS   FALSE  AS 
THOU   DEEM'ST   IT  TO   BE. 

I. 

WERE  my  bosom  as  false  as  thou  deem'st  it 

to  be, 
I  need  not  have  wandered  from  far  Galilee; 
It  was  but  abjuring  my  creed  to  efface 
The  curse  which,  thou  say'st,  is  the  crime  of 

my  race. 

II. 

If  the  bad  never  triumph,  then  God  is  with 

thee! 
If  the  slave  only  sin,  thou  art  spotless  and 

.   free ! 
If  the  Exile  on  earth  is  an  Outcast  on  high, 
Live  on  in  thy  faith,  but  in  mine  I  will  die. 

III. 

I  have  lost  for  that  faith  more  than  thou  canst 

bestow, 
As  the  God  who  permits  thee  to  prosper  doth 

know ; 
In  his  hand  is  my  heart  and  my  hope  —  and  in 

thine 
The  land  and  the  life  which  for  him  I  resign. 


HEROD'S   LAMENT  FOR   MARI- 
AMNE.1 

I. 

Oh,  Mariamne  !  now  for  thee 
The  heart  for  which  thou  bled'st  is  bleed- 
ing ". 
Revenge  is  lost  in  agony, 

And  wild  remorse  to  rage  succeeding. 
Oh,  Mariamne  !  where  art  thou  ? 

Thou  canst  not  hear  my  bitter  pleading : 
Ah!     couldst    thou  —  thou    wouldst    pardon 
now, 
Though    Heaven  were   to   my  prayer  un- 
heeding. 

II. 

And  is  she  dead  ?  —  and  did  they  dare 

Obey  my  frenzy's  jealous  raving  ? 
My  wrath  but  doomed  my  own  despair : 


1  [Mariamne,  the  wife  of  Herod  the  Great,  falling 
under  the  suspicion  of  infidelity,  was  put  to  death 
by  his  order.  She  was  a  woman  of  unrivalled 
beauty,  and  haughty  spirit:  unhappy  in  being  the 
object  of  passionate  attachment,  which  bordered  on 
frenzy,  to  a  man  who  had  more  or  less  concern  in 
the  murder  of  her  grandfather,  father,  brother,  and 
uncle,  and  who  had  twice  commanded  her  death,  in 
case  of  his  own.  Ever  after,  Herod  was  haunted 
by  the  image  of  the  murdered  Mariamne,  until  dis- 
order of  the  mind  brought  on  disorder  of  body, 
which  led  to  temporary  derangement.  —  MiVman.] 


The  sword  that  smote  her's  o'er  me  wav- 
ing.— 
But  thou  art  cold,  my  murdered  love ! 

And  this  dark  heart  is  vainly  craving 
For  her  who  soars  alone  above, 

And  leaves  my  soul  unworthy  saving. 

III. 
She's  gone,  who  shared  my  diadem  ; 

She  sunk,  with  her  my  joys  entombing; 
I  swept  that  flower  from  Judah's  stem 

Whose  leaves  for  me  alone  were  blooming; 
And  mine's  the  guilt,  and  mine  the  hell, 

This  bosom's  desolation  dooming; 
And  I  have  earned  those  tortures  well, 

Which  unconsumed  are  still  consuming! 


ON   THE  DAY   OF  THE 

DESTRUCTION    OF  JERUSALEM 

BY   TITUS. 

I. 

From  the  last  hill  that  looks  on  thy  once  holy 

dome 
I  beheld  thee,   oh  Sion !  when  rendered  to 

Rome: 
'Twas  thy  last  sun  went  down,  and  the  flames 

of  thy  fall 
Flashed  back  on  the  last  glance  I  gave  to  thy 

wall. 

II. 
I  looked  for  thy  temple,  I  looked  for  my  home, 
And  forgot  for  a  moment  my  bondage  to  come  ; 
I  beheld  but  the  death-fire  that  fed  on  thy  fane, 
And  the  fast-fettered  hands  that  made  ven- 
geance in  vain. 

III. 
On  many  an  eve,  the  high  spot  whence  I  gazed 
Had  reflected  the  last  beam  of  day  as  it  blazed  ; 
While  I  stood  on  the  height,  and  beheld  the 

decline 
Of  the  rays  from  the  mountain  that  shone  on 

thy  shrine. 

IV. 
And  now  on  that  mountain  I  stood  on  that  day, 
But  I  marked  not  the  twilight  beam  melting 

away; 
Oh !  would  that  the  lightning  had  glared  in  its 

stead, 
And  the  thunderbolt  burst  on  the  conqueror's 

head ! 

V. 

But  the  Gods  of  the  Pagan  shall  never  profane 
The  shrine  where  Jehovah  disdained  not  to 

reign ; 
And  scattered  and  scorned  as  thy  people  may 

be, 
Our  worship,  oh  Father !  is  only  for  thee. 


160 


HEBREW  MELODIES. 


BY  THE   RIVERS   OF  BABYLON   WE 
SAT  DOWN   AND   WEPT. 


We  sate  down  and  wept  by  the  waters 
Of  Babel,  and  thought  of  the  day 

When  our  foe,  in  the  hue  of  his  slaughters, 
Made  Salem's  high  places  his  prey  ; 

And  ye,  oh  her  desolate  daughters ! 
Were  scattered  all  weeping  away. 


While  sadly  we  gazed  on  the  river 
Which  rolled  on  in  freedom  below, 

They  demanded  the  song ;  but,  oh  never 
That  triumph  the  stranger  shall  know! 

May  this  right  hand  be  withered  for  ever, 
Ere  it  string  our  high  harp  for  the  foe ! 


On  the  willow  that  harp  is  suspended, 
Oh  Salem  !  its  sounds  should  be  free ; 

And  the  hour  when  thy  glories  were  ended 
But  left  me  that  token  of  thee: 

And  ne'er  shall  its  soft  tones  be  blended 
With  the  voice  of  the  spoiler  by  me. 


THE   DESTRUCTION    OF    SENNACH- 
ERIB. 

I. 

The  Assyrian  came  down  like  the  wolf  on  the 

fold, 
And  his  cohorts  were  gleaming  in  purple  and 

gold; 
And  the  sheen  of  their  spears  was  like  stars  on 

the  sea, 
When  the  blue  wave  rolls  nightly  on  deep  Gal- 
ilee. 

II. 
Like  the  leaves  of  the  forest  when  Summer  is 

green, 
That  host  with  their  banners  at  sunset  were 

seen : 
Like  the  leaves  of  the  fores*  when  Autumn  hath 

blown, 
That  host  on  the  morrow  lay  withered  and 

strown. 

III. 
For  the  Angel  of  Death  spread  his  wings  on 

the  blast, 
And  breathed  in  the  face  of  the  foe  as  he  passed ; 


And  the  eyes  of  the  sleepers  waxed  deadly  am}' 

chill, 
And  their  hearts  but  once  heaved,  and  for  evei 

grew  still ! 

IV. 

And  there  lay  the  steed  with  his  nostril  all  wide, 
But  through  it  there  rolled  not  the  breatii  of 

his  pride : 
And  the  foam  of  his  gasping  lay  white  on  the 

turf, 
And  cold  as  the  spray  of  the  rock-beating  surf 

v. 

And  there  lay  the  rider  distorted  and  pale, 
With  the  dew  on  his  brow,  and  the  rust  on  his 

mail, 
And  the  tents  were  all  silent,  the  banners  alone, 
The  lances  uplifted,  the  trumpet  unblown. 


And  the  widows  of  Ashurarc  loud  in  their  wail. 
And  the  idols  are  broke  in  the  temple  of  Baal ; 
And  the  might  of  the  Gentile,  unsmote  by  the 

sword, 
Hath  melted  like  snow  in  the  glance  of  the 

Lord! 


A   SPIRIT   PASSED    BEFORE   ME. 

>         FROM  JOB. 
I. 

A  spirit  passed  before  me  :  I  beheld 

The  face  of  immortality  unveiled  — 

Deep  sleep    came    down  on  every  eye   save 

mine  — 
And  there  it  stood,  —  allformlers  —  but  divine  : 
Along  my  bones  the  creeping  flesh  did  quake: 
And  as  my  damp  hair  stiffened,  thus  it  spake : 

II. 
"  Is  man  more  just  than  God  ?  Is  man  more 

pure 
Than  he  who  deems  even  Seraphs  insecure  ? 
Creatures  of  clay  —  vain  dwellers  in  the  dust! 
The  moth  survives  you,  and  are  ye  more  just  ? 
Things  of  a  day !  you  wither  ere  the  night, 
Heedless   and   blind    to    Wisdom's    wasted 

light !  "  1 


1  [The  Hebrew  Melodies,  though  obviously  infe- 
rior to  Lord  Byron's  other  works,  display  a  skill  in 
versification,  and  a  mastery  in  diction,  which  would 
have  raised  an  inferior  artist  to  the  very  summit  oi 
distinction.  —  Jeff>~ey.\ 


DOMESTIC   PIECES— 1816. 


[Of  the  six  following  poems,  the  first  three  were  written  immediately  before  Lord  Byron's  final  depart" 
•ire  from  England;  the  others,  during  the  earlier  part  of  his  residence  in  the  neighborhood  of  Genera. 
They  all  refer  to  the  unhappy  event,  which  will  for  ever  mark  the  chief  crisis  of  his  personal  story,  — 
.hat  separation  from  Lady  Byron,  of  which,  after  all  that  has  been  said  and  written,  the  real  motives  and 
circumstances  remain  as  obscure  as  ever. 

Mr.  Kennedy,  in  his  account  of  Lord  Byron's  last  residence  in  Cephalonia,  represents  him  as  saying, 
—  "  Lady  Byron  deserves  every  respect  from  me:  I  do  not  indeed  know  the  cause  of  the  separation,  and 
I  have  remained,  and  ever  will  remain,  ready  for  a  reconciliation,  whenever  circumstances  open  and 
point  out  the  way  to  it."  Mr.  Moore  has  preserved  evidence  of  one  attempt  which  Lord  Byron  made  to 
bring  about  an  explanation  with  his  Lady,  ere  he  left  Switzerland  for  Italy.  Whether  he  ever  repeated 
the  experiment  we  are  uncertain:  but  that  failed, — and  the  failure  must  be  borne  in  mind,  when  the 
reader  considers  some  of  the  smaller  pieces  included  in  this  Section.] 


FARE  THEE  WELL.i 

'  Alas !  they  had  been  friends  in  Youth: 
But  whispering  tongues  can  poison  truth; 
And  constancy  lives  in  realms  above ; 
And  Life  is  thorny;  and  youth  is  vain: 
And  to  be  wroth  with  one  we  love, 
Doth  work  like  madness  in  the  brain ; 


But  never  either  found  another 

To  free  the  hollow  heart  from  paining  — 

They  stood  aloof,  the  scars  remaining, 

Like  cliffs,  which  had  been  rent  asunder; 

A  dreary  sea  now  flows  between, 

But  neither  heat,  nor  frost,  nor  thunder 

Shall  wholly  do  away,  I  ween, 

The  marks  of  that  which  once  hath  been." 

Coleridge's  Chrtstabel. 

Fare  thee  well !  and  if  for  ever, 

Still  for  ever,  fare  thee  well : 
Even  though  unforgiving,  never 

'Gainst  thee  shall  my  heart  rebel. 

Would  that  breast  were  bared  before  thee 
Where  thy  head  so  oft  hath  lain, 

While  that  placid  sleep  came  o'er  thee 
Which  thou  ne'er  canst  know  again  : 

Would  that  breast,  by  thee  glanced  over, 
Every  inmost  thought  could  show ! 

Then  thou  would'st  at  last  discover 
'Twas  not  well  to  spurn  it  so. 


1  [It  was  about  the  middle  of  April  that  his  two 
celebrated  copies  of  verses,  "  Fare  thee  well,"  and 
"  A  Sketch,"  made  their  appearance  in  the  news- 
papers; and  while  the  latter  poem  was  generally, 
and.  >t  must  be  owned,  justly  condemned,  as  a  sort 
af  lite»«ry  assault  on  an  obscure  'emale,  whose  situ- 


Though  the  world  for  this  commend  thee- 
Though  it  smile  upon  the  blow, 

Even  its  praises  must  offend  thee, 
Founded  on  another's  woe : 

Though  my  many  faults  defaced  me, 
Could  no  other  arm  be  found, 

Than  the  one  which  once  embraced  me, 
To  inflict  a  cureless  wound  ? 


ation  ought  to  have  placed  her  as  much  beneath 
his  satire,  as  the  undignified  mode  of  his  attack  cer- 
tainly raised  her  above  it,  with  regard  to  the  other 
poem,  opinions  were  a  good  deal  more  divided.  To 
many  it  appeared  a  strain  of  true  conjugal  tender- 
ness, —  a  kind  of  appeal  which  no  woman  with  a 
heart  could  resist;  while,  by  others,  on  the  contrary, 
it  was  considered  to  be  a  mere  showy  effusion  of 
sentiment,  as  difficult  for  real  feeling  to  have  pro- 
duced as  it  was  easy  for  fancy  and  art,  and  alto- 
gether unworthy  of  the  deep  interests  involved  in 
the  subject.  To  this  latter  opinion  I  confess  ray 
own  to  have,  at  first,  strongly  inclined,  and  suspi- 
cious as  I  could  not  help  thinking  the  sentiment 
that  could,  at  such  a  moment,  indulge  in  such 
verses,  the  taste  that  prompted  or  sanctioned  their 
publication  appeared  to  me  even  still  more  question- 
able. On  reading,  however,  his  own  account  of  all 
the  circumstances  in  the  Memoranda,  I  found  that 
on  both  points  I  had,  in  common  with  a  large  por- 
tion of  the  public,  done  him  injustice.  He  there 
described,  and  in  a  manner  whose  sincerity  there 
was  no  doubting,  the  swell  of  tender  recollections 
under  the  influence  of  which,  as  he  sat  one  night 
musing  in  his  study,  these  stanzas  were  produced, 
—  the  tears,  as  he  said,  falling  fast  over  the  paper 
as  he  wrote  them.  Neither  did  it  appear  from  that 
account,  to  have  been  from  any  wish  or  intention  of 
his  own,  but  through  the  injudicious  zeal  of  a  friend 
whom  he  had  suffered  to  take  a  copy,  that  the 
verses  met  the  public  eye.  — Moore.~\ 


162 


DOMESTIC  PIECES. 


Yet,  oh  yet,  thyself  deceive  not ; 

Love  may  sink  by  slow  decay, 
But  by  sudden  wrench,  believe  not 

Hearts  can  thus  be  torn  away : 

Still  thine  own  its  life  retaineth  — 

Still  must  mine,  though  bleeding,  beat; 

And  the  undying  thought  which  paineth 
Is  —  that  we  no  more  may  meet. 

These  are  words  of  deeper  sorrow 
Than  the  wail  above  the  dead ; 

Both  shall  live,  but  every  morrow 
Wake  us  from  a  widowed  bed. 

And  when  thou  would  solace  gather, 
When  our  child's  first  accents  flow. 

Wilt  thou  teach  her  to  say  "  Father! " 
Though  his  care  she  must  forego  ? 

When  her  little  hands  shall  press  thee, 
When  her  lip  to  thine  is  pressed, 

Think  of  him  whose  prayer  shall  bless  thee, 
Think  of  him  thy  love  had  blessed  ! 

Should  her  lineaments  resemble 
Those  thou  never  more  may'st  see, 

Then  thy  heart  will  softly  tremble 
With  a  pulse  yet  true  to  me. 

All  my  faults  perchance  thou  knowest, 
All  my  madness  none  can  know ; 

All  my  hopes,  where'er  thou  goest, 
Wither,  yet  with  thee  they  go. 

Every  feeling  hath  been  shaken  ; 

Pride,  which  not  a  world  could  bow, 
Bows  to  thee  —  by  thee  forsaken, 

Even  my  soul  forsakes  me  now : 

But  'tis  done  —  all  words  are  idle  — 
Words  from  me  are  vainer  still ; 

But  the  thoughts  we  cannot  bridle 
Force  their  way  without  the  will. — 

Fare  thee  well !  —  thus  disunited, 

Torn  from  every  nearer  tie, 
Seared  in  heart,  and  lone,  and  blighted, 

More  than  this  I  scarce  can  die. 

March  17,  1816. 


A  SKETCH.l 

"  Honest  —  honest  Iago ! 
If  that  thou  be'st  a  devil,  I  cannot  kill  thee." 

Shakspeare. 

Born  in  the  garret,  in  the  kitchen  bred, 
Promoted  thence  to  deck  her  mistress'  head ; 
Next — for  somegracious  service  unexpressed, 


1  ["  I  send  you  my  last  night's  dream,  and  re- 
quest to  have  fifty  copies  struck  off,  for  private  dis- 
tribution. I  wish  Mr.  Gifford  to  look  at  them. 
They  are  from  life."  —  Byron  to  Mr.  Murray, 
March  30,  1816.] 


And  from  its  wages  only  to  be  guessed  — 
Raised  from  the  toilet  to  the  table,  — where 
Her  wondering  betters  wait  behind  her  chair. 
With  eye  unmoved,  and  forehead  unabashed. 
She   dines   from    off   the    plate    she    lately 

washed. 
Quick  with  the  tale,  and  ready  with  the  lie  — 
The  genial  confidante,  and  general  spy  — 
Who  could,  ye  gods !  her  next  employment 

guess  — 
An  only  infant's  earliest  governess ! 
She  taught  the  child  to  read,  and  taught  so 

well, 
That  she  herself,  by  teaching,  learned  to  spell. 
An  adept  next  in  penmanship  she  grows, 
As  many  a  nameless  slander  deftly  shows: 
What  she  had  made  the  pupil  of  her  art, 
None  know  —  but  that  high  Soul  secured  the 

heart, 
And  panted  for  the  truth  it  could  not  hear, 
With  longing  breast  and  undeluded  ear. 
Foiled  was  perversion  by  that  youthful  mind, 
Which  Flattery  fooled  not  —  Baseness  could 

not  blind, 
Deceit  infect  not  —  near  Contagion  soil  — 
Indulgence  weaken  —  nor  Example  spoil  — 
Nor  mastered  Science  tempt  her  to  look  down 
On  humbler  talents  with  a  pitying  frown  — 
Nor  Genius  swell  —  nor  Beauty  render  vain  — 
Nor  Envy  ruffle  to  retaliate  pain  — 
Nor    Fortune    change — Pride    raise  —  nor 

Passion^sow, 
Nor  Virtue  teach  austerity  —  till  now. 
Serenely  purest  of  her  sex  that  live, 
But  wanting  one  sweet  weakness —  to  forgive, 
Too  shocked  at   faults   her  soul   can  never 

know, 
She  deems  that  all  could  be  like  her  below  : 
Foe  to  all  vice,  yet  hardly  Virtue's  friend, 
For  Virtue  pardons  those  she  would  amend. 

But  to  the  theme  :  —  now  laid  aside  too  long 
The  baleful  burden  of  this  honest  song  — 
Though  all  her  former  functions  are  no  more, 
She  rules  the  circie  which  she  served  before. 
If  mothers  —  none   know  why  —  before   her 

quake ; 
If  daughters  dread  her  for  the  mothers'  sake  ; 
If  early  habits  —  those  false  links,  which  bind 
At  times  the  loftiest  to  the  meanest  mind  — 
Have  given  her  power  too  deeply  to  instil 
The  angry  essence  of  her  deadly  will ; 
If  like  a  snake  she  steal  within  your  v/alls, 
Till  the  black  slime  betray  her  as  she  crawls  ; 
If  like  a  viper  to  the  heart  she  wind, 
And  leave  the  venom  there  she  did  not  find  : 
What  marvel  that  this  hag  of  hatred  works 
Eternal  evil  latent  as  she  lurks, 
To  make  a  Pandemonium  where  she  dwells. 
And  reign  the  Hecate  of  domestic  hells  ? 
Skilled  by  a  touch  to  deepen  scandal's  time 
With  all  the  kind  mendacity  of  hints. 


DOMESTIC  PIECES. 


163 


While  mingling  truth  with  falsehood  —  sneers 

with  smiles  — 
A  thread  of  candor  with  a  web  of  wiles ; 
A  plain  blunt  show  of  briefly-spoken  seeming, 
To  hide  her  bloodless  heart's  soul-hardened 

scheming ; 
A  lip  of  lies  —  a  face  formed  to  conceal ; 
And,  without  feeling,  mock  at  all  who  feel : 
With  a  vile  mask  the  Gorgon  would  disown ; 
A  cheek  of  parchment  —  and  an  eye  of  stone. 
Mark,  how  the  channels  of  her  yellow  blood 
Ooze  to  her  skin,  and  stagnate  there  to  mud, 
Cased  like  the  centipede  in  saffron  mail, 
Or  darker  greenness  of  the  scorpion's  scale  — 
(For  drawn  from  reptiles  only  may  we  trace 
Congenial  colors  in  that  soul  or  face)  — 
Look  on  her  features  !  and  behold  her  mind 
As  in  a  mirror  of  itself  defined  : 
Look    on   the   picture !    deem     it   not    o'er- 

charged  — 
There  is  no  trait  which  might  not  be  enlarged, 
Yet  true  to  "  Nature's  journeymen,"  who  made 
This   monster  when    their   mistress    left   off 

trade  — 
This  female  dog-star  of  her  little  sky, 
Where  all  beneath  her  influence  droop  or  die. 

Oh !     wretch    without     a    tear  —  without    a 

thought, 
Save  joy  above  the  ruin  thou  hast  wrought  — 
The  time  shall  come,  nor  long  remote,  when 

thou 
Shalt  feel  far  more  than  thou  inflictest  now ; 
Feel  for  thy  vile  self-loving  self  in  vain, 
And  turn  thee  howling  in  unpitied  pain. 
May  the  strong  curse  of  crushed  affections 

light 
Back  on  thy  bosom  with  reflected  blight ! 
And  make  thee  in  thy  leprosy  of  mind 
As  loathsome  to  thyself  as  to  mankind  ! 
Till  all  thy  self-thoughts  curdle  into  hate, 
Black  —  as  thy  will  for  others  would  create  : 
Till  thy  hard  heart  be  calcined  into  dust, 
And  thy  soul  welter  in  its  hideous  crust. 
Oh,  may  thy  grave  be  sleepless  as  the  bed,  — 
The  widowed  couch  of  fire,  that  thou  hast 

spread ! 
Then,  when  thou  fain  wouldst  weary  Heaven 

with  prayer, 
Look  on  thine  earthly  victims — and  despair! 
Down  to  the  dust !  — and  as  thou  rott'st  away, 
Even  worms  shall  perish  on  thy  poisonous 

clay. 
But  for  the  love  I  bore,  and  still  must  bear, 
To  her  thy  malice  from  all  ties  would  tear  — 
Thy  name  —  thy  human  name  —  to  every  eye 
The  climax  of  all  scorn  should  hang  on  high, 
Exalted  o'er  thy  less  abhorred  compeers  — 
And  festering  l  in  the  infamy  of  years. 

March  29,  1816. 


1  [In   first   draught — "weltering."  —  "  I  doubt 


STANZAS   TO  AUGUSTA.2 
I. 
When  all  around  grew  drear  and  dark, 

And  reason  half  withheld  her  ray  — 
And  hope  but  shed  a  dying  spark 
Which  more  misled  my  lonely  way ; 

II. 

In  that  deep  midnight  of  the  mind, 
And  that  internal  strife  of  heart, 

When  dreading  to  be  deemed  too  kind, 
The  weak  despair — the  cold  depart; 

III. 
When  fortune  changed  —  and  love  fled  far, 

And  hatred's  shafts  flew  thick  and  fast, 
Thou  wert  the  solitary  star 

Which  rose  and  set  not  to  the  last. 


Oh  !  blest  be  thine  unbroken  light! 

That  watched  me  as  a  seraph's  eye. 
And  stood  between  me  and  the  night, 

For  ever  shining  sweetly  nigh. 


And  when  the  cloud  upon  us  came, 

Which  strove  to  blacken  o'er  thy  ray  — 

Then  purer  spread  its  gentle  flame, 
And  dashed  the  darkness  all  away. 

VI. 

Still  may  thy  spirit  dwell  on  mine, 

And  teach  it  what  to  brave  or  brook  — 

There's  more  in  one  soft  word  of  thine 
Than  in  the  world's  defied  rebuke. 

VII. 
Thou  stood'st,  as  stands  a  lovely  tree, 

That  still  unbroke,  though  gently  bent, 
Still  waves  with  fond  fidelity 

Its  boughs  above  a  monument. 

VIII. 

The  winds  might  rend  —  the  skies  might  pour, 
But  there  thou  wert  — and  still  would'st  be 

Devoted  in  the  stormiest  hour 

To  shed  thy  weeping  leaves  o'er  me. 

about  'weltering.'  We  say  'weltering  in  blood;' 
but  do  not  they  also  use  '  weltering  in  the  wind,' 
'  weltering  on  a  gibbet? '  I  have  no  dictionary,  so 
look.  In  the  mean  time,  I  have  put  '  festering; : 
which  perhaps,  in  any  case,  is  the  best  word  of  the 
two.  Shakspeare  has  it  often,  and  I  do  not  think 
it  too  strong  for  the  figure  in  this  thing.  Quick! 
quick  !  quick  !  quick  !  "  —  Byron  to  Mr.  Murray, 
April  2,  1816.] 

2  [His  sister,  the  Honorable  Mrs.  Leigh. — 
These  stanzas  —  the  parting  tribute  to  her,  whose 
tenderness  had  been  his  sole  consolation  during  the 
crisis  of  domestic  misery  —  were  the  last  verses 
written  by  Byron  in  England.] 


164 


DOMESTIC  PIECES. 


IX. 

But  thou  and  thine  shall  know  no  blight, 
Whatever  fate  on  me  may  fall ; 

For  heaven  in  sunshine  will  requite 
The  kind  —  and  thee  the  most  of  all. 

X. 

Then  let  the  ties  of  baffled  love 

Be  broken  —  thine  will  never  break  ; 

Thy  heart  can  feel  —  but  will  not  move ; 
Thy  soul,  though  soft,  will  never  shake. 

XI. 
And  these,  when  all  was  lost  beside. 

Were  found  and  still  are  fixed  in  thee  ;  - 
And  bearing  still  a  breast  so  tried, 

Earth  is  no  desert  —  even  to  me. 


STANZAS   TO   AUGUSTAS 
I. 

THOUGH  the  day  of  my  destiny's  over, 

And  the  star  of  my  fate  hath  declined,2 
Thy  soft  heart  refused  to  discover 

The  faults  which  so  many  could  find  ; 
Though  thy  soul  with  my  grief  was  acquainted, 

It  shrunk  not  to  share  it  with  me, 
And  the  love  which  my  spirit  hath  painted 

It  never  hath  found  but  in  thee. 

II. 
Then  when  nature  around  me  is  smiling, 

The  last  smile  which  answers  to  mine, 
I  do  not  believe  it  beguiling, 

Because  it  reminds  me  of  thine ; 
And  when  winds  are  at  war  with  the  ocean, 

As  the  breasts  I  believed  in  with  me, 
If  their  billows  excite  an  emotion, 

It  is  that  they  bear  me  from  thee. 

III. 
Though  the  rock  of  my  last  hope  is  shivered, 

And  its  fragments  are  sunk  in  the  wave, 
Though  I  feel  that  my  soul  is  delivered 

To  pain  ■ —  it  shall  not  be  its  slave. 
There  is  many  a  pang  to  pursue  me  : 

They  may  crush,  but   they  shall   not  con- 
temn — 
They  may  torture,  but  shall  not  subdue  me  — 

'Tis  of  thee  that  I  think  —  not  of  them.3 


1  [These  beautiful  verses,  so  expressive  of  the 
writer's  wounded  feelings  at  the  moment,  were 
written  in  July,  at  the  Campagne  Diodati,  near 
Geneva.  "  Be  careful,"  he  says,  "  in  printing  the 
stanzas  beginning, '  Though  the  day  of  my  destiny's,' 
etc.,  which  I  think  well  of  as  a  composition."] 

2  [In  the  original  MS. — 

"  Though  the  days  of  my  glory  are  over, 
And  the  sun  of  my  fame  hath  declined."] 

3  [Originally  thus:  — 

"  There  is  many  a  pang  to  pursue  me, 
And  many  a  peril  to  stem: 


Though  human,  thou  did'st  not  deceive  r.ie, 

Though  woman,  thou  did'st  not  forsake. 
Though  loved,  thou  forborest  to  grieve  me. 

Though    slandered,    thou    never    couicis. 
shake,  — 
Though  trusted,  thou  didst  not  disclaim  me, 

Though  parted,  it  was  not  to  fly, 
Though  watchful,  'twas  not  to  defame  me, 

Nor,  mute,  that  the  world  might  belie.4 


Yet  I  blame  not  the  world,  nor  despise  it, 

Nor  the  war  of  the  many  with  one  — 
If  my  soul  was  not  fitted  to  prize  it, 

Twas  folly  not  sooner  to  shun  : 
And  if  dearly  that  error  hath  cost  me. 

And  more  than  I  once  could  foresee, 
I  have  found  that,  whatever  it  lost  me, 

It  could  not  deprive  me  of  thee. 


From  the  wreck  of  the  past,  which  hath  per- 
ished, 

Thus  much  I  at  least  may  recall, 
It  hath  taught  me  that  what  I  most  cherished 

Deserved  to  be  dearest  of  all : 
In  the  desert  a  fountain  is  springing, 

In  the  wide  waste  there  still  is  a  tree, 
And  a  bird  in  the  solitude  singing, 

Which  speaks  to  my  spirit  of  thee. 

July  24,  1816. 


EPISTLE  TO  AUGUSTA.5 
I. 
MY  sister!  my  sweet  sister!  if  a  name 
Dearer  and  purer  were,  it  should  be  thine. 
Mountains  and  seas  divide  us,  but  I  claim 
No  tears,  but  tenderness  to  answer  mine  : 
Go  where  I  will,  to  me  thou  art  the  same  — 
A  loved  regret  which  I  would  not  resign. 
There  yet  are  two  things  in  my  destiny, — 
A  world  to  roam  through,  and  a  home  with 
thee. 

II. 
The  first  were  nothing — had  I  still  the  last, 
It  were  the  haven  of  my  happiness  ; 


They  may  torture,  but  shall  not  subdue  me; 

They  may  crush,  but  they  shall  not  contemn."] 
*  [MS.— 
"  Though  watchful,  'twas  but  to  reclaim  me, 

Nor,  silent,  to  sanction  a  lie."] 
6  [These  stanzas  —  "Than  which,"  says  the 
Quarterly  Review,  for  January,  1831,  "there  is, 
perhaps,  nothing  more  mournfully  and  desolately 
beautiful  in  the  whole  range  of  Lord  Byron's  poe- 
try " —  were  also  written  at  Diodati;  and  sent  home 
at  the  time  for  publication,  if  Mrs.  Leigh  -hould 
sanction  it.  She  decided  against  it,  and  the  Epistle 
was  not  published  till  1830.] 


DOMESTIC  PIECES. 


1G5 


But  other  claims  and  othei  ties  thou  hast, 
And  mine  is  not  the  wish  to  make  them  less. 
A  strange  doom  is  thy  father's  son's,  and 

past 
Recalling,  as  it  lies  beyond  redress ; 
Reversed  for  him  our  grandsire's  *  fate  of 

yore, — 
He  had  no  rest  at  sea,  nor  I  on  shore. 

in.  / 

If  my  inheritance  of  storms  hath  been 
In  other  elements,  and  on  the  rocks 
Of  perils,  overlooked  or  unforeseen, 
I  have  sustained  ray  share  of  worldly  shocks, 
The  fault  was  mine  ;  nor  do  I  seek  to  screen 
My  errors  with  defensive  paradox ; 
I  have  been  cunning  in  mine  overthrow, 
The  careful  pilot  of  my  proper  woe. 

IV.  S 

Mine  were  my  faults,  and  mine  be  their  re- 
ward. 
My  whole  life  was  a  contest,  since  the  day 
That  gave  me  being,  gave  me  that  which 

marred 
The  gift,  —  a  fate,  or  will,  that  walked  astray ; 
And  I  at  times  have  found  the  struggle  hard, 
And  thought  of  shaking  off  my  bonds  of  clay  : 
But  now  I  fain  would  for  a  time  survive, 
If  but  to  see  what  next  can  well  arrive. 


Kingdoms  and  empires  in  my  little  day 
I  have  outlived,  and  yet  I  am  not  old ; 
And  when  I  look  on  this,  the  petty  spray 
Of  my  own   years  of  trouble,  which  have 

rolled 
Like  a  wild  bay  of  breakers,  melts  away : 
Something  —  I  know  not  what — does  still 

uphold 
A  spirit  of  slight  patience ;  — not  in  vain, 
Even  for  its  own  sake,  do  we  purchase  pain. 

VI. 
Perhaps  the  workings  of  defiance  stir 
Within  me,  —  or  perhaps  a  cold  despair, 
Brought  on  when  ills  habitually  recur,  — 
Perhaps  a  kinder  clime,  or  purer  air, 
(For  even  to  this  may  change  of  soul  refer, 
And  with  light  armor  we  may  learn  to  bear,) 
Have  taught  me  a  strange  quiet,  which  was 
not 
The  chief  companion  of  a  calmer  lot. 


1  [Admiral  Byron  was  remarkable  for  never  mak- 
ing a  voyage  without  a  tempest.  He  was  known 
to  the  sailors  by  the  facetious  name  of  "  Foul- 
veather  Jack." 

"  But,  though  it  were  tempest-tossed, 
Still  his  bark  could  not  be  lost." 
He  returned  safely  from  the  wreck  of  the  Wager  (in 
Anson's   voyage),    and    subsequently    circumnavi- 
gated the  world,  many  years  after,  as  commander 
ol  a  similar  expedition.] 


VII. 
I  feel  almost  at  times  as  I  have  felt 
In   happy  childhood;    trees,  and   flowers, 

and  brooks, 
Which  do  remember  me  of  where  I  dwelt 
Ere  my  young  mind  was  sacrificed  to  books, 
Come  as  of  yore  upon  me,  and  can  melt 
My  heart  with  recognition  of  their  looks ; 
And  even  at  moments  I  could  think  I  see 
Some  living  thing  to  love  —  but  none  like  thee 


Here  are  the  Alpine  landscapes  which  create 
A  fund  for  contemplation  ;  — -to  admire 
Is  a  brief  feeling  of  a  trivial  date ; 
But    something  worthier  do   such   scenes 

inspire : 
Here  to  be  lonely  is  not  desolate, 
For  much  I  view  which  I  could  most  desire, 
And,  above  all,  a  lake  I  can  behold 
Lovelier,  not  dearer,  than  our  own  of  old. 


Oh  that  thou  wert  but  with  me  !  — but  I  grow 
The  fool  of  my  own  wishes,  and  forget 
The  solitude  which  I  have  vaunted  so 
Has  lost  its  praise  in  this  but  one  regret ; 
There   may  be   others   which    I    less   ma» 

show ;  — 
I  am  not  of  the  plaintive  mood,  and  yet 
I  feel  an  ebb  in  my  philosophy, 
And  the  tide  rising  in  my  altered  eye. 

X. 

I  did  remind  thee  of  our  own  dear  Lake,2 
By  the  old  Hall  which  may  be  mine  no  more. 
Leman's  is  fair;  but  think  not  I  forsake 
The  sweet  remembrance  of  a  dearer  shore  : 
Sad  havoc   Time   must  with  my  memory 

make 
Ere  that  or  thou  can  fade  these  eyes  before; 
Though,  like  all  things  which  I  have  loved, 

they  are 
Resigned  for  ever,  or  divided  far. 

XI. 
The  world  is  all  before  me ;  I  but  ask 
Of  Nature  that  with  which  she  will  comply -= 
It  is  but  in  her  summer's  sun  to  bask, 
To  mingle  with  the  quiet  of  her  sky, 
To  see  her  gentle  face  without  a  mask, 
And  never  gaze  on  it  with  apathy. 
She  was  my  early  friend,  and  now  shall  be 
My  sister  —  till  I  look  again  on  thee. 


I  can  reduce  all  feelings  but  this  one ; 
And  that  I  would  not; — for  at  length  I  see 
Such  scenes  as  those  wherein  my  life  besrun. 


2  [The  Lake  of  Newstead  Abbey  which  he  has 
described  minutely  in  the  Thirteenth  Canto  of  Don 
Juan.] 


166 


DOMESTIC  PIECES. 


V 


The  earliest  —  even  the  only  paths  for  me  — 
Had  I  but  sooner  learnt  the  crowd  to  shun, 
I  had  been  better  than  I  now  can  be ; 
The   passions  which   have  torn  me  would 
have  slept ; 
'  had  not  suffered,  and  thou  hadst  not  wept. 

XIII. 

With  false  Ambition  what  had  I  to  do  ? 
Little  with  Love,  and  least  of  all  with  Fame  : 
And  yet  they  came  unsought,  and  with  me 

grew, 
And  made  me  all  which  they  can  make  — 

a  name. 
Yet  this  was  not  the  end  I  did  pursue; 
Surely  I  once  beheld  a  nobler  aim. 
But  all  is  over  —  I  am  one  the  more 
To  baffled  millions  which  have  gone  before. 

XIV. 

And  for  the  future,  this  world's  future  may 
From  me  demand  but  little  of  my  care  ; 
I  have  outlived  myself  by  many  a  day ; 
Having  survived  so  many  things  that  were ; 
My  years   have  been  no  slumber,  but  the 

prey 
Of  ceaseless  vigils  ;  for  I  had  the  share 
Of  life  which  might  have  filled  a  century, 
Before  its  fourth  in  time  had  passed  me  by. 

xv. 

And  for  the  remnant  which  may  be  to  come 
I  am  content ;  and  for  the  past  I  feel 
Not  thankless, — for  within  the  crowded  sum 
Of  struggles,  happiness  at  times  would  steal, 
And  for  the  present,  I  would  not  benumb 
My  feelings  further.  —  Nor  shall  I  conceal 
That  with  all  this  I  still  can  look  around 
And  worship  Nature  with  a  thought  profound. 

XVI. 

For  thee,  my  own  sweet  sister,  in  thy  heart 
I  know  myself  secure,  as  thou  in  mine ; 
We  were  and  are  —  I  am,  even  as  thou  art  — 
Beings  who  ne'er  each  other  can  resign ; 
It  is  the  same,  together  or  apart, 
From  life's  commencement  to  its  slow  de- 
cline 
We  are  entwined  —  let  death  come  slow  or 
fast, 
The  tie  which  bound  the  first  endures  the  last ! 


LINES 

ON  HEARING  THAT  LADY  BYRON  WAS  ILL. 

And  thou  wert  sad  —  yet  I  was  not  with  thee ; 

And  thou  wert  sick,  and  yet  I  was  not  near ; 

Methought  that  joy  and  health  alone  could  be 


Where  I  was  not  —  and  pain  and  sorrow 
here ! 
And  is  it  thus  ?  — it  is  as  I  foretold, 

And  shall  be  more  so ;  for  the  mind  recoils 
Upon  itself,  and  the  wrecked  heart  lies  cold, 

While  heaviness  collects  the  shattered  spoils. 
It  is  not  in  the  storm  nor  in  the  strife 

We  feel  benumbed,  and  wish  to  be  no  more, 

But  in  the  after-silence  on  the  shore, 
When  all  is  lost,  except  a  little  life. 

I  am  too  well  avenged  !  —  but  'twas  my  right ; 
Whate'er  my  sins  might  be,  thou  wert  not 
sent 
To  be  the  Nemesis  who  should  requite  — 
Nor  did  Heaven  choose  so  near  an  instru- 
ment. 
Mercy  is  for  the  merciful !  —  if  thou 
Hast  been  of  such,  'twill  be  accorded  now. 
Thy  nights  are  banished  from  the  realms  01 
sleep !  — 
Yes!  they  may  flatter  thee,  but  thou  shalt 

feel 
A  hollow  agony  which  will  not  heal, 
For  thou  art  pillowed  on  a  curse  too  deep; 
Thou  hast  sown  in  my  sorrow,  and  must  reap 

The  bitter  harvest  in  a  woe  as  real ! 
I  have  had  many  foes,  but  none  like  thee; 
For  'gainst  the  rest  myself  I  could  defend, 
And  be  avenged,  or  turn  them  into  friend ; 
But  thou  in  safe  implacability 
Hadst  nought  to  dread  —  in  thy  own  weakness 

shielded,* 
And  in  my  love,  which  hath   but  too  much 
yielded, 
And  spared,  for  thy  sake,  some  I  should 
not  spare  — 
And  thus  upon  the  world  —  trust  in  thy  truth  — 
And  the  wild  fame  of  my  ungoverned  youth  — 
On  things  that  were  not,  and  on  things  that 
are  — 
Even  upon  such  a  basis  hast  thou  built 
A  monument,  whose  cement  hath  been  guilt ! 

The  moral  Clytemnestra  of  thy  lord. 

And  hewed  down,  with  an  unsuspected  sword. 

Fame,  peace,  and  hope  —  and  all  the  better 

life 

Which,  but  for  this  cold  treason  of  thy  heart, 

Might  still  have  risen  from  out  the  grave  of 

strife, 
And  found  a  nobler  duty  than  to  part. 
But  of  thy  virtues  didst  thou  make  a  vice, 
Trafficking  with  them  in  a  purpose  cold, 
For  present  anger,  and  for  future  gold  — 
And  buying  other's  grief  at  any  price. 
And  thus  once  entered  into  crooked  ways, 
The  early  truth,  which  was  thy  proper  praise, 
Did  not  still  walk  beside  thee  — but  at  times, 
And  with  a  breast  unknowing  its  own  crimes,  ' 
Deceit,  averments  incompatible, 
Equivocations,  and  the  thoughts  which  dwell 
In  Janus-spirits  —  the  significant  eye 


MONODY  ON   THE  DEATH  OF  SHERIDAN. 


167 


Which  learns  to  lie  with  silence — the  pretext 
Of  Prudence,  with  advantages  annexed  — 
The  acquiescence  in  all  things  which  tend, 
No  matter  how,  to  the  desired  end  — 


All  found  a  place  in  thy  philosophy. 
The  means  were  worthy,  and  the  end  is  won  — 
I  would  not  do  by  thee  as  thou  hast  done ! 
September,  1816. 


MONODY    ON    THE    DEATH    OF    THE   RIGHT    HON 
R.  B.  SHERIDAN, 

SPOKEN   AT  DRURY-LANE  THEATRE. 


[Mr.  Sheridan  died  the  7th  of  July,  1816,  and  this  monody  was  written  at  Diodati  on  the  17th,  at  the 
request  of  Mr.  Douglas  Kinnaird.  "  I  did  as  well  as  I  could,"  says  Byron,  "  but  where  I  have  not  mv 
choice,  I  pretend  to  answer  for  nothing."  He  told  Lady  Blessington,  however,  that  his  feelings  were 
never  more  excited  than  while  writing  it,  and  that  every  word  came  direct  from  his  heart.] 


WHEN  the  last  sunshine  of  expiring  day 
In  summer's  twilight  weeps  itself  away, 
Who  hath  not  felt  the  softness  of  the  hour 
Sink  on  the  heart,  as  dew  along  the  flower  ? 
With  a  pure  feeling  which  absorbs  and  awes 
While  Nature  makes  that  melancholy  pause, 
Her  breathing  moment  on  the  bridge  where 

Time 
Of  light  and  darkness  forms  an  arch  sublime, 
Who  hath  not  shared  that  calm  so  still  and 

deep, 
The  voiceless  thought  which  would  not  speak 

but  weep, 
A  holy  concord  —  and  a  bright  regret, 
A  glorious  sympathy  with  suns  that  set  ? 
'Tis  not  harsh  sorrow  —  but  a  tenderer  woe, 
Nameless,  but  dear  to  gentle  hearts  below, 
Felt  without  bitterness  —  but  full  and  clear, 
A  sweet  dejection  —  a  transparent  tear, 
Unmixed  with  worldly  grief  or  selfish  stain, 
Shed  without  shame  —  and  secret  without  pain. 

Even  as  the  tenderness  that  hour  instils 
When  Summer's  day  declines  along  the  hills, 
So  feels  the  fulness  of  our  heart  and  eyes 
When  all  of  Genius  which  can  perish  dies. 
A  mighty  Spirit  is  eclipsed  —  a  Power 
Hath  passed  from  day  to  darkness  —  to  whose 

hour 
Of  light  no  likeness  is  bequeathed  —  no  name, 
Focus  at  once  of  all  the  rays  of  Fame ! 


The  flash  of  Wit  —  the  bright  Intelligence, 
The  beam  of  Song  —  the  blaze  of  Eloquence, 
Set  with  their  Sun  —  but  still  have  left  behind 
The  enduring  produce  of  immortal  Mind  ; 
Fruits  of  a  genial  morn,  and  glorious  noon, 
A  deathless  part  of  him  who  died  too  soon. 
But  small  that  portion  of  the  wondrous  whole, 
These  sparkling  segments  of  that  circling  soul, 
Which  all  embraced  —  and  lightened  overall, 
To  cheer — to  pierce  —  to  please  —  or  to  ap- 
pall. 
From  the  charmed  council  to  the  festive  board, 
Of  human  feelings  the  unbounded  lord ; 
In  whose  acclaim  the  loftiest  voices  vied, 
The   praised  —  the   proud  —  who   made   his 

praise  their  pride. 
When  the  loud  cry  of  trampled  Hindostan  l 


1  [See  Fox,  Burkt,  and  Pitt's  eulogy  on  Mr 
Sheridan's  speech  on  the  charges  exhibited  against 
Mr.  Hastings  in  the  House  of  Commons.  Mr.  Pitt 
entreated  the  House  to  adjourn,  to  give  time  for  a 
calmer  consideration  of  the  question  than  could 
then  occur  after  the  immediate  effect  of  the  oration. 
—  "  Before  my  departure  from  England,"  says  Gib- 
bon, "  I  was  present  at  the  august  spectacle  of  Mr. 
Hastings's  trial  in  Westminster  Hall.  It  is  not  my 
province  to  absolve  or  condemn  the  governor  of 
India;  but  Mr.  Sheridan's  eloquence  demanded  my 
applause;  nor  could  I  hear  without  emotion  the 
personal  compliment  which  he  paid  me  in  the  pres- 
ence of  the  British  nation.  This  display  of  genius 
blazed  four  successive  days,"  etc.     On  being  asked 


168 


MONODY  ON   THE   DEATH  OF  SHERIDAN. 


Aros.^  to  Heaven  in  her  appeal  from  man, 
His  was  the  thunder — his  the  avenging  rod, 
The  wrath  —  the  delegated  voice  of  God  ! 
Which  shook  the  nations  through  his  lips  — 

and  blazed 
Till    vanquished    senates    trembled  as   they 

praised.1 

And  here,  oh  !  here,  where  yet  all  young  and 

warm 
The  gay  creations  of  his  spirit  charm, 
The  matchless  dialogue  —  the  deathless  wit, 
Which  knew  not  what  it  was  to  intermit; 
The  glowing  portraits,  fresh  from  life,  that  bring 
Home  to  our  hearts  the  truth  from  which  they 

spring; 
These  wondrous  beings  of  his  Fancy,  wrought 
To  fulness  by  the  fiat  of  his  thought, 
Here  in  their  first  abode  you  still  may  meet, 
Bright  with  the  hues  of  his  Promethean  heat ; 
A  halo  of  the  light  of  other  days, 
Which  still  the  splendor  of  its  orb  betrays. 
But  should  there  be  to  whom  the  fatal  blight 
Of  failing  Wisdom  yields  a  base  delight, 
Men  who  exult  when  minds  of  heavenly  tone 
Jar  in  the  music  which  was  born  their  own, 
Still  let  them  pause  —  ah  !  little  do  they  know 
That  what  to  them  seemed  Vice  might  be  but 

Woe. 
Hard  is  his  fate  on  whom  the  public  gaze 
Is  fixed  for  ever  to  detract  or  praise ; 
Repose  denies  her  requiem  to  his  name, 
And  Folly  loves  the  martyrdom  of  Fame. 
The  secret  enemy  whose  sleepless  eye 
Stands  sentinel  —  accuser — judge  —  and  spy. 
The   foe  —  the   fool  —  the  jealous  —  and  the 

vain, 
The  envious  who  but  breathe  in  others'  pain, 
Behold  the  host !  delighting  to  deprave, 
Who  track  the  steps  of  Glory  to  the  grave, 
Watch  every  fault  that  daring  genius  owes 
Half  to  the  ardor  which  its  birth  bestows, 
Distort  the  truth,  accumulate  the  lie, 
And  pile  the  Pyramid  of  Calumny  ! 

These  are  his  portion  —  but  if  joined  to  these 
Gaunt  Poverty  should  league  with  deep  Dis- 
ease, 
If  the  high  Spirit  must  forget  to  soar, 
And  stoop  to  strive  with  Misery  at  the  door,2 


by  a  brother  Whig,  at  the  conclusion  of  the  speech, 
how  he  came  to  compliment  Gibbon  with  the  epi- 
thet "  luminous,"  Sheridan  answered,  in  a  half 
whisper,  "  I  said  '  voluminous. '"] 

1  ["  I  heard  Sheridan  only  once,  and  that  briefly; 
but  I  liked  his  voice,  his  manner,  and  his  wit.  He 
is  the  only  one  of  them  I  ever  wished  to  hear  at 
greater  length."  —  Byron's  Diary,  1821.] 

1  [This  was  not  fiction.  Only  a  few  days  before 
his  death,  Sheridan  wrote  thus  to  Mr.  Rogers:  — 
"  I  am  absolutely  undone  and  broken-hearted. 
They  are  going  to  put  the  carpets  out  of  window, 
and  break  into  Mrs.  S.'s  room  and  take  me:  150/. 
w.ll  remove  all  difficulty.     For  God's  sake  let  me 


To  soothe  Indignity —  and  face  to  face 
Meet  sorded  Rage  —  and  wrestle  with    Dis- 
grace, 
To  find  in  Hope  but  the  renewed  caress, 
The  serpent-fold  of  further  Faithlessness:  — 
If  such  may  be  the  Ills  which  men  assail, 
What  marvel  if  at  last  the  mightiest  fail  ? 
Breasts  to  whom  all  the  strength  of  feeling 

given 
Bear  hearts  electric  —  charged  with  fire  fron> 

Heaven, 
Black  with  the  rude  collision,  inly  torn, 
By   clouds  surrounded,   and   on  whirlwinds 

borne, 
Driven  o'er  the  lowering  atmosphere  that  nurst 
Thoughts  which  have  turned  to  thunder- 
scorch  —  and  burst.3 

But  far  from  us  and  from  our  mimic  scene 
Such  things  should  be  —  if  such  have  ever 

been; 
Ours  be  the  gentler  wish,  the  kinder  task, 
To  give  the  tribute  Glory  need  not  ask, 
To  mourn  the  vanished  beam  —  and  add  our 

mite 
Of  praise  in  payment  of  a  long  delight. 
Ye  Orators !  whom  yet  our  councils  yield, 
Mourn  for  the  veteran  Hero  of  your  field  ! 
The  worthy  rival  of  the  wondrous  Three /* 
Whose  words  were  sparks  of  Immortality! 
Ye  Bards !  to,  whom  the  Drama's  Muse  is  deav, 
He  was  your  Master—  emulate  him  here/ 
Ye  men  of  wit  and  social  eloquence  !  5 
He  was  your  brother — bear  his  ashes  hence! 
While  Powers  of  mind  almost  of  boundless 

range,6  , 


see  you!  "  Mr.  Moore  was  the  immediate  bearer 
of  the  required  sum.  This  was  written  on  the  15th 
of  May.  On  the  14th  of  July,  Sheridan's  remains 
were  deposited  in  Westminster  Abbey,  —  his  pall- 
bearers being  the  Duke  of  Bedford,  the  Earl  of 
Lauderdale,  Earl  Mulgrave,  the  Lord  Bishop  of 
London,  Lord  Holland,  and  Earl  Spencer. 

3  [In  the  original  MS. — 
"Abandoned  by  the  skies,  whose  beams  have  nurst 
Their  very  thunders  lighten  —  scorch  —  and  burst."] 

*  Fox  — Pitt  — Burke. 

c  ["  In  society  I  have  met  Sheridan  frequently. 
He  was  superb!  I  have  seen  him  cut  up  Whit- 
bread,  quiz  Madame  de  Stael,  annihilate  Colman, 
and  do  little  less  by  some  others  of  good  fame  and 
ability.  I  have  met  him  at  all  places  and  parties 
and  always  found  him  convivial  and  delightful."  — 
Byron's  Diary,  1821.] 

6  ["  The  other  night  we  were  all  delivering  our 
respective  and  various  opinions  upon  Sheridan,  and 
mine  was  this:  — '  Whatever  Sheridan  has  done  or 
chosen  to  do  has  been  par  excellence  always  the 
best  of  its  kind.  He  has  written  the  best  comedy 
(School  for  Scandal),  the  best  drama  (in  my  mind, 
far  beyond  that  St.  Giles's  lampoon,  the  Beggars' 
Opera),  the  best  farce  (the  Critic  —  it  is  only  too 
good  for  a  farce),  and  the  best  address  (Monologue 


THE  DREAM. 


169 


Complete  in  kind  —  as  various  in  their  change, 
While  Eloquence — Wit  —  Poesy  —  and  Mirth, 


on  Garrick)  and,  to  crown  all,  delivered  the  very 
best  oration  (the  famous  Begum  speech)  ever  con- 
ceived or  heard  in  this  country.'  "  —  Byron's  Diary, 
Dec.  17,  1813.] 


That  humbler  Harmonist  of  care  on  Earth, 
Survive  within  our  souls  —  while  lives  our  sense 
Of  pride  in  Merit's  proud  pre-eminence, 
Long  shall  we  seek  his  likeness  —  long  in  vain, 
And  turn  to  all  of  him  which  may  remain, 
Sighing  that  Nature  formed  but  one  such  man, 
And  broke  the  die  —  in  moulding  Sheridan! 


THE    DREAM. 


["  The  Dream  "  —  called  in  the  first  draught  "  The  Destiny  "  —  was  written  at  Diodati,  in  July,  1816, 
/•ad  reflects  the  train  of  thought  engendered  by  the  recent  quarrel  with  Lady  Byron.  The  misery  of  his 
marriage  led  him  to  revert  to  his  early  passion  for  Miss  Chaworth,  whose  union  had  proved  no  happier 
than  his  own.] 


I    Our  life  is  twofold  :  Sleep  hath  its  own  world, 
\  A  boundary  between  the  things  misnamed 
NJDeath  and  existence  :  Sleep  hath  its  own  world, 
)\nd  a  wide  realm  of  wild  reality, 
cAnd  dreams  in  their  development  have  breath, 
\And  tears,  and  tortures,  and  the  touch  of  joy ; 
/They  leave  a  weight  upon  our  waking  thoughts, 
I  They  take  a  weight  from  off  our  waking  toils, 
/  They  do  divide  our  being ;  they  become 
I  A  portion  of  ourselves  as  of  our  time, 
\&nd  look  like  heralds  of  eternity  ; 
They  pass  like  spirits  of  the  past,  —  they  speak 
Like  sibyls  of  the  future  ;  they  have  power  — 
The  tyranny  of  pleasure  and  of  pain  ; 
They  make  us  what  we  were  not  —  what  they 

will, 
And  shake  us  with  the  vision  that's  gone  by, 
The  dread  of  vanished  shadows  —  Are  they 

so  ? 
Is  not  the  past  all  shadow  ?     What  are  they  ? 
Creations  of  the  mind  ?  —  The  mind  can  make 
Substance,  and  people  planets  of  its  own 
With  beings  brighter  than  have  been,  and  give 
A  breath  to  forms  which  can  outlive  all  flesh. 
I  would  recall  a  vision  which  I  dreamed 
Perchance  in  sleep  —  for  in  itself  a  thought, 
A  slumbering  thought,  is  capable  of  years, 
And  curdles  a  long  life  into  one  hour. 

11. 

I  saw  two  beings  in  the  hues  of  youth 
Standing  upon  a  hill,  a  gentle  hill, 
Green  and  of  mild  declivity,  the  last 


As  'twere  the  cape  of  a  long  ridge  of  such, 
Save  that  there  was  no  sea  to  lave  its  base, 
But  a  most  living  landscape,  and  the  wave 
Of  woods  and  cornfields,  and  the  abodes  ot 

men 
Scattered  at  intervals,  and  wreathing  smoke 
Arising  from  such  rustic  roofs  ;  — the  hill 
Was  crowned  with  a  peculiar  diadem 
Of  trees,  in  circular  array,  so  fixed, 
Not  by  the  sport  of  nature,  but  of  man  : 
These  two,  a  maiden  and  a  youth,  were  there 
Gazing  —  the  one  on  all  that  was  beneath 
Fair  as  herself —  but  the  boy  gazed  on  her ; 
And  both  were  young,  and  one  was  beautiful : 
And  both  were  young —  yet  not  alike  in  youth. 
As  the  sweet  moon  on  the  horizon's  verge, 
The  maid  was  on  the  eve  of  womanhood ; 
The  boy  had  fewer  summers,  but  his  heart 
Had  far  outgrown  his  years,  and  to  his  eye 
There  was  but  one  beloved  face  on  earth, 
And  that  was  shining  on  him ;  he  had  looked 
Upon  it  till  it  could  not  pass  away; 
He  had  no  breath,  no  being,  but  in  hers ; 
She  was  his  voice ;  he  did  not  speak  to  her, 
But  trembled  on  her  words  ;  she  was  his  sight,! 
For  his  eye  followed  hers,  and  saw  with  hers, 
Which  colored  all  his  objects  :  —  he  had  ceased 
To  live  within  himself;  she  was  his  life, 
The  ocean  to  the  river  of  his  thoughts, 
Which  terminated  all :  upon  a  tone, 
A  touch  of  hers,  his  blood  would  ebb  and  flow, 


1  [MS. : —  "  she  was  his  sight, 

For  never  did  he  turn  his  glance  until 
Her  own  had  led  by  gazing  on  an  object  "] 


170 


THE  DREAM. 


And   his   cheek  change  tempestuously  —  his 

heart 
Unknowing  of  its  cause  of  agony. 
But  she  in  these  fond  feelings  had  no  share : 
Her  sighs  were  not  for  him  ;  to  her  he  was 
Even  as  a  brother  —  but  no  more ;  'twas  much, 
For  brotherless  she  was,  save  in  the  name 
Her  infant  friendship  had  bestowed  on  him  ; 
Herself  the  solitary  scion  left 
Of  a  time-honored  race.1  —  It  was  a  name 
Which  pleased  him,  and  yet  pleased  him  not  — 

and  why  ? 
Time  taught  him  a  deep  answer  —  when  she 

loved 
Another ;  even  now  she  loved  another, 
And  on  the  summit  of  that  hill  she  stood 
Looking  afar  if  yet  her  lover's  steed 
Kept  pace  with  her  expectancy,  and  flew. 

III. 
A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream. 
There  was  an  ancient  mansion,  and  before 
Its  walls  there  was  a  steed  caparisoned : 
Within  an  antique  Oratory  stood 
The  Boy  of  whom  I  spake  ;  —  he  was  alone, 
And  pale,  and  pacing  to  and  fro :  anon 
He  sate  him  down,  and  seized  a  pen,  and  traced 
Words  which  I  could  not  guess  of;  then  he 

leaned 
His  bowed  head  on  his  hands,  and  shook  as 

'twere 
With  a  convulsion  —  then  arose  again, 
And  with  his  teeth  and  quivering  hands  did  tear 
What  he  had  written,  but  he  shed  no  tears. 
And  he  did  calm  himself,  and  fix  his  brow 
Into  a  kind  of  quiet :  as  he  paused, 
The  Lady  of  his  love  reentered  there ; 
She  was  serene  and  smiling  then,  and  yet 
She  knew  she  was  by  him  beloved,  —  she  knew, 
For  quickly  comes  such  knowledge,  that  his 

heart 
Was  darkened  with  her  shadow,  and  she  saw 
That  he  was  wretched,  but  she  saw  not  all.2 
He  rose,  and  with  a  cold  and  gentle  grasp 
He  took  her  hand ;  a  moment  o'er  his  face 
A  tablet  of  unutterable  thoughts 
Was  traced,  and  then  it  faded,  as  it  came ; 
He  dropped  the  hand  he  held,  and  with  slow 

steps 
Retired,  but  not  as  bidding  her  adieu, 
For  they  did  part  with    mutual   smiles;    he 

passed 


1  ["Our  union,"  said  Byron  in  1821,  "would 
have  healed  feuds  in  which  blood  had  been  shed  by 
our  fathers  —  it  would  have  joined  lands,  broad  and 
rich — it  would  have  joined  at  least  one  heart  and 
two  persons  not  ill-matched  in  years  (she  is  two 
years  my  elder)  —  and  —  and  —  and  —  what  has 
been  the  result!  "] 

2  ["  I  had  long  been  in  love  with  M.  A.  C,  and 
never  told  it,  though  she  had  discovered  it  without. 
I  recollect  my  sensations,  but  cannot  describe  them, 
and  it  is  as  well."  —  Byron's  Diary,  1822.] 


From  out  the  massy  gate  of  that  old  Hall, 
And  mounting  on  his  steed  he  went  his  way; 
And  ne'er  repassed  that  hoary  threshold  more 


A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream. 
The  boy  was  sprung  to  manhood  :  in  the  wild? 
Of  fiery  climes  he  made  himself  a  home, 
And  his  Soul  drank  their  sunbeams  :  he  was 

girt 
With  strange  and  dusky  aspects ;  he  was  not 
Himself  like  what  he  had  been  ;  on  the  sea 
And  on  the  shore  he  was  a  wanderer ; 
There  was  a  mass  of  many  images 
Crowded  like  waves  upon  me,  but  he  was 
A  part  of  all ;  and  in  the  last  he  lay 
Reposing  from  the  noontide  sultriness, 
Couched  among  fallen  columns,  in  the  shade 
Of  ruined  walls  that  had  survived  the  names 
Of  those  who  reared  them  ;  by  his  sleeping  side 
Stood  camels  grazing,  and  some  goodly  steeds 
Were  fastened  near  a  fountain  ;  and  a  man 
Clad  in  a  flowing  garb  did  watch  the  while, 
While  many  of  his  tribe  slumber'd  around : 
And  they  were  canopied  by  the  blue  sky. 
So  cloudless,  clear,  and  purely  beautiful, 
That  God  alone  was  to  be  seen  in  Heaven.3 


A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream. 
The  Lady  of  his  love  was  wed  with  One 
Who  did  not  love  her  better:  —  in  her  home, 
A  thousand   leagues   from  his,  —  her   native 

home, 
She  dwelt,  begirt  with  growing  Infancy, 
Daughters  and  sons  of  Beauty,  —  but  behold! 
Upon  her  face  there  was  the  tint  of  grief, 
The  settled  shadow  of  an  inward  strife, 
And  an  unquiet  drooping  of  the  eye 
As  if  its  lid  were  charged  with  unshed  tears. 
What  could  her  grief  be?  —  she  had  all  she 

loved, 
And  he  who  had  so  loved  her  was  not  there 
To  trouble  with  bad  hopes,  or  evil  wish, 
Or  ill-repress'd  affliction,  her  pure  thoughts. 
What  could  her  grief  be  ? — she  had  loved  him 

not, 
Nor  given  him  cause  to  deem  himself  beloved, 
Nor  could  he  be  a  part  of  that  which  preyed 
Upon  her  mind —  a  spectre  of  the  past. 


A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream. 
The  Wanderer  was  return'd. —  I  saw  him  stand 


3  [This  is  true  keeping —  an  Eastern  picture  per- 
fect in  its  foreground,  and  distance,  and  sky,  and 
no  part  of  which  is  so  dwelt  upon  or  labored  as  to 
obscure  the  principal  figure.  It  it  often  in  the 
slight  and  almost  imperceptible  touches  that  the 
hand  of  the  master  is  shown,  and  that  a  single 
spark,  struck  from  his  fancy,  lightens  with  a  long 
train  of  illumination  that  of  tty«  reader.  —  Sir 
Walter  Scott.] 


1HE   UAhAxn. 


171 


Before  an  Altar — with  a  gentle  bride; 
Her  face  was  fair,  but  was  not  that  which  made 
The  Starlight  of  his  Boyhood;  — as  he  stood 
Even  at  the  altar,  o'er  his  brow  there  came 
The  selfsame  aspect,  and  the  quivering  shock 
That  in  the  antique  Oratory  shook 
His  bosom  in  its  solitude;  and  then  — 
As  in  that  hour —  a  moment  o'er  his  face 
The  tablet  of  unutterable  thoughts 
Was  traced,  —  and  then  it  faded  as  it  came, 
And  he  stood  calm  and  quiet,  and  he  spoke 
The  fitting  vows,  but  heard  not  his  own  words, 
And  all  things  reeled  around  him ;  he  could 

see 
Not  that  which  was,  nor  that  which  should 

have  been  — 
But  the  old  mansion,  and  the  accustomed  hall, 
And  the  remembered  chambers,  and  the  place, 
The   day,  the   hour,  the   sunshine,  and  the 

shade, 
All  things  pertaining  to  that  place  and  hour, 
And  her  who  was  his  destiny,  came  back 
And  thrust  themselves  between  him  and  the 

light : 
What  business  had  they  there  at  such  a  time? 1 

VII. 

A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream. 
The  Lady  of  his  love  ;  —  Oh  !  she  was  changed 
As  by  the  sickness  of  the  soul ;  her  mind 
Had  wandered  from  its  dwelling,  and  her  eyes 
They  had  not  their  own  lustre,  but  the  look 
Which  is  not  of  the  earth  ;  she  was  become 
The  queen  of  a  fantastic  realm  ;  her  thoughts 
Were  combinations  of  disjointed  things  ; 
And  forms  impalpable  and  unperceived 
Of  others'  sight  familiar  were  to  hers. 
And  this  the  world  calls  frenzy ;  but  the  wise 
Have  a  far  deeper  madness,  and  the  glance 
Of  melancholy  is  a  fearful  gift ; 


1  [This  touching  picture  agrees  closely,  in  many 
of  its  circumstances,  with  Lord  Byron's  own  prose 
account  of  the  wedding  in  his  Memoranda;  in  which 
he  describes  himself  as  waking,  on  the  morning  of 
his  marriage,with  the  most  melancholy  reflections,  on 
seeing  his  wedding-suit  spread  out  before  him.  In 
the  same  mood,  he  wandered  about  the  grounds 
alone,  till  he  was  summoned  for  the  ceremony,  and 
joined,  for  the  first  time,  on  that  day,  his  bride  and 
her  family.  He  knelt  down  —  he  repeated  the 
words  after  the  clergyman;  but  a  mist  was  before 
his  eyes  —  his  thoughts  were  elsewhere;  and  he  was 
but  awakened  by  the  congratulations  of  the  by- 
standers ts  find  that  he  was  —  married.  —  MoorcA 


What  is  it  but  the  telescope  of  truth  ? 
Which  strips  the  distance  of  its  fantasies, 
And  brings  life  near  in  utter  nakedness, 
Making  the  cold  reality  too  real  1 2 

VIII. 

A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream. 
The  Wanderer  was  alone  as  heretofore, 
The  beings  which  surrounded  him  were  gone, 
Or  were  at  war  with  him  ;  he  was  a  mark 
For  blight  and  desolation,  compassed  round 
With  Hatred  and  Contention  ;  Pain  was  mixed 
In  all  which  was  served  up  to  him,  until, 
Like  to  the  Pontic  monarch  of  old  days,3 
He  fed  on  poisons,  and  they  had  no  power, 
But  were  a  kind  of  nutriment ;  he  lived 
Through  that  which  had  been  death  to  man) 

men, 
And  made  him  friends  of  mountains  :  with  the 

stars 
And  the  quick  Spirit  of  the  Universe 
He  held  his  dialogues ;  and  they  did  teach 
To  him  the  magic  of  their  mysteries  ; 
To  him  the  book  of  Night  was  open'd  wide, 
And  voices  from  the  deep  abyss  reveal'd 
A  marvel  and  a  secret  —  Be  it  so. 


My  dream  was  past ;  it  had  no  further  change. 

It  was  of  a  strange  order,  that  the  doom 

Of  these  two  creatures  should  be  thus  traced 

out 
Almost  like  a  reality  —  the  one 
To  end  in  madness  —  both  in  misery.4 

July,  1816. 


2  [MS.—  "the  glance 

Of  melancholy  is  a  fearful  gift; 

For  it  becomes  the  telescope  of  truth, 

And  shows  us  all  things  naked  as  they  are."] 

3  Mithridates  of  Pontus. 

*  [This  poem  is  written  with  great  beauty  and 
genius  —  but  is  extremely  painful.  We  cannot  main- 
tain our  accustomed  tone  of  levity,  or  even  speak 
like  calm  literary  judges,  in  the  midst  of  these  ago- 
nizing traces  of  a  wounded  and  distempered  spirit. 
Even  our  admiration  is  swallowed  up  in  a  most 
painful  feeling  of  pity  and  of  wonder.  It  is  impos- 
sible to  mistake  these  for  fictitious  sorrows,  conjured 
up  for  the  purpose  of  poetical  effect.  There  is  a 
dreadful  tone  of  sincerity,  and  an  energy  that  can- 
not be  counterfeited,  in  the  expression  of  wretched- 
ness, and  alienation  from  human-kind,  which  occurs 
in  every  line  of  this  poem.  —  7sffrej.} 


THE    LAMENT    OF    TASSO. 


At  PoCTara,  in  the  Library,  are  preserved  the  original  MSS.  of  Tasso's  Gierusalemme  and  of  Guarini's 
Pastor  Kyio,  with  letters  of  Tasso,  one  from  Titian  to  Ariosto;  and  the  inkstand  and  chair,  the  tomb  and 
the  hou?«  of  the  latter.  But,  as  misfortune  has  a  greater  interest  for  posterity,  and  little  or  none  for  the 
contemrorary,  the  cell  where  Tasso  was  confined  in  the  hospital  of  St.  Anna  attracts  a  more  fixed  atten- 
tion, thrn  the  residence  or  the  monument  of  Ariosto  —  at  least  it  had  this  effect  on  me.  There  are  two 
inscriptions,  one  on  the  outer  gate,  the  second  over  the  cell  itself,  inviting,  unnecessarily,  the  wonder 
and  the  indignation  of  the  spectator.  Ferrara  is  much  decayed,  and  depopulated:  the  castle  still  exists 
entire;  "\nd  I  saw  the  court  where  Parisina  and  Hugo  were  beheaded,  according  to  the  annal  of  Gibbon. 
—  [The  original  MS.  of  this  poem  is  dated,  "  The  Apennines,  April  20,  1817."  It  was  written  in  conse- 
quence of  Byron  having  visited  Ferrara,  for  a  single  day,  on  his  way  to  Florence.  In  a  letter  from 
Rome,  be  says, — "  The  '  Lament  of  Tasso,'  which  I  sent  from  Florence,  has,  I  trust,  arrived.  1  look 
upon  it  as  a  '  These  be  good  rhymes!  '  as  Pope's  papa  said  to  him  when  he  was  a  boy."] 


INTRODUCTION. 


After  all  that  has  been  written  upon  the  Duke  of  Ferrara's  imprisonment  of  Tasso,  a  great  deal  con- 
tinues to  be  left  to  conjecture.  It  seems  certain  that  he  was  in  love  with  the  Princess  Eleanora,  and 
that  he  addressed  her  amatory  poems.  There  are  other  pieces  which  probably  refer  to  her,  in  which  he 
boasts  of  a  dishonorable  success,  and  which  are  supposed  to  have  fallen  into  the  hands  of  her  brother, 
the  Duke.  But  the  immediate  cause  of  Tasso's  arrest  was  a  quarfel  in  the  palace  at  Ferrara,  when  he 
threw  a  knife  at  a  domestic.  The  affair  ended  in  his  being  sent  as  a  lunatic  to  the  convent  of  St. 
Francis.  This  was  on  the  nth  of  July,  1577,  and  on  the  20th  he  made  his  escape.  In  February,  1579, 
he  returned  to  Ferrara,  and  the  Duke  and  the  Princess  refusing  to  notice  him,  he  uttered  imprecations 
against  them,  was  declared  a  madman,  and  was  confined  for  seven  years  in  the  hospital  of  St.  Anna.  A 
miserable  dungeon  below  the  ground-floor,  and  lighted  from  a  grated  window,  which  looks  into  a  small 
covert,  is  shown  as  the  scene  of  his  sufferings,  but  there  is  unlikelihood  that  it  was  so,  and  Tasso  was  at 
least  removed  to  a  spacious  apartment  before  a  twelvemonth  had  elapsed.  The  poet  protested  that  the 
madness  of  1577  was  feigned  to  please  the  Duke,  who  hoped,  according  to  modern  inferences,  that  any 
imputations  upon  the  name  of  the  Princess  would  be  ascribed  to  the  hallucinations  of  a  distempered  mind. 
Whether  the  subsequent  madness  of  1579  was  rea'  or  not>  nas  ^een  tne  subject  of  endless  speculations, 
but  if  clouds  obscured  the  mind  of  Tasso  they  broke  away  at  intervals,  and  allowed  him  to  continue  hie 
immortal  compositions.  Byron  adopts  the  theory  that  he  was  imprisoned  under  a  false  pretence  tc 
avenge  a  pure  but  presumptuous  love. 


Long  years !  —  It  tries  the  thrilling  frame  to 

bear 
And  eagle-spirit  of  a  Child  of  Song  — 
Long  years  of  outrage,  calumny,  and  wrong; 
Imputed  madness,  prisoned  solitude, 
And  the  mind's  canker  in  its  savage  mood, 
When  the  impatient  thirst  of  light  and  air 
Parches  the  heart ;  and  the  abhorred  grate, 
Marring  the  sunbeams  with  its  hideous  shade, 


Works  through  the  throbbing  eyeball  to  the 

brain 
With  a  hot  sense  of  heaviness  and  pain ; 
And  bare,  at  once,  Captivity  displayed 
Stands   scoffing   through    the    never-opened 

gate, 
Which  nothing  through  its  bars  admits,  save 

day, 
And  tasteless  food,  which  I  have  eat  alone 
Till  its  unsocial  bitterness  is  gone; 


THE  LAMENT  OF  TASSO. 


173 


And  I  can  banquet  like  a  beast  of  prey, 
Sullen  and  lonely,  couching  in  the  cave 
Which  is  my  lair,  and  —  it  may  be  —  my  grave. 
All  this  hath  somewhat  worn  me,  and  may 

wear, 
But  must  be  borne.     I  stoop  not  to  despair ; 
For  I  have  battled  with  mine  agony, 
And  made  me  wings  wherewith  to  overfly 
The  narrow  circus  of  my  dungeon  wall, 
And  freed  the  Holy  Sepulchre  from  thrall ; 
And  revelled  among  men  and  things  divine, 
And  poured  my  spirit  over  Palestine, 
In  honor  of  the  sacred  war  for  Him, 
The  God  who  was  on  earth  and  is  in  heaven, 
For  he  hath  strengthened  me  in  heart  and  limb. 
That  through  this  sufferance  I  might  be  for- 
given, 
I  have  employed  my  penance  to  record 
How  Salem's  shrine  was  won,  and  how  adored. 

II. 
But  this  is  o'er — my  pleasant  task  is  done  :  — 1 
My  long-sustaining  friend  of  many  years  ! 
If  I  do  blot  thy  final  page  with  tears, 
Know,  that  my  sorrows  have  wrung  from  me 

none. 
But,  thou,  my  young  creation  !  my  soul's  child  ! 
Which   ever  playing   round   me   came    and 

smiled, 
And  wooed   me  from  myself  with  thy  sweet 

sight, 
Thou  too  art  gone  —  and  so  is  my  delight : 
And  therefore  do  I  weep  and  inly  bleed 
With  this  last  bruise  upon  a  broken  reed. 
Thou  too  art  ended — what  is  left  me  now  ? 
For  I  have  anguish  yet  to  bear  —  and  how  ? 
I  know  not  that  —  but  in  the  innate  force 
Of  my  own  spirit  shall  be  found  resource. 
I  have  not  sunk,  for  I  had  no  remorse, 
Nor  cause  for  such:  they  called  me  mad  — 

and  why  ? 
Oh  Leonora  !  wilt  not  thou  reply  ?  2 


1  [The  opening  lines  bring  the  poet  before  us  at 
once,  as  if  the  door  of  the  dungeon  was  thrown 
open.  From  this  bitter  complaint,  how  nobly  the 
unconquered  bard  rises  into  calm,  and  serene,  and 
dignified  exultation  over  the  beauty  of  "  that  young 
creation,  his  soul's  child,"  the  Gierusalemme  Lib- 
erata.  The  exultation  of  conscious  genius  then 
diss  away,  and  we  behold  him,  "bound  between 
distraction  and  disease,"  no  longer  in  an  inspired 
mood,  but  sunk  into  the  lowest  prostration  of  hu- 
man misery.  There  is  something  terrible  in  this 
transition  from  divine  rapture  to  degraded  agony.  — 
Wilson.] 

2  [In  a  letter  written  to  his  friend  Scipio  Gon- 
zaga,  shortly  after  his  confinement,  Tasso  exclaims 
—  "Ah,  wretched  me!    I    had   designed  to  write, 
besides  two  epic  poems  of  most  noble  argument, 
four  tragedies,  of  which  I  had  formed  the  plan.     I  | 
had  schemed,  too,  many  works  in  prose,  on  sub-  I 
jects  the  most  lofty,  and  most  useful  to  human  life;  I  ' 
had  designed  to  write  philosophy  with  eloquence,  [ 
in  such  a  manner  that  there  might  remain  of  me  an  I 


I  was  indeed  delirious  in  my  heart 
To  lift  my  love  so  lofty  as  thou  art ; 
But  still  my  frenzy  was  not  of  the  mind ; 
I  knew  my  fault,  and  feel  my  punishment 
Not  less  because  I  suffer  it  unbent. 
That  thou  wert  beautiful,  and  I  not  blind, 
Hath  been  the  sin  which  shuts  me  from  man 

kind; 
But  let  them  go,  or  torture  as  they  will, 
My  heart  can  multiply  thine  image  still ; 
Successful  love  may  sate  itself  away. 
The  wretched  are  the  faithful ;  'tis  their  fate 
To  have  all  feeling  save  the  one  decay, 
And  every  passion  into  one  dilate, 
As  rapid  rivers  into  ocean  pour ; 
But  ours  is  fathomless,  and  hath  no  shore. 


Above  me,  hark  !  the  long  and  maniac  cry 

Of  minds  and  bodies  in  captivity. 

And  hark  !  the  lash  and  the  increasing  howl, 

And  the  half-inarticulate  blasphemy  ! 

There  be  some  here  with  worse  than  frenzy 

foul. 
Some  who  do  still  goad  on  the  o'er-labored 

mind, 
And  dim  the  little  light  that's  left  behind 
With  needless  torture,  as  their  tyrant  will 
Is  wound  up  to  the  lust  of  doing  ill :  3 
With  these  and  with  their  victims  am  I  classed, 
'Mid  sounds  and  sights  like  these  long  years 

have  passed ; 
'Mid  sights  and  sounds  like  these  my  life  may 

close : 
So  let  it  be  —  for  then  I  shall  repose. 

IV. 
I  have  been  patient,  let  me  be  so  yet, 
I  had  forgotten  half  I  would  forget, 
But  it  revives  —  Oh  !  would  it  were  my  lot 
To  be  forgetful  as  I  am  forgot !  — 
Feel  I  not  wroth  with  those  who  bade  me  dwell 
In  this  vast  lazar-house  of  many  woes  ? 


eternal  memory  in  the  world.  Alas!  I  had  ex- 
pected to  close  my  life  with  glory  and  renown ;  but 
now,  oppressed  by  the  burden  of  so  many  calami- 
ties, I  have  lost  every  prospect  of  reputation  and  of 
honor.  The  fear  of  perpetual  imprisonment  in- 
creases my  melancholy:  the  indignities  which  I 
suffer  augment  it;  and  the  squalor  of  my  beard,  my 
hair,  and  habit,  the  sordidness  and  filth,  exceed- 
ingly annoy  me.  Sure  am  I,  that,  if  she  who  so 
little  has  corresponded  to  my  attachment  —  if  she 
saw  me  in  such  a  state,  and  in  such  affliction  —  she 
would  have  some  compassion  on  me."  —  Opere, 
t.  x.  p.  387.] 

3  [For  nearly  the  first  year  of  his  confinement 
Tasso  was  under  the  care  of  a  gaoler  whose  chief 
virtue,  although  he  was  a  poet  and  a  man  of  letters, 
was  a  cruel  obedience  to  the  commands  of  his  prince. 
His  name  was  Agostino  Mosti.  Tasso  says  of  him, 
in  a  letter  to  his  sister,  "  he  used  me  with  everj 
species  of  rigor  and  inhumanity."] 


174 


THE  LAMENT  OF  TASSO. 


Where  laughter  is  not  mirth,  nor  thought  the 

mind, 
Nor  words  a  language,  nor  ev'n  men  mankind  ; 
Where  cries  reply  to  curses,  shrieks  to  blows, 
And  each  is  tortured  in  his  separate  hell  — 
For  we  are  crowded  in  our  solitudes  — 
Many,  but  each  divided  by  the  wall, 
Which    echoes    Madness    in    her    babbling 

moods ;  — 
While  all  can  hear,  none  heed  his  neighbor's 

call  — 
None  !  save  that  One,  the  veriest  wretch  of  all, 
Who  was  not  made  to  be  the  mate  of  these, 
Nor  bound  between  Distraction  and  Disease. 
Feel  I  not  wroth  with  those  who  placed  me 

here  ? 
Who  have  debased  me  in  the  minds  of  men, 
Debarring  me  the  usage  of  my  own, 
Blighting  my  life  in  best  of  its  career. 
Branding  my  thoughts  as  things  to  shun  and 

fear  ? 
Would  I  not  pay  them  back  these  pangs  again, 
And  teach  them  inward  Sorrow's  stifled  groan? 
The  struggle  to  be  calm,  and  cold  distress, 
Which  undermines  our  Stoical  success  ? 
No!  —  still  too  proud  to  be  vindictive  —  I 
Have  pardoned  princes'  insults,  and  would  die. 
Yes,  Sister  of  my  Sovereign  !  for  thy  sake 
I  weed  all  bitterness  from  out  my  breast, 
It  hath  no  business  where  thou  art  a  guest; 
Thy  brother  hates  —  but  I  cannot  detest;  ! 
Thou  pitiest  not  —  but  I  can  not  forsake. 

V. 
Look  on  a  love  which  knows  not  to  despair,2 
But  all  unquenched  is  still  my  better  part. 
Dwelling  deep  in  my  shut  and  silent  heart 
As  dwells  the  gathered  lightning  in  its  cloud, 
Encompassed  with  its  dark  and  rolling  shroud, 
Till  struck,  —  forth  flies  the  all-ethereal  dart! 


1  [Not  long  after  his  imprisonment,  Tasso  ap- 
pealed to  the  mercy  of  Alfonso,  in  a  canzone  of 
great  beauty,  couched  in  terms  so  respectful  and 
pathetic,  as  must  have  moved,  it  might  be  thought, 
the  severest  bosom  to  relent.  The  heart  of  Alfonso 
was,  however,  impregnable  to  the  appeal;  and 
Tasso,  in  another  ode  to  the  princesses,  whose  pity 
he  invoked  in  the  name  of  their  own  mother,  who 
had  herself  known,  if  not  the  like  horrors,  the  like 
solitude  of  imprisonment,  and  bitterness  of  soul. 
"  Considered  merely  as  poems,"  says  Black,  "  these 
canzoni  are  extremely  beautiful;  but,  if  we  con- 
template them  as  the  productions  of  a  mind  diseased, 
they  form  important  documents  in  the  history  of 
man."  —  Life  of  Tasso,  vol.  ii.  p.  408.] 

2  [As  to  the  indifference  which  the  Princess  is 
said  to  have  exhibited  for  the  misfortunes  of  Tasso, 
and  the  little  effort  she  made  to  obtain  his  liberty, 
this  is  one  of  the  negative  arguments  founded  on  an 
hypothesis  that  may  be  easily  destroyed  by  a  thou- 
sand others  equally  plausible.  Was  not  the  Princess 
anxious  to  avoid  her  own  ruin?  In  taking  too 
warm  an  inteiest  for  the  poet,  did  she  not  risk  de- 
stroying herself,  without  saving  him?  —  Foscolo.\ 


And  thus  at  the  collision  of  thy  name 

The  vivid  thought  still   flashes   through   my 

frame, 
And  for  a  moment  all  things  as  they  were 
Flit  by  me  ; — they  are  gone —  I  am  the  same. 
And  yet  my  love  without  ambition  grew ; 
I  knew  thy  state,  my  station,  and  I  knew 
A  Princess  was  no  love-mate  for  a  bard ; 
I  told  it  not,  I  breathed  it  not,  it  was 
Sufficient  to  itself,  its  own  reward ; 
And  if  my  eyes  revealed  it,  they,  alas  ! 
Were  punished  by  the  silentness  of  thine, 
And  yet  I  did  not  venture  to  repine. 
Thou  wert  to  me  a  crystal-girded  shrine, 
Worshipped  at  holy  distance,  and  around 
Hallowed    and    meekly   kissed    the    saintly 

ground ; 
Not  for  thou  wert  a  princess,  but  that  Love 
Had  robed  thee  with  a  glory,  and  arrayed 
Thy  lineaments  in  beauty  that  dismayed  — 
Oh!    not    dismayed  —  but   awed,   like    One 

above ; 
And  in  that  sweet  severity  there  was 
A  something  which  all  softness  did  surpass  — 
I    know    not    how  —  thy    genius    mastered 

mine  — 
My  star  stood  still  before  thee :  —  if  it  were 
Presumptuous  thus  to  love  without  design, 
That  sad  fatality  hath  cost  me  dear ; 
But  thou  art  dearest  still,  and  I  should  be 
Fit  for  this  cell,  which  wrongs  me  —  but  for 

thee.         ' 
The  very  love  which  locked  me  to  my  chain 
Hath  lightened  half  its  weight;  and  for  the 

rest, 
Though  heavy,  lent  me  vigor  to  sustain, 
And  look  to  thee  with  undivided  breast, 
And  foil  the  ingenuity  of  Pain.3 


It  is  no  marvel  —  from  my  very  birth 

My  soul  was  drunk  with  love,  —  which  did 

pervade 
And  mingle  with  whate'er  I  saw  on  earth  ; 
Of  objects  all  inanimate  I  made 
Idols,  and  out  of  wild  and  lonely  flowers, 
And  rocks,  whereby  they  grew,  a  paradise, 
Where  I  did  lay  me  down  within  the  shade 
Of  waving  trees,   and   dreamed    uncounted 

hours, 
Though  I  was  chid  for  wandering ;  and  the 

Wise 
Shook  their  white  aged  heads  o'er  me,  and 

said 
Of  such  materials  wretched  men  were  made, 
And  such  a  truant  boy  would  end  in  woe, 


3  [Tasso's  profound  and  unconquerable  love  for 

Leonora,  sustaining  itself  without  hope  throughout 

years  of  darkness  and  solitude,  breathes  a  moral 

dignity  over  all   his   sentiments,   and  we  feel   the 

I  strength  and  power  of  his  noble  spirit  in  the  un- 

|  upbraiding  devotedness  of  his  passion. —  Wilson.\ 


THE  LAMENT  OF  TASSO. 


175 


And  that  the  only  lesson  was  a  blow  ;  — 
And  then  they  smote  me,  and  I  did  not  weep, 
But  cursed  them  in  my  heart,  and  to  my  haunt 
Returned  and  wept  alone,  and  dreamed  again 
The  visions  which  arise  without  a  sleep. 
And  with  my  years  my  soul  began  to  pant 
With  feelings  of  strange  tumult  and  soft  pain  ; 
And  the  whole  heart  exhaled  into  One  Want, 
But  undefined  and  wandering,  till  the  day 
I  found  the  thing  I  sought  —  and  that  was 

thee ; 
And  then  I  lost  my  being  all  to  be 
Absorbed    in    thine  —  the  world    was    past 

away  — 
Thou  didst  annihilate  the  earth  to  rnc ! 

VII. 

I  loved  all  Solitude  —  but  little  thought 
To  spend  I  know  not  what  of  life,  remote 
From  all  communion  with  existence,  save 
The  maniac  and  his  tyrant ;  —  had  I  been 
Their  fellow,  many  years  ere  this  had  seen 
My  mind  like  theirs  corrupted  to  its  grave,1 
But  who  hath  seen  me  writhe,  or  heard  me 

rave  ? 
Perchance  in  such  a  cell  we  suffer  more 
Than  the  wrecked  sailor  on  his  desert  shore ; 
The  world  is  all  before  him — mine  is  here 
Scarce  twice  the  space  they  must  accord  my 

bier. 
What  though  he  perish,  he  may  lift  his  eye 
And  with  a  dying  glance  upbraid  the  sky  — 
I  will  not  raise  my  own  in  such  reproof, 
Although  'tis  clouded  by  my  dungeon  roof. 


Yet  do  I  feel  at  times  my  mind  decline,2 
But  with  a  sense  of  its  decay  :  —  I  see 
Unwonted  lights  along  my  prison  shine, 
And  a  strange  demon,  who  is  vexing  me 
With  pilfering  pranks  and  petty  pains,  below 
The  feeling  of  the  healthful  and  the  free ; 
But  much  to  One,  who  long  hath  suffered  so, 
Sickness  of  heart,  and  narrowness  of  place, 
And  all  that  may  be  borne,  or  can  debase. 
I  thought  mine  enemies  had  been  but  Man, 


1  [MS.  —  "My  mind  like  theirs  adapted  to  its 
grave."] 

2  ["  Nor  do  I  lament,"  wrote  Tasso,  shortly  after 
his  confinement,  "  that  my  heart  is  deluged  with 
almost  constant  misery,  that  my  head  is  always 
heavy  and  often  painful,  that  my  sight  and  hearing 
are  much  impaired,  and  that  all  my  frame  is  become 
spare  and  meagre;  but,  passing  all  this  with  a  short 
sigh,  what  I  would  bewail  is  the  infirmity  of  my 
mind.  My  mind  sleeps,  not  thinks;  my  fancy  is 
chill,  and  forms  no  pictures;  my  negligent  senses 
will  no  longer  furnish  the  images  of  things;  my  hand 
is  sluggish  in  writing,  and  my  pen  seems  as  if  it 
shrunk  from  the  office.  I  feel  as  if  I  were  chained 
in  all  my  operations,  and  as  if  I  were  overcome  by 
an  unwonted  numbness  and  oppressive  stupor." — - 
Optre,  t.  viii.  p.  258.] 


But  Spirits  may  be  leagued  with  them  —  all 

Earth 
Abandons  —  Heaven    forgets    me;  —  in    the 

dearth 
Of  such  defence  the  Powers  of  Evil  can, 
It  may  be,  tempt  me  further,  —  and  prevail 
Against  the  outworn  creature  they  assail. 
Why  in  this  furnace  is  my  spirit  proved 
Like    steel    in   tempering    fire  ?    because  1 

loved  ? 
Because  I  loved  what  not  to  love,  and  see, 
Was  more  or  less  than  mortal,  and  than  me. 

IX. 

I  once  was  quick  in  feeling — -that  is  o'er; 
My  scaiS  are  callous,  or  I  should  have  dashed 
My  brain   against    these   bars,   as   the    sun 

flashed 
In  mockery  through  them  ;  —  if  I  bear  and 

bore 
The  much  I  have  recounted,  and  the  more 
Which  hath  no  words, —  'tis  that  I  would  not 

die 
And  sanction  with  self-slaughter  the  dull  lie 
Which  snared  me  here,  and  with  the  brand 

of  shame 
Stamp  Madness  deep  into  my  memory, 
And  woo  Compassion  to  a  blighted  name, 
Sealing  the  sentence  which  my  foes  proclaim. 
No  —  it  shall  be  immortal !  —  and  I  make 
A  future  temple  of  my  present  cell, 
Which  nations  yet  shall  visit  for  my  sake.3 
While  thou,  Ferrara !  when  no  longer  dwell 
The  ducal  chiefs  within  thee,  shalt  fall  down, 
And  crumbling  piecemeal  view  thv  heartless 

halls, 
A  poet's  wreath  shall  be  thine  only  crown,  — 
A  poet's  dungeon  thy  most  far  renown, 
While  strangers  wonder  o'er  thy  unpeopled 

walls !  ■* 
And    thou,    Leonora !  —  thou  —  who    wert 

ashamed 
That  such  as  I  could  love  —  who  blushed  to 

hear 
To  less  than  monarchs  that  thou  couldst  be 

dear, 
Go  !  tell  thy  brother,  that  my  heart,  untamed 
By  grief,  years,  weariness,  —  and  it  may  be 


3[MS.— 
"  Which  [  ^£Sg?  I  sha11  visit  for  my  sake-"J 

4  [Those  who  indulge  in  the  dreams  of  earthly 
retribution  will  observe,  that  the  cruelty  of  Alfonso 
was  not  left  without  its  recompense,  even  in  his  own 
person.  He  survived  the  affection  of  his  subjects 
and  of  his  dependants,  who  deserted  him  at  his 
death;  and  suffered  his  body  to  be  interred  without 
princ«ly  or  decent  honors.  His  last  wishes  were 
neglected;  his  testament  cancelled.  His  kinsman, 
Don  Csesar,  shrank  from  the  excommunication  of 
the  Vatican,  and,  after  a  short  struggle,  or  rather 
suspense,  Ferrara  passed  away  for  ever  from  the 
dominion  of  the  house  of  Este.  —  Hobhouse.\ 


176 


ODE    ON   VENICE. 


A  taint  of  that  he  would  impute  to  me  — 
From  long  infection  of  a  den  like  this, 
Where  the    mind    rots   congenial   with   the 

abyss, 
Adores  thee  still ;  —  and  add  —  that  when  the 

towers 
And    battlements    which    guard  his    joyous 

hours 
Of  banquet,  dance,  and  revel,  are  forgot, 
Or  left  untended  in  a  dull  repose, 
This  —  this  —  shall  be  a  consecrated  spot! 
But    Thou  —  when  all  that  Birth  and  Beauty 

throws 
Of  magic  round  thee  is  extinct  —  shalt  have 
One  half  the  laurel  which  o'ershades  my  grave. 
No  power  in  death  can  tear  our  names  apart, 
As   none   in   life   could   rend   thee  from  my 

heart.1 
Yes,  Leonora !  it  shall  be  our  fate 
To  be  entwined  for  ever  —  but  too  late !  2 


rM,        I  "  As  none  in  (  wrin\  ) 
tMS"-     l.fe  could  w^»ch 

(  rend       ) 


thee  from 
my  heart."] 

2  [The  "  pleasures  of  imagination  "  have  been  ex- 


plained and  justified  by  Addison  in  prose,  and  by 
Akenside  in  verse;  but  there  are  moments  of  real 
life  when  its  miseries  and  its  necessities  seem  to 
overpower  and  destroy  them.  The  history  of  man- 
kind, however,  furnishes  proofs,  that  no  bodily  suf- 
fering, no  adverse  circumstances,  operating  on  out 
material  nature,  will  extinguish  the  spirit  of  imagi- 
nation. Perhaps  there  is  no  instance  of  this  so  very 
affecting  and  so  very  sublime  as  the  case  of  Tasso. 
They  who  have  seen  the  dark  horror-striking  dun- 
geon-hole at  Ferrara,  in  which  he  was  confined 
seven  years  under  the  imputation  of  madness,  will 
have  had  this  truth  impressed  upon  their  hearts  in 
a  manner  never  to  be  erased.  In  this  vault,  of 
which  the  sight  makes  the  hardest  heart  shudder, 
the  poet  employed  himself  in  finishing  and  correct 
ing  his  immortal  epic  poem.  Lord  Byron's  "  La> 
ment"  on  this  subject  is  as  sublime  and  profound  a 
lesson  in  morality,  and  i»  the  pictures  of  the  recesses 
of  the  human  soul,  as  it  is  a  production  most  elo- 
quent, most  pathetic,  most  vigorous,  and  most 
elevating  among  the  gifts  of  the  Muse.  The  bosom 
which  is  not  touched  with  it  —  the  fancy  which  is 
not  warmed,  —  the  understanding  which  is  not  en- 
lightened and  exalted  by  it,  is  not  fit  for  human 
intercourse.  If  Lord  Byron  had  written  nothing 
but  this,  to  deny  him  the  praise  of  a  grand  poet 
would  have  been  flagrant  injustice  or  gross ktupidity 
—  Sir  Egerton  lirydges.\ 


ODE   ON    VENICE. 


i. 

Oh  Venice!  Venice!  when  thy  marble  walls 

Are  level  with  the  waters,  there  shall  be 
A  cry  of  nations  o'er  thy  sunken  halls, 

A  loud  lament  along  the  sweeping  sea! 
If  I,  a  northern  wanderer,  weep  for  thee, 
What  should  thy  sons  do  ?  —  any  thing  but 

weep; 
And  yet  they  only  murmur  in  their  sleep. 
In  contrast  with  their  fathers  —  as  the  slime, 
The  dull  green  ooze  of  the  receding  deep, 
Is  with  the  dashing  of  the  spring-tide  foam, 
That  drives  the  sailor  shipless  to  his  home, 
Are  they  to  those  that  were ;  and  thus  they 

creep, 
Crouching  and  crab-like,  through  their  sap- 
ping streets. 
Oh  !  agony — that  centuries  should  reap 
No    mellower    harvest !     Thirteen    hundred 

years 
Of  wealth  and  glory  turned  to  dust  and  tears  ; 
And  every  monument  the  stranger  meets, 
Church,  palace,  pillar,  as  a  mourner  greets; 


And  even  the  Lion  all  subdued  appears, 
And  the  harsh  sound  of  the  barbarian  drum. 
With  dull  and  daily  dissonance,  repeats 
The  echo  of  thy  tyrant's  voice  along 
The  soft  waves,  once  all  musical  to  song, 
That  heaved  beneath  the  moonlight  with  the 

throng 
Of  gondolas  —  and  to  the  busy  hum 
Of  cheerful  creatures,  whose  most  sinful  deeds 
Were  but  the  overheating  of  the  heart, 
And  flow  of  too  much  happiness,  which  needs 
The  aid  of  age  to  turn  its  course  apart 
From  the  luxuriant  and  voluptuous  flood 
Of  sweet  sensations,  battling  with  the  blood. 
But  these  are  better  than  the  gloomy  errors, 
The  weeds  of  nations  in  their  last  decay, 
When  Vice  walks  forth  with  her  unsoftened 

terrors, 
And  Mirth  is  madness,  and  but  smiles  to  slay ; 
And  Hope  is  nothing  but  a  false  delay, 
The  sick  man's   lightning  half  an   hour  ere 

death, 
When  Faintness,  the  last  mortal  birth  of  Fair 


ODE   ON    VENICE. 


177 


And  apathy  of  limb,  the  dull  beginning 

Of  the  cold  staggering  race  which  Death  is 

winning, 
Steals  vein  by  vein  and  pulse  by  pulse  away ; 
Yet  so  relieving  the  o'ertortured  clay, 
To  him  appears  renewal  of  his  breath, 
And   freedom    the    mere    numbness   of   his 

chain  ;  — 
And  then  he  talks  of  life,  and  how  again 
He  feels  his  spirit  soaring  —  albeit  weak. 
And  of  the  fresher  air,  which  he  would  seek ; 
(\nd  as  he  whispers  knows  not  that  he  gasps, 
That  his  thin  finger  feels  not  what  it  clasps, 
And  so  the  film  comes  o'er  him  —  and  the  dizzy 
Chamber  swims  round  and  round —  and  shad- 
ows busy, 
At  which  he  vainly  catches,  flit  and  gleam, 
Till  the  last  rattle  chokes  the  strangled  scream, 
And  all  is  ice  and  blackness,  —  and  the  earth 
That  which  it  was  the  moment  ere  our  birth. 

II. 
There  is  no  hope  for  nations !  —  Search  the 
page 
Of  many  thousand  years  —  the  daily  scene, 
The  flow  and  ebb  of  each  recurring  age. 
The  everlasting  to  be  which  hath  been, 
Hath  taught  us  nought  or  little  :  still  we  lean 
On  things  that  rot  beneath  our  weight,  and 

wear 
Our  strength  away  in  wrestling  with  the  air; 
For  'tis  our  nature  strikes  us  down  :  the  beasts 
Slaughtered  in  hourly  hecatombs  for  feasts 
Are  of  as  high  an  order  —  they  must  go 
Even  where  their  driver  goads  them,  though 

to  slaughter. 
Ye  men,  who  pour  your  blood  for  kings  as 

water, 
What  have  they  given  your  children  in  return  ? 
A  heritage  of  servitude  and  woes, 
A  blindfold  bondage,  where  your  hire  is  blows. 
What!  do  not  yet  the  red-hot  ploughshares 

burn, 
O'er  which  you  stumble  in  a  false  ordeal, 
And  deem  this  proof  of  loyalty  the  real ; 
Kissing  the  hand  that  guides  you  to  your  scars, 
And  glorying  as  you  tread  the  glowing  bars  ? 
All  that  your  sires  have  left  you,  all  that  Time 
Bequeathes  of  free,  and  History  of  sublime, 
Spring  from  a  different  theme !  —  Ye.  see  and 

read, 
Admire   and  sigh,  and    then   succumb  and 

bleed ! 
Save  the  few  spirits,  who,  despite  of  all, 
And  worse  than  all,  the  sudden  crimes  engen- 
dered 
By  the  down-thundering  of  the  prison-wall, 
And  thirst  t&  swallow  the  sweet  waters  ten- 
dered, 
Gushing  from  freedom's  fountains  —  when  the 

crowd, 
Maddened  with  centuries  of  draught,  are  loud. 


And  trample  on  each  other  to  obtain 
The  cup  which  brings  oblivion  of  a  chain 
Heavy  and  sore,  —  in  which  long  yoked  they 

ploughed 
The  sand,  —  or  if  there  sprung  the  yellow  grain, 
'Twas  not  for  them,  their  necks  were  too  much 

bowed, 
And   their  dead   palates  chewed   the  cud  of 

pain  :  — 
Yes!  the  few  spirits  —  who,  despite  of  deeds 
Which  they  abhor,  confound  not  with  the  cause 
Those  momentary  starts  from  Nature's  laws, 
Which,  like  the   pestilence  and  earthquake, 

smite 
But  for  a  term,  then  pass,  and  leave  the  earth 
With  all  her  seasons  to  repair  the  blight 
With  a  few  summers,  and  again  put  forth 
Cities  and  generations  —  fair,  when  free  — 
For,  Tyranny,  there  blooms  no  bud  for  thee ! 

III. 
Glory  and  Empire !  once  upon  these  towers 
With    Freedom  —  godlike   Triad!  how  ye 

sate ! 
The  league  of  mightiest  nations,  in  those  hours 
When  Venice  was  an  envy,  might  abate, 
But  did  not  quench,  her  spirit  —  in  her  fate 
All  were  enwrapped :  the  feasted   monarchs 

knew 
And  loved  their  hostess,  nor  could  learn  to 

hate. 
Although  they  humbled  —  with  the  kingly  few 
The  many  felt,  for  from  all  days  and  climes 
She  was  the  voyager's  worship;  —  even   hei 

crimes 
Were  of  the  softer  order  —  born  of  Love, 
She  drank  no  blood,  nor  fattened  on  the  dead 
But  gladdened  where  her  harmless  conquests 

spread ; 
For  these  restored  the  Cross,  that  from  above 
Hallowed  her  sheltering  banners,  which  inces- 
sant 
Flew  between  earth  and  the  unholy  Crescent, 
Which,  if  it  waned  and  dwindled,  Earth  may 

thank 
The  city  it  has  clothed  in  chains,  which  clank 
Now,  creaking  in  the  ears  of  those  who  owe 
The  name  of  Freedom  to  her  glorious  Strug- 

gies , 
Yet  she  but  shares  with  them  a  common  woe 
And  called  the  "kingdom"  of  a  conquering 

foe, — 
But  knows  what  all  —  and,  most  of   all   we 

know  — 
With  what  set  gilded  terms  a  tyrant  juggles ! 

IV. 

The  name  of  Commonwealth  is  past  and  gone 

O'er  the  three  fractions  of  the  groaning 

globe ; 

Venice  is  crushed,  and  Holland  deigns  to  own 

A  sceptre,  and  endures  the  purple  robe; 


178 


BEPPO:   A    VENETIAN  STORY. 


If  the  free  Switzer  yet  bestrides  alone 
His  chainless  mountains,  'tis  but  for  a  time, 
For  tyranny  of  late  is  cunning  grown, 
And  in  its  own  good  season  tramples  down 
The  sparkles  of  our  ashes.     One  great  clime, 
Whose  vigorous  offspring  by  dividing  ocean 
Are  kept  apart  and  nursed  in  the  devotion 
Of  Freedom,  which  their  fathers  fought  for, 

and 
Bequeathed  —  a  heritage  of  heart  and  hand, 
And  proud  distinction  from  each  other  land, 
Whose  sons  must  bow  them  at  a  monarch's 

motion, 
As  if  his  senseless  sceptre  were  a  wand 
Full  of  the  magic  of  exploded  science  — 
Still  one  great  clime,  in  full  and  free  defiance, 
Yet  rears  her  crest,  unconquer'd  and  sublime, 
Above  the  far  Atlantic  !  — She  has  taught 
Her  Esau-brethren  that  the  haughty  flag, 


The  floating  fence  of  Albion's  feebler  crag, 
May  strike  to  those  whose  red  right   hands 

have  bought 
Rights  cheaply  earned  with  blood.  —  Still,  still, 

for  ever 
Better,  though  each  man's  life-blood  were  a 

river, 
That  it  should  flow,  and  overflow,  than  creep 
Through  thousand  lazy  channels  in  our  veins, 
Dammed  like  the  dull  canal  with  locks  and 

chains, 
And  moving,  as  a  sick  man  in  his  sleep, 
Three  paces,  and  then  faltering  :  —  better  be 
Where  the  extinguished  Spartans  still  are  free, 
In  their  proud  charnel  of  Thermopylae, 
Than  stagnate  in  our  marsh,  —  or  o'er  the  deep 
Fly,  and  one  current  to  the  ocean  add, 
One  spirit  to  the  souls  our  fathers  had, 
One  freeman  more,  America,  to  thee  I 


BEPPO:  A    VENETIAN    STORY. 


Rosalind.  Farewell,  Monsieur  Traveller:  Look,  you  lisp,  and  wear  strange  suits;  disable  all  the 
benefits  of  your  own  country;  be  out  of  love  with  your  Nativity,  and  almost  chide  God  for  making  you 
that  countenance  you  are;  or  I  will  scarce  think  that  you  have  swam  in  a  Gondola. 

As  You  Like  It,  Act  IV.  Sc.  i. 

Annotation  of  the  Commentators. 

That  is,  been  at  Venice,  which  was  much  visited  by  the  young  English  gentlemen  of  those  times,  and 
was  then  what  Paris  is  now  —  the  seat  of  all  dissoluteness.  —  S.  A.1 


INTRODUCTION. 


Beppo  was  written  at  Venice,  in  October,  1817,  and  acquired  great  popularity  immediately  on  its  pub- 
lication  in  the  May  of  the  following  year.  Byron's  letters  show  that  he  attached  very  little  importance 
to  it  at  the  time.  He  was  not  aware  that  he  had  opened  a  new  vein,  in  which  his  genius  was  destined  to 
work  out  some  of  his  brightest  triumphs.  "  I  have  written,"  he  says  to  Mr.  Murray,  "  a  poem  humor- 
ous, in  or  after  the  excellent  manner  of  Mr.  Whistlecraft,  and  founded  on  a  Venetian  anecdote  which 
amused  me.  It  is  called  Beppo  —  the  short  name  for  Giuseppo,  —  that  is,  the  Joe  of  the  Italian  Joseph. 
It  has  politics  and  ferocity."  Again  —  "  Whistlecraft  is  my  immediate  model,  but  Berni  is  the  father  c/ 
that  kind  of  writing;  which,  I  think,  suits  our  language,  too,  very  well.  We  shall  see  by  this  experi 
ment.  It  will,  at  any  rate,  show  that  I  can  write  cheerfully,  and  repel  the  charge  of  monotony  and 
mannerism."  He  wished  Mr.  Murray  to  accept  of  Beppo  as  a  free  gift,  or,  as  he  chose  to  express  it,  "as 
part  of  the  contract  for  Canto  Fourth  of  Childe  Harold;  "  adding,  however,  —  "  if  it  pleases,  you  shaH 
have  more  in  the  same  mood:  for  I  know  the  Italian  way  of  life,  and,  as  for  the  verse  and  the  passions. 
I  have  them  still  in  tolerable  vigor." 

1  [Roger  Ascham,  Queen  Elizabeth's  tutor,  says,  in  his  "  Schoolmaster,"  — "  Although  I  was  onty 
nine  days  at  Venice,  I  saw,  in  that  little  time,  more  liberty  to  sin,  than  ever  I  heard  xell  of  in  the  city  & 
London  in  nine  years."] 


BEPPO:    A    VENETIAN  STORY. 


m 


John  Hookham  Frere  has  the  merit  of  having  introduced  the  Bernesgue  style  into  our  language;  but 
his  performance,  entitled  "  Prospectus  and  Specimen  of  an  intended  National  Work,  by  William  and 
Robert  Whistlecraft,  of  Stowmarket,  in  Suffolk,  Harness  and  Collar  Makers,  intended  to  comprise  the 
most  interesting  Particulars  relating  to  King  Arthur  and  his  Round  Table,"  though  it  delighted  all  ele- 
gant and  learned  readers,  obtained  at  the  time  little  notice  from  the  public  at  large,  and  is  already  almost 
forgotten.  For  the  causes  of  this  failure,  it  appears  needless  to  look  further  than  the  last  sentence  we 
have  been  quoting  from  the  letters  of  the  author  of  the  more  successful  Beppo.  Whistlecraft  had  the 
verse:  it  had  also  the  humor,  the  wit,  and  even  the  poetry  of  the  Italian  model;  but  it  wanted  the  life 
of  actual  manners,  and  the  strength  of  stirring  passions.  Mr.  Frere  had  forgot,  or  was,  with  all  his 
genius,  to  profit  by  remembering,  that  the  poets,  whose  unfit  style  he  was  adopting,  always  made  their 
style  appear  a  secondary  matter.  They  never  failed  to  embroider  their  merriment  on  the  texture  of  a 
really  interesting  story.  Byron  perceived  this;  and  avoiding  his  immediate  master's  one  fatal  error,  and 
at  least  equalling  him  in  the  excellences  which  he  did  display,  engaged  at  once  the  sympathy  of  readers 
of  every  class,  and  became  substantially  the  founder  of  a  new  species  of  English  poetry. 


'TIS  known,  at  least  it  should  be,  that  through- 
out 
All  countries  of  the  Catholic  persuasion, 
Some  weeks  before  Shrove  Tuesday  comes 
about, 
The  people  take  their  fill  of  recreation, 
And  buy  repentance,  ere  they  grow  devout, 
However    high    their   rank,   or    low    their 
station, 
With    fiddling,    feasting,    dancing,   drinking, 

masquing, 
And  other  things  which  may  be  had  for  asking. 

II. 

The  moment  night  with  dusky  mantle  covers 
The  skies  (and  the  more  duskily  the  better), 

The   time   less   liked  by  husbands   than   by 
lovers 
Begins,  and  prudery  flings  aside  her  fetter ; 

And  gaiety  on  restless  tiptoe  hovers, 
Giggling  with  all  the  gallants  who  beset  her ; 

And  there  are  songs  and  quavers,  roaring, 
humming, 

Guitars,  and  every  other  sort  of  strumming. 

III. 

And  there  are  dresses  splendid,  but  fantastical, 
Masks  of  all  times  and  nations,  Turks  and 
Jews, 
And  harlequins  and  clowns,  with  feats  gym- 
nastical, 
Greeks,  Romans,  Yankee-doodles,  and  Hin- 
doos; 
All  kinds  of  dress,  except  the  ecclesiastical, 

All  people,  as  their  fancies  hit,  may  choose, 
Bui   no   one   in   these   parts    may   quiz    the 

clergy,  — 
Therefore    take    heed,   ye    Freethinkers!     I 
charge  ye. 


IV. 

You'd  better  walk  about  begirt  with  briars, 
Instead  of  coat  and  smallclothes,  than  put 
on 
A  single  stitch  reflecting  upon  friars, 

Although  you  swore  it  only  was  in  fun ; 
They'd  haul  you  o'er  the  coals,  and  stir  the 
fires 
Of  Phlegethon  with  every  mother's  son, 
Nor  say  one  mass  to  cool  the  caldron's  bubble 
That  boiled  your  bones,  unless  you  paid  them 
double. 

V. 

But  saving  this,  you  may  put  on  whate'er 
You  like  by  way  of  doublet,  cape,  or  cloak, 

Such  as  in  Monmouth-street,  or  in  Rag  Fair, 
Would  rig  you  out  in  seriousness  or  joke ; 

And  even  in  Italy  such  places  are, 

With  prettier  name  in  softer  accents  spoke, 

For,  bating  Covent  Garden,  I  can  hit  on 

No  place  that's  called  "Piazza"   in   Great 
Britain. 

VI. 

This  feast  is  named  the  Carnival,!  which  being 

Interpreted,  implies  "  farewell  to  flesh  :  " 
So  called,  because  the  name  and  thing  agree- 
ing, 
Through  Lent  they  live  on  fish  both  salt 
and  fresh. 


<["The  Carnival,"  says  Mr.- Rose,  "though  it 
is  gayer  or  duller,  according  to  the  genius  of  the 
nations  which  celebrate  it,  is,  in  its  general  char- 
acter, nearly  the  same  all  over  the  peninsula.  The 
beginning  is  like  any  other  season;  towards  the 
middle  you  begin  to  meet  masques  and  murmurs  in 
sunshine:  in  the  last  fifteen  days  the  plot  thickens; 
and  during  the  three  last  all  is  hurly-burly.  The 
shops  are  shut,  all  business  is  at  a  stnnd,  and  the 
drunken  cries  heard  at  night  afford  a  clear  proof  of 
the  pleasures  to  which  these  days  of  leisure  are 
dedicated."  —  Letters  Jrom  the  Nerth  of  ltaly.\ 


180 


BEPPO:    A    VENETIAN  STORY. 


But  why  they  usher  Lent  with  so  much  glee  in, 

Is  more  than  I  can  tell,  although  I  guess 
Tis  as  we  take  a  glass  with  friends  at  parting, 
In  the  stage-coach  or  packet,  just  at  starting. 


And  thus  they  bid  farewell  to  carnal  dishes, 
And  solid  meats,  and  highly  spiced  ragouts, 

To  live  for  forty  days  on  ill-dressed  fishes, 
Because  they  have  no  sauces  to  their  stews, 

A  thing  which   causes  many  "  poohs "  and 
"pishes," 
And  several  oaths  (which  would  not  suit  the 
Muse), 

From  travellers  accustomed  from  a  boy 

To  eat  their  salmon,  at  the  least,  with  soy ; 


And  therefore  humbly  I  would  recommend 

"  The  curious  in  fish-sauce,"  before   they 
cross 
The  sea,  to  bid  their  cook,  or  wife,  or  friend. 

Walk  or  ride  to  the  Strand,  and  buy  in  gross 
(Or  if  set  out  beforehand,  these  may  send 

By  any  means  least  liable  to  loss). 
Ketchup,  Soy,  Chili-vinegar,  and  Harvey, 
Or,  by  the  Lord !  a  Lent  will  well  nigh  starve 
ye; 

IX. 
That  is  to  say,  if  your  religion's  Roman, 

And  you  at  Rome  would  do  as  Romans  do, 
According  to  the  proverb,  —  although  no  man, 

If  foreign,  is  obliged  to  fast;  and  you, 
If  Protestant,  or  sickly,  or  a  woman, 

Would  rather  dine  in  sin  on  a  ragout  — 
Dine  and  be  d — d  !  I  don't  mean  to  be  coarse, 
But  that's  the  penalty,  to  say  no  worse. 

X. 

Of  all  the  places  where  the  Carnival 
Was  most  facetious  in  the  days  of  yore, 

For  dance,  and  song,  and  serenade,  and  ball, 
And  masque,  and  mime,  and  mystery,  and 
more 

Than  I  have  time  to  tell  now,  or  at  all, 
Venice'the  bell  from  every  city  bore, — 

And  at  the  moment  when  I  fix  my  story, 

That  sea-born  city  was  in  all  her  glory. 

XI. 

They've  pretty  faces  yet,  those  same  Venetians, 
Black  eyes,  arched  brows,  and  sweet  ex- 
pressions still ; 

Such  as  of  old  were  copied  from  the  Grecians, 
In  ancient  arts  by  moderns  mimicked  ill; 

And  like  so  many  Venuses  of  Titian's 

(The  best's  at  Florence  1  —  see  it,  if  ye  will,) 


1  ["  At  Florence  I  remained  but  a  day,  having  a 
hurry  for  Rome.  However,  I  went  to  the  two  gal- 
leries, from  which  one  returns  drunk  with  beauty; 
but  there  are  sculpture  and  painting,  which,  for  the 


They  look  when  leaning  over  the  balcony, 
Or  stepped  from  out  a  picture  by  Giorgione,* 


Whose  tints  are  truth  and  beauty  at  their  best* 
And  when  you  to  Manfrini's  palace  go,8 

That  picture  (howsoever  fine  the  rest) 
Is  loveliest  to  my  mind  of  all  the  show; 

It  may  perhaps  be  also  to  your  zest, 
And  that's  the  cause  I  rhyme  upon  it  so : 

'Tis  but  a  portrait  of  his  son,  and  wife, 

And  self;  but  such  a  woman!  love  in  life! 


Love  in  full  life  and  length,  not  love  ideal, 
No,  nor  ideal  beauty,  that  fine  name, 

But  something  better  still,  so  very  real, 
That  the  sweet  model  must  have  been  the 
same, 

A  thing  that  you  would  purchase,  beg,  or  steal, 
Wer't  not  impossible,  besides  a  shame : 

The  face  recalls  some  face,  as  'twere  with  pain, 

You  once  have  seen,  but  ne'er  will  see  again  ; 

XIV. 

One  of  those  forms  which  flit  by  us,  when  we 
Are  young,  and  fix  our  eyes  on  every  face ; 

And,  oh !  the  loveliness  at  times  we  see 
In  momentary  gliding,  the  soft  grace, 

The  youth,  the  bloom,  the  beauty  which  agree, 
In  many  a*hameless  being  we  retrace, 


first  time,  gave  me  an  idea  of  what  people  mean  by 
their  cant,  about  those  two  most  artificial  of  the 
arts.  What  struck  me  most  were,  —  the  mistress  of 
Raphael,  a  portrait;  the  mistress  of  Titian,  a  por- 
trait; a  Venus  of  Titian,  in  the  Medici  gallery - 
the  Venus;  Canova's  Venus,  also  in  the  other  gal- 
lery," etc.  —  Byron's  Letters,  1817.] 

2  ["  I  know  nothing  of  pictures  myself,  and  care 
almost  as  little;  but  to  me  there  are  none  like  the 
Venetian  —  above  all,  Giorgione.  I  remember  well 
his  judgment  of  Solomon,  in  the  Mariscalchi  gallery 
in  Bologna.  The  real  mother  is  beautiful,  exquis- 
itely beautiful."  —  Byron's  Letters,  1820.] 

3  [The  following  is  Byron's  account  of  his  visit 
to  this  palace,  in  April,  1817.  —  "  To-day,  I  have 
been  over  the  Manfrini  palace,  famous  for  its  pict- 
ures. What  struck  most  in  the  general  collection, 
was  the  extreme  resemblance  of  the  style  of  the 
female  faces  in  the  mass  of  pictures,  so  many  cen- 
turies or  generations  old,  to  those  you  see  and  meet 
every  day  among  the  existing  Italians.  The  Queen 
of  Cyprus  and  Giorgione's  wife,*  particularly  the 
latter,  are  Venetians  as  it  were  of  yesterday ;  the 
same  eyes  and  expression,  and,  to  my  mind,  there 
is  none  finer.  You  must  recollect,  however,  that  I 
know  nothing  of  painting,  and  that  I  detest  it,  un- 
less it  reminds  me  of  something  I  have  seen,  or 
think  it  possible  to  see."] 


*  [This  appears  to  be  an  incorrect  description  oi 
the  picture;  as,  according  to  Vasnri  and  others, 
Giorgione  never  was  married,  and  died  young.] 


BEPPO:    A    VENETIAN  STORY. 


181 


Whose  course  and  home  we  knew  not,  nor 

shall  know, 
Like  the  lost  Pleiad  J  seen  no  more  below. 

XV. 
I  said  that  like  a  picture  by  Giorgione 

Venetian  women  were,  and  so  they  are. 
Particularly  seen  from  a  balcony, 

(For  beauty's  sometimes  best  set  off  afar) 
And  there,  just  like  a  heroine  of  Goldoni, 

They  peep  from  out  the  blind,  or  o'er  the 
bar; 
And  truth  to  say,  they're  mostly  very  pretty, 
And  rather  like  to  show  it,  more's  the  pity ! 

XVI. 

For  glances  beget  ogles,  ogles  sighs, 
Sighs  wishes,  wishes  words,  and  words  a 
letter. 
Which  flies  on  wings  of  light-heeled  Mercuries, 
Who  do  such  things  because  they  know  no 
better, 
And  then,  God  knows,  what  mischief  may 
arise, 
WTien  love  links  two  young  people  in  one 
fetter, 
Vile  assignations,  and  adulterous  beds, 
Elopements,  broken  vows,  and  hearts,  and 
heads. 

XVII. 
Shakspeare  described  the  sex  in  Desdemona 

As  very*  fair,  but  yet  suspect  in  fame,2 
And  to  this  day  from  Venice  to  Verona 

Such  matters  may  be  probably  the  same, 
Except  that  since    those    times   was    never 
known  a 
Husband  whom  mere  suspicion  could  in- 
flame 
To  suffocate  a  wife  no  more  than  twenty, 
Because  she  had  a  "  cavalier  servente." 

XVIII. 

Their  jealousy  (if  they  are  ever  jealous) 
Is  of  a  fair  complexion  altogether, 

Not  like  that  sooty  devil  of  Othello's 
Which  smothers  women  in  a  bed  of  feather, 

But  worthier  of  these  much  more  jolly  fellows, 
When  weary  of  the  matrimonial  tether 

His  head  for  such  a  wife  no  mortal  bothers, 

But  take  at  once  another,  or  another's.3 


1  "  Quae  septem  dici  sex  taraen  esse  solent."  — 
Ovid. 

["  Look  to't: 
In  Venice  they  do  let  heaven  see  the  pranks 
They  dare  not  show  their  husbands;  their  best 

conscience 
Is  —  not  to  leave  undone,  but  keep  unknown." 
Othello.] 
3  f "  Jealousy  is  not  the  order  of  the  day  in  Venice, 
and  daggers  are  out  of  fashion,  while  duels  on  love 
matters    are   unknown  —  at    least,  with    the    hus- 
bands." —  Byron's  Letters.} 


XIX. 

Didst  ever  see  a  Gondola  ?     For  fear 

You  should  not,  I'll  describe  it  you  exactly: 
"Tis  a  long  covered  boat  that's  common  here, 
Carved  at  the  prow,  built  lightly,  but  com- 
pactly ; 
Rowed  by  two  rowers,  each   called  "  Gon- 
dolier," 
It  glides  aiong  the  water  looking  blackly, 
Just  like  a  coffin  clapt  in  a  canoe, 
Where  none  can  make  out  what  you  say  o£ 
do. 

XX. 

And  up  and  down  the  long  canals  they  go, 
And  under  the  Rialto  4  shoot  along,' 

By  night  and  day,  all  paces,  swift  or  slow, 
And  round  the  theatres,  a  sable  throng, 

They  wait  in  their  dusk  livery  of  woe, — 
But  not  to  them  do  woful  things  belong, 

For  sometimes  they  contain  a  deal  of  fun, 

Like  mourning  coaches  when  the  funeral's 
done. 

XXI. 

But  to  my  story. —  'Twas  some  years  ago, 
It  may  be  thirty,  forty,  more  or  less, 

The  carnival  was  at  its  height,  and  so 
Were  all  kinds  of  buffoonery  and  dress ; 

A  certain  lady  went  to  see  the  show, 

Her  real  name  I  know  not,  nor  can  guess, 

And  so  we'll  call  her  Laura,  if  you  please, 

Because  it  slips  into  my  verse  with  ease. 


She  was  not  old,  nor  young,  nor  at  the  years 
Which  certain  people  call  a  "  certain  age" 

Which  yet  the  most  uncertain  age  appears, 
Because  I  never  heard,  nor  could  engage 

A  person  yet  by  prayers,  or  bribes,  or  tears, 
To  name,   define   by  speech,  or  write  on 
page, 

The  period  meant  precisely  by  that  word, — 

Which  surely  is  exceedingly  absurd. 


Laura  was  blooming  still,  had  made  the  best 
Of  time,  and  time  returned  the  compliment, 

And  treated  her  genteelly,  so  that,  dressed, 
She   looked  extremely  well  where'er  she 
went ; 

A  pretty  woman  is  a  welcome  guest, 
And  Laura's  brow  a  frown  had  rarely  bent, 


„  4  [An  English  abbreviation.  Rialto  is  the  name,, 
not  of  the  bridge,  but  of  the  island  from  which  it  is 
called;  and  the  Venetians  say,  il  ponte  di  Rialto,  as 
we  say  Westminster  Bridge.  In  that  island  is  the 
Exchange.  It  was  there  that  the  Christian  held 
discourse  with  the  Jew;  and  Shylock  refers  to  il, 
when  he  says, 
"  Signor  Antonio,  many  a  time  and  oft, 
In  the  Rialto,  you  have  rated  me."  —  Rogers.} 


182 


BEPPO:    A    VENETIAN  STORY. 


Indeed  she  shone  all  smiles,  and  seemed  to 

flatter 
Mankind  with  her  black  eyes  for  looking  at 

her. 

XXIV. 

She  was  a  married  woman ;  'tis  convenient, 
Because  in  Christian  countries  'tis  a  rule 

To  view  their  little  slips  with  eyes  more  leni- 
ent; 
Whereas  if  single  ladies  play  the  fool, 

(  Unless  within  the  period  intervenient 
A  well-timed  wedding  makes   the  scandal 
cool ) 

I  don't  know  how  they  ever  can  get  over  it, 

Except  they  manage  never  to  discover  it. 


Her  husband  sailed  upon  the  Adriatic, 

And  made  some  voyages,  too,  in  other  seas, 
And  when  he  lay  in  quarantine  for  pratique 
( A  forty  days'  precaution  'gainst  disease), 
His  wife  would  mount,  at  times,  her  highest 
attic, 
For  thence  she  could  discern  the  ship  with 
ease: 
He  was  a  merchant  trading  to  Aleppo, 
His   name    Giuseppe,  called    more    briefly, 
Beppo. 

XXVI. 

He  was  a  man  as  dusky  as  a  Spaniard, 
Sunburnt  with  travel,  yet  a  portly  figure  ; 

Though  colored,  as  it  were,  within  a  tanyard, 
He  was  a  person  both  of  sense  and  vigor  — 

A  better  seaman  neyer  yet  did  man  yard  : 
And  she,  although  her  manner  showed  no 
rigor, 

Was  deemed  a  woman  of  the  strictest  princi- 
ple, 

So  much  as  to  be  thought  almost  invincible. 

XXVII. 

But  several  years  elapsed  since  they  had  met ; 
Some  people  thought  the  ship  was  lost,  and 
some 
That  he  had  somehow  blundered  into  debt, 
And   did   not   like  the  thought  of  steering 
home; 
And  there  were  several  offered  any  bet, 
Or  that  he  would,  or  that  he  would  not 
come, 
For  most  men  (till  by  losing  rendered  sager) 
Will  back  their  own  opinions  with  a  wager. 

XXVIII. 

Tis  said  that  their  last  parting  was  pathetic, 
As  partings  often  are,  or  ought  to  be, 

And  their  presentiment  was  quite  prophetic 
That  they  should  never  more  each  other 
see, 


(A  sort  of  morbid  feeling,  half  poetic, 
Which    I    have   known   occur   in    two   01 

three,) 
When  kneeling  on  the  shore  upon  her  sad 

knee. 
He  left  this  Adriatic  Ariadne. 


And  Laura  waited  long,  and  wept  a  little, 
And  thought  of  wearing  weeds,  as  well  she 
might ; 
She  almost  lost  all  appetite  for  victual, 
And  could  not  sleep  with   ease  alone  at 
night ; 
She  deemed  the  window-frames  and  shutters 
brittle 
Against  a  daring  housebreaker  or  sprite, 
And  so  she  thought  it  prudent  to  connect  her 
With  a  vice-husband,  chiefly  to  protect  her. 


She  chose,  (and  what  is  there  they  will  not 
choose, 
If  only  you  will  but  oppose  their  choice  ?) 
Till    Beppo    should    return   from    his    long 
cruise, 
And  bid  once  more  her  faithful  heart  re- 
joice, 
A  man  some  women  like,  and  yet  abuse  — 
A  coxcomb  was  he  by  the  public  voice ; 
A  Count  of 'wealth,   they  said,   as   well  as 

quality, 
And  in  his  pleasures  of  great  liberality.  1 


And  then  he  was  a  Count,  and  then  he  knew 
Music,  and  dancing,  fiddling,  French  and 
Tuscan ; 

The  last  not  easy,  be  it  known  to  you, 
For  few  Italians  speak  the  right  Etruscan. 

He  was  a  critic  upon  operas,  too, 
And  knew  all  niceties  of  the  sock  and  bus- 
kin ; 

And  no  Venetian  audience  could  endure  a 

Song,  scene,  or  air,  when  he  cried  "  seccatura ! " 

XXXII. 

His  " bravo"  was  decisive,  for  that  sound 
Hushed  "Academie"  sighed  in  silent  awe; 

The  fiddlers  trembled  as  he  looked  around, 
For  fear  of  some  false  note's  detected  flaw. 

The  "prima  donna's"  tuneful   heart  would 
bound, 
Dreading  the  deep  damnation  of  his  "  bah  !  " 

Soprano,  basso,  even  the  contra-alto, 

Wished  him  five  fathom  under  the  Rialto. 


»  [MS.— 
"  A  Count  of  wealth  inferior  to  his  quality, 
Which  somewhat  limited  his  liberality." 


BEPPO:    A    VENETIAN  STORY. 


183 


XXXIII. 
He  patronized  the  Improvisator!, 
Nay,    could    himself    extemporize     some 
stanzas, 
Wrote  rhymes,  sang  songs,  could  also  tell  a 
story, 
Sold  pictures,  and  was  skilful  in  the  dance 
as 
Italians  can  be,  though  in  this  their  glory 
Must  surely  yield  the  palm  to  that  which 
Fiance  has ; 
In  short,  he  was  a  perfect  cavaliero, 
And  to  his  very  valet  seemed  a  hero. 

xxxiv. 
Then  he  was  faithful  too,  as  well  as  amorous  ; 

So  that  no  sort  of  female  could  complain, 
Although  they're  now  and  then  a  little  clamor- 
ous, 
He  never  put  the  pretty  souls  in  pain ; 
His    heart  was  one  of   those  which    most 
enamour  us, 
Wax  to  receive,  and  marble  to  retain. 
He  was  a  lover  of  the  good  old  school, 
Who  still  become  more  constant  as  they  cool. 

XXXV. 

No  wonder  such    accomplishments   should 
turn 

A  female  head,  however  sage  and  steady  — 
With  scarce  a  hope  that  Beppo  could  return, 

In  law  he  was  almost  as  good  as  dead,  he 
Nor  sent,  nor  wrote,  nor  showed  the   least 
concern, 

And  she  had  waited  several  years  already ; 
And  really  if  a  man  won't  let  us  know 
That  he's  alive,  he's  dead,  or  should  be  so. 

xxxvi. 
Besides,  within  the  Alps,  to  every  woman, 

(Although,   God   knows,   it   is   a  grievous 
sin,) 
'Tis,  I  may  say,. permitted  to  have  two  men; 

I  can't  tell  who  first  brought  the  custom  in, 
But  "  Cavalier  Serventes  "  are  quite  common, 

And  no  one  notices  nor  cares  a  pin ; 
And  we  may  call  this  (not  to  say  the  worst) 
A  second  marriage  which  corrupts  Ihejirst. 

xxxv  1 1. 
The  word  was  formerly  a  "  Cicisbeo," 

But  that  is  now  grown  vulgar  and  indecent; 
The  Spaniards  call  the  person  a  "Cortejo"  1 
For  the  same  mode  subsists  in  Spain,  though 
recent ; 
In  short  it  reaches  from  the  Po  to  Teio, 


1  Cortejo  is  pronounced  Corte^o,  with  an  aspirate, 
according  to  the  Arabesque  guttural.  It  means 
what  there  is  as  yet  no  precise  name  for  in  England, 
though  the  practice  is  as  common  as  in  any  tramon- 
*ane  country  whatever. 


And  may  perhaps  at  last  be  o'er  the  sea 

sent. 
But  Heaven  preserve  Old  England  from  such 

courses ! 
Or  what  becomes  of  damage  and  dirorces  ? 

xxxvm. 
However,  I  still  think,  with  all  due  deference 

To  the  fair  single  part  of  the  Creation, 
That  married  ladies  should  preserve  the  pre* 
ference 

In  tete-a-tete  or  general  conversation  — 
And  this  I  say  without  peculiar  reference 

To  England,  France,  or  any  other  nation  — 
Because  they  know  the  world,  and  are  at  ease, 
And  being  natural,  naturally  please. 

XXXIX. 

'Tis  true  your  budding  Miss  is  very  charm- 
ing. 
But  shy  and  awkward  at  first  coming  out, 
So  much  alarmed,  that  she  is  quite  alarming, 
All  Giggle,  Blush;  half  Pertness,  and  half 
Pout ; 
And    glancing   at  Mamma,  for  fear  there's 
harm  in 
What  you,  she,  it,  or  they,  may  be  about, 
The  Nursery  still  lisps  out  in  all  they  utter- 
Besides,  they  always  smell  of  bread  and  but- 
ter. 

XL. 

But  "  Cavalier  Servente  "  is  the  phrase 
Used  in  politest  circles  to  express 

This  supernumerary  slave,  who  stays 
Close  to  the  lady  as  a  part  of  dress, 

Her  word  the  only  law  which  he  obeys. 
He  is  no  sinecure,  as  you  may  guess; 

Coach,  servants,  gondola,  he  goes  to  call, 

And  carries  fan  and  tippet,  gloves  and  shawl. 


With  all  its  sinful  doings,  I  must  say, 
1  hat  Italy's  a  pleasant  place  to  me, 

Who  love  to  see  the  Sun  shine  every  day, 
And  vines  (not  nailed  to  walls)  from  tree  tc 
tree 

Festooned,  much  like  the   back   scene  of  3 
play. 
Or  melodrame  which  people  flock  to  see, 

When  the  first  act  is  ended  by  a  dance 

In  vineyards  copied  from  the  south  of  France. 

XLII. 
I  like  on  Autumn  evenings  to  ride  out, 
Without  being  forced  to  bid  my  groom  be 
sure 
My  cloak  is  round  his  middle  strapped  about, 
Because  the  skies  are  not  the  most  secure; 
I  know  too  that,  if  stopped  upon  my  rout, 
Where  the  green  alleys  windingly  allure, 


i84 


BEPPO:    A    VENETIAN  STORY. 


Reeling  with  grapes  red  wagons   choke  the 

way,  — 
In  England  'twould  be  dung,  dust,  or  a  dray. 

XLIII. 

I  also  like  to  dine  on  becaficas, 

To  see  the  Sun  set,  sure  he'll  rise  to-morrow, 
Not  through  a  misty  morning  twinkling  weak 
as 
A  drunken  man's  dead  eye  in  maudlin  sor- 
row, 
But  with  all  Heaven  f  himself;  that  day  will 
break  as 
Beauteous  as  cloudless,  nor  be  forced  to 
borrow 
That  sort  of  farthing  candlelight  which  glim- 
mers 
While  reeking  London's  smoky  caldron  sim- 
mers. 

XLIV. 
1  love  the  language,  that  soft  bastard  Latin, 
Which   melts   like   kisses  from    a    female 
mouth, 
And  sounds  as  if  it  should  be  writ  on  satin, 
With  syllables  which  breathe  of  the  sweet 
South, 
And  gentle  liquids  gliding  all  so  pat  in, 

That  not  a  single  accent  seems  uncouth. 
Like  our  harsh  northern  whistling,  grunting 

guttural, 
Which  we're  obliged  to  hiss,  and  spit,  and 
sputter  all. 

XLV. 

I  like  the  women  too  (forgive  my  folly), 
From    the    rich   peasant   cheek   of  ruddy 
bronze,1 

And  large  black  eyes  that  flash  on  you  a  volley 
Of  rays  that  say  a  thousand  things  at  once, 

To  the  high  dama's  brow,  more  melancholy, 
But  clear,  and  with  a  wild  and  liquid  glance, 

Heart  on  her  lips,  and  soul  within  her  eyes, 

Soft  as  her  clime,'2  and  sunny  as  her  skies. 

XLVI. 

Eve  of  the  land  which  still  is  Paradise! 

Italian  beauty !  didst  thou  not  inspire 
Rtphael,3  who  died  in  thy  embrace,  and  vies 

With  all  we  know  of  Heaven,  or  can  desire, 
In  what  he  hath  bequeathed  us?  —  in  what 
guise, 

Though  Lashing  from  the  fervor  of  the  lyre, 
Would  Words  describe  thy  past  and  present 

glow, 
While  yet  Canova  can  create  below  ?  4 


1  [MS.  —  "  From  the  tall  peasant  with  her  ruddy 
bronze."] 

2  [MS.  — "Like   her  own   clime,  all    sun,   and 
bloom    and  skies."] 

3  For  the   received    accounts    of   the    cause    of 
Raphael's  death,  see  his  lives. 

4  (In  talking  thus,  the  writer,  more  especially 

Of  women,  would  be  understood  to  say, 


"  England !  with  all  thy  faults  I  love  thee  still," 
I  said  at  Calais,  and  have  not  forgot  it ; 

I  like  to  speak  and  lucubrate  my  fill ; 

I  like  the  government  (but  that  is  not  it)  ; 

I  like  the  freedom  of  the  press  and  quill ; 
I  like  the  Habeas  Corpus  (when  we've  gol 

it); 

I  like  a  parliamentary'  debate, 
Particularly  when  'tis  not  too  late ; 

XI.VIII. 

I  like  the  taxes,  when  they're  not  too  many; 

I  like  a  sea-coal  fire,  when  not  too  dear; 
I  like  a  beef-steak,  too,  as  well  as  any ; 

Have  no  objection  to  a  pot  of  beer; 
I  like  the  weather,  when  it  is  not  rainy, 

That  is,  I  like  two  months  of  every  year. 
And  so  God  save  the  Regent,  Church,  and 

King! 
Which  means  that  I  like  all  and  every  thing. 


Our  standing  army,  and. disbanded  seamen, 
Poor's  rate,  Reform,  my  own,  the  nation's 
debt, 

Our  little  riots  just  to  show  we  are  free  men, 
Our  trifling  bankruptcies  in  the  Gazette, 

Our  cloudy  climate,  and  our  chilly  women, 
All  these  I  can  forgive,  and  those  forget, 

And  greatly  \»enerate  our  recent  glories, 

And  wish  they  were  not  owing  to  the  Tories. 


But  to  my  tale  of  Laura,  —  for  I  find 
Digression  is  a  sin,  that  by  degrees 

Becomes  exceeding  tedious  to  the  mind, 
And,  therefore,   may   the   reader   too   dis- 
please — 

The  gentle  reader,  who  may  wax  unkind, 
And  caring  little  for  the  author's  ease, 

Insist  on  knowing  what  he  means,  a  hard 

And  hapless  situation  for  a  bard. 

LI. 
Oh  that  I  had  the  art  of  easy  writing 

What  should  be  easy  reading !  could  I  scale 
Parnassus,  where  the  Muses  sit  inditing 

Those  pretty  poems  never  known  to  fail, 
How  quickly  would  I  print  (the  world  delight 

A  Grecian,  Syrian,  or  Assyrian  tale ; 


He  speaks  as  a  spectator,  not  officially, 
And  always,  reader,  in  a  modest  way; 
Perhaps,  too,  in  no  very  great  degree  shall  he 

Appear  to  have  offended  in  this  lay, 
Since,  as  all  know,  without  the  sex,  our  son- 
nets 
Would  seem  unfinished,  like  their  iinrrimmed 
bonnets.) 

(Signed)    Printer's  D&vu. 


BEPPO:    A    VENETIAN  STORY. 


183 


And  sell  you,  mixed  with  western  sentimen- 

talism, 
Some  samples  of  the  finest  Orientalism. 


But  I  am  but  a  nameless  sort  of  person, 
(A  broken  Dandy  lately  on  my  travels) 

And  take  for  rhyme,  to  hook  my  rambling 
verse  on, 
The  first  that  Walker's  Lexicon  unravels, 

And  when  I  can't  find  that,  I  put  a  worse  on, 
Not  caring  as  I  ought  for  critics'  cavils ; 

I've  half  a  mind  to  tumble  down  to  prose, 

But  verse  is  more  in  fashion —  so  here  goes. 


The    Count    and    Laura    made    their    new 
arrangement, 
Which  lasted,  as  arrangements  sometimes 
do, 
For  half  a  dozen  years  without  estrangement ; 

They  had  their  little  differences,  too  ; 
Those  jealous  whiffs,  which  never  any  change 
meant ; 
In  such  affairs  there  probably  are  few 
Who  have  not  had  this  pouting  sort  of  squab- 
ble, 
From  sinners  of  high  station  to  the  rabble. 

LIV. 

But  on  the  whole,  they  were  a  happy  pair, 
As   happy  as   unlawful   love   could   make 
them, 
The  gentleman  was  fond,  the  lady  fair, 

Their  chains  so  slight,  'twas  not  worth  while 
to  break  them : 
The  world  beheld  them  with  indulgent  air ; 
The  pious  only  wished   "the   devil    take 
them !  " 
He  took  them  not ;  he  very  often  waits, 
And  leaves  old  sinners  to  be  young  ones' 
baits. 

LV. 

But  they  were  young :  Oh !  what  without  our 
youth 
Would  love  be!     What  would  youth  be 
without  love ! 
Youth  lends  it  joy,  and  sweetness,  vigor,  truth, 
Heart,  soul,  and  all  that  seems  as  from 
above ; 
But,  languishing  with  years,  it  grows  uncouth  — 
One  of  few  things  experience  don't  improve, 
Which  is,  perhaps,  the  reason  why  old  fellows 
Are  always  so  preposterously  jealous. 

LVI. 
It  was  the  Carnival,  as  I  have  said 

Some  six  and  thirty  stanzas  back,  and 
Laura  the  usual  preparations  made, 
Which  you  do  when  your  mind's  made  up 
to  go 


To-night  to  Mrs.  Boehm's  masquerade, 

Spectator,  or  partaker  in  the  show ; 
The  only  difference  known  between  the  cases 
Is — here,  we  have  six  weeks  of  "varnished 
faces." 

LVII. 

Laura,  when  dressed,  was  (as  I  sang  before) 

A  pretty  woman  as  was  ever  seen, 
Fresh  as  the  Angel  o'er  a  new  inn  door, 

Or  frontispiece  of  a  new  Magazine, 
With  all  the  fashions  which  the  last  month 
wore, 
Colored,  and  silver  paper  leaved  between 
That  and  the  title-page,  for  fear  the  press 
Should  soil  with  parts  of  speech  the  parts  of 
dress. 

LVIII. 

They  went  to  the  Ridotto  ;  —  'tis  a  hall 
Where  people  dance,  and  sup,  and  dance 
again ; 
Its  proper  name,  perhaps,  were  a  masqued 
ball, 
But  that's  of  no  importance  to  my  strain; 
'Tis  (on  a  smaller  scale)  like  our  Vauxhall, 

Excepting  that  it  can't  be  spoilt  by  rain : 
The    company   is    "  mixed "    (the   phrase   I 

quote  is 
As  much  as  saying,  they're  below  your  notice) ; 

LIX. 

For  a  "  mixed  company  "  implies  that,  save 
Yourself  and  friends,  and  half  a  hundred 
more, 
Whom    you    may  bow   to   without   looking 
grave, 
The  rest  are  but  a  vulgar  set,  the  bore 
Of  public  places,  where  they  basely  brave 

The  fashionable  stare  of  twenty  score 
Of  well-bred  persons,  called  "  the    World; " 

but  I, 
Although  I  know  them,  really  don't  know  why. 

LX. 

This  is  the  case  in  England ;  at  least  was 
During  the  dynasty  of  Dandies,1  now 

Perchance  succeeded  by  some  other  class 
Of  imitated  imitators:  —  how 

Irreparably  soon  decline,  alas  ! 
The  demagogues  of  fashion:  all  below 

Is  frail ;  how  easily  the  world  is  lost 

By  love,  or  war,  and  now  and  then  by  frost ! 

1  ["  I  liked  the  Dandies:  they  were  always  very 
civil  to  me;  though,  in  general,  they  disliked  liter- 
ary people,  and  persecuted  and  mystified  Madame 
De  Stael,  Lewis,  Horace  Twiss,  and  the  like.  The 
truth  is,  that  though  I  gave  up  the  business  early, 
I  had  a  tinge  of  Dandyism  in  my  minority,  and 
probably  retained  enough  of  it  to  conciliate  the 
great  ones,  at  foiir  and  twenty."  — Byron's  Diarf, 


186 


BEPPO:    A    VENETIAN  STORY. 


LXI. 

Crushed  was  Napoleon  by  the  northern  Thor, 
Who  knocked  his  army  down  with  icy  ham- 
mer, 
Stopped  by  the  elements}  like  a  whaler,  or 
A   blundering  novice   in   his   new  French 
grammar, 
jood  cause  had  he  to  doubt  the  chance  of 
war, 
And  as  for  Fortune — but  I  dare  not  d — n  her 
Because,  were  I  to  ponder  to  infinity, 
The  more  I  should  believe  in  her  divinity.- 

LXII. 

She  rules  the  present,  past,  and  all  to  be  yet, 
She  gives  us   luck   in    lotteries,  love,  and 
marriage ; 
i  cannot  say  that  she's  done  much  for  me  yet ; 
Not  that  i  mean  her  bounties  to  disparage, 
We've  not  yet  closed  accounts,  and  we  shall 
see  yet 
How  much  she'll   make   amends  for  past 
miscarriage ; 
Meantime  the  goddess  1*11  no  more  importune, 
Unless  to  thank  her  when  she's  made  my  for- 
tune. 

LXIII. 

To  turn,  —  and  to  return; — the  devil  take  it! 

This  story  slips  forever  through  my  fingers, 
Because,  just  as  the  stanza  likes  to  make  it, 

It  needs  must  be  —  and  so  it  rather  lingers  ; 
This  form  of  verse  began,  I  can't  well  break  it, 

But  must  keep  time  and  tune  like  public 
singers ; 
But  if  I  once  get  through  my  present  measure, 
I'll  take  another  when  I'm  next  at  leisure. 

LXIV. 

They  went  to  the  Ridotto  ('tis  a  place 

To  which  I  mean  to  go  myself  to-morrow,3 
Just  to  divert  my  thoughts  a  little  space, 


1  ["  When  Brummell  was  obliged  to  retire  to 
France,  he  knew  no  French,  and  having  obtained  a 
grammar  for  the  purpose  of  study,  our  friend  Scrope 
Davies  was  asked  what  progress  Brummell  had 
made  in  French:  he  responded,  'that  Brummell 
had  been  stopped,  like  Bonaparte  in  Russia,  by  the 
elements.'  I  have  put  this  pun  into  Beppo,  which 
is  '  a  fair  exchange  and  no  robbery ;  '  for  Scrope 
made  his  fortune  at  several  dinners  (as  he  owned 
himself),  by  repeating  occasionally,  as  his  own,  some 
of  the  buffooneries  with  which  I  had  encountered 
him  in  the  morning."  —  Byron's  Diary,  1821.] 

2  ["  Like  Sylla,  I  have  always  believed  that  all 
things  depend  upon  Fortune,  and  nothing  upon  our- 
selves. I  am  not  aware  of  any  one  thought  or 
action,  worthy  of  being  called  good  to  myself  or 
others,  which  is  not  to  be  attributed  to  the  good 
goddess  —  Fortune!  "  —  Byron's  Diary,  1821.] 

3  [In  the  margin  of  the  original  MS.  Byron  has 
Written  —  "Jamuuy  19th,  1818.  To-morrow  will  be  a 
Sunday,  and  full  KidoUO."J 


Because  I'm  rather  hippish,  and  may  borrow 
Some  spirits,  guessing  at  what  kind  of  face 

May  lurk  beneath  each  mask ;  and  as  my 
sorrow 
Slackens  its  pace  sometimes,  I'll  make,  or  find 
Something  shall  leave  it  half  an  hour  Ochind) 

LXV. 

Now  Laura  moves  along  the  joyous  crowd, 
Smiles  in  her  eyes,  and  simpers  on  her  lips  : 

To  some  she  whispers,  other  speaks  aloud ; 
To  some  she  curtsies,  and  to  some  she  dips. 

Complains   of  warmth,   and   this   complain', 
avowed, 
Her  lover  brings  the  lemonade,  she  sips ; 

She  then  surveys,  condemns,  but  pities  still 

Her  dearest  friends  for  being  dressed  so  ill. 


One  has  false  curls,  another  too  much  paint, 
A  third  —  where  did  she  buy  that  frightful 
turban  ? 
A   fourth's  so  pale  she  fears  she's  going   to 
faint, 
A    fifth's    look's    vulgar,    dowdyish,    and 
suburban, 
A  sixth's  white  silk  has  got  a  yellow  taint, 
A  seventh's  thin  muslin  surely  will  be  her 
bane, 
And  lo!   an  eighth    appears,  —  "I'll  see  no 

more!"     f 
For  fear,  like  Banquo's  kings,  they  reach  a 
score. 

LXVII. 

Meantime,  while  she  was  thus  at  others  gazing, 
Others  were  levelling  their  looks  at  her; 

She  heard  the  men's  half-whispered  mode  o! 
praising, 
And,  till  'twas  done,  determined  not  to  stir ; 

The  women  only  thought  it  quite  amazing 
That,  at  her  time  of  life,  so  many  were 

Admirers  still,  —  but  men  are  so  debased, 

Those  brazen  creatures  always  suit  their  taste. 

LXVIII. 

For  my  part,  now,  I  ne'er  could  understand 
Why  naughty  women  —  but  I  won't  discuss 

A  thing  which  is  a  scandal  to  the  land, 
I  only  don't  see  why  it  should  be  thus ; 

And  if  I  were  but  in  a  gown  and  band, 
Just  to  entitle  me  to  make  a  fuss, 

I'd  preach  on  this  till  Wilberforce  and  Romillv 

Should  quote  in  their  next  speeches  from  my 
homily. 

LXIX. 

While  Laura  thus  was  seen  and  seeing,  smil- 
ing, 
Talking,  she  knew  not  why  and  cared  no' 
what, 

So  that  her  female  friends,  with  envy  broilina 


BEPPO:    A    VENETIAN  STORY. 


1S7 


Beheld  her  airs  and  triumph,  and  all  that ; 
And  well-dressed  males  still  kept  before  her 
filing, 
And  passing  bowed  and  mingled  with  her 
chat; 
More  than  the  rest  one  person  seemed  to  stare 
With  pertinacity  that's  rather  rare. 


He  was  a  Turk,  the  color  of  mahogany; 

And  Laura  saw  him,  and  at  first  was  glad, 
Because  the  Turks  so  much  admire  philogyny, 
Although  their  usage  of  their  wives  is  sad ; 
'Tis  said  they  use  no  better  than  a  dog  any 
Poor  woman,  whom   they  purchase  like  a 
pad : 
They  have  a  number,  though  they  ne'er  ex- 
hibit 'em, 
Four  wives  by  law,  and  concubines  "  ad  libi- 
tum." 

LXXI. 

They  lock  them  up,  and  veil,  and  guard  them 
daily, 
They  scarcely  can  behold  their  male  rela- 
tions, 
So  that  their  moments  do  not  pass  so  gaily 
As  is  supposed  the  case  with  northern  na- 
tions ; 
Confinement,  too,  must  make  them  look  quite 
palely ; 
And  as  the  Turks  abhor  long  conversations, 
Their  days  are  either  passed  in  doing  nothing, 
Or  bathing,  nursing,  making  love,  and  cloth- 
ing. 

LXXII. 
They  cannot  read,  and  so  don't  lisp  in  criti- 
cism ; 
Nor  write,  and  so  they  don't  affect  the  muse ; 
Were  never  caught  in  epigram  or  witticism, 
Have    no    romances,   sermons,   plays,   re- 
views, — 
In  harams  learning  soon  would  make  a  pretty 
schism ! 
But  luckily  these  beauties  are  no  "  Blues," 
No  bustling  Botherbys  have  they  to  show  'em 
"  That   charming  passage   in    the    last   new 
poem." 

LXXIII. 
No  solemn,  antique  gentleman  of  rhyme, 

Who  having  angled  all  his  life  for  fame, 
And  getting  but  a  nibble  at  a  time, 

Still  fussily  keeps  fishing  on,  the  same 
Small  "  Triton  of  the  minnows,"  the  sublime 

Of  mediocrity,  the  furious  tame, 
The  echo's  echo,  usher  of  the  school 
Of  female  wits,  boy  bards  —  in  short,  a  fool ! 

LXXIV. 

A  stalking  oracle  of  awful  phrase, 

The   approving   "  Good!"    (by  no   means 
GOOD  in  law) 


Humming  like  flies  around  the  newest  blaze, 

The  bluest  of  bluebottles  you  e'er  saw, 
Teasing  with  blame,  excruciating  with  praise, 

Gorging  the  little  fame  he  gets  all  raw, 
Translating  tongues  he   knows  not  even  by 

letter, 
And  sweating  plays  so  middling,  bad  were 
better. 

LXXV. 
One  hates  an  author  that's  all  author,  fellows 

In  foolscap  uniforms  turned  up  with  ink, 
So  very  anxious,  clever,  fine,  and  jealous, 
One  don't  know  what  to  say  to  them,  or 
think, 
Unless  to  puff  them  with  a  pair  of  bellows ; 
Of  coxcombry's  worst  coxcombs  e'en  the 
pink 
Are  preferable  to  these  shreds  of  paper, 
These  unquenched  snuffings  of  the  midnight 
taper. 

LXXVI. 

Of  these  same  we  see  several,  and  of  others, 
Men  of  the  world,  who  know  the  world  like 
men, 
Scott,    Rogers,   Moore,   and    all    the    better 
brothers, 
Who  think  of  something  else  besides  the 
pen ; 
But  for  the  children  of  the  "  mighty  mother's," 
The  would-be  wits  and  can't-be  gentlemen, 
I  leave  them  to  their  daily  "tea  is  ready," 
Smug  coterie,  and  literary  lady. 

LXXVI  I. 

The  poor  dear  Mussulwomen  whom  I  men- 
tion 
Have   none  of  these  instructive  pleasant 
people, 
And  one  would  seem  to  them  a  new  invention, 
Unknown  as  bells  within  a  Turkish  steeple, 
I  think  'twould  almost  be  worth  while  to  pen. 
sion 
(Though  best-sown  projects  very  often  reap 
ill) 
A  missionary  author,  just  to  preach 
Our  Christain  usage  of  the  parts  of  speech. 

LXXVIII. 

No  chemistry  for  them  unfolds  her  gases, 

No  metaphysics  are  let  loose  in  lectures, 
No  circulating  library  amasses 

Religious  novels,  moral  tales,  and  strictures 
Upon  the  living  manners,  as  they  pass  us ; 

No  exhibition  glares  with  annual  pictures ; 
They  stare  not  on  the  stars  from  out  their 

attics, 
Nor  deal  ( thank  God  for  that !  )   in  mathe- 
matics. 

LXXIX. 

Why  I  thank  God  for  that  is  no  great  matter, 

I  have  my  reasons,  you  no  doubt  suppose. 


BEPPO:    A    VENETIAN  STORY. 


And  as,  perhaps,  they  would  not  highly  flat- 
ter, 
I'll   keep   them   for  my  life  (to  come)  in 
prose ; 
I  fear  I  have  a  little  turn  for  satire, 

And  yet  methinks  the  older  that  one  grows 
Inclines  us  more  to  laugh  than  scold,  though 

laughter 
Leaves  us  so  doubly  serious  shortly  after. 


Oh,   Mirth  and    Innocence!     Oh,  Milk  and 
Water ! 
Ye  happy  mixtures  of  more  happy  days ! 
In  these  sad  centuries  of  sin  and  slaughter, 

Abominable  Man  no  more  allays 
His  thirst  with  such  pure  beverage.    No  mat- 
ter, 
I  love  you  both,  and  both  shall  have  my 
praise. 
Oh,  for  old  Saturn's  reign  of  sugar-candy !  — 
Meantime  I  drink  to  your  return  in  brandy. 


Our  Laura's  Turk  still  kept  his  eyes  upon  her, 

Less  in  the  Mussulman  than  Christian  way, 

Which   seems   to   say,  "  Madam,  I   do  you 

honor, 

"  And  while  I  please  to  stare,  you'll  please 

to  stay  :  " 

Could  staring  win  a  woman,  this  had  won  her, 

But  Laura  could  not  thus  be  led  astrav ; 
She   had   stood   fire  too   long  and  well,  to 

boggle 
Even  at  this  stranger's  most  outlandish  ogle. 

LXXXII. 

The  morning  now  was  on  the  point  of  break- 
ing, 

A  turn  of  time  at  which  I  would  advise 
Ladies  who  have  been  dancing,  or  partaking 

In  any  other  kind  of  exercise, 
To  make  their  preparations  for  forsaking 

The  ball-room  ere  the  sun  begins  to  rise, 
Because  when  once  the  lamps  and  candles 

fail, 
His  blushes  make  them  look  a  little  pale. 


I've  seen  some  balls  and  revels  in  my  time, 

And  stayed  them  over  for  some  silly  reason, 
And  then  I  looked  (I  hope  it  was  no  crime) 

To  see  what  lady  best  stood  out  the  season  ; 
And  though  I've  seen  some  thousands  in  their 
prime, 
Lovely   and   pleasing,  and   who   still   may 
please  on, 
I  never  saw  but  one  (the  stars  withdrawn), 
Whose  bloom  could  after  dancing  dare  the 
dawn. 


LXXXIV. 


The  name  of  this  Aurora  I'll  not  mention, 
Although  I  might,  for  she  was  nought  to' me 

More  than  that  patent  work  of  God's  inven- 
tion, 
A  charming  woman,  whom  wc  like  to  see ; 

But  writing  names  would  merit  reprehension, 
Yet  if  you  like  to  find  out  this  fair  she. 

At  the  next  London  or  Parisian  ball 

You  still  may  mark  her  cheek,  out-blooming 
all. 

LXXXV. 

Laura,  who  knew  it  would  not  do  at  all 
To  meet  the  daylight  after  seven  hours'  sit- 
ting 
Among  three  thousand  people  at  a  ball, 
To  make  her  curtsy  thought  it  right  and 
fitting; 
The  Count  was  at  her  elbow  with  her  shawl, 
And  they  the  room  were  on  the  point  of 
quitting, 
When  lo  !  those  cursed  gondoliers  had  got 
Just  in  the  very  place  where  they  should  not. 

LXXXVI. 

In  this  they're  like  our  coachmen,  and   the 
cause 
Is  much  the  same  —  the  crowd,  and  pulling, 
hauling, 
With  blasphemies  enough  to  break  their  jaws, 

They  make  n  never  intermitting  bawling. 
At  home,  our  Bow-street  gemmen  keep  the 
laws, 
And  here  a  sentry  stands  within  your  calling ; 
But  for  all  that,  there  is  a  deal  of  swearing, 
And  nauseous  words  past  mentioning  or  bear- 
ing. 

LXXXVII. 

The  Count  and  Laura  found  their  boat  at  last, 
And  homeward  floated  o'er  the  silent  tide, 

Discussing  all  the  dances  gone  and  past; 
The  dancers  and  their  dresses,  too,  beside ; 

Some  little  scandals  eke  :  but  all  aghast 
(As  to  their  palace  stairs  the  rowers  glide) 

Sate  Laura  by  the  side  of  her  Adorer,1 

When  lo  !  the  Mussulman  was  there  before  her. 


"  Sir,"  said  the  Count,  with  brow  exceeding 
grave, 

"  Your  unexpected  presence  here  will  make 
"  It  necessary  for  myself  to  crave 

"  Its  import  ?     But  perhaps  'tis  a  mistake  ; 
"  I  hope  it  is  so ;  and  at  once  to  wave 

"All  compliment,  I  hope  so  for  your  sake; 
"You  understand  my  meaning,  or  you  shall." 
"Sir,"  (quoth  the  Turk)  "  'tis  no  mistake  at  all. 


1  [MS.  —  "  Sate  Laura  with  a  kind  of  comic  hor- 
ror."! 


BEPPO:    A    VENETIAN  STORY. 


189 


"Thai    Lady   is    my  wife  I"     Much  wonder 
paints 
The  lady's  changing  cheek,  as  well  it  might ; 
But  where  an  Englishwoman  sometimes  faints, 

Italian  females  don't  do  so  outright ; 
They  only  call  a  little  on  their  saints, 
And    then  come  to  themselves,  almost  or 
quite; 
Which    saves    much    hartshorn,    salts,   and 

sprinkling  faces, 
And  cutting  stays,  as  usual  in  such  cases. 

xc. 

She  said,  —  what  could  she  say  ?     Why,  not  a 
word : 
But  the  Count  courteously  invited  in 
The    stranger,  much    appeased   by  what   he 
heard : 
"  Such  things,  perhaps,  we'd  best  discuss 
within," 
Said  he  ;  "don't  let  us  make  ourselves  absurd 

"  In  public,  by  a  scene,  nor  raise  a  din, 
For  then  the  chief  and  only  satisfaction 
Will  be  much  quizzing  on  the  whole  trans- 
action." 

XCI. 

They  entered,  and  for  coffee  called  —  it  came, 

A  beverage  for  Turks  and  Christians  both, 

Although  the  way  they  make  it's  not  the  same. 

Now  Laura,  much  recovered,  or  less  loth 
To  speak,  cries,  "  Beppo  !  what's  your  pagan 
name  ? 
Bless  me !  your  beard  is  of  amazing  growth  ! 
And  how  came  you  to  keep  away  so  long  ? 
Are  you  not  sensible  'twas  very  wrong  ? 

XCII. 

And  are  you  really,  truly,  now  a  Turk  ? 
With  any  other  women  did  you  wive  ? 
Is't  true  they  use  their  fingers  for  a  fork  ? 
Well,  that's   the   prettiest  shawl  —  as   I'm 
alive ! 
You'll  give  it  me  ?     They  say  you  eat  no  pork. 

And  how  so  many  years  did  you  contrive 
To  —  Bless  me!  did  I  ever?     No,  I  never 
Saw  a   man  grown  so  yellow !     How's  your 
liver  ? 

XCIII. 
Beppo!  that  beard  of  yours  becomes  you  not; 
It  shall  be  shaved  before  you're  a  day  older  : 
Why  do  you  wear  it  ?      Oh  !  I  had  forgot  — 
Pray  don't  you  think  the  weather  here  is 
colder  ? 
How  do  I  look?    You  shan't  stir  from  this 
spot 
In  that  queer  dress,  for  fear  that  some  be- 
holder 
Should  find  you  out,  and  make  the  story  known. 
How  short  your  hair  is !  Lord  1  how  gray  it's 
grown  1 " 


XCIV. 
What  answer  Beppo  made  to  these  demands 

Is  more  than  I  know.     He  was  cast  away 
About  where  Troy  stood  once,  and  nothing 
stands, 
Became  a  slave  of  course,  and  for  his  pay 
Had  bread  and  bastinadoes,  till  some  bands 

Of  pirates  landing  in  a  neighboring  bay, 
He  joined  the  rogues  and  prospered,  and  be 

came 
A  renegado  of  indifferent  fame. 

xcv. 
But  he  grew  rich,  and  with  his  riches  grew  so 

Keen  the  desire  to  see  his  home  again, 
He  thought  himself  in  duty  bound  to  do  so, 

And  not  be  always  thieving  on  the  main : 
Lonely  he  felt,  at  times,  as  Robin  Crusoe, 

And  so  he  hired  a  vessel  come  from  Spain, 
Bound  for  Corfu  :  she  was  a  fine  polacca, 
Manned  with  twelve  hands,  and  laden  with  to- 
bacco. 

XCVI. 

Himself,    and   much    (heaven    knows    how 
gotten!)  cash, 
He  then  embarked  with  risk  of  life   and 
limb, 
And  got  clear  off,  although  the  attempt  was 
rash ; 
He  said  that  Providence  protected  him  — 
For  my  part,  I  say  nothing  —  lest  we  clash 

In  our  opinions  :  —  well,  the  ship  was  trim, 
Set  sail,  and  kept  her  reckoning  fairly  on, 
Except  three  days  of  calm  when  off  Cape  Bonn. 

XCVII. 

They  reached  the  island,  he  transferred   his 
lading, 
And  self  and  live  stock,  to  another  bottom, 
And  passed  for  a  true  Turkey-merchant,  trad- 
ing 
With  goods  of  various  names,  but  I've  for- 
got 'em. 
However,  he  got  off  by  this  evading, 

Or  else  the  people  would  perhaps  have  shot 
him ; 
And  thus  at  Venice  landed  to  reclaim 
His  wife,  religion,  house,  and  Christian  name, 

XCVIII. 

His  wife  received,  the  patriarch   re-baptized 
him, 
(He  made  the  church  a  present,  by  the  way)  ; 
He  then  threw  off  the  garments  which  dis- 
guised him, 
And  borrowed  the  Count's  smallclothes  for 
a  day : 
His  friends  the  more   for   his    long  absence 
prized  him, 
Finding  he'd   wherewithal   to    make  them 
gay. 


190 


THE  PROPHECY  OF  DANTE. 


Witn  dinners,  where  he  oft  became  the  laugh 

of  them, 
For  stories  —  but    /  don't  believe  the  half  of 

them. 

XCIX. 

Whate'er   his  youth   had   suffered,   his    old 
age 
With  wealth  and  talking  make  him  some 
amends  ; 
Though  Laura  sometimes  put  him  in  a  rage, 
I've  heard  the  Count  and  he  were  always 
friends. 
My  pen  is  at  the  bottom  of  a  page, 

Which  being  finished,  here  the  story  ends; 
'Tis  to  be  wished  it  had  been  sooner  done. 
But  stories  somehow  lengthen  when  begun.1 


1  [This  extremely  clever  and  amusing  perform- 
ance affords  a  very  curious  and  complete  specimen 
of  a  kind  of  diction  and  composition  of  which  our 
English  literature  has  hitherto  presented  very  few 
examples.  It  is,  in  itself,  absolutely  a  thing  of  noth- 
ing—  without  story,  characters,  sentiments,  or  in- 
telligible object;  —  a  mere  piece  of  lively  and  loqua- 
cious prattling,  in  short,  upon  all  kinds  of  frivolous 
subjects,  —  a  sort  of  gay  and  desultory   babbling 


about  Italy  and  England,  Turks,  balls,  literature, 
and  rish  sauces.  But  still  there  is  something  very 
engaging  in  the  uniform  gaiety,  politeness,  and  good 
humor  of  the  author,  and  something  still  more  strik- 
ing and  admirable  in  the  matchless  facility  v.iih 
which  he  has  cast  into  regular,  and  even  difficult; 
versification  the  unmingled,  unconstrained,  and  un- 
selected  language  of  the  most  light,  familiar,  and 
ordinary  conversation.  With  great  skill  and  felicity, 
he  has  furnished  us  with  an  example  of  about  one 
hundred  stanzas  of  good  verse,  entirely  composed  of 
common  words,  in  their  common  places:  never  pre- 
senting us  with  one  sprig  of  what  is  called  poetical 
diction,  or  even  making  use  of  a  single  inversion, 
either  to  raise  the  style  or  assist  the  rhyme  —  but 
running  on  in  an  inexhaustible  series  of  good  easy 
colloquial  phrases,  and  finding  them  fall  into  verse 
by  some  unaccountable  and  happy  fatality.  In  this 
great  and  characteristic  quality  it  is  almost  invari- 
ably excellent.  In  some  other  respects,  it  is  more 
unequal.  About  one  half  is  as  good  as  possible,  in 
the  style  to  which  it  belongs:  the  other  half  bears, 
perhaps,  too  many  marks  of  that  haste  with  which 
such  a  work  must  necessarily  be  written.  Some 
ue  rather  too  snappish,  and  some  run  too 
mui-h  on  the  cheap  and  rather  plebeian  humor  of  out- 
of-the-way-rhymes,  and  strange-sounding  words  md 
epithets.  But  the  greater  part  is  extremely  pleas- 
ant, amiable,  and  gentlemanlike.  —  Jeffrey. ,] 


THE    PROPHECY    OF   DANTE.1 


"  'Tis  the  sunset  of  life  gives  me  mystical  lore, 
And  coming  events  cast  their  shadows  before." 

Campbell. 


[This  poem,  which  Lord  Byron,  in  sending  it  to  Mr.  Murray,  called  "  the  best  thing  he  had  ever  done, 
rf  not  unintelligible,"  was  w.itten  in  the  summer  of  1819,  at 

"  that  place 

Of  old  renown,  once  in  the  Adrian  sea, 
Ravenna!  —  where  from  Dante's  sacred  tomb 
He  had  so  oft,  as  many  a  verse  declares, 
Drawn  inspiration." — Rogers. 

The  Prophecy,  however,  was  first  published  in  May,  1821.  It  is  dedicated  to  the  Countess  Guiccicli, 
who  thus  describes  the  origin  of  its  composition:  — "  On  my  departure  from  Venice,  Lord  Byron  had 
promised  to  come  and  see  me  at  Ravenna.     Dante's  tomb,  the  classical  pine  wood,2  the  relics  of  antiquny 

1  [Dante  Alighieri  was  born  in  Florence  in  May,  1265,  of  an  ancient  and  honorable  family.      In  the 
early  part  of  his  life  he  gained  some  credit  in  a  military  character,  and  distinguished  himself  by  his  brav. 
ery  in  an  action  where  the  Florentines  obtained  a  signal  victory  over  the  citizens  of  Arezzo.     He  becam 
still  more  eminent  by  the  acquisition  of  court  honors;   and  at  the  age  of  thirty-five  he   rose  to  be  one  o 
the  chief  magistrates  of  Florence,  when  that  dignity  was  conferred  by  the  suffrages  of  the  people.     Fro' 
this  exaltation  the  poet  himself  dated  his  principal  misfortunes.     Italy  was  at  that  time  distracted  by  the 
contending  factions  of  the  Ghibelines  and  Guelphs, — among  the  latter  Dante  took  an  active  part.       1 
Bne  of  the  proscriptions  he  was  banished,  his  possessions  confiscated,  and  he  died  in  exile  in  1321.] 
!  "  'Twas  in  a  grove  of  spreading  piaes  he  strayed,"  etc. 

Drvden's  Tit e odor e  and  Honorin. 


THE  PROPHECY  OF  DANTE.  191 


which  are  to  be  found  in  that  place,  afforded  a  sufficient  pretext  for  me  to  invite  him  to  come,  and  for  him 
to  accept  my  invitation.  He  came  in  the  month  of  June,  1S19,  arriving  at  Ravenna  on  the  day  of  the 
festival  of  the  Corpus  Domini.  Being  deprived  at  this  time  of  his  books,  his  horses,  and  all  that  occupied 
him  at  Venice,  I  begged  him  to  gratify  me  by  writing  something  on  the  subject  of  Dante;  and,  with  hif 
u*uai  facility  and  rapidity,  he  composed  his  Prophecy."] 


DEDICATION. 


LADY !    if  for  the  cold  and  cloudy  clime 

Where  I  was  born,  but  where  I  would  not  die, 

Of  the  great  Poet-sire  of  Italy 
I  dare  to  build  the  imitative  rhyme, 
Harsh  Runic  copy  of  the  South's  sublime, 

THOU  art  the  cause ;  and  howsoever  I 

Fall  short  of  his  immortal  harmony, 
Thy  gentle  heart  will  pardon  me  the  crime. 
Thou,  in  the  pride  of  Beauty  and*of  Youth, 

Spakest ;  and  for  thee  to  speak  and  be  obeyed 
Are  one ;  but  only  in  the  sunny  South 

Such  sounds  are  uttered,  and  such  charms  displayed, 
So  sweet  a  language  from  so  fair  a  mouth  — 

Ah  !  to  what  effort  would  it  not  persuade  ? 

Ravenna,  June  21,  1819. 


PREFACE. 


In  the  course  of  a  visit  to  the  city  of  Ravenna  in  the  summer  of  1819,  it  was  suggested  to  the  authoi 
that  having  composed  something  on  the  subject  of  Tasso's  confinement,  he  should  do  the  same  on  Dante's 
exile,  —  the  tomb  of  the  poet  forming  one  of  the  principal  objects  of  interest  in  that  city,  both  to  the  native 
and  to  the  stranger. 

"  On  this  hint  I  spake,"  and  the  result  has  been  the  following  four  cantos,  in  terza  rima,  now  offered 
to  the  reader.  If  they  are  understood  and  approved,  it  is  my  purpose  to  continue  the  poem  in  various 
other  cantos  to  its  natural  conclusion  in  the  present  age.  The  reader  is  requested  to  suppose  that  Dante 
addresses  him  in  the  interval  between  the  conclusion  of  the  Divina  Commedia  and  his  death,  and  shortly 
before  the  latter  event,  foretelling  the  fortunes  of  Italy  in  general  in  the  ensuing  centuries.  In  adopting 
this  plan  I  have  had  in  my  mind  the  Cassandra  of  Lycophron,  and  the  Prophecy  of  Nereus  by  Horace,  as 
well  as  the  Prophecies  of  Holy  Writ.  The  measure  adopted  is  the  terza  rima  of  Dante,  which  I  am  not 
aware  to  have  seen  hitherto  tried  in  our  language,  except  it  may  be  by  Mr.  Hayley,  of  whose  translation 
I  never  saw  but  one  extract,  quoted  in  the  notes  to  Caliph  Vathek ;  so  that  —  if  I  do  not  err  —  this  poem 
may  be  considered  as  a  metrical  experiment.  The  cantos  are  short,  and  about  the  same  length  of  those 
of  the  poet,  whose  name  I  have  borrowed,  and  most  probably  taken  in  vain. 

Amongst  the  inconveniences  of  authors  in  the  present  day,  it  is  difficult  for  any  who  have  a  name, 
good  or  bad,  to  escape  translation.  I  have  had  the  fortune  to  see  the  fourth  canto  of  Childe  Harold 
translated  into  Italian  versi  sciolti,  —  that  is,  a  poem  written  in  the  Spensereau  stanza  into  blank  verse, 
without  regard  to  the  natural  divisions  of  the  stanza  or  of  the  sense.  If  the  present  poem,  being  on  a 
national  topic,  should  chance  to  undergo  the  same  fate,  I  would  request  the  Italian  reader  to  remember 
that  when  I  have  failed  in  the  imitation  of  his  great  "  Padre  Alighier,"  I  have  failed  in  imitating  that 
which  all  study  and  few  understand,  since  to  this  very  day  it  is  not  yet  settled  what  was  the  meaning  ol 
the  allegory  in  the  first  canto  of  the  Inferno,  unless  Count  Marchetti's  ingenious  and  probable  conjeoturt  . 
may  be  considered  as  having  decided  the  question. 

He  may  also  pardon  my  failure  the  more,  as  I  am  not  quite  sure  that  he  would  be  pleased  with  my 
success,  since  the  Italians,  with  a  pardonable  nationality,  are  particularly  jealous  of  all  that  is  left  them 


192 


THE  PROPHECY  OF  DANTE. 


as  a  nation  —  their  literature;  and  in  the  present  bitterness  of  the  classic  and  romantic  war,  are  but  xi. 
disposed  to  permit  a  foreigner  even  to  approve  or  imitate  them,  without  rinding  some  fault  with  his  ultra- 
montane presumption.  I  can  easily  enter  into  all  this,  knowing  what  would  be  thought  in  England  ol 
an  Italian  imitator  of  Milton,  or  of  a  translation  of  Monti,  or  Pindemonte,  or  Arici,  should  be  held  up  to 
the  rising  generation  as  a  model  for  their  future  poetical  essays.  But  I  perceive  that  I  am  deviating  into 
an  address  to  the  Italian  reader,  when  my  business  is  with  the  English  one;  and  be  they  few  or  many, 
I  must  take  my  leave  of  both. 


CANTO  THE   FIRST. 


Once  more  in  man's  frail  world  !  which  I  had 
left 
So  long  that  'twas  forgotten ;  and  I  feel 
The  weight  of  clay  again,  —  too  soon^>ereft 
Of  the  immortal  vision  which  could  heal 
My  earthly  sorrows,  and  to  God's  own  skies 
Lift  me  from  that  deep  gulf  without  repeal, 
Where  late  my  ears  rung  with  the  damned 
cries 
Of  souls  in  hopeless  bale ;  and  from  that 

place 
Of  lesser  torment,  whence  men  may  arise 
Pure  from  the  fire  to  join  the  angelic  race ; 
Midst    whom    my    own    bright    Beatrice 

blessed1 
My  spirit  with  her  light ;  and  to  the  base 
Of  the  eternal  Triad  !  first,  last,  best, 

Mysterious,  three,  sole,  infinite, great  God! 
Soul  universal !  ied  the  mortal  guest, 
Unblasted  by  the  glory,  though  he  trod 
From  star  to  star  to  reach   the  almighty 

throne. 
Oh  Beatrice !  whose  sweet  limbs  the  sod 
So  long  hath  pressed,  and  the  cold  marble 
stone, 
Thou  sole  pure  seraph  of  my  earliest  love, 
Love  so  ineffable,  and  so  alone, 
That  nought  on  earth  could  more  my  bosom 
move, 
And  meeting  thee  in  heaven  was  but  to  meet 
That  without  which  my  soul,  like  the  arkless 
dove, 
Had  wandered  still  in  search  of,  nor  her  feet 
Relieved  her  wing  till  found;  without  thy 

light 
My  paradise  had  still  been  incomplete.2 


1  The  reader  is  requested  to  adopt  the  Italian 
pronunciation  of  Beatrice,  sounding  all  the  sylla- 
bles. 

2  "  Che  sol  per  le  belle  opre 

Che  fanno  in  cielo  il  sole  e  1'  altre  stelle, 

Dentro  di  lui  si  crede  il  Paradiso, 

Cos!  se  guardi  fiso, 
.  Pensar  ben  dei  ch'  ogni  terren  piacere 

Si  trova  dove  tu  non  puoi  vedere." 
Canzone,  in  which  Dante  [  ?J  describes  the  person 
of  Beatrice,  Strophe  third. 


Since  my  tenth  sun  gave  summer  to  my  sight 
Thou  wert  my  life,  the  essence  of  my  thought. 
Loved  ere  I  knew  the  name  of  love,3  and 
bright 
Still  in  these  dim  old  eyes,  now  overwrought 
With  the  world's  war,  and  years,  and  banish- 
ment, 
And  tears  for  thee,  by  other  woes  untaught ; 
For  mine  is  not  a  nature  to  be  bent 
By    tyrannous    faction,   and  the    brawling 

crowd, 
And  though  the  long,  long  conflict  hath  been 
spent 
In   vain,   and    never  more,    save   when    the 
cloud 
Whicn*  overhangs  the  Apennine,  my  mind's 

eye  « 

Pierces  to  fancy  Florence,  once  so  proud 
Of  me,  can  I  return,  though  but  to  die, 
Unto  my  native  soil,  they  have  not  yet 
Quenched  the  old  exile's  spirit,  stern  and 
high. 
But  the  sun,  though  not  overcast,  must  set, 
And  the  night  cometh;  I  am  old  in  days, 
And  deeds,  and  contemplation,  and  have  met 
Destruction  face  to  face  in  all  his  ways. 
The  world  hath  left  me,  what  it  found  me, 

pure, 
And  if  I  have  not  gathered  yet  its  praise, 
I  sought  it  not  by  any  baser  lure ; 
Man  wrongs,  and  Time  avenges,  and  my 

name 
May  form  a  monument  not  all  obscure, 
Though  such  was  not  my  ambition's  end  ol 
aim. 
To  add  to  the  vain-glorious  list  of  those 
Who  dabble  in  the  pettiness  of  fame, 
And  make  men's  fickle  breath  the  wind  that 
blows 
Their  sail,  and  deem  it  glory  to  be  classed 
With  conquerors,  and  virtue's  other  foes, 
In  bloody  chronicles  of  ages  past. 


3  [According  to  Boccaccio,  Dante  was  a  lovef 
long  before  he  was  a  soldier,  and  his  passion  forth? 
Beatrice  whom  he  has  immortalized  commenced 
while  he  was  in  his  ninth  year,  anrt  <jje  ;n  \^% 
eighth  year.  —  Cary.\ 


THE  PROPHECY  OF  DANTE. 


193 


I  would  have  had  my  Florence  great  and 

free  : x 
Oh  Florence;  Florence!  unto  me  thou  wast 
Like  that  Jerusalem  which  the  Almighty  He, 
Wept  over,  "  but  thou  wouldst  not ;  "  as  the 

bird 
Gathers  its  young,  I  would  have  gathered 
thee 
Beneath  a  parent  pinion,  hadst  thou  heard 
My  voice  ;  but  as  the  adder,  deaf  and  fierce, 
Against  the  breast  that  cherished  thee  was 
stirred 
Thy  veiiom,  and  my  state  thou  didst  amerce, 
And  doom  this  body  forfeit  to  the  fire. 
Alas !  how  bitter  is  his  country's  curse 
To  him  who  for  that  co.:n  n  would  expire, 
But  did  not  merit  to  expire  by  her, 
And  loves  her,  loves  her  even  in  her  ire. 
The  day  may  come  when  she  will  cease  to  err, 
The  day  may  come  she  would  be  proud  to 

have 
The  dust  she  dooms  to  scatter,  and  transfer2 
Of  him,  whom  she  denied  a  home,  the  grave, 
But  this  shall  not  be  granted ;  let  my  dust 
Lie  where  it  falls ;  nor  shall  the  soil  which 
gave 
Me  breath,  but  in  her  sudden  fury  thrust 
Me  forth  to  breathe  elsewhere,  so  reassume 
My  indignant  bones,  because  her  angry  gust 
Forsooth  is  over,  and  repealed  her  doom ; 
No,  —  she  denied  me  what  was  mine  —  my 

roof, 
And  shall  not  have  what  is  not  hers — my 
tomb. 
Too  long  her  armed  wrath  hath  kept  aloof 
The  breast  which  would  have  bled  for  her, 

the  heart 
That  beat,  the  mind  that  was  temptation 
proof, 
The  man  who  fought,  toiled,  travelled,  and  each 
part 
Of  a  true  citizen  fulfilled,  and  saw 


1  L'  Esilio  che  m'  e  dato  onor  mi  tegno. 
****** 
Cader  tra'  buoni  e  pur  di  lode  degno." 

Sonnet  of Dante, 
in  which  he  represents  Right,  Generosity,  and  Tem- 
perance as  banished  from  among  men,  and  seeking 
refuge  from  Love,  who  inhabits  his  bosom. 

2  "  Ut  si  quis  predictorum  ullo  tempore  in  fortiam 
dicti  communis  pervenerit,  talis  perveniens  igne 
cotnburatnr,  sic  quod  moriatur."  Second  sen- 
tence of  Florence  against  Dante,  and  the  fourteen 
accused  with  him.  The  Latin  is  worthy  of  the  sen- 
tence.—  [On  the  27th  of  January,  1302,  Dante  was 
mulcted  eight  thousand  lire,  and  condemned  to  two 
years'  banishment;  and  in  case  the  fine  was  not 
paid,  his  goods  were  to  be  confiscated.  On  the 
eleventh  of  March,  the  same  year,  he  was  sentenced 
to  a  punishment  due  only  to  the  most  desperate  of 
malefactors.  The  decree,  that  he  and  his  associates 
in  exile  should  be  burned  if  they  fell  into  the  hands 
of  their  enemies,  was  first  discovered  in  1772.J 


For  his  reward  the  Guelfs  ascendant  art 
Pass  his  destruction  even  into  a  law. 

These  things  are  not  made  for  forgetfulness, 

Florence  shall  be' forgotten  first;  too  raw 
The  wound,  too  deep  the  wrong,  and  the  dis- 
tress 

Of  such  endurance  too  prolonged  to  make 

My  pardon  greater,  her  injustice  less, 
Though  late  repented;  yet  —  yet  for  her  sake 

I  feel  some  fonder  yearnings,  and  for  thine, 

My  own  Beatrice,  I  would  hardly  take 
Vengeance  upon  the  land  which  once  was  mine, 

And  still  is  hallowed  by  thy  dust's  return, 

Which  would  protect  the  murderess  like  a 
shrine, 
And  save  ten  thousand  foes  by  thy  sole  urn. 

Though,  like  old  Marius  from  Minturnag's 
marsh 

AncfCarthage  ruins,  my  lone  breast  may  burn 
At  times  with  evil  feelings  hot  and  harsh, 

And  sometimes  the  last  pangs  of  a  vile  foe 

Writhe  in  a  dream  before  me,  and  o'erarch 
My  brow  with  hopes  of  triumph,  —  let  them  go ! 

Such  are  the  last  infirmities  of  those 

Who  long  have  suffered  more  than  mortal 
woe, 
And  yet  being  mortal  still,  have  no  repose 

But  on  the  pillow  of  Revenge  —  Revenge, 

Who  sleeps  to  dream  of  blood,  and  waking 
glows 
With  the  oft-baffled,  slakeless  thirst  of  change, 

When  we  shall  mount  again,  and  they  that 
trod 

Be  trampled  on,  while  Death  and  Ate  range 

O'er  humbled  heads  and  severed  necks — 

Great  God ! 

Take  these  thoughts  from  me  —  to  thy  hands 
I  yield 

My  many  wrongs,  and  thine  almighty  rod 
Will  fall  on  those  who  smote  me,  —  be  my 
shield ! 

As  thou  hast  been  in  peril,  and  in  pain, 

In  turbulent  cities,  and  the  tented  field  — 
In  toil,  and  many  troubles  borne  in  vain 

For  Florence.  —  I  appeal  from  her  to  Thee ! 

Thee,  whom  I  late  saw  in  thy  loftiest  reign. 
Even  in  that  glorious  vision,  which  to  see 

And  live  was  never  granted  until  now, 

And  yet  thou  hast  permitted  this  to  me. 
Alas !  with  what  a  weight  upon  my  brow 

The  sense  of  earth  and  earthly  things  come 
back, 

Corrosive  passions,  feelings  dull  and  low. 
The  heart's  quick  throb  upon  the  mental  rack, 

Long  day,  and  dreary  night ;  the  retrospect 

Of  half  a  century  bloody  and  black, 
And  the  frail  few  years  I  may  yet  expect 

Hoary  and  hopeless,  but  less  hard  to  bear, 

For   I   have  been   too    long    and    deeply 
wrecked 
On  the  lone  rock  of  desolate  Despair 

To  lift  my  eyes  more  to  the  passing  sail 


m 


THE  PROPHECY  OF  DANTE. 


Which  shuns  that  reef  so  horrible  and  bare  ; 
Nor  raise  my  voice  —  for  who  would  heed  my 
wail  ? 
I  am  not  of  this  people,  nor  this  age, 
And  yet  my  harpings  will  unfold  a  tale 
Which  shall  preserve  these  times  when  not  a 
page 
Of  their  perturbed  annals  could  attract 
An  eye  to  gaze  upon  their  civil  rage, 
Did  not  my  verse  embalm  full  many  an  act 
Worthless  as  they  who  wrought  it :  'tis  the 

doom 
Of  spirits  of  my  order  to  be  racked 
In  life,  to  wear  their  hearts  out,  and  consume 
Their  days  in  endless  strife,  and  die  alone ; 
Then  future  thousands  crowd  around  their 
tomb, 
And  pilgrims  come  from  climes  where  they 
have  known 
The  name  of  him  —who  now  is  but  a  name, 
And  wasting  homage  o'er  the  sullen  stone, 
Spread  his  —  by  him   unheard,  unheeded  — 
fame ; 
And  mine  at  least  hath  cost  me  dear  :  to  die 
Is  nothing;  but  to  wither  thus  —  to  tame 
My  mind  down  from  its  own  infinity  — 
To  live  in  narrow  ways  with  little  men, 
A  common  sight  to  every  common  eye, 
A  wanderer,  while  even  wolves  can  find  a  den, 
Ripped  from  all  kindred,  from  all  home,  all 

things 
That  make  communion  sweet,  and  soften 
pain  — 
To  feel  me  in  the  solitude  of  kings 

Without  the  power  that  makes  them  bear  a 

crown  — 
To  envy  every  dove  his  nest  and  wings 
Which  waft  him  where  the  Apennine  looks 
down 
On  Arno,  till  he  perches,  it  may  be, 
Within  my  all  inexorable  town, 
Where  yet  my  boys  are,  and  that  fatal  she,1 


1  This  lady,  whose  name  was  Gemma,  sprung 


Their  mother,  the  cold  partner  who   hath 
brought 

Destruction  for  a  dowry2  —  this  to  see 
And  feel,  and  know  without  repair,  hath  taught 

A  bitter  lesson;  but  it  leaves  me  fee;  ■ 

I  have  not  vilely  found,  nor  basely  sought, 
They  made  an  Exile —  not  a  slave  of  me. 


from  one  of  the  most  powerful  Guelf  families,  named 
Donati.  Corso  Donati  was  the  principal  adversary 
of  the  Ghibelines.  She  is  described  as  being  "  A  d- 
modum  morosa,  lit  de  Xantipf>e  Socratis  phi- 
losophiconjuge  scriptum  esse  legimns,"  according 
to  Giannozzo  Manetti.  But  Lionardo  Aretino  is 
scandalized  with  Boccace,  in  his  life  of  Dante,  for 
saying  that  literary  men  should  not  marry.  "  Qui 
il  Boccaccio  non  ha  pazienza,  e  dice,  le  mogli  esser 
contrarie  agli  studj ;  e  non  si  ricorda  che  Socrate  il 
piu  nobile  filosofo  che  mai  fosse,  ebbe  moglie  e  figli- 
uoli  e  uffici  della  Repubblica  nella  sua  Citta;  e 
Aristotele  che,  etc.  etc.  ebbe  due  mogli  in  varj  tempi, 
ed  ebbe  figliuoli,  e  ricchezze  as  sai.  —  E  Marco 
Tullio  —  e  Catone  —  e  Varrone  —  e  Seneca  —  eb- 
bero  moglie,"  etc.  etc.  It  is  odd  that  honest  Lio- 
nardo's  examples,  with  the  exception  of  Seneca,  and, 
for  any  thing  I  know,  of  Aristotle,  are  not  the  most 
felicitous.  Tully's  Terentia,  and  Socrates'  Xan- 
tippe,  by  no  means  contributed  to  their  husbands' 
happiness,  whatever  they  might  as  to  their  philoso- 
phy—  Cato  gave  away  his  wife  —  of  Varro's  we 
know  nothing  —  and  of  Seneca's,  only  that  she  was 
disposed  to  die  with  him,  but  recovered,  and  lived 
several  years  afterwards.  But,  says  Lionardo, 
"  L'uomo  e  animale  civile,  secondo  piace  a  tutti 
i  filosofi."  And  thence  concludes  that  the  greatest 
proof  of  the  animal's  civism  is  "  la  prima  congi 
unzione,  dalla  quale  multiplicata  nasce  la  Citta." 

;  [The  violence  of  Gemma's  temper  proved  a 
source  of  the  bitterest  suffering  to  Dante;  and  in 
that  passage  of  the  Inferno,  where  one  of  the  char- 
acters says  — 

"  La  fiera  moglie  piu  ch'  altro,  mi  nuoce, 

"  me,  my  wife, 

Of  savage  temper,  more  than  aught  beside, 
Hath  to  this  evil  brought," 
his  own  conjugal  unhappiness  must  have  recurred 
forcibly  and  painfully  to  his  mind.  —  Cary.\ 


CANTO   THE   SECOND. 


The  Spirit  of  the  fervent  days  of  Old, 
When  words  were  things  that  came  to  pass, 

and  thought 
Flashed  o'er  the  future,  bidding  men  behold 

Their  children's    children's    doom    already 
brought 
Forth  from  the  abyss  of  time  which  is  to  be, 
The  chaos  of  events,  where  lie  half-wrought 

Shapes  that  must  undergo  mortality ; 

What  the  great  Seers  of  Israel  wore  within, 


That  spirit  was  on  them,  and  is  on  me. 
And  if,  Cassandra-like,  amidst  the  din 

Of  conflict  none  will  hear,  or  hearing  heed 

This  voice  from  out  the  Wilderness,  the  siu 
Be  theirs,  and  my  own  feelings  be  my  meed. 

The  only  guerdon  I  have  ever  known. 

Hast  thou  not  bled  ?  and  hast  thou  still 
bleed, 
Italia?  Ah!  to  me  such  things,  foreshown 

With  dim  sepulchral  light,  bid  me  forge' 


THE  PROPHECY  OF  DANTE. 


19S 


In  thine  irreparable  wrongs  my  own  : 
We  can  have  but  one  country,  and  even  yet 
Thou'rt  mine  —  my  bones  shall  be  within 

thy  breast, 
My  soul  within  thy  language,  which  once 
set 
With  our  old  Roman  sway  in  the  wide  West ; 
But  I  will  make  another  tongue  arise 
As  lofty  and  more  sweet,  in  which  expressed 
The  hero's  ardor,  or  the  lover's  sighs, 
Shall  find  alike  such  sounds  for  every  theme 
That  every  word,  as  brilliant  as  thy  skies, 
Shall  realize  a  poet's  proudest  dream, 
And  make  thee  Europe's  nightingale  of  song; 
So  that  all  present  speech  to  thine  shall  seem 
The  note  of  meaner  birds,  and  every  tongue 
Confess  its  barbarism  when  compared  with 

thine. 
This  shalt  thou  owe  to  him  thou  didst  so 
wrong, 
Thy  Tuscan  bard,  the  banished  Ghibeline. 
Woe  !  woe  !  the  veil  of  coming  centuries 
Is  rent,  —  a  thousand  years  which  yet  supine 
Lie  like  the  ocean  waves  ere  winds  arise, 
Heaving  in  dark  and  sullen  undulation, 
Float  from  eternity  into  these  eyes ; 
The  storms  yet  sleep,  the  clouds   still   keep 
their  station, 
The  unborn  earthquake  yet  is  in  the  womb, 
The  bloody  chaos  yet  expects  creation, 
But  all  things  are  disposing  for  thy  doom  ; 
The  elements  await  but  for  the  word, 
"  Let  there  be  darkness  !  "  and  thou  growest 
a  tomb. 
Yes !  thou,  so  beautiful,  shah  feel  the  sword, 
Thou,  Italy!  so  fair  that  Paradise, 
Revived  in  thee,  blooms  forth  to  man  re- 
stored : 
Ah  !  must  the  sons  of  Adam  lose  it  twice  ? 
Thou,  Italy!  whose  ever  golden  fields, 
Ploughed    by  the  sunbeams  solely,  would 
suffice 
For  the  world's  granary;    thou,  whose    sky 
heaven  gilds 
With  brighter  stars,  and  robes  with  deeper 

blue ; 
Thou,  in  whose  pleasant   places   Summer 
builds 
Her  palace,  in  whose  cradle  Empire  grew, 
And  formed  the  Eternal  City's  ornaments 
From  spoils  of  kings  whom  freemen  over- 
threw ; 
Birthplace  of  heroes,  sanctuary  of  saints, 
Where   earthly  first,   then   heavenly  glory 

made 
Her  home ;    thou,  all  which  fondest  fancy 
paints, 
And  finds  her  prior  vision  but  portrayed 
In  feeble  colors,  when  the  eye  —  from  the 

Alp 
Of  horrid  snow,  and  rock,  and  shaggy  shade 
Of  desert-loving  pine,  whose  emerald  scalp 


Nods  to  the  storm  —  dilates  and  dotes  o'er 

thee, 
And  wistfully  implores,  as  'twere,  for  help; 
To  see  thy  sunny  fields,  my  Italy, 

Nearer  and  nearer  yet,  and  dearer  still 
The  more  approached,  and  dearest   were 
they  free. 
Thou  —  Thou  must  wither  to  each    tyrant's 
will: 
The  Goth  hath  been,  —  the  German,  Frank, 

and  Hun 
Are  yet  to  come,  — and  on  the  imperial  hill 
Ruin,  already  proud  of  the  deeds  done 

By  the  old  barbarians,  there  awaits  the  new 
Throned  on  the  Palatine,  while  lost  and  won 
Rome  at  her  feet  lies  bleeding ;  and  the  hue 
Of  human  sacrifice  and  Roman  slaughter 
Troubles  the  clotted  air,  of  late  so  blue, 
And  deepens  into  red  the  saffron  water 

Of  Tiber,   thick  with   dead ;    the   helpless 

priest, 
And  still  more  helpless  nor  less  holv  daugh- 
ter, 
Vowed  to  their  God,  have  shrieking  fied,  and 
ceased 
Their  ministry  :  the  nations  take  their  prey, 
Iberian,  Almain,  Lombard,  and  the  beast 
And  bird,  wolf,  vulture,  more  humane  than 
they 
Are ;  these  but  gorge  the  fle'-h  and  lap  the 

gore 
Of  the  departed,  and  then  gr  their  way  ; 
But  those,  the  human  savages,  explore 
All  paths  of  torture,  and  insatiate  yet, 
With  Ugolino  hunger  prowl  fr>r  more. 
Nine  moons  shall  rise  o'er  scenes  like  this  and 
set;  1 
The  chiefless  army  of  the  dead,  which  late 
Beneath  the  traitor  Prince's  banner  met, 
Hath  left  its  leader's  ashes  at  the  gate; 
Had  but  the  royal  Rebel  lived,  perchance 
Thou  hadst  been  spared,  but  his  involved 
thy  fate. 
Oh  !  Rome,  the  spoiler  or  the  spoil  of  France, 
From  Brennus  to  the  Bourbon,  never,  never 
Shall  foreign  standard  to  thy  walls  advance 
But  Tiber  shall  become  a  mournful  river. 
Oh  !  when  the  strangers  pass  the  Alps  and 

Po, 
Crush  them,  ye  rocks !  floods  whelm  them, 
and  for  ever ! 
Why  sleep  the  idle  avalanches  so, 

To  topple  on  the  lonely  pilgrim's  head  ? 
Why  doth  Eridanus  but  overflow 
The  peasant's  harvest  from  his  turbid  bed  ? 
Were  not  each  barbarous  horde  a  nobler 

prey  ? 
Over  Cambyses'  host  the  desert  spread 


'  See  "  Sacco  di  Roma,"  generally  attributed  to 
Guicciardini.  There  is  another  written  by  a  Jacope 
Buonaparte. 


tS6 


THE  PROPHECY  OF  DANTE. 


Her  sandy  ocean,  and  the  sea  waves'  sway 

Rolled  over  Pharaoh  and  his  thousands, — 
why, 

Mountains  and  waters,  do  ye  not  as  they  ? 
And  you,  ye  men !    Romans,  who  dare  not 
die, 

Sons  of  the  conquerors  who  overthrew 

Those  who  overthrew  proud  Xerxes,  where 
yet  lie 
The  dead  whose  tomb  Oblivion  never  knew, 

Are  the  Alps  weaker  than  Thermopylae  ? 

Their  passes  more  alluring  to  the  view 
Of  an  invader  ?  is  it  they,  or  ye, 

That  to  each  host  the  mountain-gate  unbar, 

And  leave  the  march  in  peace,  the  passage 
free  ? 
Why,  Nature's  self  detains  the  victor's  car, 

And  makes  your  land  impregnable,  if  earth 

Could  be  so ;  but  alone  she  will  not  war, 
Yet  aids  the  warrior  worthy  of  his  birth 

In  a  soil  where  the  mothers  bring  forth  men  ; 

Not  so  with   those   whose   souls   are    little 
worth ; 
For  them  no  fortress  can  avail, —  the  den 

Of  the  poor  reptile  which  preserves  its  sting 


Is  more  secure  than  walls  of  adamant,  when 
The  hearts  of  those  within  are  quivering. 
Are  ye  not  brave  ?  Yes,  yet  the  Ausoni.ii; 

soil 
Hath  hearts,   and   hands,   and   arms,  and 
hosts  to  bring 
Against  Oppression  ;  but  how  vain  the  toil, 
While  still  Division  sows  the  seeds  of  w<><- 
And  weakness,  till  the  stranger   reaps   the 
spoil. 
Oh!  my  own  beauteous   land!   so  long  laid 
low, 
So  long  the   grave  of  thy   own   children's 

hopes, 
When  there  is  but  required  a  single  blow 
To   break  the  chain,  yet  —  yet   the   Avenger 
stops, 
And  Doubt  and  Discord  step  'twixt  thine 

and  thee, 
And  join  their  strength  to  that  which  with 
thee  copes ; 
What  is  there  wanting  then  to  set  thee  free, 
And  show  thy  beauty  in  its  fullest  light  ? 
To  make  the  Alps  impassable ;  and  we, 
Her  sons,  may  do  this  with  one  deed  —  Unite. 


CANTO  THE   THIRD. 


FROM  out  the  mass  of  never-dying  ill, 
The  Plague,  the  Prince,  the  Stranger,  and 

the  Sword, 
Vials  of  wrath  but  emptied  to  refill 

And  flow  again,  I  cannot  all  record 

That   crowds    on   my  prophetic  eye :  the 

earth 
And  ocean  written  o'er  would  not  afford 

Space  for  the  annal,  yet  it  shall  go  forth ; 
Yes,  all,    though   not    by   human   pen,   is 

graven, 
There  where  the   furthest  suns   and   stars 
have  birth, 

Spread  like  a  banner  at  the  gate  of  heaven, 
The  bloody  scroll  of  our  millennial  wrongs 
Waves,  and  the  echo  of  our  groans  is  driven 

Athwart  the  sound  of  archangelic  songs, 
And  Italy,  the  martyred  nation's  gore, 
Will  not  in  vain  arise  to  where  belongs 

Omnipotence  and  mercy  evermore  : 

Like  to  a  harpstring  stricken  by  the  wind, 
The   sound  of  her  lament  shall,  rising  o'er 

The  seraph  voices,  touch  the  Almighty  Mind. 
Meantime  I,  humblest  of  thy  sons,  and  of 
Earth's  dust  by  immortality  refined 

To  sense  and  suffering,  though  the  vain  may 
scoff, 
And  tyrants  threat,  and  meeker  victims  bow 


Before  the  storm   because    its    breath    is 
rough, 
To  thee,  my  country!  whom  before,  as  now, 
I  loved  and  love,  devote  the  mournful  lyre 
And  melancholy  gift  high  powers  allow 
To  read  the  future  ;  and  if  now  my  fire 
Is  not  as  once  it  shone  o'er  thee,  forgive ! 
I  but  foretell  thy  fortunes  —  then  expire; 
Think  not  that  I  would   look  on  them  and 
live. 
A  spirit  forces  me  to  see  and  speak, 
And  for  my  guerdon  grants  not  to  survive  ; 
My  heart    shall    be    poured    over  thee    and 
break : 
Yet  for  a  moment,  ere  I  must  resume 
Thy  sable  web  of  sorrow,  let  me  take 
Over  the  gleams  that  flash  athwart  thy  gloom 
A  softer  glimpse  ;  some  stars  shine  through 

thy  night, 
And  many  meteors,  and  above  thy  tomb 
Leans  sculptured  Beauty,  which  Death  cannot 
blight; 
And  from  thine  ashes  boundless  spirits  rise 
To  give  thee  honor,  and  the  earth  delight ; 
Thy  soil  shall  still  be  pregnant  with  the  wise, 
The  gay,  the  learned,  the  generous,  and  the 

brave, 
Native  to  thee  as  summer  to  thy  skies, 


THE   PROPHECY   OF  DANTR. 


197 


Conquerors  on  foreign   shores,  and   the   far 
wave,1 

Discoverers  of  new  worlds,  which  take  their 
name ; 2 

For  thee  alone  they  have  no  arm  to  save, 
And  all  thy  recompense  is  in  their  fame, 

A  noble  one  to  them,  but  not  to  thee — 

Shall  they  be  glorious,  and  thou   still   the 
same  ? 
Oh  !  more  than  these  illustrious  far  shall  be 

The  being  —  and  even  yet  he  may  be  born  — 

The  mortal  savior  who  shall  set  thee  free, 
And  see  thy  diadem  so  changed  and  worn 

By  fresh  barbarians,  on  thy  brow  replaced ; 

And  the  sweet  sun  replenishing  thy  morn, 
Thy  moral  morn,  too  long  with  clouds  defaced 

And  noxious  vapors  from  Avernus  risen. 

Such  as  all  they  must  breathe  who  are  de- 
based 
By  servitude,  and  have  the  mind  in  prison. 

Yet  through  this  centuried  eclipse  of  woe 

Some  voices  shall  be  heard,  and  earth  shall 
listen ; 
Poets  shall  follow  in  the  path  I  show, 

And  make  it  broader ;  the  same  brilliant  sky 

Which  cheers  the  birds  to  song  shall  bid 
them  glow, 
And  raise  their  notes  as  natural  and  high ; 

Tuneful  shall  be  their  numbers;  they  shall 
sing 

Many  of  love,  and  some  of  liberty, 
But  few  shall  soar  upon  that  eagle's  wing, 

And  look  in  the  sun's  face  with  eagle's  gaze, 

All  free  and  fearless  as  the  feathered  king, 
But  fly  more  near  the  earth  ;  how  many  a  phrase 

Sublime  shall  lavished  be  on  some  small 
prince 

In  all  the  prodigality  of  praise! 
And  language,  eloquently  false,  evince 

The  harlotry  of  genius,  which,  like  beauty, 

Too  oft  forgets  its  own  self-reverence, 
And  looks  on  prostitution  as  a  duty. 

He  who  once  enters  in  a  tyrant's  hall  3 

As  guest  is  slave,  his  thoughts  become  a 
booty, 
And  the  first  day  which  sees  the  chain  enthrall 

A  captive,  sees  his  half  of  manhood  gone  —  4 

The  soul's  emasculation  saddens  all 
His  spirit ;  thus  the  Bard  too  near  the  throne 

Quails     from     his    inspiration,    bound    to 
please,  — 

How  servile  is  the  task  to  please  alone ! 
To  smooth  the  verse  to  suit  his  sovereign's  ease 

And  royal  leisure,  nor  too  much  prolong 


1  Alexander  of  Parma,  Spinola,  Pescara,  Eugene 
of  Savoy,  Montecucco. 

2  Columbus,  Americus  Vespucius,  Sebastian 
Cabot. 

3  A  verse  from  the  Greek  tragedians,  with  which 
Pompey  took  leave  of  Cornelia  on  entering  the  boat 
in  which  he  was  slain. 

4  The  verse  and  sentiment  are  taken  from  Homer. 


Aught  save  his  eulogy,  and  find,  and  seize, 
Or  force,  or  forge  fit  argument  of  song! 
Thus  trammelled,  thus  condemned  to  Flat- 
tery's trebles, 
He  toils  through  all,  still  trembling  to  be 
wrong : 
For  fear  some  noble  thoughts,  like  heavenly 
rebels, 
Should  rise  up  in  high  treason  to  his  brain, 
He  sings,  as  the  Athenian  spoke,  with  peb 
bles 
In's  mouth,  lest  truth  should  stammer  through 
his  strain. 
But  out  of  the  long  file  of  sonneteers 
There  shall  be  some  who  will  not  sing  in 
vain, 
And  he,  their  prince,  shall  rank  among  my 
peers,5 
And  love  shall  be  his  torment ;  but  his  grief 
Shall  make  an  immortality  of  tears, 
And  Italy  shall  hail  him  as  the  Chief 
Of  Poet-lovers,  and  his  highest  song 
Of  Freedom  wreathe  him  with  as  green  a  leaf. 
But  in  a  further  age  shall  rise  along 
The  banks  of  Po  two  greater  still  than  he; 
The  world  which  smiled  on  him  shall  do 
them  wrong 
Till  they  are  ashes,  and  repose  with  me. 
The  first  will  make  an  epoch  with  his  lyre, 
And  fill  the  earth  with  feats  of  chivalry: 
His  fancy  like  a  rainbow,  and  his  fire, 

Like   that  of    Heaven,  immortal,   and  his 

thought 
Borne  onward  with  a  wing  that  cannot  tire  : 
Pleasure  shall,  like  a  butterfly  new  caught, 
Flutter  her  lovely  pinions  o'er  his  theme, 
And  Art  itself  seem  into  Nature  wrought 
By  the  transparency  of  his  bright  dream. — 
The  second,  of  a  tenderer,  sadder  mood, 
Shall  pour  his  soul  out  o'er  Jerusalem  ; 
He,  too,  shall  sing  of  arms,  and  Christian  blood 
Shed  where  Christ  bled  for  man ;  and  his 

high  harp 
Shall,  by  the  willow  over  Jordan's  flood. 
Revive  a  song  of  Sion,  and  the  sharp 
Conflict,  and  final  triumph  of  the  brave 
And  pious,  and  the  strife  of  hell  to  warp 
Their  hearts   from  their  great  purpose,  until 
wave 
The  red-cross  banners  where  the  first  red 

Cross 
Was  crimsoned  from  his  veins  who  died  to 
save, 
Shall  be  his  sacred  argument ;  the  loss 
Of  years,  of  favor,  freedom,  even  of  fame 
Contested  for  a  time,  while  the  smooth  glosv 
Of  courts  would  slide  o'er  his  forgotten  name, 
And  call  captivity  a  kindness,  meant 
To  shield  him  from  insanity  or  shame, 
Such  shall  be  his  meet  guerdon  !  who  was  sent 

6  Petrarch. 


198 


THE  PROPHECY  OF  DANTE. 


To  be  Christ's  Laureate  —  they  reward  him 

well. 
Florence  dooms  me  but  death  or  banishment, 
Ferrara  him  a  pittance  and  a  cell, 
Harder  to  bear  and  less  deserved,  for  I 
Had  stung  the   factions  which  I  strove  to 
quell; 
But  this  meek  man,  who  with  a  lover's  eye 
Will   look   on  earth  and  heaven,  and  who 

will  deign 
To  embalm  with  his  celestial  flattery 
As  poor  a  thing  as  e'er  was  spawned  to  reign, 
What  will  he  do  to  merit  such  a  doom? 
Perhaps  he'll  lore,  —  and  is  not  love  in  vain 
Torture  enough  without  a  living  tomb? 
Yet  it  will  be  so  —  he  and  his  compeer, 
The  Bard  of  Chivalry,  will  both  consume 
In  penury  and  pain  too  many  a  year, 
And,  dying  in  despondency,  bequeathe 
To  the  kind  world,  which  scarce  will  yield 
a  tear, 
A  heritage  enriching  all  who  breathe 
With  the  wealth  of  a  genuine  poet's  soul, 
And  to  their  country  a  redoubled  wreath, 
Unmatched  by  time ;  not  Hellas  can  unroll 
Through    her  olympiads  two  such    names, 

though  one 
Of  hers  be  mighty;  — and  is  this  the  whole 
Of  such  men's  destiny  beneath  the  sun? 
Must   all  the   finer   thoughts,   the  thrilling 

sense, 
The  electric  blood  with  which  their  arteries 
run, 
Their  body's  self  turned  soul  with  the  Intense 
Feeling  of  that  which  is,  and  fancy  of 
That  which    should    be,  to    such  a  recom- 
pense 
Conduct  ?   shall  their  bright  plumage  on  the 
rough 


Storm  be  still  scattered?  Yes,  and  it  must  be. 
For,  formed  of  far  too  penetrable  stuff. 
These  birds  of  Paradise  but  long  to  flee 
Back  to  their  native  mansion,  soon  they  find 
Earth's  mist  with   their  pure   pinions   not 
agree, 
And  die  or  are  degraded,  for  the  mind 
Succumbs  to  long  infection,  and  despair, 
And  vulture  passions  flying  close  behind, 
Await  the  moment  to  assail  ami  tear; 

And  when  at  length  the  winged  wanderers 

stoop. 
Then  is  the  prey-birds'  triumph,  then  they 
share 
The  spoil,  o'erpowered  at  length  by  one  fell 
swoop, 
Yet  some  have  been  untouched  who  learned 

to  bear. 
Some  whom  no  power  could  ever  force  to 
droop, 
Who   could  resist  themselves  even,  hardest 
care ! 
And   task   most  hopeless;  but  some  such 

have  been, 
And  if  my  name  amongst  the  number  were, 
That  destiny  austere,  and  yet  serene, 

Were  prouder  than  more  dazzling  fame  un- 
blessed ; 
The  Alp's  snow  summit  nearer  heaven  is 
seen 
Than  the  volcano's  fierce  eruptive  crest, 
Whose   splendor  from  the  black  abyss  is 

flung, 
While  the  scorched  mountain,  from  whose 
burning  breast 
A  temporary  torturing  flame  is  wrung, 
Shines  for  a  night  of  terror,  then  repels 
Its  fire  back  to  the  hell  from  whence  it  sprung, 
The  hell  which  in  its  entrails  ever  dwells. 


CANTO  THE  FOURTH. 


Many  are  poets  who  have  never  penned 
Their  inspiration,  and  perchance  the  b:st : 
They  felt,  and  loved,  and  died,  but  would 
not  lend 

Their  thoughts  to  meaner  beings ;  they  com- 
pressed 
The  God  within  them,  and  rejoined  the  stars 
Unlaurelled  upon  earth,  but  far  more  blessed 

Than  those  who  are  degraded  by  the  jars 
Of  passion,  and  their  frailties  linked  to  fame, 
Conquerors  of  high  renown,  but  full  of  scars. 

Many  arc  poets  but  without  the  name, 
For  what  is  poesy  but  to  create 
From  overfeeling  good  or  ill ;  and  aim 


At  an  external  life  beyond  our  fate, 

And  be  the  new  Prometheus  of  new  men, 
Bestowing  fire  from  heaven,  and  then,  toe 
late, 

Finding  the  pleasure  given  repaid  with  pain, 
And  vultures  to  the  heart  of  the  bestower, 
Who,  having  lavished  his  high  gift  in  vain, 

Lies  chained  to  his  lone  rock  by  the  seashore  ? 
So  be  it :  we  can  bear. —  But  thus  all  they 
Whose  intellect  is  an  o'ermastering  power 

Which  still  recoils  from  its  encumbering  clay 
Or  lightens  it  to  spirit,  whatsoe'er 
The  form  which  their  creations  may  essay. 

Are  bards ;  the  kindled  marble's  bust  may  weaf 


THE  PROPHECY  OF  DANTE. 


199 


More  poesy  upon  its  speaking  brow 

Than  aught  less  than   the   Homeric  page 
may  bear ; 
One  noble  stroke  with  a  whole  life  may  glow, 

Or  deify  the  canvas  till  it  shine 
-  With  beauty  so  surpassing  all  below, 
That  they  who  kneel  to  idols  so  divine 

Break  no  commandment,  for  high  heaven 
is  there 

Transfused,  transfigurated  :  and  the  line 
Of  poesy,  which  peoples  but  the  air 

With  thought  and  beings  of  our  thought  re- 
flected, 

Can  do  no  more :  then  let  the  artist  share 
The  palm,  he  shares  the  peril,  and  dejected 

Faints  o'er  the  labor  unapproved- — Alas! 

Despair  and  Genius  are  too  oft  connected. 
Within  the  ages  which  before  me  pass 

Art  shall  resume  and  equal  even  the  sway 

Which  with  Apelles  and  old  Phidias 
She  held  in  Hellas'  unforgotten  day. 

Ye  shall  be  taught  by  Ruin  to  revive 

The  Grecian  forms  at  least  from  their  decay, 
And  Roman  souls  at  last  again  shall  live 

In  Roman  works  wrought  by  Italian  hands, 

And  temples,  loftier  than  the  old  temples, 
give 
New  wonders  to  the  world;   and  while  still 
stands 

The  austere  Pantheon,  into  heaven  shall  soar 

A  dome,1  its  image,  while  the  base  expands 
Into  a  fane  surpassing  all  before, 

Such  as  all  flesh  shall  flock  to  kneel  in:  ne'er 

Such  sight  hath  been  unfolded  by  a  door 
As  this,  to  which  all  nations  shall  repair, 

And  lay  their  sins  at  this  huge  gate  of  heaven. 

And  the  bold  Architect  unto  whose  care 
The  daring  charge  to  raise  it  shall  be  given, 

Whom  all  arts  shall  acknowledge  as  their 
lord. 

Whether  into  the  marble  chaos  driven 
His  chisel  bid  the  Hebrew,2  at  whose  word 


1  The  cupola  of  St.  Peter's. 

2  The    statue   of  Moses   on    the   monument    ol 

Julius  II. 

SONETTO. 

Di  Giovanni  Battista  Zappi. 

Chi  e  costui,  che  in  dura  pietra  scolto, 
Siede  gigante;  e  le  piu  Ulustre  e  conte 
Opre  dell'  arte  avvanza,  e  ha  vive  e  pronte 
Le  labbra  si,  che  le  parole  ascolto? 

Quest'  e  Mose;  ben  me  '1  diceva  il  folto 

Onor  del  mento,  e  '1  doppio  raggio  in  fronte. 
Quest'  e  Mose,  quando  scendea  del  monte, 
E  gran  parte  del  Nume  avea  nel  volto. 

Tal  era  allor,  che  le  sonanti  e  vaste 
Acque  ei  sospese  a  se  d'  intorno,  e  tale 
Quando  il  mar  chiuse,  e  ne  ft  tomba  altrui. 

E  voi  sue  turbe  un  rio  vitello  alzaste? 
Alzata  aveste  imago  a  questa  eguale! 
Ch'  era  men  fallo  1'  adorar  costui. 
'And  who  is  he  that,  shaped  in  sculptured  stone, 

Sits  giant-like?  stern  monument  of  art 


Israel  left  Egypt,  stop  the  waves  in  stone, 
Or  hues  of  Hell  be  by  his  pencil  poured 

Over  the  damned  before  the  Judgment  throne," 
Such  as  I  saw  them,  such  as  all  shall  see, 
Or  fanes  be  built  of  grandeur  yet  unknown, 

The  stream  of  his  great  thoughts  shall  spring 
from  me,4 
The   Ghibeline,  who  traversed   the    three 

realms 
Which  form  the  empire  of  eternity. 

Amidst  the  clash  of  swords,  and  clang  of  helms 
The  age  which  I  anticipate,  no  less 
Shall  be  the  Age  of  Beauty,  and  while  whelms 

Calamity  the  nations  with  distress, 
The  genius  of  my  country  shall  arise, 
A  Cedar  towering  o'er  the  Wilderness, 

Lovely  in  all  its  branches  to  all  eyes, 
Fragrant  as  fair,  and  recognized  afar, 
Wafting  its  native  incense  through  the  skies. 

Sovereigns  shall  pause  amidst  their  sport  ol 
war, 
Weaned  for  an  hour  from  blood,  to  turn 

and  gaze 
On  canvas  or  on  stone ;  and  they  who  mar 

All  beauty  upon  earth,  compelled  to  praise, 
Shall  feel  the  power  of  that  which  they  de- 
stroy ; 
And  Art's  mistaken  gratitude  shall  raise 

To  tyrants  who  but  take  her  for  a  toy 

Emblems  and  monuments,  and  prostitute 
Her  charms  to  pontiffs  proud,5  who  but 
employ 


Unparalleled,  while  language  seems  to  start 
From  his  prompt  lips,  and  we  his  precepts  own? 
—  'Tis  Moses;  by  his  beard's  thick  honors  known, 

And  the  twin  beams  that  from  his  temples  dart; 

'Tis  Moses;  seated  on  the  mount  apart, 
Whilst  yet  the  Godhead  o'er  his  features  shone. 
Such  once  he  looked,  when  ocean's  sounding  wave 

Suspended  hung,  and  such  amidst  the  storm, 

When  o'er  his  foes  the  refluent  waters  roared. 
An  idol  calf  his  followers  did  engrave; 

But  had  they  raised  this  awe-commanding  form, 

Then  had  they  with  less  guilt  their  work  adored." 

Rogers 

8  The  Last  Judgment,  in  the  Sistine  Chapel. 

*  I  have  read  somewhere  (if  I  do  not  err,  for  1 
cannot  recollect  where),  that  Dante  was  so  great  a 
favorite  of  Michael  Angelo's,  that  he  had  designed 
the  whole  of  the  Divina  Commedia;  but  that  the 
volume  containing  these  studies  was  lost  by  sea. — 
["  Michael  Angelo's  copy  of  Dante,"  says  Duppa. 
"was  a  large  folio,  with  Landino's  commentary; 
and  upon  the  broad  margin  of  the  leaves  he  de- 
signed, with  a  pen  and  ink,  all  the  interesting  sub- 
jects. This  book  was  possessed  by  Antonio  Mon- 
tauti,  a  sculptor  and  architect  of  Florence,  who, 
being  appointed  architect  to  St.  Peter's,  removed 
to  Rome,  and  shipped  his  effects  at  Leghorn  for 
Civita  Vecchia,  among  which  was  this  edition  of 
Dante:  in  the  voyage  the  vessel  foundered  at  sea, 
and  it  was  unfortunately  lost  in  the  wreck."] 

6  See  the  treatment  of  Michael  Angelo  by  Julius 
II.,  and  his  neglect  by  Leo  X.  —  [Julius  II.  was  no 


200 


THE  PROPHECY  OF  DANTE. 


The  man  of  genius  as  the  meanest  brute 
To  bear  a  burden,  and  to  serve  a  need, 
To  sell  his  labors,  and  his  soul  to  boot. 

Who  toils  for  nations  may  be  poor  indeed, 
But  free ;  who  sweats  for  monarchs  is  no 

more 
Than  the  gilt  chamberlain,  who,  clothed  and 
fee'd, 

Stands  sleek  and  slavish,  bowing  at  his  door. 
Oh,  Power  that  rulest  and  inspirest!  how 
Is  it  that  they  on  earth,  whose  earthly  power 

Is  likest  thine  in  heaven  in  outward  show, 
Least  like  to  thee  in  attributes  divine, 
Tread  on  the  universal  necks  that  bow, 

And  then  assure  us  that  their  rights  are  thine  ? 
And  how  is  it  that  they,  the  sons  of  fame, 
Whose  inspiration  seems  to  them  to  shine 

From  high,  they  whom  the  nations  oftest  name, 
Must  pass  their  days  in  penury  or  pain. 
Or  step  to  grandeur  through  the  paths  of 
shame, 

And  wear  a  deeper  brand  and  gaudier  chain? 
Or  if  their  destiny  be  born  aloof 
From  lowliness,  or  tempted  thence  in  vain, 

In  their  own  souls  sustain  a  harder  proof, 
The  inner  war  of  passions  deep  and  fierce  ? 
Florence !  when  thy  harsh  sentence  razed 
my  roof, 


sooner  seated  on  the  papal  throne  than  he  was  sur- 
rounded by  men  of  genius,  and  Michael  Angelo  was 
among  the  first  invited  to  his  court.  The  pope  had 
a  personal  attachment  to  him,  and  conversed  with 
him  upon  every  subject,  as  well  as  sculpture,  with 
familiarity  and  friendship;  and,  that  he  might  visit 
him  frequently,  and  with  perfect  convenience,  caused 
a  covered  bridge  to  be  made  from  the  Vatican  palace 
to  his  study,  to  enable  him  to  pass  at  all  times  with- 
out being  observed.  On  paying  his  visit  one  morn- 
ing, Michael  Angelo  was  rudely  interrupted  by  the 
person  in  waiting,  who  said,  "  I  have  an  order  not 
to  let  you  enter."  Michael  felt  with  indignation 
this  unmerited  disgrace,  and,  in  the  warmth  of  re- 
sentment, desired  him  to  tell  the  Pope,  "  from  that 
time  forward,  if  his  Holiness  should  want  him,  he 
should  have  to  seek  him  in  another  place."  On  his 
return  home,  he  ordered  his  servants  to  sell  the 
furniture  in  his  house  to  the  Jews,  and  to  follow 
him  to  Florence.  Himself,  the  same  evening,  took 
post,  and  arrived  at  Poggibonzi  castle,  in  Tuscany, 
before  he  rested.  The  Pope  despatched  five  couriers 
with  orders  to  conduct  him  back:  but  he  was  not 
overtaken  until  he  was  in  a  foreign  state.  A  recon- 
ciliation was,  however,  a  few  months  after,  effected 
at  Bologna,  through  the  mediation  of  the  gonfalo- 
niere.  As  Michael  Angelo  entered  the  presence 
chamber,  the  Pope  gave  him  an  askance  look  of 
displeasure,  and  after  a  short  pause  saluted  him, 
"  In  the  stead  of  your  coming  to  us,  you  seem  to 
have  expected  that  we  should  wait  upon  you." 
Michael  Angelo  replied,  with  submission,  that  his 
error  arose  from  too  hastily  feeling  a  disgrace  that 
fie  was  unconscious  of  meriting,  and  hoped  his 
Holiness  would  pardon  what  was  past.  The  Pope 
thereupon  gave  him  his  benediction,  and  restored 
him  to  his  friendship.  The  whole  reign  of  Leo  X. 
Was  a  blank  in  the  life  of  M  ichael  Angelo.  —  Duppa.\ 


I  loved  thee ;  but  the  vengeance  of  my  verse, 
The  hate  of  injuries  which  every  year 
Makes  greater  and  accumulates  my  curse, 
Shall  live,  outliving  all  thou  hoklest  dear. 
Thy  pride,  thy  wealth,  thy  freedom,  and  even 

that. 
The  most  infernal  of  all  evils  here, 
The  sway  of  petty  tyrants  in  a  state ; 
For  such  sway  is  not  limited  to  kings, 
And  demagogues  yield  to  them  but  in  dafc 
As  swept  off  sooner ;  in  all  deadly  things 
Which  make  men  hate  themselves,  and  one 

another, 
In    discord,    cowardice,    cruelty,  all    thai 
springs 
From  Death  the   Sin-born's  incest  with   hi| 
mother, 
In  rank  oppression  in  its  rudest  shape, 
The  faction  Chief  is  but  the  Sultan's  brother 
And  the  worst  despot's  far  less  human  ape : 
Florence!  when  this  lone  spirit,  which  s< 

long 
Yearned,  as  the  captive  toiling  at  escape, 
To  fly  back  to  thee  in  despite  of  wrong, 
An  exile,  saddest  of  all  prisoners, 
Who  has  the  whole  world  for  a  dungeot. 
strong, 
Seas,  mountains,  and  the  horizon's  verge  foi 
bars, 
Which  shut  him  from  the  sole  small  spot  ol 

earth 
Where  — whatsoe'er  his  fate  —  he  still  were 
hers, 
His  country's,  and  might  die  where  he  had 
birth  — 
Florence !  when  this  lone  spirit  shall  return 
To  kindred  spirits,  thou  wilt  feel  my  worth, 
And  seek  to  honor  with  an  empty  urn 

The  ashes  thou  shalt  ne'er  obtain  1~  Alas ! 


1  [In  his  "  Convito,"  Dante  speaks  of  his  banish- 
ment, and  the  poverty  and  distress  which  attended 
it,  in  very  affecting  terms.  About  the  year  1316, 
his  friends  obtained  his  restoration  to  his  country 
and  his  possessions,  on  condition  that  he  should 
pay  a  certain  sum  of  money,  and,  entering  a  church, 
there  avow  himself  guilty,  and  ask  pardon  of  the 
republic.  "  Far,"  he  replied,  "  from  the  man  who 
is  familiar  with  philosophy,  be  the  senseless  base 
ness  of  a  heart  of  earth,  that  could  do  like  a  little 
sciolist,  and  imitate  the  infamy  of  some  others,  by 
offering  himself  up  as  it  were  in  chains.  Far  from 
the  man  who  cries  aloud  for  justice,  this  compro- 
mise, by  his  money,  with  his  persecutors!  No,  my 
Father,  this  is  not  the  way  that  shall  lead  me  back 
to  my  country.  But  I  shall  return  with  hasty 
steps,  if  you  or  any  other  can  open  to  me  a  way 
that  shall  not  derogate  from  the  fame  and  honor  of 
Dante;  but  if  by  no  such  way  Florence  can  be  en- 
tered, then  Florence  I  shall  never  enter.  What! 
shall  I  not  everywhere  enjoy  the  sight  of  the  sun 
and  stars?  and  may  I  not  seek  and  contemplate,  in 
every  corner  of  the  earth  under  the  canopy  oS 
heaven,  consoling  and  delightful  truth,  without  first 
rendering  myself  inglorious,  nay  infamous,  to  thf 


FRANCESCA    OF  RIMINI. 


201 


"  What  have  I  done  to  thee,  my  people  ?  J 
Stern 
Are  all  thy  dealings,  but  in  this  they  pass 

The  limits  of  man's  common  malice,  for 

All  that  a  citizen  could  be  I  was ; 
Raised  by  thy  will,  all  thine  in  peace  or  war, 

And  for  this  thou  hast  warred  with  me. — 
'Tis  done : 

I  may  not  overleap  the  eternal  bar 
Buiit  up  between  us,  and  will  die  alone, 

Beholding  with  the  dark  eye  of  a  seer 

The  evil  days  to  gifted  souls  foreshown, 
foretelling  them  to  those  who  will  not  hear. 


people  and  republic  of  Florence?     Bread,  I  hope, 
will  not  fail  me."] 

1  "  E  scrisse  piu  volte  non  solamente  a  particolari 
cittadini  del  reggimento,  ma  ancora  al  popolo,  e 
intra  1'  altre  una  epistola  assia  lunga  che  comincia: 
— '  Popule  mi,  quid  feci  tibi? 

Vita  di  Dante  scritta  da  Lionardo  A  retina. 


As  in  the  old  time,  till  the  hour  be  come 
When  truth  shall  strike  their  eyes  through 
many  a  tear, 
And  make  them  own  the  Prophet  in  his  tomb.' 

2  [Dante  died  at  Ravenna  in  1321,  in  the  palace 
of  his  patron,  Guido  Novello  da  Polenta,  who  testi- 
fied his  sorrow  and  respect  by  the  sumptuousness 
of  his  obsequies,  and  by  giving  orders  to  erect  a 
monument,  which  he  did  not  live  to  complete.  His 
countrymen  showed,  too  late,  that  they  knew  the 
value  of  what  they  had  lost.  At  the  beginning  of 
the  next  century,  they  entreated  that  the  mortal 
remains  of  their  illustrious  citizen  might  be  restored 
to  them,  and  deposited  among  the  tombs  of  their 
fathers.  But  the  people  of  Ravenna  were  unwilling 
to  part  with  the  sad  and  honorable  memorial  of  their 
own  hospitality.  No  better  success  attended  the 
subsequent  negotiations  of  the  Florentines  for  the 
same  purpose,  though  renewed  under  the  auspices 
of  Leo  X.,  and  conducted  through  the  powerful 
mediation  of  Michael  Angelo.J 


FRANCESCA   OF   RIMINI. 


[This  translation,  of  what  is  generally  considered  the  most  exquisitely  pathetic  episode  in  the  Divina 
'  Commedia,  was  executed  in  March,  1820,  at  Ravenna,  where,  just  five  centuries  before,  and  in  the  very 
house  in  which  the  unfortunate  lady  was  born,  Dante's  poem  had  been  composed. 

In  mitigation  of  the  crime  of  Francesca,  Boccaccio  relates,  that  "  Guido  engaged  to  give  his  daughter 
in  marriage  to  Lanciotto,  the  eldest  son  of  his  enemy,  the  master  of  Rimini.  Lanciotto,  who  was  hide- 
ously deformed  in  countenance  and  figure,  foresaw  that,  if  he  presented  himself  in  person,  he  should  be 
rejected  by  the  lady.  He  therefore  resolved  to  marry  her  by  proxy,  and  sent  as  his  representative  his 
younger  brother,  Paolo,  the  handsomest  and  most  accomplished  man  in  all  Italy.  Francesca  saw  Paolo 
arrive,  and  imagined  she  beheld  her  future  husband.  That  mistake  was  the  commencement  of  her  pas- 
sion. The  friends  of  Guido  addressed  him  in  strong  remonstrances,  and  mournful  predictions  of  the  dan- 
gers to  which  he  exposed  a  daughter,  whose  high  spirit  would  never  brook  to  be  sacrificed  with  impunity. 
But  Guido  was  no  longer  in  a  condition  to  make  war;  and  the  necessities  of  the  politician  overcame  thV 
feelings  of  the  father."  .... 

In  transmitting  his  version  to  Mr.  Murray,  Lord  Byron  says  —  "  Enclosed  you  will  find,  line  for  line, 
in  third  rhyme  (terza  rima),  of  which  your  British  blackguard  reader  as  yet  understands  nothing,  Fanny 
of  Rimini.  You  know  that  she  was  born  here,  and  married,  and  slain,  from  Cary,  Boyd,  and  such  people. 
I  have  done  it  into  cramp  English,  line  for  line,  and  rhyme  for  rhyme,  to  try  the  possibility.  If  it  is  pub- 
lished, publish  it  with  the  original." 

In  one  of  the  poet's  MS.  Diaries  we  find  the  following  passage:  — "January  29,  1821,  past  midnight 
—  one  of  the  clock.  I  have  been  reading  Frederick  Schlegel'  till  now,  and  I  can  make  out  nothing.  He 
evidently  shows  a  great  power  of  words,  but  there  is  nothing  to  be  taken  hold  of.  He  is  like  Hazlitt  in 
English;  who  talks  pimples;  a  red  and  white  corruption  rising  up  (in  little  imitation  of  mountains  upon 
maps),  but  containing  nothing,  and  discharging  nothing,  except  their  own  humors.  I  like  him  the  worse 
(that  is,  Schlegel),  because  he  always  seems  upon  the  verge  of  meaning;  and,  lo!  he  goes  down  like  sun- 
set, or  melts  like  a  rainbow,  leaving  a  rather  rich  confusion.  Of  Dante,  he  says,  that '  at  no  tjme  has  the 
greatest  and  most  national  of  all  Italian  poets  ever  been  much  the  favorite  of  his  countrymen!  '  'Tis  false. 
There  have  been  more  editors  and  commentators  (and  imitators  ultimately)  of  Dante  than  of  all  their 
^oets  put  together.    Not  a  favorite!   Why,  they  talk  haute  — write  Dante  — and  think  and  dream  Dante, 

1  r"  f-ertures  on  the  History  of  I-Jtera/ure,  Ancient  and  Modern."} 


m 


FRANCESCA    OF  RIMINI. 


at  this  ir.oment  (i 821),  to  an  excess  which  would  be  ridiculous,  but  that  he  deserves  it.  He  says  also 
that  Dante's  '  chief  defect  is  a  want,  in  a  word,  of  gentle  feelings.'  Of  gentle  feelings!  — and  Franceses 
of  Rimini  —  and  the  father's  feelings  in  Ugolino  —  and  Beatrice  —  and'  La  Pia!  '  Why,  there  is  a  gen- 
tleness in  Dante  beyond  all  gentleness,  when  he  is  tender.  It  is  true  that,  treating  of  the  Christian  Hades. 
or  Hell,  there  is  not  much  scope  or  site  for  gentleness:  but  who  but  Dante  could  have  introduced  any 
'gentleness'  at  all  into  Hell?  Is  there  any  in  Milton's?  No  —  and  Dante's  Heaven  is  all  love,  and  glory, 
and  majesty."] 


FRANCESCA   DA   RIMINI.* 

DANTE  LTNFERNO. 

CANTO  V. 

SlEDE  la  terra  dove  nata  fui 

Sulla  marina,  clove  il  Po  discende. 

Per  aver  pace  coi  seguaci  sui. 
Amor,  che  al  cor  gentii  ratto  s'  apprende, 

Prese  costui  della  bella  persona 

Che  mi  fu  tolta  ;  e  il  modo  ancor  m'  offende. 
Amor,  che  a  nullo  amato  amar  perdona, 

Mi  prese  del  costui  piacer  si  forte, 

Che,  come  vedi,  ancor  non  m'  abbandona. 
Amor  condusse  noi  ad  una  morte  : 

Caina  attende  chi  in  vita  ci  spense. 

Queste  parole  da  lor  ci  fur  porte. 
Da  ch'  io  intesi  quell'  anime  offense, 

Chinai  il  viso,  e  tanto  il  tenni  basso 

Fin  che  il  Poeta  mi  disse:     Che  pense  ? 
Quando  risposi,  incomminciai :     Ahi  lasso ! 

Quanti  dolci  pensier,  quanto  desio 

Mend  costoro  al  doloroso  passo ! 
Poi  mi  rivolsi  a  loro,  e  parlai  io, 

E  cominciai :  Krancesca,  i  tuoi  martiri 


'  fFrancesca,  daughter  of  Guido  da  Polenta, 
Lord  of  Ravenna  and  of  Cervia,  was  given  by  her 
father  in  marriage  to  Lanciotto,  son  of  Malatesta, 
Lord  of  Rimini,  a  man  of  extraordinary  courage, 
but  deformed  in  his  person.  His  brother  Paolo,  who 
unhappily  possessed  those  graces  which  the  hus- 
band of  Francesca  wanted,  engaged  her  affections; 
and,  being  taken  in  adultery,  they  were  both  put  to 
death  by  the  enraged  Lanciotto.  The  interest  of 
this  pathetic  narrative  is  much  increased,  when  it 
is  recollected  that  the  father  of  this  unfortunate 
lady  was  the  beloved  friend  and  generous  protector 
of  Dante  during  his  laller  days.] 


FRANCESCA     OF   RIMINI. 

FROM  THE  INFERNO  OF  DANTE. 

CANTO  V. 

"  THE  land  where  I  was  born  2  sits  by  the  seas, 

Upon  that  shore  to  which  the  Po  descends, 

With  all  his  followers,  in  search  of  peace. 

Love,  which  the  gentle  heart  soon  apprehends, 

Seized  him  for  the  lair  person  which  was 

ta'en3 
From  me,  and  me  even  yet  the  mode  offends. 
Love,  who  to  none  beloved  to  love  again 
Remits,  seized  me  with  wish  to  please,  so 

strong 
That,  as  thou  seest,  yet,  yet  it  doth  remain. 
Love  to  one  death  conducted  us  along, 
But   Caina4  waits   for  him   our   life  who 

ended: " 
These  were    the    accents  uttered  by  her 
tongue.  —  * 
Since  I  first  listened  to  these  souls  offended, 
I  bowed  my  visage,  and  so  kept  it  till  — 
"  What  think'st  thou?  "  said  the  bard ;  when 
I  unbended, 
And  recommenced  :  "Alas!  unto  such  ill 
How   many  sweet   thoughts,  what   strong 

ecstasies 
Led  these  their  evil  fortune  to  fulfil  1 " 
And  then  I  turned  unto  their  side  my  eyes, 
And  said,  "  Francesca,  thy  sad  destinies 


2  Ravenna. 

3  [Among  Byron's  unpublished  letters  we  find 
the  following: — "Varied  readings  of  the  transla- 
tion from  Dante. 

Seized  him  for  the  fair  person,  which  in  its 

Bloom  was  ta'en  from  me,  yet  the  mode  offends. 
or, 

Seized  him  for  the  fair  form,  of  which  in  its 

Bloom  I  was  reft,  and  yet  the  mode  offends. 
Love,  which  to  none  beloved  to  love  remits, 
(  with  mutual  wish  to  please  ) 

Seized  me  <  with  wish  of  pleasing  him  >  to  strong, 
(  with  the  desire  to  please     ) 

That,  as  thou  see'st,  not  yet  that  passion  quits,  etc. 
You  will  find  these  readings  vary  from  the  MS.  I 
sent  you.  They  are  closer,  but  rougher :  take  which 
is  liked  best;  or,  if  you  like,  print  them  as  varia- 
tions. They  are  all  close  to  the  text."  —  Byron's 
Letters.} 

*  [From  Cain,  the  first  fratricide.     Caina  is  that 


FRANCESCA    OF  RIMINI. 


203 


A  lagrimar  mi  fanno  tristo  e  pio. 

Ma  dimmi :  al  tempo  de'  dolci  sospiri, 
A  che  e  come  concedette  Amore, 
Che  conosceste  i  dubbiosi  desiri  ? 

Ed  ella  a  me :  Nessun  maggior  dolore 
Che  ricordarsi  del  tempo  felice 
Nella  miseria; l  e  cid  sa  il  tuo  dottore. 

Ma  se  a  conoscer  la  prima  radice 
Del  nostro  amor  tu  hai  cotanto  affetto, 
Faro  come  colui  che  piange  e  dice. 

Noi  leggevamo  un  giorno  per  diletto 
Di  Lancillotto,2  come  Amor  lo  strinse : 
Soli  eravamo,  e  senza  alcun  sospetto. 

Per  piu  fiate  gli  occhi  ci  sospinse 
Quella  lettura,  e  scolorocci  il  viso : 
Ma  solo  un  punto  fu  quel  che  ci  vinse. 

Quando  leggemmo  il  disiato  riso 
Esser  baciato  da  cotanto  amaate, 
Questi,  che  mai  da  me  non  fia  diviso, 

La  bocca  mi  bacio  tutto  tremante: 
Galeotto  fu  il  libro,  e  chi  lo  scrisse  — 
Quel  giorno  piu.  non  vi  leggemmo  avante. 

Mentre  che  1'uno  spirto  questo  disse, 
L'altro  piangeva  si,  che  di  pietade 
lo  venni  men,  cosi  com'  io  morisse, 

E  caddi  come  corpo  morto  cade. 


1  ["  In  omni  adversitate  fortuns  infelicissimum 
genus  infortunii  est  fuisse  felicem."  —  Boetius. 
Dante  himself  tells  us,  that  Boetius  and  Cicero  de 
Amicitia  were  the  two  first  books  that  engaged  his 
attention.] 

2  [One  of  the  Knights  of  Arthur's  Round  Table, 
ind  the  lover  of  Genevra,  celebrated  in  romance.] 


Have  made  me  sorrow  till  the  tears  arise. 
But  tell  me,  in  the  season  of  sweet  sighs, 

By  what  and  how  thy  love  to  passion  rose. 

So  as  his  dim  desires  to  recognize?  " 
Then  she  to  me :  "  The  greatest  of  all  woes 

Is  to  remind  us  of  our  happy  days3 

In  misery,  and  that  thy  teacher  knows.4 
But  if  to  learn  our  passion's  first  root  preys 

Upon  thy  spirit  with  such  sympathy, 

I  will  do  even  as  he  who  weeps  and  says.5 
We  read  one  day  for  pastime,  seated  nigh, 

Of  Lancelot,  hew  love  enchained  him  too. 

We  were  alone,  quite  unsuspiciously. 
But  oft  our  eyes  met,  and  our  cheeks  in  hue 

All  o'er  discolored  by  that  reading  were  ; 

But  one  point  only  wholly  us  o'erthrew ; 6 
When  we  read  the  long-sighed-for  smile  of  her3 

To  be  thus  kissed  by  such  devoted  lover,7 

He  who  from  me  can  be  divided  ne'er 
Kissed  my  mouth,  trembling  in  the  act  all  over. 

Accursed  was  the  book  and  he  who  wrote! 

That  day  no  further  leaf  we  did  uncover." 

While  thus  one  spirit  told  us  of  their  lot, 

The  other  wept,  so  that  with  pity's  thralls 

I  swooned  as  if  by  death  I  had  been  smote, 
And  fell  down  even  as  a  dead  body  falls.8 


part  of  the  Inferno  to  which  murderers  are  con- 
demned.] 

'[MS.- 

"I-  »  !  'remind  H?  j  <- happy  day,"] 
*[MS.— 
"  In  misery  and  <  2jjft  |  thy  teacher  knows."] 

b  [MS.— 

"  *  wil1  |  defeven  (  as  he  weeps  and  savs"l 

■  [MS.-»  But  one  pointonly  us  j  J^&T  |  "1 

'[MS.— 
"  To  be  thus  kissed  by  such  j  ^^"j  (  lover."] 

8  [The  "  other  spirit "  is  Francesca's  lover, 
Paolo.  It  is  the  poet  himself  who  swoons  with 
pity,  and  his  emotion  will  not  be  deemed  exagger- 
ated when  we  consider  that  he  had  known  Fran, 
cesca  when  a  girl,  blooming  in  innocence  an4 
beauty  in  the  house  of  his  friend,  her  father.] 


THE   MORGANTE    MAGGIORE   OF    PULCI. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 

The  Morganle  Maggiorc,  of  the  first  canto  of  which  this  translation,  is  offered,  divides  with  the  Or 
!ando  Innamorato  the  honor  of  having  formed  and  suggested  the  style  and  story  of  Ariosto.  The  great 
defects  of  Boiardo  were  his  treating  too  seriously  the  narratives  of  chivalry,  and  his  harsh  style.  Ariosto, 
in  his  continuation,  by  a  judicious  mixture  of  the  gaiety  of  Pulci,  has  avoided  the  one;  and  Berni,  in  his 
reformation  of  Boiardo's  Poem,  has  corrected  the  other.  Pulci  may  be  considered  as  the  precursor  and 
model  of  Berni  altogether,  as  he  has  partly  been  to  Ariosto,  however  inferior  to  both  his  copyists.  He  is 
no  less  the  founder  of  a  new  style  of  poetry  very  lately  sprung  up  in  England.  I  allude  to  that  of  the 
ingenious  Whistlecraft.  The  serious  poems  on  Ronccsvalles  in  the  same  language,  and  more  particu 
larly  the  excellent  one  of  Mr.  Merivale,  are  to  be  traced  to  the  same  source  It  has  never  yet  been  de- 
cided entirely  whether  Pulci's  intention  was  or  was  not  to  deride  the  religion  which  is  one  of  his  favorite 
topics.  It  appears  to  me,  that  such  an  intention  would  have  been  no  less  hazardous  to  the  poet  than  to 
the  priest,  particularly  in  that  age  and  country;  and  the  permission  to  publish  the  poem,  and  its  recep- 
tion among  the  classics  of  Italy,  prove  that  it  neither  was  nor  is  so  interpreted.  That  he  intended  to 
ridicule  the  monastic  life,  and  suffered  his  imagination  to  play  with  the  simple  dulness  of  his  converted 
giant,  seems  evident  enough;  but  surely  it  were  as  unjust  to  accuse  him  of  irreligion  on  this  account,  as 
to  denounce  Fielding  for  his  Parson  Adams,  Barnabas,  Thwackum,  Supple,  and  the  Ordinary  in  Jona- 
than Wild,  —  or  Scott,  for  the  exquisite  use  of  his  Covenanters  in  the  "  Tales  of  my  Landlord." 

In  the  following  translation  I  have  used  the  liberty  of  the  original  with  the  proper  names;  as  Pulci 
uses  Gan,  Ganellon,  or  Gancllone;  Carlo,  Carlomagno,  or  Carlomano;  Rondel,  or  Rondello,  etc.,  as  it 
suits  his  convenience;  so  has  the  translator.  In  other  respects  the  version  is  faithful  to  the  best  of  the 
translator's  ability  in  combining  his  interpretation  of  the  one  language  with  the  not  very  easy  task  of 
reducing  it  to  the  same  versification  in  the  other.  The  reader,  on  comparing  it  with  the  original,  is  re- 
quested to  remember  that  the  antiquated  language  of  Pulci,  however  pure,  is  not  easy  to  the  generality 
of  Italians  themselves,  from  its  great  mixture  of  Tuscan  proverbs;  and  he  may  therefore  be  more  indul- 
gent to  the  present  attempt.  How  far  the  translator  has  succeeded,  and  whether  or  no  he  shall  continue 
the  work,  are  questions  which  the  public  will  decide.  He  was  induced  to  make  the  experiment  partly  by 
his  love  for,  and  partial  intercourse  with,  the  Italian  language,  of  which  it  is  so  easy  to  acquire  a  slight 
knowledge,  and  with  which  it  is  so  nearly  impossible  for  a  foreigner  to  become  accurately  conversant. 
The  Italian  language  is  like  a  capricious  beauty,  who  accords  her  smiles  to  all,  her  favors  to  few,  and 
sometimes  least  to  those  who  have  courted  her  longest.  The  translator  wished  also  to  present  in  an  Eng- 
lish dress  a  part  at  least  of  a  poem  never  yet  rendered  into  a  northern  language;  at  the  same  time  that  it 
has  been  the  original  of  some  of  the  most  celebrated  productions  on  this  side  of  the  Alps,  as  well  as  of 
those  recent  experiments  in  poetry  in  England  which  have  been  already  mentioned. 


INTRODUCTION. 


The  translation  of  the  Morgante  of  Pulci  was  chiefly  executed  at  Ravenna  in  1820,  and  w«s  first  pub- 
lished in  ■'  The  Liberal."  Such  was  the  care  bestowed  by  Byron  upon  the  task,  that  he  only  accom- 
plished two  stanzas  a  night,  which  was  his  principal  time  for  composition,  and  such  was  his  opinion  o( 
his  success,  that  he  always  maintained  that  there  was  no  such  translation  in  the  English  language,  anr 


MORGANTE  MAGGIORE. 


205 


never  would  be  such  another.  He  appears  to  have  thought  that  its  merit  consisted  in  the  vcrbum  pro 
verto  closeness  of  the  version,  rendered  doubly  difficult  by  the  character  of  the  poem,  which,  besides 
being  humorous,  is  full  of  vulgar  Florentine  idioms,  abrupt  transitions,  ungrammatical  constructions,  and 
sententious  obscurity.  The  immense  labor  of  mastering  these  accumulated  obstacles'  explains  Byron's 
over-estimate  of  the  piece.  "  Why,"  he  wrote  to  Mr.  Murray  in  1821,  "don't  you  publish  my  Pulci  — 
the  best  thing  I  ever  wrote?  " 

The  first  edition  of  the  original  Morgante  was  published  at  Venice  in  1481.  The  characters  are  derived 
from  some  chivalrous  romances  of  the  thirteenth  century.  It  is  a  question  whether  Pulci  designed  a  bur- 
lesque or  a  serious  poem  —  Ugo  Foscolo  maintaining  that  the  air  of  ridicule  arose  from  the  contrast 
between  the  absurdity  of  the  materials  and  the  effort  of  the  author  to  render  them  sublime;  while  Sis- 
mondi  contends  that  the  belief  in  the  marvellous  being  much  diminished,  the  adventures  which  formerly 
were  heard  with  gravity  could  not  be  reproduced  without  a  mixture  of  mockery.  Hallam  agrees  with  the 
latter,  and  thinks  that  Pulci  meant  to  scoff  at  heroes  whom  duller  poets  held  up  to  admiration. 

There  has  been  an  equal  difference  of  opinion  upon  the  parts  of  the  poem  which  touch  on  religion. 
Ugo  Foscolo  considers  Pulci  a  devout  Catholic  who  laughed  at  particular  dogmas  and  divines;  Sismondi 
doubts  whether  to  charge  him  with  gross  bigotry  or  profane  derision;  and  Hallam  thinks  that  under 
pretence  of  ridiculing  the  intermixture  of  theology  with  romance,  he  had  an  intention  of  exposing  religion 
to  contempt.  Whatever  may  have  been  his  theoretical  creed,  he  shows  by  his  mode  of  treating  sacred 
topics  that  he  was  entirely  destitute  of  reverence.  Byron  was  asked  to  allow  some  suppressions  in  his 
translation,  to  which  he  replied  that  Pulci  must  answer  for  his  own  impiety. 

1  [These  difficulties  are  much  exaggerated.  —  F.  J.  C] 


MORGANTE   MAGGIORE. 

CANTO  PRIMO. 

I. 

IN  principio  era  il  Verbo  appresso  a  Dio, 
Ed  era  Iddio  il  Verbo,  e'l  Verbo  lui : 
Questo  era  nel  principio,  al  parer  mio ; 
E  nulla  si  pud  far  sanza  costui : 
Pero,  giusto  Signor  benigno  e  pio, 
Mandami  solo  tin  de  gli  angeli  tui, 
Che  m'accompagni,  e  rechimi  a  memoria 
Una  famosa  antica  e  degna  storia. 


£  tu  Vergine,  figlia,  e  madre,  e  sposa 
Di  quel  Signor,  che  ti  dette  le  chiave 
Del  cieio  e  dell'  abisso,  e  d'ogni  cosa, 
Quel  di  che  Gabriel  tuo  ti  disse  Ave ! 
Perche  tu  se'  de'  tuo'  servi  pietosa, 
Con  dolce  rime,  e  stil  grato  e  soave, 
Ajuta  i  versi  miei  benignamente, 
E'nfino  al  fine  allumina  la  mente. 


Era  nel  tempo,  quando  Filomena 
Con  la  sorella  si  lamenta  e  plora, 


THE   MORGANTE   MAGGIORE. 

CANTO  THE   FIRST. 

I. 
IN  the  beginning  was  the  Word  next  God ; 
God  was  the  Word,  the  Word  no  less  was 
he: 
This  was  in  the  beginning,  to  my  mode 

Of  thinking,  and  without  him  nought  could 
be: 
Therefore,  just  Lord  !  from  out  thy  high  abode, 

Benign  and  pious,  bid  an  angel  flee, 
One  only,  to  be  my  companion,  who 
Shall    help    my   famous,   worthy,    old   song 
through. 

II. 
And  thou,  oh  Virgin  !  daughter,  mother, bride, 
Of  the  same  Lord,  who  gave  to  you  each  key 
Of  heaven,  and  hell,  and  every  thing  beside, 

The  day  thy  Gabriel  said"  All  hail !  "  to  thee, 
Since  to  thy  servants  pity's  ne'er  denied, 
With  flowing  rhymes,  a  pleasant  style  and 
free, 
Be  to  my  verses  then  benignly  kind, 
And  to  the  end  illuminate  my  mind. 

III. 
'Twas  in  the  season  when  sad  Philomel 
Weeps  with  her  sister,  who  remembers  and 


206 


M  ORG  ANTE  M AG  G I  ORE. 


Che  si  ricorda  di  sua  antica  pena, 
E  pe'  boschetti  le  ninfe  innamora, 
E  Feho  il  carro  temperato  mena, 
Che  '1  suo  Fetonte  l'ammaestra  ancora; 
Ed  appariva  appunto  all'orizzonte, 
Tal  che  Titon  si  graffiava  la  fronte. 


Quand'io  varai  la  mia  barchetta,  prima 
Per  ubbidir  chi  sempre  ubbidir  debbe 
La  mente,  e  faticarsi  in  prosa  e  in  rima, 
E  del  mio  Carlo  Imperador  m'increbbe  ; 
Che  so  quanti  la  penna  ha  posto  in  cima, 
Che  tutti  la  sua  gloria  prevarrebbe  : 
E  stata  quella  istoria,  a  quel  ch'  i"  veggio, 
Di  Carlo  male  intesa,  e  scritta  peggio. 


V. 

Diceva  gia  Lionardo  Aretino, 

Che  s'  egli  avesse  avuto  scrittor  degno, 
Com'egli  ebbe  un  Ormanno  il  suo  Fipino, 
Ch'avesse  diligenzia  avuto  e  ingegno; 
Sarebbe  Carlo  Magno  un  uom  divino ; 
Pero  ch'egli  ebbe  gran  vittorie  e  regno, 
E  fece  per  la  chiesa  e  per  la  fede 
Certo  assai  piii,  che  non  si  dice  o  crede. 


VI. 

Guardisi  ancora  a  san  Liberatore 
Quella  badia  la  presso  a  Manoppello, 
Giu  ne  gli  Abbruzzi  fatta  per  suo  onore, 
Dove  fu  la  battaglia  e  '1  gran  flaggello 
D'un  re  pagan,  che  Carlo  imperadore 
Uccise,  e  tanto  del  suo  popol  fello  : 
E  vedesi  tante  ossa,  e  tanto  il  sanno, 
Che  tutte  in  Giusaffa  poi  si  vedranno. 


Ma  il  mondo  cieco  e  ignorante  non  prezza 
Le  sue  virtii,  com'io  vorrei  vedere: 
E  tu,  Fiorenza,  de  la  sua  grandezza 
Possiedi,  e  sempre  potrai  possedere 
Ogni  costume  ed  ogni  gentilezza 
Che  si  potesse  acquistare  o  avere 
Col  senno  col  tesoro  o  con  la  lancia 
Dal  nobil  sangue  e  venuto  di  Francia. 


VIII. 

Podici  paladini  aveva  in  corte 
Carlo ;  e'l  piu  savio  e  famoso  era  Orlando : 
Gan  traditor  lo  condusse  a  la  morte, 
in  Roncisvalle,  un  trattato  ordinando; 
La  dove  il  corno  sono  tanto  forte 
Dopo  la  dolorosa  rotta,  quando 


Deplores  the  ancient  woes  which  both  befell, 
And  makes  the  nymphs  enamoured,  to  the 
hand 
Of  Phaeton  by  Phcebus  loved  so  well 

His  car  (but  tempered  by  his  sire's  com 
mand) 
Was  given,  and  on  the  horizon's  verge  juM  now 
Appeared,  so   that   Tithonus   scratched    his 
brow: 

IV. 

When  I  prepared  my  bark  first  to  obey, 
As  it  should  still  obey,  the  helm,  my  mind 

And  carry  prose  or  rhyme,  and  this  my  lay 
Of  Charles  the  Emperor,  whom  you  will  find 

By  several  pens  already  praised ;  but  they 
Who  to  diffuse  his  glory  were  inclined, 

For  all  that  I  can  see  in  prose  or  verse, 

Have  understood   Charles  badly,  and  wrote 
worse. 

V. 

Leonardo  Aretino  said  already, 

That  if  like  Pepin,  Charles  had  had  a  writer 
Of  genius  quick,  and  diligently  steady, 

No  hero  would  in  history  look  brighter; 
He  in  the  cabinet  being  always  ready, 

And  in  the  field  a  most  victorious  fighter, 
Who  for  the  church  and  Christian  faith  had 

wrought, 
Certes,  far  more  than  yet  is  said  or  thought. 


You  still  may  see  at  Saint  Liberatore 

The  abbey,  no  great  way  from  Manopell, 

Erected  in  the  Abruzzi  to  his  glory, 

Because  of  the  great  battle  in  which  fell 

A  pagan  king,  according  to  the  story, 
And  felon  people  whom  Charles  sent  to  hell : 

And  there  are  bones  so  many,  and  so  many, 

Near  them  Giusaffa's  would  seem  few,  if  any, 

VII. 

But  the  world,  blind  and  ignorant,  don't  prize 
His  virtues  as  I  wish  to  see  them  :  thou, 

Florence,  by  his  great  bounty  don't  arise, 
And  hast,  and  may  have,  if  thou  wilt  allow, 

All  proper  customs  and  true  courtesies  : 
Whate'er  thou  hast  acquired  from  then  till 
now, 

With  knightly  courage,  treasure,  or  the  lance, 

Is  sprung  from  out  the  noble  blood  of  France. 

VIII. 

Twelve  paladins  had  Charles  in  court,  of  whom 
The  wisest  and  most  famous  was  Orlando ; 
Him  traitor  Gan  conducted  to  the  tomb 

In  Roncesvalles,  as  the  villain  planned  too, 
While  the  horn  rang  so  loud,  and  knelled  the 
doom 
Of  their  sad  rout,  though  he  did  all  knight 
can  do ; 


MORGANTE  MAGGIORE. 


20? 


Ne  Ta  sua  commedia  Dante  qui  dice, 
L  mettelo  con  Carlo  in  eiel  felice. 


Sra  per  Pasqua  quella  di  natale : 
Carlo  la  corte  avea  tutta  in  Parigi : 
Orlando,  com'io  dico,  il  principale 
Evvi,  ii  Danese,  Astolfo,  e  Ansuigi : 
Fannosi  feste  e  cose  trionfale, 
E  molto  celebravan  San  Dionigi ; 
Angiolin  di  Bajona,  ed  Ulivieri 
V'«5ra  vecuto,  e'l  gentil  Berlinghieri : 

X. 

Kravi  Avolio  ed  A  vino  ed  Ottone, 
Di  Normandia,  Riccardo  Paladino, 
E'l  savio  Namo,  e'l  vecchio  Salamone, 
Gualtier  da  Monlione,  e  Baldovino 
Ch'era  figliuol  del  tristo  Ganellone. 
Troppo  lieto  era  il  figliuol  di  Pipino; 
Tanto  che  spesso  d'allegrezza  genie 
Veggendo  tutti  i  paladini  insieme. 

XI. 

Ma  la  fortuna  attenta  sta  nascosa. 

Per  guastar  senipre  ciascun  nostro  effetto; 
Mentre  che  Carlo  cosi  si  riposa. 
Orlando  governava  in  fatto  e  in  detto 
La  corte  e  Carlo  Magno  ed  ogni  cosa: 
Gan  per  invidia  scoppia  il  maladetto, 
E  cominciava  un  di  con  Carlo  a  dire : 
Abbiam  noi  senipre  Orlando  ad  ubbidire  ? 

XII. 

Jo  ho  creduto  mille  volte  dlrti : 
Orlando  ha  in  se  troppa  presunzione : 
Noi  siam  qui  conti,  re,  duchi  a  servirti, 
E  Namo,  Ottone,  Uggieri  e  Salamone, 
Per  onorarti  ognun,  per  ubbidirti : 
Che  costui  abbi  ogni  reputazione 
Noi  sofferrem  ;  ma  siam  deliberati 
Da  un  fanciullo  non  esser  governati. 


!"u  cominciasti  insino  in  Aspramonte 
A  dargli  a  intender  che  fusse  gagliardo, 
E  facesse  gran  cose  a  quella  fonte  ; 
Ma  se  non  fusse  stato  il  buon  Gherardo, 
Io  so  che  la  vittoria  era  d'Almonte : 
Ma  egli  ebbe  senipre  l'occhio  a  lo  stendardo. 
Che  si  voleva  quel  di  coronarlo  : 
Questo  6  colui  ch'ha  meritato,  Carlo. 

XIV. 

iJe  ti  ricorda  gia  sendo  in  Guascogna, 
Quando  e'vi  venne  la  gente  di  Spagna, 


And  Dante  in  his  comedy  has  given 

To  him  a  happy  seat  with  Charles  in  heaven. 

IX. 

'Twas  Christmas-day;  in  Paris  all  his  court 
Charles  held ;  the  chief,  I  say,  Orlando  was; 

The  Dane ;  Astolfo  there  too  did  resort, 
Also  Ansuigi,  the  gay  time  to  pass 

In  festival  and  in  triumphal  sport, 
The  much-renowned  St.  Dennis  being  the 
cause ; 

Angiolin  of  Bayonne,  and  Oliver, 

And  gentle  Belinghieri  too  came  there : 

X. 

Avolio,  and  Arino,  and  Othone 

Of  Normandy,  and  Richard  Paladin, 

Wise  Hamo,  and  the  ancient  Salemone, 
Walter  of  Lion's  Mount  and  Baldovin, 

Who  was  the  son  of  the  sad  Ganellone, 
Were  there,  exciting  too  much  gladness  in 

The  son  of  Pepin  :  — when  his  knights  came 
.hither, 

He  groaned  with  joy  to  see  them  altogether. 

XI. 

But  watchful  Fortune,  lurking,  takes  good  heed 
Ever  some  bar  'gainst  our  intents  to  bring. 
While  Charles  reposed  him  thus,  in  word  and 
deed, 
Orlando   ruled  court,  Charles,   and  every 
thing; 
Curst  Gan,  with  envy  bursting,  had  such  need 
To  vent  his  spite,  that  thus  with  Charles  the 
king 
One  day  he  openly  began  to  say, 
"  Orlando  must  we  always  then  obey  ? 


"A  thousand  times  I've  been  about  to  say, 
Orlando  too  presumptuously  goes  on  ; 

Here  are  we,  counts,  kings,  dukes,  to  own  thy 
sway, 
Hamo,  and  Otho,  Ogier,  Solomon, 

Each  have  to  honor  thee  and  to  obey; 

But  he  has  too  much  credit  near  the  throne, 

Which  we  won't  suffer,  but  are  quite  decided 

By  such  a  boy  to  be  no  longer  guided. 

XIII. . 

"And  even  at  Aspramont  thou  didst  begin 
To  let  him  know  he  was  a  gallant  knight, 

And  by  the  fount  did  much  the  day  to  win ; 
But  I  know  who  that  day  had  won  the  fight 

If  it  had  not  for  good  Gherardo  been  : 
The  victory  was  Almonte's  else  ;  his  sight 

He  kept  upon  the  standard,  and  the  laurels 

In  fact  and  fairness  are  his  earning,  Charles. 

xiv. 
"  If  thou  rememberest  being  in  Gascony, 
When  there  advanced  the  nations  out*o^i 
Spain,  , 


208 


MORGANTE  MAG G TORE. 


II  popol  de'  ciistiani  avea  vergogna, 
Se  non  mostrava  la  sua  forza  magna. 
II  ver  convien  pur  dir,  quando  e'bisogna : 
Sappi  ch'ognuno  imperador  si  lagna  : 
Quant'io  per  me,  ripassero  que'  monti 
Ch'io  passai  'n  qua  con  sessantaduo  conti. 


I  a  tua  grandezza  dispensar  si  vuole, 
E  far  che  ciascun  abbi  la  sua  parte: 
La  coite  tutta  quanta  se  ne  duole  : 
Tu  credi  che  costui  sia  forse  Marte  ? 
Orlando  un  giorno  udi  queste  parole, 
Che  si  sedeva  soletto  in  disparte  : 
Dispiacquegli  di  Gan  quel  che  diceva; 
Ma  molto  piu  che  Carlo  gli  credeva. 


XVI. 

E  voile  con  la  spada  uccider  Gano; 
Ma  Ulivieri  in  quel  mezzo  si  mise, 
E  Durlirdana  gli  trasse  di  mano, 
E  cosi  il  me'  che  seppe  gli  divise. 
Orlando  si  sdegno  con  Carlo  Mano, 
E  poco  men  che  quivi  non  1'uccise; 
E  dipartissi  di  Parigi  solo, 
E  scoppia  e'mpazza  di  sdegno  e  di  duolo. 


XVII. 

Ad  Ermellina  moglie  del  Danese 
Tolse  Cortana,  e  poi  tolse  Rondello; 
E  'n  verso  Brara  il  suo  cammin  poi  prese. 
Alda  la  bella,  come  vide  quello, 
Per  abbracciarlo  le  braccia  distese. 
Orlando,  che  ismarrito  avea  il  cervello, 
Com'ella  disse  :  ben  venga  il  mio  Orlando : 
Gli  voile  in  su  la  testa  dar  col  brando. 


XVIII. 

Come  colui  che  la  furia  consiglia, 
Egli  pareva  a  Gan  dar  vemmente; 
Alda  la  bella  si  fe'  maraviglia  : 
Orlando  si  ravvide  presUmente  : 
E  la  sua  sposa  pigliava  la  briglia, 
E  scese  dal  caval  subitamente  : 
Ed  ogni  cosa  narrava  a  costei, 
E  riposossi  alcun  giorno  con  lei. 


XIX. 

Poi  si  parti  portato  dal  furore, 
E  termino  passare  in  Pagania  ; 
E  mentre  che  cavalca,  il  traditore 
Di  Gan  sempre  ricorda  per  la  via: 
K  cavalcando  d'uno  in  altro  errore, 
In  un  deserto  truova  una  badia 


The  Christian  cause  had  suffered  shamefully, 
Had  not  his  valor  driven  them  back  again. 

Best  speak  the  truth  when  there's  a  reason  why : 
Know  then,  oh  emperor  !  that  all  complain  ■ 

As  for  myself,  I  shall  repass  the  mounts 

O'er  which  I  crossed  with  two  and  sixty  counts. 

XV. 

"  'Tis  fit  thy  grandeur  should  dispense  relief, 
So  that  each  here  may  have  his  proper  part, 
For  the  whole  court  is  more  or  less  in  grief: 
Perhaps  thou  deem'st  this  lad  a  Mars  in 
heart  ?  " 
Orlando  one  day  heard  this  speech  in  brief, 

As  by  himself  it  chanced  he  sate  apart : 
Displeased  he  was  with  Gan  because  he  said  It, 
But  much  more  still  that  Charles  should  give 
him  credit. 

XVI. 

And  with  the  sword  he  would  have  murdered 
Gan, 
But  Oliver  thrust  in  between  the  pair. 
And  from  his  hand  extracted  Durlindan, 

And  thus  at  length  they  separated  were. 
Orlando  angry  too  with  Carloman, 

Wanted  but  little  to  have  slain  him  there; 
Then  forth  alone  from  Paris  went  the  chief, 
And  burst  and  maddened  with  disdain  and 
grief. 

XVII. 

From  Ermellina,  consort  of  the  Dane, 
He  took  Cortana,  and  then  took  Rondell, 

And  on  towards  Brara  pricked  him  o'er  the 
plain; 
And  when  she  saw  him  coming,  Aldabelle 

Stretched   forth  her  arms   to  clasp   her  lord 
again : 
Orlando,  in  whose  brain  all  was  not  well, 

As  "  Welcome,  my  Orlando,  home,"  she  said, 

Raised  up  his  sword  to  smite  her  on  the  head. 

XVIII. 

Like  him  a  fury  counsels ;  his  revenge 

On  Gan  in  that  rash  act  he  seemed  to  take, 

Which  Aldabella  thought  extremely  strange; 
But  soon  Orlando  found  himself  awake  ; 

And  his  spouse  took  his  bridle  on  this  change, 
And  he  dismounted  from  his  horse,  and 
spake 

Of  every  thing  which  passed  without  demur, 

And  then  reposed  himself  some  days  with  her, 


Then  full  of  wrath  departed  from  the  place, 
And  far  as  pagan  countries  roamed  astray, 

And  while  he  rode,  yet  still  at  every  pace 
The  traitor  Gan  remembered  by  the  way; 

And  wandering  on  in  error  a  long  space, 
An  abbey  winch  in  a  lone  desert  lay, 


MORGANTE  MAGGIORB. 


209 


In  luoghi  oscuri  e  paesi  lontani, 
Ch'era  a'  confin'  tra  christiani  e  pagani. 


XX. 

L'abate  si  chiamava  Chiaramonte, 
Era  del  sangue  disceso  d'Anglante : 
Di  sopra  a  la  badia  v'era  un  gran  monte, 
Dove  abitava  alcun  fiero  gigante, 
De'quali  uno  avea  nome  Passamonte, 
L'altro  Alabastro,  e'l  terzo  era  Morgante  : 
Con  certe  frombe  gittavan  da  alto, 
Ed  ogni  di  facevan  qualche  assalto. 


XXI. 

1  monachetti  non  potieno  uscire 
Del  monistero  o  per  legne  o  per  acque 
Orlando  picchia,  e  non  volieno  aprire, 
Fin  che  a  l'abate  a  la  fine  pur  piacque ; 
Entrato  drento  cominciava  a  dire, 
Come  colui  che  di  Maria  gia  nacque, 
Adora,  ed  era  cristian  battezzato, 
E  com'  egli  era  a  la  badia  arrivato. 


XXII. 

Disse  l'abate :  il  ben  venuto  sia 
Di  quel  ch'io  ho  volentier  ti  daremo, 
Poi  che  tu  credi  al  figliuol  di  Maria; 
E  la  cagion,  cavalier,  ti  diremo, 
Accio  che  non  l'imputi  a  villania, 
Perche  a  l'entrar  resistenza  facemo, 
E  non  ti  voile  aprir  quel  monachetto : 
Cosi  intervien  chi  vive  con  sospetto. 


XXIII. 

Quando  ci  venni  al  principio  abitare 
Queste  montagne,  benche  sieno  oscure 
Come  tu  vedi ;  pur  si  potea  stare 
Sanza  sospetto,  ch'  ell'  eran  sicure: 
Sol  da  le  fiere  t'avevi  a  guardare ; 
Fernoci  spesso  di  brutte  paure; 
Or  ci  bisogna,  se  vogliamo  starci, 
Da  le  bestie  dimestiche  guardarci. 


XXIV. 

Queste  ci  fan  piuttosto  stare  a  segno : 
Sonci  appariti  tre  fieri  giganti, 
Non  so  di  qual  paese  o  di  qual  regno, 
Ma  molto  son  feroci  tutti  quanti : 
La  forza  e  '1  malvoler  giunt'  a  lo'  ngegno 
Sai  che  pub  '1  tutto ;  e  noi  non  siam  bas- 
tanti : 


'Midst  glens  obscure,  and  distant    lands,  ht- 

found, 
Which  formed  the  Christian's  and  the  pagan's 
bound. 

XX. 
The  abbot  was  called  Clermont,  and  by  blood 

Descended  from  Angrante  :  under  cover 
Of  a  great  mountain's  brow  the  abbey  stood, 
But  certain  savage  giants  looked  him  over 
One  Passamont  was  foremost  of  the  brood, 

And  Alabaster  and  Morgante  hover 
Second  end   third,  with   certain   slings,  and 

throw 
In  daily  jeopard)  the  place  below. 

XXI. 

The  monies  could  pass  the  convent  gate  no 
more, 

Nor  leave  their  cells  for  water  or  for  wood ; 
Orlando  knocked,  but  none  would  ope,  before 

Unto  the  prior  it  at  length  seemed  good ; 
Entered,  he  said  that  he  was  taught  to  adore 

Him  who  was  born  of  Mary's  holiest  blood, 
And   was   baptized  a  Christian ;    and    then 

showed 
How  to  the  abbey  he  had  found  his  road. 

XXII. 
Said  the  abbot,  "  You  are  welcome ;  what  is 
mine 

We  give  you  freely,  since  that  you  believe 
With  us  in  Mary  Mother's  Son  divine; 

And  that  you  may  not,  cavalier,  conceive 
The  cause  of  our  delay  to  let  you  in 

To  be  rusticity,  you  shall  receive 
The  reason  why  our  gate  was  barred  to  you : 
Thus  those  who  in  suspicion  live  must  do. 

XXIII. 
"  When  hither  to  inhabit  first  we  came 

These  mountains,  albeit  that  they  are  ob- 
scure, 
As  you  perceive,  yet  without  fear  or  blame 

They  seemed  to  promise  an  asylum  sure: 
From  savage  brutes  alone,  too  fierce  to  tame, 

'Twas  fit  our  quiet  dwelling  to  secure ; 
But  now,  if  here  we'd  stay,  we  needs  must 

guard 
Against  domestic  beasts  with  watch  and  ward, 

XXIV. 
"These   make    us  stand,   in   fact,  upon  the 
watch ; 
For  late  there  have  appeared  three  giants 
rough ; 
What  nation  or  what  kingdom  bore  the  batch 
I  know  not,  but  they  are  all  of  savage  stuff; 
When  force   and   malice  with   some  genius 
match, 
You   know,  they  can   do  all  —  we  are  not 
enough : 


210 


MORGANTE  MAGGIORE. 


Questi  perturban  si  l'orazion  nostra, 
'Jhe  non  so  piu  che  far,  s'altri  nol  mostra. 


XXV. 

Gli  antichi  padri  nostri  nel  deserto, 
Se  le  lor  opre  sante  erano  e  giuste, 
Del  ben  servir  da  Dio  n'avean  buon  merto  ; 
Ne  creder  sol  vivessin  di  locuste : 
Piovea  dal  ciel  la  manna,  questo  e  certo ; 
Ma  qui  convien  che  spesso  assaggi  e  guste 
Sassi  che  piovon  di  sopra  quel  monte, 
Che  gettano  Alabastro  e  Passamonte. 


E  '1  terzo  ch'e  Morgante,  assai  piu  fiero, 
Isveglie  e  pini  e  faggi  e  cerri  e  gli  oppi, 
E  gettagli  inrin  qui :  questo  e  pur  vero ; 
Non  posso  far  che,  d'ira  non  iscoppi. 
Mentre  che  parlan  cosi  in  cimitero, 
Un  sasso  par  che  Rondel  quasi  sgroppi  ; 
Che  da'  giganti  giii  venne  da  alto 
Tanto,  ch'e'  prese  sotto  il  tetto  un  salto. 


Tirati  drento,  cavalier,  per  Dio, 
Disse  l'abate,  che  la  manna  casca. 
Risponde  Orlando  :  caro  abate  mio, 
Costui  non  vuol  che'l  mio  caval  piii  pasca ; 
Veggo  che  lo  guarrebbe  del  restio  : 
Quel  sasso  par  che  di  buon  braccio  nasca. 
Rispose  il  santo  padre  :  io  non  t'inganno, 
Credo  che'l  monte  un  giorno  gitteranno. 


Orlando  governar  fece  Rondello, 
E  ordinar  per  se  da  colazione : 
Poi  disse :  abate,  io  voglio  andare  a  quello 
Che  dette  al  mio  caval  con  quel  cantone. 
Disse  l'abate  :  come  car  fratello 
Consiglierotti  sanza  passione  : 
Id  ti  sconforto,  baron,  di  tal  gita ; 
Ch'io  so  che  tu  vi  lascerai  la  vita. 


XXIX. 

".Juel  Passamonte  porta  in  man  tre  dardi : 
Chi  frombe,  chi  baston,  chi  mazzafrusti ; 
Sai  che  giganti  piu  di  noi  gagliardi 
Son  per  ragion,  che  son  anco  piu  giusti ; 
E  pur  se  vuoi  andar  fa  che  ti  guardi, 
Che  questi  son  villan  molto  e  robusti. 


And  these  so  much  our  orisons  derange, 
I  know  not  what  to  do,  till  matters  change. 

XXV. 

"  Our  ancient  fathers  living  the  desert  in, 
For  just  and  holy  works  were  duiy  fed ; 
Think    not   they   lived  on   locusts   sole,   'tis 
certain 
That  manna  was  rained  down  from  heaven 
instead : 
But  here  'tis  fit  we  keep  on  the  alert  in 
Our  bounds,  or  taste  the  stones  showered 
down  for  bread, 
From  off  yon  mountain  daily  raining  faster, 
And  flung  by  Passamont  and  Alabaster. 

XXVI. 

"  The  third,  Morgante's  savagest  by  far ;  he 
Plucks  up  pines,  beeches,  poplar-trees,  and 
oaks, 

And  flings  them,  our  community  to  bury ; 
And  all  that  I  can  do  but  more  provokes," 

While  thus  they  parley  in  the  cemetery, 
A  stone  from  one  of  their  gigantic  strokes, 

Which    nearly  crushed  Rondell,  came   tum- 
bling over, 

So  that  he  took  a  long  leap  under  cover. 

XXVII. 
"  For  God-sake,  cavalier,  come  in  with  speed ; 
The  manna's  falling  now,"  the  abbot  crieci. 
"  This  fellow  does  not  wish  my  horse  should 
feed, 
Dear  abbot,"  Roland  unto  him  replied. 
"Of  restiveness  he'd  cure  him  had  he  need; 
That  stone  seems  with  good  will  and  aim 
applied." 
The  holy  father  said,  "  I  don't  deceive ;  , 
They'll  one  day  fling  the  mountain,  I  believe." 

XXVIII. 
Orlando  bade  them  take  care  of  Rondello, 

And  also  made  a  breakfast  of  his  own  : 
"Abbot,"  he  said,  "  I  want  to  find  that  fellow 
Who  flung  at  my  good  horse  yon  corner- 
stone." 
Said  the   abbot,  "  Let  not  my  advice  seem 
shallow ;  » 

As  to  a  brother  dear  I  speak  alone ; 
I  would  dissuade  you,  baron,  from  this  strife, 
As  knowing  sure  that  you  will  lose  your  life. 


XXIX. 

has   in 


his   hand    three 


"That   Passamont 
darts  — 
Such  slings,  clubs,  ballast-stones,  that  yield 
you  must ; 
You'  know  that  giants   have   much    stouter 
hearts 
Than  us,  with  reason,  in  proportion  just : 
If  go  you  will,  guard  well  against  their  arts, 
For  these  are  very  barbarous  and  robust." 


A/ OR  GANTE  MA  G  GIORE. 


211 


Rispose  Orlando  :  io  lo  vedrb  per  certo  ; 
Ed  awiossi  a  pie  su  pel  deserto. 


Disse  l'abate  col  segnarlo  in  fronte  : 
Va,  che  da  Dio  e  me  sia  benedetto. 
Orlando,  poi  che  salito  ebbe  il  monte, 
Si  dirizzo,  come  l'abate  detto 
Gli  avea,  dove  sta  quel  Passamonte ; 
II  quale  Orlando  veggendo  soletto, 
Molto  lo  squadra  di  drieto  e  davante ; 
Poi  domando,  se  star  volea  per  fante. 


E'  prometteva  di  farlo  godere. 
Orlando  disse  :  pazzo  saracino. 
Io  vengo  a  te,  com'e  di  Dio  volere, 
Per  darti  morte,  e  non  per  ragazzino ; 
A'monaci  suoi  fatto  hai  dispiacere  ; 
Non  puo  piu  comportarti,  can  mastino. 
Questo  gigante  armar  si  corse  a  furia, 
Quando  senti  ch'e'gli  diceva  ingiuria. 


E  ritornato  ove  aspettava  Orlando, 
II  qual  non  s'era  partito  da  bomba ; 
Subito  venne  la  corda  girando, 
E  lascia  un  sasso  andar  fuor  de  la  fromba, 
Che  in  su  la  testa  giugnea  rotolando 
Al  conte  Orlando,  e  l'elmetto  rimbomba , 
E'  caddie  per  la  pena  tramortito  ; 
Ma  piu  che  morto  par,  tanto  e  stordito. 


Passamonte  penso  che  fusse  morto, 

E  disse  :  io  voglio  andarmi  a  disarmare  : 
Questo  poltron  per  chi  m'aveva  scorto  ? 
Ma  Cristo  i  suoi  non  suole  abbandonare, 
Massime  Orlando,  ch'egli  arebbe  il  torto, 
Mentre  il  gigante  l'arme  va  a  spogliare, 
Orlando  in  questo  tempo  si  risente, 
E  rivocava  e  la  forza  e  la  mente. 


E  gsido  forte  :  gigante,  ove  vc  ? 
Ben  ti  pensasti  d'avermi  ammazzatci 
Volgiti  a  drieto,  che,  sale  non  hai, 
Non  puoi  da  me  fuggir,  can  rinnegato: 
A  tradimento  ingiuriato  m'hai. 
Donde  il  gigante  allor  maravigliato 
SB  volse  a  drieto,  e  riteneva  il  passo ; 
Poi  si  chino  per  tor  di  terra  un  sasso. 


Orlando  answered,  "  This  I'll  see,  be  sure, 
And  walk  the  wild  on  foot  to  be  secure." 

XXX. 

The  abbot  signed  the  great  cross  on  his  front, 
"  Then  go  you  with   God's  benison  and 
mine :  " 

Orlando,  after  he  had  scaled  the  mount, 
As  the  abbot  had  directed,  kept  the  line 

Right  to  the  usual  haunt  of  Passamont ; 
Who,  seeing  him  alone  in  this  design, 

Surveyed  him  fore  and  aft  with  eyes  observant, 

Then  asked  him,  "  If  he  wished  to  stay  as  ser- 
vant ? " 

XXXI. 

And  promised  him  an  office  of  great  ease. 

But,  said  Orlando,  "  Saracen  insane  ! 
I  come  to  kill  you,  if  it  shall  so  please 

God,  not  to  serve  as  footboy  in  your  train; 
You  with  his  monks  so  oft  have  broke  the 
peace — 

Vile  dog !  'tis  past  his  patience  to  sustain." 
The  giant  ran  to  fetch  his  arms,  quite  furious, 
When  he  received  an  answer  so  injurious. 


And  being  returned  to  where  Orlando  stood, 
Who  had  not  moved  him  from  the  spot,  and 
swinging 
The  cord,  he  hurled  a  stone  with  strength  so 
rude, 
As  showed  a  sample  of  his  skill  in  slinging. 
It  rolled  on  Count  Orlando's  helmet  good 
And  head,  and  set  both  head  and  helmet 
ringing, 
So  that  he  swooned  with  pain  as  if  he  died, 
But  more  than  dead,  he  seemed  so  stupefiec1. 


Then  Passamont,  who  thought  him  slain  out- 
right, 

Said,  "  I  will  go,  and  while  he  lies  along, 
Disarm  me  :  why  such  craven  did  I  fight  ?  " 

But  Christ  his  servants  ne'er  abandons  long, 
Especially  Orlando,  such  a  knight, 

As  to  desert  would  almost  be  a  wrong. 
While  the  giant  goes  to  put  off  his  defences, 
Orlando  has  recalled  his  force  and  senses  : 


And  loud  he  shouted,  "  Giant,  where  dost  go  ? 

Thou  thought'st  me  doubtless  for  the  bier 
outlaid ; 
To  the  right  about  —  without  wings   thou'rt 
too  slow 

To  fly  my  vengeance —  currish  renegade  1 
'Twas  but  by  treachery  thou  laid'st  me  low." 

The  giant  his  astonishment  betrayed, 
And  turned  about,  and  stopped  his  journey  on, 
And  then  he  stooped  to  pick  up  a  great  stone. 


212 


MOK  GANTE  MA  G  GIORE. 


XXXV. 

Orlando  avea  Cortana  igniula  in  mano  ; 
Trasse  a  la  testa:  e  Cortana  tagliava: 
Per  mezzo  il  teschio  parti  del  pagano, 
E  Passamonte  morto  rovinava : 
E  nel  cadere  il  superbo  e  villano 
Divotamente  Macon  bestemmiava ; 
Ma  mentre  che  bestemmia  il  crudo  eacerbo, 
Orlando  ringraziava  il  Padre  e'l  Verbo. 


Dicendo:  quanta  grazia  oggi  m'  ha'  data! 
Sempre  ti  sono,  o  signor  mio,  tenuto ; 
Per  te  conosco  la  vita  salvata ; 
Pero  che  dal  gigante  era  abbattuto : 
Ogni  cosa  a  ragion  fai  misurata; 
Non  val  nostro  poter  sanza  il  tuo  ajuto. 
Priegoti,  sopra  me  tenga  la  mano, 
Tanto  che  ancor  ritorni  a  Carlo  Mano. 


XXXVII. 

Poi  ch'ebbe  questo  detto  sen'  andoe, 
Tanto  che  trouva  Alabastro  piu  basso 
Che  si  sforzava,  quando  e'lo  trovoe, 
Di  sveglier  d'una  ripa  fuori  un  masso. 
Orlando,  com'e'  giunse  a  quel,  gridoe: 
Che  pensi  tu,  ghiotton,  gittar  quel  sasso  ? 
Quando  Alabastro  questo  grido  intende, 
Subitamente  la  sua  fromba  prende. 


XXXVIII. 

E  trasse  d'una  pietra  molto  grossa, 
Tanto  ch'Orlando  bisognd  schermisse; 
Che  se  1'avesse  giunto  la  percossa, 
Non  bisognava  il  medico  venisse. 
Orlando  adopero  poi  la  sua  possa ; 
Nel  pettignon  tutta  la  spada  misse  : 
E  morto  cadde  questo  badalone, 
E  non  dimentico  perb  Macone. 


Morgante  aveva  al  suo  modo  un  palagio 
Fatto  di  frasche  e  di  schegge  e  di  terra : 
Quivi,  secondo  lui,  si  posa  ad  agio; 
Quivi  la  notte  si  rinchiude  e  serra. 
Orlando  picchia,  e  daragli  disagio, 
Perche  il  gigante  dal  sonno  si  sferra ; 
Vennegli  aprir  come  una  cosa  matta; 
Ch'un'  aspra  visione  aveva  fatta. 


Orlando  had  Cortana  bare  in  hand  ; 

To  split  the   head   in  twain  was  what   he 
schemed :  — 
Cortana  clave  the  skull  like  a  true  brand, 

And  pagan  Passamont  died  unredeemed, 
Yet  harsh  and  haughty,  as  he  lay  he  banned, 

And  most  devoutly  Macon  still  blasphemed : 
But  while   his   crude,  rude   blasphemies   he 

heard, 
Orlando  thanked  the  Father  and  the  Word, — 


Saying,  "  What  grace  to  me  thou'st  this  day 
given ! 

And  I  to  thee,  oh  Lord !  am  ever  bound. 
I  know  my  life  was  saved  by  thee  from  heaven, 

Since  by  the  giant  I  was  fairly  downed. 
All  things  by  thee  are  measured  just  and  even  ; 

Our  power  without  thine  aid  would  nought 
be  found : 
I  pray  thee  take  heed  of  me,  till  I  can 
At  least  return  once  more  to  Carloman." 

XXXVII. 

And  having  said  thus  much,  he  went  his  way; 

And  Alabaster  he  found  out  below, 
Doing  the  very  best  that  in  him  lay 

To  root  from  out  a  bank  a  rock  or  two. 
Orlando,  wheij  he  reached  him,  loud  'gan  say, 

"  How  think'st  thou,  glutton,  such  a  stone 
to  throw  ?  " 
When  Alabaster  heard  his  deep  voice  ring, 
He  suddenly  betook  him  to  his  sling, 

XXXVIII. 

And  hurled  a  fragment  of  a  size  so  large, 
That  if  it  had  in  fact  fulfilled  its  mission, 

And  Roland  not  availed  him  of  his  targe, 
There   would    have  been    no   need   of   a 
physician. 

Orlando  set  himself  in  turn  to  charge, 
And  in  his  bulky  bospm  made  incision 

With  all  his  sword.    The  lout  fell ;  but  o'er- 
thrown,  he 

However  by  no  means  forgot  Macone. 

XXXIX. 

Morgante  had  a  palace  in  his  mode, 
Composed  of  branches,  logs  of  wood,  and 
earth, 
And  stretched  himself  at  ease  in  this  abode, 

And  shut  himself  at  night  within  his  berth. 
Orlando  knocked,  and  knocked  again,  to  goad 
The  giant  from  his  sleep;    and  he  came 
forth, 
The  door  to  open,  like  a  crazy  thing, 
For  a  rough  dream  had  shook  him  slumber- 
ing. 


M  ORG  ANTE  MAGGIORE. 


213 


E'  gli  parea  ch'un  feroce  serpente 

L'avea  assalito,  e  chiamar  Macometto ; 

Ma  Macometto  non  valea  niente  : 

Ond'e'  chiamava  Gesii  benedetto  ; 

E  liberato  l'avea  finalmente. 

Venne  alia  porta,  ed  ebbe  cost  detto ; 

Chi  buzza  qua  ?  pur  sempre  borbottando. 

Tu  '1  saprai  tosto,  gli  rispose  Orlando. 


Vengo  per  farti,  come  a'  tuo'  fratelli, 
Far  de'  peccati  tuoi  la  penitenzia, 
Da'  monaci  mandato,  cattivelli, 
Come  stato  e  divina  providenzia; 
Pel  mal  ch'avete  fatto  a  torto  a  quelli, 
E  dato  in  ciel  cosi  questa  sentenzia ; 
Sappi,  che  freddo  gia  piu  ch'un  pilastro 
Lasciato  ho  Passamonte  e'l  tuo  Alabastro. 


XLII 

Disse  Morgante  :  o  gentil  cavai'.CJre, 
Per  lo  tuo  Dio  non  midir  villania : 
Di  grazia  il  nome  tuo  vorrei  sapere ; 
Se  se'  Cristian,  deh  dillo  in  cortesia. 
Rispose  Orlando  :  di  cotal  mestiere 
Contenterotti  per  la  fede  mia  : 
Adoro  Cristo,  ch'e  Signor  verace : 
Epuoi  tu  adorarlo,  se  ti  piace. 


XLIII. 

Rispose  il  saracin  con  umil  voce  : 
lo  ho  fatto  una  strana  visione, 
Che  m'assaliva  un  serpente  feroce  : 
Non  mi  valeva  per  chiamar  Macone ; 
Onde  al  tuo  Dio  che  fu  confitto  in  croce 
Rivolsi  presto  la  mia  intenzione : 
E'  mi  soccorse,  e  fui  libero  e  sano, 
E  son  disposto  al  tutto  esser  Cristiano. 


XL1V. 

Rispose  Orlando  :  baron  giusto  e  pio, 
Se  questo  buon  voler  terrai  nel  core, 
L'anima  tua  ara  quel  vero  Dio 
Che  ci  pud  sol  gradir  d'eterno  onore : 
E  s'tu  vorrai,  sarai  compagno  mio, 
E  amerotti  con  perfetto  amore  : 
Gl'idoli  vostri  son  bugiardi  e  vani : 
II  vero  Dio  e  lo  Dio  de'  Cristiani. 


Venne  questo  Signor  sanza  peccato 
Ne  la  sua  madre  vergine  pulzella : 
Se  conoscessi  quel  Signor  beato, 


XL. 

He  thought  that  a  fierce  serpent  had  attacked 
him  ; 
And  Mahomet  he  called  ;  but  Mahomet 
Is  nothing  worth,  and  not  an  instant  backed 
him ; 
But  praying  blessed  Jesu,  he  was  set 
At  liberty  from  all  the  fears  which  racked  him  ; 
And  to  the  gate  he  came  with  great  re- 
gret— 
"  Who  knocks  here  ?  "  grumbling  all  the  while. 

said  he. 
"That,"  said  Orlando,  "you  will  quickly  see. 

XLI. 

"  I  come  to  preach  to  you,  as  to  your  brothers, 
Sent    by   the    miserable    monks  —  repent- 
ance ; 
For  Providence  divine,  in  you  and  others, 
Condemns  the  evil  done  my  new  acquaint- 
ance. 
'Tis  writ  on  high  —  your  wrong  must  pay  an- 
other's ; 
From  heaven  itself  is  issued  out  this  sen- 
tence. 
Know  then,  that  colder  now  than  a  pilaster 
I  left  your  Passamont  and  Alabaster." 

XLII. 

Morgante  said,  "  Oh  gentle  cavalier! 

Now  by  thy  God  say  me  no  villany; 
The  favor  of  your  name  I  fain  would  hear, 

And  if  a  Christian,  speak  for  courtesy." 
Replied  Orlando,  "  So  much  to  your  ear 

I  by  my  faith  disclose  contentedly ; 
Christ  I  adore,  who  is  the  genuine  Lord, 
And,  if  you  please,  by  you  may  be  adored." 

XLIII. 

The  Saracen  rejoined  in  humble  tone, 
"  I  have  had  an  extraordinary  vision ; 

A  savage  serpent  fell  on  me  alone, 

And  Macon  would  not  pity  my  condition ; 

Hence  to  thy  God,  who  for  ye  did  atone 
Upon  the  cross,  preferred  I  my  petition ; 

His  timely  succor  set  me  safe  and  free, 

And  I  a  Christian  am  disposed  to  be." 

XLIV. 
Orlando  answered,  "  Baron  just  and  pious, 

If  this  good  wish  your  heart  can  really  move 
To  the  true  God,  who  will  not  then  deny  us 

Eternal  honor,  you  will  go  above, 
And,  if  you  please,  as  friends  we  will  ally  us, 

And  I  will  love  you  with  a  perfect  love. 
Your  idols  are  vain  liars,  full  of  fraud  : 
The  only  true  God  is  the  Christian's  God. 


"  The  Lord  descended  to  the  virgin  breasf 

Of  Mary  Mother,  sinless  and  divine ; 
If  you  acknowledge  the  Redeemer  blest, 


214 


M  ORG  ANTE   M AG  G 10  RE. 


Sanza'l  qual  non  risplehde  sole  o  Stella, 
Aresti  gia  Macon  tuo  rinnegato, 
E  la  sua  fede  iniqua  ingiusta  e  fella : 
Battezzati  al  mio  Diq  di  buon  talento. 
Morgante  gli  rispose  :  io  son  contento. 


XLVI. 

E  corse  Orlando  subito  abbracciare  : 
Orlando  gran  carezze  gli  facea, 
E  disse  :  a  la  badia  ti  vo'  menare. 
Morgante,  andianci  presto,  respondea: 
Co'  monaci  la  pace  ci  vuol  fare. 
De  la  qual  cosa  Orlando  in  se  godea, 
Dicendo  ;  fratel  mio  divoto  e  buono, 
Io  vo  che  chiegga  a  1'  abate  perdono, 


Da  poi  che  Dio  ralluminato  t'ha, 
Ed  acettato  per  la  sua  umiltade  ; 
Vuolsi  che  tu  ancor  usi  umilta. 
Disse  Morgante  :  per  la  tua  bontade, 
Poi  che  il  tuo  Dio  mio  sempre  omai  sara, 
Dimmio  del  nome  tuo  la  veritade, 
Poi  di  me  dispor  puoi  al  tuo  comando ; 
Ond'  e'  gli  disse,  com  'egli  era  Orlando. 


Disse  il  gigante  :  Gesu  benedetto 
Per  mille  volte  ringraziato  sia ; 
Sentito  t'ho  nomar,  baron  perfetto, 
Per  tutti  i  tempi  de  la  vita  mia  : 
E,  com'io  dissi,  sempremai  suggetto 
Esser  ti  vo'  per  la  tua  gagliardia. 
Insieme  molte  cose  ragionaro, 
E'n  verso  la  badia  poi  s'inviaro. 


E  per  la  via  da  que'  giganti  morti 
Orlando  con  Morgante  si  ragiona  : 
De  la  lor  morte  vo'  che  ti  conforti ; 
E  poi  che  piace  a  Dio,  a  me  perdona ; 
A'  monaci  avean  fatto  mille  torti ; 
E  la  nostra  scrittura  aperto  suona : 
II  ben  remunerato,  e'l  mal  punito  ; 
E  mai  non  ha  questo  Signor  fallito  : 


Pero  ch'egli  ama  la  giustizia  tanto, 
Che  vuol,  che  sempre  il  suo  giudicio  morda 
Ognun  ch'abbi  peccato  tanto  o  quanto  ; 
E  cosi  il  ben  ristorar  si  ricorda : 
E  non  saria  senza  giustizia  santo  : 
Adunque  al  suo  voler  presto  t'accorda : 
Che  debbe  ognun  voler  quel  che  vuol  questo, 
Bd  accordarsi  volentieri  e  presto. 


Without  whom  neither  sun  nor  star   can 
shine, 
Abjure  bad  Macon's  false  and  felon  test, 

Your  renegado  god,  and  worship  mine,  —  - 
Baptize  yourself  with  zeal,  since  you  repent." 
To  which  Morgante  answered, "  I'm  content." 

XLVI. 

And  then  Orlando  to  embrace  him  flew, 
And  made  much  of  his  convert,  as  he  cried, 

"  To  the  abbey  I  will  gladly  marshal  you." 
To  whom  Morgante,  "  Let  us  go,"  replied  ; 

"  I  to  the  friars  have  for  peace  to  sue." 

Which  thing  Orlando   heard  with   inward 
pride, 

Saying,  "  My  brother,  so  devout  and  good. 

Ask  the  abbot  pardon,  as  I  wish  you  would  : 

XLVII. 

"Since  God  has  granted  your  illumination, 
Accepting  you  in  mercy  for  his  own, 

Humility  should  be  your  first  oblation." 
Morgante  said,  "  For  goodness'  sake,  make 
known  — 

Since  that  your  God  is  to  be  mine  —  your  sta- 
tion, 
And  let  your  name  in  verity  be  shown  ; 

Then  will  I  everything  at  your  command  do." 

On  which  the  other  said,  he  was  Orlando. 

,  XLVIII. 

"Then,"  quoth  the  giant,  "  blessed  be  Jesu 
A  thousand  times  with  gratitude  and^jraise ! 

Oft,  perfect  baron  !  have  I  heard  of  you 
Through  all  the  different  periods  of  my  days : 

And,  as  I  said,  to  be  your  vassal  too 
I  wish,  for  your  great  gallantry  always." 

Thus  reasoning,  they  continued  much  to  say, 

And  onwards  to  the  abbey  went  their  way. 


And  by  the  way  about  the  giants  dead 
Orlando  with  Morgante  reasoned  :  "  Be, 

For  their  decease,  I  pray  you,  comforted ; 
And,  since  it  is  God's  pleasure,  pardon  me, 

A  thousand  wrongs  unto  the  monks  they  bred. 
And  our  true  Scripture  soundeth  openly. 

Good  is  rewarded,  and  chastised  the  ill, 

Which  the  Lord  never  faileth  to  fulfil : 


"  Because  his  love  of  justice  unto  all 

Is  such,  he  wills  his  judgment  should  devou 

All  who  have  sin,  however  great  or  small : 
But  good  he  well  remembers  to  restore. 

Nor  without  justice  holy  could  we  call 
Him,  whom  I  now  require  you  to  adore. 

All  men  must  make  his  will  their  wishes  sway, 

And  quickly  and  spontaneously  obey. 


MORGANTE   MA  GG 10 RE. 


215 


E  sonsi  i  nostri  dottori  accordati, 
Pigliando  tutti  una  conclusione, 
Che  que'  che  son  nel  ciel  glorificati, 
S'avessin  nel  pensier  compassione 
De'  miseri  parenti  che  dannati 
Son  ne  lo  inferno  in  gran  confusione, 
La  lor  felicita  nulla  sarebbe  ; 
E  vedi  che  qui  ingiusto  Iddio  parrebbe. 


HI. 

Ma  egli  anno  posto  in  Gesu  ferma  spene ; 
E  tanto  pare  a  lor,  quanto  a  lui  pare ; 
Afferman  cio  ch'e'fa,  che  facci  bene, 
E  chenon  possi  in  nessun  modo  errare  : 
Se  padre  o  madre  e  nell'  eterne  pene, 
Di  questo  non  si  posson  contubare  : 
Che  quel  che  piace  a  Dio,  sol  piace  a  loro : 
Questo  s'osserva  ne  l'eterno  coro. 


Al  savio  suol  bastar  poche  parole, 
Disse  Morgante ;  tu  il  potrai  vedere, 
De'  miei  fratelli,  Orlando,  se  mi  duole, 
E  s'  io  m'accordero  di  Dio  al  volere, 
Come  tu  di'  che  in  ciel  servar  si  suole  : 
Morti  co'  morti ;  or  pensiam  di  godere  : 
Io  vo  tagliar  le  mani  a  tutti  quanti, 
E  porterolle  a  que'  monaci  santi, 


LIV. 

Accio  ch'ognun  sia  piii  sicuro  e  certo, 
Com'  e'  son  morti,  e  non  abbin  paura 
Andar  soletti  per  questo  deserto  ; 
E  perche  veggan  la  mia  mente  pura 
A  quel  Signor  che  m'ha  il  suo  regno  aperto, 
E  tratto  fuor  di  tenebre  si  oscura. 
E  poi  taglio  le  mani  a'  due  fratelli, 
E  lasciagli  a  le  fiere  ed  agli  uccelli. 


LV. 

A  la  badia  insieme  se  ne  vanno, 
Ove  l'abate  assai  dubbioso  aspetta  : 
I  monaci  che'l  fatto  ancor  non  sanno, 
Correvano  a  l'abate  tutti  in  fretta, 
Dicendo  paurosi  e  pien'  d'affanno  : 
Volete  voi  cestui  drente  si  metta  ? 
Quando  l'abate  vedeva  il  gigante, 
Si  turbo  tutto  nel  primo  sembiante. 


Orlando  che  turbato  cosi  il  vede, 
Gli  disse  presto  :  abate,  datti  pace, 


LI. 

"  And  here  our  doctors  are  of  one  accord, 
Coming  on  this  point  to  the  same  conclu- 
sion,  — 
That  in  their  thoughts  who  praise  in  heaven 
the  Lord, 
If  pity  e'er  was  guilty  of  intrusion 
For  their  unfortunate  relations  stored 

In  hell  below,  and  damned  in  great  confu- 
sion, — 
Their  happiness  would  be  reduced  to  nought, 
And  thus  unjust  the  Almighty's  self  be  thought. 

LII. 
"  But  they  in  Christ  have  firmest  hope,  and  all 
Which  seems  to  him,  to  them  too  must  ap- 
pear 
Well  done ;  nor  could  it  otherwise  befall : 

He  never  can  in  any  purpose  err. 
If  sire  or  mother  suffer  endless  thrall, 
They  don't  disturb  themselves  for  him  o» 
her; 
What  pleases  God  to  them  must  joy  inspire ;  — 
Such  is  the  observance  of  the  eternal  choir." 

LIII. 

"A  word  unto  the  wise,"  Morgante  said, 
"  Is  wont  to  be  enough,  and  you  shall  see 

How  much  I  grieve  about  my  brethren  dead ; 
And  if  the  will  of  God  seem  good  to  me, 

Just,  as  you  tell  me,  'tis  in  heaven  obeyed  — 
Ashes  to  ashes, —  merry  let  us  be  ! 

I  will  cut  off  the  hands  from  both  their  trunks. 

And  carry  them  unto  the  holy  monks. 

LIV. 
"  So  that  all  persons  may  be  sure  and  certain 
That  they  are  dead,  and  have  no  further  fear 
To  wander  solitary  this  desert  in, 

And  that  they  may  perceive  my  spirit  clear 
By  the  Lord's  grace,  who  hath  withdrawn  the 
curtain 
Of  darkness,  making  his  bright  realm  ap- 
pear." 
He  cut  his  brethren's  hands  off  at  these  words, 
And  left  them  to  the  savage  beasts  and  birds 

LV. 
Then  to  the  abbey  they  went  on  together, 

Where  waited  them  the  abbot  in  great  doubt. 
The  monks  who  knew  not  yet  the   fact,  ran 
thither 

To  their  superior,  all  in  breathless  rout, 
Saying  with  tremor,  "  Please  to  tell  us  whether 

You  wish  to  have  this  person  in  or  out  ?  " 
The  abbot,  looking  through  upon  the  giant, 
Too  greatly  feared,  at  first,  to  be  compliant. 

LVl. 
Orlando  seeing  him  thus  agitated, 

Said    quickly,    "  Abbot,    be   thou   of  good 
cheer ; 


216 


MORGANTE   MAG GI ORE. 


Questo  e  Cristiano,  e  in  Cristo  nostro  crede, 
E  rinnegato  ha  il  suo  Macon  fallace. 
Morgante  i  moncherin  mostro  per  fede, 
Come  i  giganti  ciascun  morto  giace ; 
Donde  l'abate  ringraziavia  Iddio, 
Dicendo ;  or  m'  hai  contento,  Signor  mio ! 


E  risguardava,  e  squadrava  Morgante, 
La  sua  grandezza  e  una  volta  e  due, 
E  poi  gli  disse  :  O  famoso  gigante, 
Sappi  ch'io  non  mi  maraviglio  piiie, 
Che  tu  svegliessi  e  gittassi  le  piante, 
Quand'io  riguardo  or  le  fattezze  tue, 
Tu  sarai  or  perfetto  e  vero  amico 
A  Cristo,  quanto  tu  gli  eri  nimico. 


Un  nostro  apostol,  Saul  gia  chiamato, 
Persegui  molto  la  fede  di  Cristo  : 
Un  giorno  poi  da  lo  spirto  infiammato, 
Perche  pur  mi  persegui  ?  disse  Cristo  : 
E'  si  ravvide  allor  del  suo  peccato  ; 
Ando  poi  predic  ando  sempre  Cristo  ; 
E  fatto  e  oi  de  la  fede  una  tromba, 
La  qual  per  tutto  risuona  e  rimbomba. 


LIX. 

Cosi  farai  tu  ancor,  Morgante  mio  : 
E  chi  s'emenda,  e  scritto  nel  Vangelo, 
Che  maggior  festa  fa  d'un  solo  Iddio, 
Che  di  novantanove  altri  su  in  cielo : 
lo  ti  conforto  ch'ogni  tuo  disio 
Rivolga  a  quel  Signor  con  giusto  zelo, 
Che  tu  sarai  felice  in  sempiterno, 
Ch'eri  perduto,  e  dannato  all'  inferno. 


E  grande  onore  a  Morgante  faceva 
L'abate,  e  molti  di  si  son  posati : 
Un  giorno,  come  ad  Orlando  piaceva, 
A  spasso  in  qua  e  in  la  si  sono  andati : 
L'abate  in  una  camera  sua  aveva 
Molte  armadure  e  certi  archi  appiccati : 
Morgante  gliene  piacque  un  die  ne  vede; 
Onde  e'  sel  cinse  bench'  oprar  nol  crede. 


LXI. 

£  vea  quel  luogo  d'acqua  carestia : 
Orlando  disse  come  buon  fratello, 
Morgante,  vo'  che  di  piacer  ti  sia 
Andar  per  l'acqua ;  ond'  e'  rispose  a  quello  : 
Comanda  cio  che  vuoi  che  fatto  sia ; 


He  Christ  believes,  as  Christian  must  be  rated, 
And  hath    renounced   his    Macon   false ;  " 
which  here 
Morgante  with  the  hands  corroborated, 

A  proof  of  both  the  giants'  fate  quite  clear : 
Thence,    with    due   thanks,  the    abbot    God 

adored, 
Saying,  "  Thou  hast  contented  me,  oh  Lord !" 


He  gazed  ;  Morgante's  height  he  calculated, 
And  more  than  once  contemplated  his  size  : 

And  then  he  said,  "  Oh  giant  celebrated  ! 
Know,  that  no  more  my  wonder  will  arise, 

How  you  could  tear  and  fling  the  trees  you 
late  did, 
When  I  behold  your  form  with  my  own  eyes. 

You  now  a  true  and  perfect  friend  will  show 

Yourself  to  Christ,  as  once  you  were  a  foe. 


"  And  one  of  our  apostles,  Saul  once  named, 

Long  persecuted  sore  the  faith  of  Christ, 
Till,  one  day,  by  the  Spirit  being  inflamed, 
'  Why  dost  thou  persecute  me  thus?  '  said 
Christ; 
And  then  from  his  offence  he  was  reclaimed, 
And  went  for  ever  after  preaching  Christ, 
And  of   the   faith   became  a  trump,  whose 

sounding 
O'er  the  whole  earth  is  echoing  and  rebound- 
ing. 

LIX. 
"  So,  my  Morgante,  you  may  do  likewise ; 
He  who  repents  —  thus  writes  the  Evange- 
list— 
Occasions  more  rejoicing  in  the  skies 

Than  ninety-nine  of  the  celestial  list. 
You  may  be  sure,  should  each  desire  arise 

With  just  zeal  for  the  Lord,  that  you'll  exist 
Among  the  happy  saints  for  evermore ; 
But  you  were  lost  and  damned  to  hell  before  1 


And  thus  great  honor  to  Morgante  paid 
The  abbot :  many  days  they  did  repose. 

One  day,  as  with  Orlando  they  both  strayed, 
And  sauntered  here  and  there,  where'er  they 
chose, 

The  abbot  showed  a  chamber,  where  arrayed 
M  uch  armor  was,  and  hung  up  certain  bows  ; 

And  one  of  these  Morgante  for  a  whim 

Girt  on,  though  useless,  he  believed,  to  him. 


There  being  a  want  of  water  in  the  place, 
Orlando,  like  a  worthy  brother,  said, 

"  Morgante,  I  could  wish  you  in  this  case 
To  go  for  water."     "  You  shall  be  obeyed 

In  all  commands,"  was  the  reply,  "  straight- 
ways." 


M  ORG  ANTE   M AG  G I  ORE. 


217 


E  posesi  in  ispalla  un  gran  tinello, 

Ed  avviossi  la  verso  una  fonte 

Dove  solea  ber  sempre  appie  del  monte. 

LXII. 

Giunto  a  la  fonte,  sente  un  gran  fracasso 
Di  subito  venir  per  la  foresta : 
Una  saetta  cavo  del  turcasso, 
Posela  a  l'arco,  ed  alzava  la  testa ; 
Ecco  apparire  un  gran  gregge  al  passo 
Di  porci,  e  vanno  con  molta  tempesta ; 
E  arrivorno  alia  fontana  appunto 
Donde  il  gigante  e  da  lor  sopraggiunto. 

lxiii. 
Morgante  a  la  ventura  a  un  saetta ; 
Appunto  ne  l'orecchio  lo  'ncarnava ; 
Da  l'altro  lato  passo  la  verretta ; 
Onde  il  cinghial  gift  morto  gambettava ; 
Un  altro,  quasi  per  fame  vendetta, 
Addosso  al  gran  gigante  irato  andava  ; 
E  perche  e'  giunse  troppo  tosto  al  varco, 
Non  fu  Morgante  a  tempo  a  trar  con  l'arco. 

LXIV. 

Vedendosi  venuto  il  porco  adosso, 
Gli  dette  in  su  la  testa  un  gran  punzone  J 
Per  modo  che  gl'infranse  insino  a  l'osso, 
E  morto  allato  a  quell'altro  lo  pone  : 
Gli  altri  porci  veggendo  quel  percosso, 
Si  misson  tutti  in  fuga  pel  vallone ; 
Morgante  si  levo  il  tinello  in  collo, 
Ch'era  pien  d'acqua,  e  non  si  muove  un 

Cr0lI°-  LXV. 

Da  l'una  spalla  il  tinello  avea  posto, 

Da  l'altra  i  porci,  e  spacciava  il  terreno ; 
E  torna  a  la  badia,  ch'e  pur  discosto 
Ch'  una  gocciola  d'acqua  non  va  in  seno. 
Orlando  che'l  vedea  tornar  si  tosto 
Co'  porci  morti,  e  con  quel  vaso  pieno, 
Maravigliossi  che  sia  tanto  forte ; 
Cosi  l'abate ;  e  spalancan  le  porte. 

LXVI. 
I  monaci  veggendo  l'acqua  fresca 
Si  rallegrorno,  ma  pift  de'  cinghiali ; 
Ch'ogni  animal  si  rallegra  de  l'esca; 
E  posano  a  dormire  i  breviali : 
Ognun  s'affanna,  e  non  par  che  gl'incresca, 
Accio  che  questa  carne  non  s'insali, 
E  che  poi  secca  sapesse  di  vieto  : 
E  la  digiune  si  restorno  a  drieto. 

LXVII. 

E  ferno  a  scoppia  corpo  per  un  tratto, 
E  scuffian,  che  parien  de  l'acqua  usciti ; 


1  "  Gli  dette  in  su  la  testa  un  gran  punzone."  It 
is  strange  that  Pulci  should  have  literally  anticipated 
the  technical  terms  of  my  old  friend  and  master, 
Jackson,  and  the  art  which  he  has  carried  to  its 
highest  pitch.  "A  punch  on  the  head"  or  "  a 
punch  in  the  head"  —  "  un  punzone  in  su  la  tes- 
ta,"—  is  the  exact  and  frequent  phrase  of  our  best 


Upon  his  shoulder  a  great  tub  he  laid, 
And  went  out  on  his  way  unto  a  fountain, 
Where  he  was  wont  to  drink  below  the  moun- 

taln-  LXII. 

Arrived  there,  a  prodigious  noise  he  hears, 

Which  suddenly  along  the  forest  spread; 
Whereat  from  out  his  quiver  he  prepares 

An  arrow  for  his  bow,  and  lifts  his  head ; 
And  lo !  a  monstrous  herd  of  swine  appears, 

And  onward  rushes  with  tempestuous  tread, 
And  to  the  fountain's  brink  precisely  pours  ; 
So  that  the  giant's  joined  by  all  the  boars. 

LXIII. 
Morgante  at  a  venture  shot  an  arrow, 

Which  pierced  a  pig  precisely  in  the  ear, 
And  passed  unto  the  other  side  quite  thorough  ; 

So  that  the  boar,  defunct,  lay  tripped  up  near. 
Another,  to  revenge  his  fellow  farrow, 

Against  the  giant  rushed  in  fierce  career, 
And  reached  the  passage  with  so  swift  a  foot, 
Morgante  was  not  now  in  time  to  shoot. 

LXIV. 
Perceiving  that  the  pig  was  on  him  close, 

He  gave  him  such  a  punch  upon  the  head 
As  floored  him  so  that  he  no  more  arose, 

Smashing  the  very  bone ;  and  he  fell  dead 
Next  to  the  other.     Having  seen  such  blows, 

The  other  pigs  along  the  valley  fled  ; 
Morgante  on  his  neck  the  bucket  took, 
Full  from  the  spring,  which  neither  swerved 
nor  shook. 

The  ton  was  on  one  shoulder,  and  there  were 
The  hogs  on  t'other,  and  he  brushed  apace 

On  to  the  abbey,  though  by  no  means  near, 
Nor  spilt  one  drop  of  water  in  his  race. 

Orlando,  seeing  him  so  soon  appear 

With  the  dead  boars,  and  with  that  brimful 
vase, 

Marvelled  to  see  his  strength  so  very  great ; 

So  did  the  abbot,  and  set  wide  the  gate. 

LXVI. 
The  monks,  who  saw  the  water  fresh  and  good, 
Rejoiced,  but  much  more  to  perceive  the 
pork ;  — 
All  animals  are  glad  at  sight  of  food : 

They  lay  their  breviaries  to  sleep,  and  work 
With  greedy  pleasure,  and  in  such  a  mood, 
That  the  flesh  needs  no  salt  beneath  their 
fork. 
Of  rankness  and  of  rot  there  is  no  fear, 
For  all  the  fasts  are  now  left  in  arrear. 

LXVII. 
As  though  they  wished  to  burst  at  once,  they 
ate; 
And  gorged  so  that,  as  if  the  bones  had  beet! 


pugilists,  who  little  dream  that  they  are  talking  the 
purest  Tuscan. 


218 


A/ OR GANTE   MA  G GIORE. 


Tanto  che'l  cane  sen  doleva  e  '1  gatto, 
Che  gli  ossi  rimanean  troppo  puliti. 
L'abate,  poi  che  molto  onoro  ha  fatto 
A  tutti,  un  di  dopo  questi  conviti 
Dette  a  Morgante  un  destrier  molto  bello, 
Che  lungo  tempo  tenuto  avea  quello. 


Morgante  in  su  'n  un  prato  il  caval  mena, 
E  vuol  che  corra,  e  che  facci  ogni  pruova, 
E  pensa  che  di  feno  abbi  la  schiena, 
O  forse  non  credeva  schiacciar  1'uova : 
Questo  caval  s'accoscia  per  la  pena, 
E  scoppia,  e  'n  su  la  terra  si  ritruova. 
Dicea  Morgante  :  lieva  su,  rozzone ; 
E  va  pur  punzecchiando  con  lo  sprone. 


LXIX. 

Ma  finalmente  convien  ch'  egli  smonte, 
E  disse :  io  son  pur  leggier  come  penna, 
Ed  e  scoppiato  ;  che  ne  di'  tu,  conte  ? 
Rispose  Orlando  :  un  arbore  d'antenna 
Mi  par  piuttosto,  e  la  gaggia  la  fronte  : 
Lascialo  andar,  che  la  fortuna  accenna 
Che  meco  appiede  ne  venga,  Morgante. 
Ed  io  cosi  verro,  disse  il  gigante. 


LXX. 

Quando  sara  mestier,  tu  mi  vedrai 
Com'io  mi  proverb  ne  la  battaglia. 
Orlando  disse  :  io  credo  tu  farai 
Come  buon  cavalier,  se  Dio  mi  vaglia; 
Ed  anco  me  dormir  non  mirerai : 
Di  questo  tuo  caval  non  te  ne  caglia : 
Vorrebbesi  portarlo  in  qualche  bosco; 
Ma  il  modo  ne  la  via  non  ci  conosco. 


Disse  il  gigante  :  io  il  portero  ben  io, 
Da  poi  che  portar  me  non  ha  voluto, 
Per  render  ben  per  mal,  come  fa  Dio ; 
Ma  vo'  che  a  porlo  addosso  mi  dia  ajuto. 
Orlando  gli  dicea  :  Morgante  mio, 
S'al  mio  consiglio  ti  sarai  attenuto, 
Questo  caval  tu  non  ve  '1  porteresti, 
Che  ti  fara  come  tu  a  lui  facesti, 


LXXII. 

Guarda  che  non  facesse  la  vendetta, 
Come  fece  gia  Nesso  cosi  morto: 
Non  so  se  la  sua  istoria  hai  inteso  o  letta : 
E'  ti  fara  scoppiar ;  datti  conforto. 
Disse  Morgante :  ajuta  ch'io  me  '1  metta 


In  water,  sorely  grieved  the  dog  and  cat, 
Perceiving   that   they  all   were  picked  too 
clean. 
The  abbot,  who  to  all  did  honor  great, 
A  few  days  after  this  convivial  scene, 
Gave  to  Morgante  a  fine  horse,  well  trained, 
Which  he  long  time  had  for  himself  main- 
tained. 

LXVIII. 

The  horse  Morgante  to  a  meadow  led, 
To  gallop,  and  to  put  him  to  the  proof, 

Thinking  that  he  a  back  of  iron  had, 

Or  to  skim  eggs  unbroke  was  light  enough  ; 

But  the  horse,  sinking  with  the  pain,  fell  dead, 
And  burst,  while  cold  on  earth  lay  head  and 
hoof. 

Morgante  said,  "  Get  up,  thou  sulky  cur !  " 

And  still  continued  pricking  with  the  spur. 

LXIX. 

But  finally  he  thought  fit  to  dismount, 

And  said,  "  I  am  as  light  as  any  feather. 
And  he  has  burst;  —  to  this  what  say  you, 
count  ? " 
Orlando   answered,   "  Like   a   ship's   mast 
rather 
You  seem   to   me,   and  with   the    truck  for 
front :  — 
Let  him  go ;  Fortune  wills  that  we  together 
Should  march,  but  you  on  foot  Morgante  still." 
To  which  the  giant  answered,  "  So  I  will. 


"  When  there  shall  be  occasion,  you  will  see 
How  I  approve  my  courage  fn  the  fight." 

Orlando  said,  "  I  really  think  you'll  be, 

If  it  should  prove  God's  will.a  goodly  knight ; 

Nor  will  you  napping  there  discover  me. 
But  never  mind  your  horse,  though  out  of 
sight 

'Twere  best  to  carry  him  into  some  wood, 

If  but  the  means  or  way  I  understood." 

LXXI. 

The  giant  said,  "  Then  carry  him  I  will, 
Since  that  to  carry  me  he  was  so  slack  — 

To  render,  as  the  gods  do,  good  for  ill ; 
But  lend  a  hand  to  place  him  on  my  back." 

Orlando  answered,  "  If  my  counsel  still 
May  weigh,  Morgante,  do  not  undertake 

To  lift  or  carry  this  dead  courser,  who, 

As  you  have  done  to  him,  will  do  to  you. 

LXXII. 

"  Take  care  he  don't  revenge  himself,  though 
dead, 
As  Nessus  did  of  old  beyond  all  cure. 
I  don't  know  if  the  fact  you've  heard  or  read  ; 
But  he  will  make  you  burst,  you  may  be 
sure." 
"  But  help  him  on  my  back,"  Morgante  said, 


M  ORG  ANTE  MAGGIORE. 


219 


Addosso,  e  poi  vedrai  s'io  ve  lo  porto : 
Io  porterei,  Orlando  mio  gentile, 
Con  le  campane  la  quel  campanile. 


LXXIII. 

Disse  l'abate :  il  campanil  v'e  bene  ; 
Ma  le  campane  voi  l'avete  rotte. 
Dicea  Morgante,  e'  ne  porton  le  pene 
Color  che  morti  son  la  in  quelle  grotte ; 
E  levossi  il  cavallo  in  su  le  schiene, 
E  disse  :  guarda  s'io  sento  di  gotte, 
Orlando,  nelle  gambe,  e  s'  io  lo  posso ; 
E  fe"  duo  salti  col  cavallo  addosso. 


LXXIV. 

Era  Morgante  come  una  montagna : 
Se  facea  questo,  non  e  maraviglia : 
Ma  pure  Orlando  con  seco  si  lagna; 
Perche  pur  era  omai  di  sua  famiglia, 
Temenza  avea  non  pigliasse  magagna. 
Un'  altra  volta  costui  riconsiglia : 
Posalo  ancor,  nol  portare  al  deserto. 
Disse  Morgante  :  il  porterb  per  certo. 


E  portollo,  e  gittollo  in  luogo  strano, 
E  torno  a  la  badia  subitamente. 
Diceva  Orlando  :  or  che  piu  dimoriano  ? 
Morgante,  qui  non  facciam  noi  niente. 
E  prese  un  giorno  l'abate  per  mano, 
E  disse  a  quel  molto  discretamente, 
Che  vuol  partir  de  la  sua  reverenzia, 
E  domandava  e  perdono  e  licenzia. 


LXXVI. 

E  de  gli  onor  ricevuti  da  questi, 
Qualche  volta  potendo,  ara  buon  merito  ; 
E  dice :  io  intendo  ristorare  e  presto 
I  persi  giorni  del  tempo  preterito : 
E'  son  piii  di  che  licenzia  arei  chiesto, 
Benigno  padre,  se  non  ch'  io  mi  perito ; 
Non  so  mostrarvi  quel  che  drento  sento; 
Tanto  vi  veggo  del  mio  star  contento. 


LXXVI  I. 

Io  me  ne  porto  per  sempre  nel  core 
L'abate,  la  badia,  questo  deserto  ; 
*Tanto  v'ho  posto  in  picciol  tempo  amore ; 
Rendavi  su  nel  ciel  per  me  buon  merto 
Quel  vero  Dio,  quello  eterno  Signore 
Che  vi  serba  il  suo  regno  al  fine  aperto : 
Noi  aspettiam  vostra  benedizione, 
Raccomandiamci  a  le  vosrre  orazione. 


"  And  you  shall  see  what  weight  I  can  eii- 
dure. 
In  place,  my  gentle  Roland,  of  this  palfrey, 
With  all  the  bells,  I'd  carry  yonder  belfry." 

LXXIII. 

The  abbot  said,  "  The  steeple  may  do  well. 
But,  tor  the  bells,  you've  broken  them,  I 
wot." 

Morgante  answered,  "  Let  them  pay  in  hell 
The  penalty  who  lie  dead  in  yon  grot ;  " 

And   hoisting  up  the  horse  from  where   he 
fell, 
He  said,  "  Now  look  if  I  the  gout  have  got, 

Orlando,  in  the  legs  —  or  if  I  have  force;  "  — 

And  then  he  made  two  gambols  with  the  horse. 

LXXIV. 

Morgante  was  like  any  mountain  framed* 
So  if  he  did  this,  'tis  no  prodigy ; 

But  secretly  himself  Orlando  blamed, 
Because  he  was  one  of  his  family ; 

And  fearing  that  he  might  be  hurt  or  maimed, 
Once  more  he  bade  him  lay  his  burden  by  r 

"  Put  down,  nor  bear  him  further  the  desert  in." 

Morgante  said,  "I'll  carry  him  for  certain." 


He  did  ;  and  stowed  him  in  some  nook  away, 
And  to  the  abbey  then  returned  with  speed. 

Orlando  said,  "  Why  longer  do  we  stay  ? 
Morgante,  here  is  nought  to  do  indeed." 

The  abbot  by  the  hand  he  took  one  day, 
And  said,  with  great  respect,  he  had  agreed 

To  leave  his  reverence  ;  but  for  this  decision 

He  wished  to  have  his  pardon  and  permission. 


The  honors  they  continued  to  receive 

Perhaps  exceeded  what  his  merits  claimed  : 

He  said,  "  I  mean,  and  quickly,  to  retrieve 
The  lost  days  of  time  past,  which  may  be 
blamed ; 

Some  days  ago  I  should  have  asked  your  leaye, 
Kind  father,  but  I  really  was  ashamed, 

And  know  not  how  to  show  my  sentiment. 

So  much  I  see  you  with  our  stay  content. 


"  But  in  my  heart  I  bear  through  every  clime 
The  abbot,  abbey,  and  this  solitude  — 

So  much  I  love  you  in  so  short  a  time ; 

For  me,  from  heaven  reward  you  with  all 
good 

The  God  so  true,  the  eternal  Lord  sublime ! 
Whose  kingdom    at    the   last    hath   open 
stood. 

Meantime  we  stand  expectant  of  your  blessing, 

And  recommend  us  to  your  prayers  with  press- 


220 


M  ORG  ANTE  MAGGIORE. 


LXXVIII. 


Quand©  l'abate  il  conte  Orlando  intese, 
Rinteneri  nel  cor  per  la  dolcezza, 
Tanto  fervor  nel  petto  se  gli  accese ; 
E  disse  :  cavalier,  se  a  tua  prodezza 
Non  sono  stato  benigno  e  cortese, 
Come  conviensi  a  la  gran  gentillezza, 
Che  so  che  cio  ch'i'ho  fatto  e  stato  poco, 
Incolpa  la  ignoranzra  nostra  e  il  loco. 


Noi  ti  potremo  di  messe  onorare, 
Di  prediche,  di  laude,  e  paternostri, 
Piuttosto  che  da  cena  o  desinare, 
O  d'altri  convenevol  che  da  chiostri. 
Tu  m'hai  di  te  si  fatto  innamorare 
Per  mille  alte  excellenzie  che  tu  mostri, 
Ch'io  me  ne  vengo  ove  tu  andrai  con  teco 
E  d'altra  parte  tu  resti  qui  meco. 

LXXX. 

lanto  ch'a  questo  par  contraddizione ; 
Ma  so  che  tu  se'  savio,  e  'ntendi  e  gusti, 
E  intendi  il  mio  parlar  per  discrizione. 
De'  beneficj  tuoi  pietosi  e  giusti 
Renda  il  Signore  a  te  munerazione, 
Da  cui  mandato  in  queste  selve  fusti ; 
Per  le  virtu  del  qual  liberi  siamo, 
E  grazie  a  lui  e  a  te  noi  ne  rendiamo. 

LXXXI. 

Tu  ci  hai  salvato  l'anima  e  la  vita : 
Tanta  perturbazion  gia  que'  giganti 
Ci  detton,  che  la  strada  era  smarrita 
Da  ritrovar  Gesu  con  gli  altri  santi. 
Pero  troppo  ci  duol  la  tua  partita, 
E  sconsolati  restiam  tutti  quanti ; 
Ne  riiener  possiamti  i  mesi  e  gli  anni : 
Che  tu  non  se"  da  vestir  questi  panni, 


Ma  da  portar  la  lancia  e  1'  armadura : 
E  puossi  meritar  con  essa,  come 
Con  questa  cappa ;  e  leggi  la  scrittura : 
Questo  gigante  al  ciel  drizzb  le  some 
Per  tua  virtu ;  va  in  pace  a  tua  ventura 
Chi  tu  ti  sia,  ch'io  non  ricerco  il  nome; 
Ma  dirb  sempre,  s'io  son  domandato, 
Ch'  un  angiol  qui  da  Dio  fussi  mandato. 


Se  c'e  armadura  o  cosa  che  tu  voglia, 
Vattene  in  zambra  e  pigliane  tu  stessi, 
E  cuopri  a  questo  gigante  le  scoglia. 
Rispose  Orlando  :  se  armadura  avessi 
Prima  che  noi  uscissim  de  la  soglia, 
Che  questo  mio  compagno  difen  dessi 


LXXVIII. 

Now  when  the  abbot  Count  Orlando  heard, 
His  heart  grew  soft  with  inner  tenderness, 

Such  fervor  in  his  bosom  bred  each  word ; 
And,  "  Cavalier,"  he  said,  "  if  I  have  less 

Courteous  and  kind  to  your  great  worth  ap- 
peared. 
Than  fits  me  for  such  gentle  blood  to  express, 

I  kiiuw  I  have  done  too  little  in  this  case; 

But  blame  our  ignorance,  and  this  poor  place. 


LXXIX. 

"  We  can  indeed  but  honor  you  with  masses, 
And    sermons,   thanksgivings,   and    pater- 
nosters, 

Hot  suppers,  dinners  (fitting  other  places 
In  verity  much  rather  than  the  cloisters) ; 

But  such  a  love  for  you  my  heart  embraces, 
pur  thousand  virtues  which  your  bosom 
fosters, 

That  wheresoe'er  you  go  I  too  shall  be, 

And,  on  the  other  part,  you  rest  with  me. 

LXXX. 

"  This  may  involve  a  seeming  contradiction ; 

But  you  I  know  are  sage,  and  feel,  and  taste, 
And  understand  my  speech  with  fullconviction. 

For  your  just  pious  deeds  may  you  be  graced 
With  the  Lord's  great  reward  and  benediction, 

By  whom  you  were  directed  to  this  waste  : 
To  his  high  mercy  is  our  freedom  due, 
For  which  we  render  thanks  to  him  and  you. 

LXXXI. 

"  You  saved  at  once  our  life  and  soul :  such  fear 
The  giants  caused  us,  that  the  way  was  lost 

By  which  we  could  pursue  a  fit  career 
In  search  of  Jesus  and  the  saintly  host; 

And  your  departure  breeds  such  sorrow  here, 
That  comfortless  we  all  are  to  our  cost ; 

But  months  and  years  you  would  not  stay  in 
sloth, 

Nor  are  you  formed  to  wear  our  sober  cloth ; 

LXXXI  I. 

"  But  to  bear  arms,  and  wield  thelance  ;  indeed, 
With  these  as  much  is  done  as  with  this  cowl ; 

In  proof  of  which  the  Scripture  you  may  read 
This  giant  up  to  heaven  may  bear  his  soul 

By  your  compassion  :  now  in  peace  proceed. 
Your  state  and  name  I  seek  not  to  unroll ; 

But,  if  I'm  asked,  this  answer  shall  be  given, 

That  here  an  angel  was  sent  down  from  heaven 

lxxxiii. 
"  If  you  want  armor  or  aught  else,  go  in, 
Look  o'er  the  wardrobe,  and  take  what  you 
choose, 
And  cover  with  it  o'er  this  giant's  skin." 

Orlando  answered, "  If  there  should  lie  loose 
Some  armor,  ere  our  journey  we  begin, 
Which  might  be  turned  to  my  companion's 
use. 


THE  BLUES. 


221 


Questo  accetto  io,  e  sarammi  piacere. 
Disse  l'abate :  venite  a  vedere. 

LXXXIV. 

E  in  certa  camcrctta  entrati  sono, 

Che  darmadure  vecchie  era  copiosa ; 
Dice  l'abate,  tutte  ve  le  dono. 
Morgante  va  rovistando  ogni  cosa ; 
Ma  sclo  un  certo  sbergo  gli  fu  buono, 
Ch'avea  tutta  la  maglia  rugginosa  : 
Maravigliossi  che  lo  cuopra  appunto  : 
Che  mai  piu  gnun  forse  glien'  era  aggiunto. 

LXXXV. 

Questo  fu  d'un  gigante  smisurato, 
Ch'a  la  badia  fu  morto  per  antico 
Dal  gran  Milon  d'Angrante,  ch'  arrivato 
V  era,  s'appunto  questa  istoria  dico ; 
Ed  era  ne  le  mura  istoriato, 
Come  e'  fu  morto  questo  gran  nimico, 
Che  fece  a  la  badia  gia  lunga  guerra : 
E  Milon  v'e  com'  e'  l'abbatte  in  terra. 

LXXXVI. 

Veggendo  questa  istoria  il  conte  Orlando, 
Fra  suo  cor  disse  :  o  Dio,  che  sai  sol  tutto, 
Come  venne  Milon  qui  capitando, 
Che  ha  questo  gigante  qui  distrutto  ? 
E  lesse  certe  letter  lacrimando, 
Che  non  pote  tenir  piu  il  viso  asciutto, 
Com'io  diro  ne  la  seguente  istoria. 
Di  mal  vi  guardi  il  Re  de  l'alta  gloria. 


The  gift  would  be  acceptable  to  me." 

The  abbot  said  to  him,  "  Come  in  and  see." 

LXXXIV. 
And  in  a  certain  closet,  where  the  wall 

Was  covered  with  old  armor  like  a  crust, 
The  abbot  said  to  them,  "  I  give  you  all." 
Morgante  rummaged  piecemeal  from  the 
dust 
The  whole,  which  save  one  cuirass,  was  toe 
small, 
And  that  too  had  the  mail  inlaid  with  rust 
They  wondered  how  it  fitted  him  exactly, 
Which  ne'er  has  suited  others  so  compactly. 

LXXXV. 

'Twas  an  immeasurable  giant's,  who 
By  the  great  Milo  of  Agrante  fell 

Before  the  abbey  many  years  ago. 

The  story  on  the  wall  was  figured  well; 

In  the  last  moment  of  the  abbey's  foe, 
Who  long  had  waged  a  war  implacable : 

Precisely  as  the  war  occurred  they  drew  him. 

And  there  was  Milo  as  he  overthrew  him. 

LXXXVI. 

Seeing  this  history,  Count  Orlando  said 
In  his  own  heart,  "  Oh  God,  who  in  the  sk) 

Know'st  all  things  !  how  was  Milo  hither  led  ? 
Who  caused  the  giant  in  this  place  to  die  ?  " 

And  certain  letters,  weeping,  then  he  read, 
So  that  he  could  not  keep  his  visage  dry, — 

As  I  will  tell  in  the  ensuing  story. 

From  evil  keep  you  the  high  King  of  glory. 


THE    BLUES;   A    LITERARY   ECLOGUE.1 


"  Nimium  ne  crede  colori."  —  Virgil. 

O  trust  not,  ye  beautiful  creatures,  to  hue, 

Though  your  hair  were  as  red,  as  your  stockings  arc  blue. 


[This  trifle,  which  Byron  has  himself  designated  as  "  a  mere  buffoonery,  never  meant  for  publication,"' 
was  written  in  1820,  and  first  appeared  in  "  The  Liberal."  The  personal  allusions  in  which  it  abounds 
are,  for  the  most  part,  sufficiently  intelligible;  and,  with  a  few  exceptions,  so  good-humored,  that  the 
parties  concerned  may  be  expected  to  join  in  the  laugh.] 


l  ["  About  the  year  17S1,  it  was  much  the  fashion  for  several  ladies  to  have  evening  assemblies,  where 
trie  fair  sex  might  participate  in  conversation  with  literary  and  ingenious  men,  animated  by  a  desire  to 
please.  These  societies  were  denominated  Slue-stocking  Clubs  :  the  origin  of  which  title  being  little 
known,  it  may  be  worth  while  to  relate  it.      One  of  the  most  eminent  members  of  those  societies,  when 


Ill 


THE  BLUES. 


ECLOGUE  FIRST. 

London  —  Before  the  Door  of  a  Lecture  Room. 

Enter  TRACY,  meeting  INKEL. 

Ink.  You're  too  late. 
Tra.  Is  it  over  ? 

Ink.  Nor  will  be  this  hour. 

But  the  benches  are  crammed,  like  a  garden 

in  flower, 
With  the  pride  of  our  belles,  who  have  made 

it  the  fashion; 
So,  instead  of  "  beaux  arts,"  we  may  say  "  la 

belle   passion  " 
For  learning,  which  lately  has  taken  the  lead 

in 
The  world,  and  set   all  the   fine  gentlemen 

reading. 
Tra.  I  know  it  too  well,  and  have  worn  out 

my  patience 
With  studying  to   study  your  new  publica- 
tions. 
There's   Vamp,   Scamp,  and    Mouthy,    and 

Wordswords  and  Co. 
With  their  damnable  — 

Ink.      Hold,  my  good  friend,  do  you  know 
Whom  you  speak  to  ? 

Tra.     Right  well,  boy,  and  so  does  "  the 

Row:"* 
You're  an  author  —  a  poet  — 

Ink.  And  think  you  that  I 

Can  stand  tamely  in  silence,  to  hear  you  decry 
The  Muses? 

Tra.  Excuse  me :  I  meant  no  offence 

To  the  Nine ;  though  the  number  who  make 

some  pretence 
To  their  favors  is  such but  the  subject  to 

drop 
I  am  just  piping  hot  from  a  publisher's  shop, 
( Next    door  to  the   pastry-cook's ;    so   that 

when  I 
Cannot  find  the  new  volume  I  wanted  to  buy 
On  the  bibliopole's  shelves,  it  is  only  two 

paces, 
As   one   finds  every  author  in  one  of  those 

places ; 


•[Paternoster-row  —  long  and  still  celebrated  as 
a  very  bazaar  of  booksellers.  Sir  Walter  Scott 
*'  hitches  into  rhyme  "  one  of  the  most  important 
firms —  that 

"  Of  Longman,  Hurst,  Rees,  Orme,  and  Brown 
Our  fathers  of  the  Row."] 


Where  I  just  had  been  skimming  a  charming 

critique, 
So  studded  with  wit,  and   so  sprinkled  with 

Greek ! 
Where  your  friend  —  you  know  who  —  has  just 

got  such  a  threshing, 
That  it  is,  as  the  phrase  goes,  extremely  "  re. 

freshing'' 2 
What  a  beautiful  word  ! 

Ink.  Very  true ;  'tis  so  sof 

And  so  cooling  —  they  use  it  a  little  too  oft; 
And  the  papers  have  got  it  at  last  —  but  nc 

matter. 
So  they've  cut  up  our  friend  then  ? 

Tra.  Not  left  him  a  tatter  — 

Not  a  rag  of  his  present  or  past  reputation, 
Which  they  call  a  disgrace  to  the  age  and  the 
nation. 
Ink.  I'm  sorry  to  hear  this !  for  friendship, 

you  know  > 

Our  poor  friend!  —  but   I  thought   it  would 

terminate  so. 
Our  friendship  is  such,  I'll  read  nothing  to 

shock  it. 
You  don't  happen  to  have  the  Review  in  your 
pocket  ? 
Tra.  No ;  I  left  a  round  dozen  of  authors 
and  others 
(Very  sorry,  no  doubt,  since  the  cause  is  a 

brother's) 
All   scrambling  and  jostling,   like  so   many 

imps,       * 
And  on  fire  with  impatience  to  get  the  next 
glimpse. 
Ink.  Let  us  join  them. 
Tra.  What,  won't  you  return  to  the  lecture  ? 
Ink.  Why,  the  place  is  so  crammed,  there's 
not  room  for  a  spectre. 
Besides,    our    friend    Scamp    is    to-day    so 
absurd  — 
Tra.  How  can  you  know  that  till  you  hear 

him  ? 
Ink.  I  heard 

Quite  enough ;  and  to  tell  you  the  truth,  my 

retreat 
Was  from  his  vile  nonsense,  no  less  than  tr  e 
heat. 
Tra.  I  have  had  no  great  loss  then  ? 
Ink.  Loss !  — such  a  palaver  I 

I'd  inoculate  sooner  my  wife  with  the  slaver 


2  [This  cant  phrase  was  first  used  in  the  Edin 
burgh  Review  —  probably  by  Mr.  Jeffrey.] 


they  first  commenced,  was  Mr.  Stillingfleet,  whose  dress  was  remarkably  grave,  and  in  particular  it  was 
observed  that  he  wore  blue  stockings.  Such  was  the  excellence  of  his  conversation,  that  his  absence  was 
felt  as  so  great  a  loss,  that  it  used  to  be  said,'  We  can  do  nothing  without  the  blue  stockings;  '  and  thui 
by  degrees  the  title  was  established."  —  Croker's  Boswell,  vol.  iv.  p.  480.  —  Sir  William  Forbes,  in  his 
Life  of  Dr.  Beattie,  says,  that  "a  foreigner  of  distinction  hearing  the  expression,  translated  it  literally 
'  Bas  Bleu'  by  which  these  meetings  came  to  be  distinguished.  Miss  Hannah  More,  who  was  herself  a 
Sleraber,  has  written  a  poem  with  the  title  of  Bas  Bleu,'  in  allusion  to  this  mistake  of  the  foreigner,  ia 
which  she  has  characterized  most  of  the  eminent  personages  of  which  it  was  composed."] 


THE  BLUES. 


223 


Of  a  dog  when  gone  rabid,  than   listen  two 

hours 
To  the  torrent  of  trash  which  around  him  he 

pours, 
Pumped  up  with  such  effort,  disgorged  with 
such  labor, 

That come  —  do  not  make  me  speak  ill  of 

one's  neighbor. 
Tra.  I  make  you ! 
Ink.  Yes,  you !  I  said  nothing  until 

iTou  compelled  me,  by  speaking  the  truth 

Tra.  To  speak  ill? 

Is  that  your  deduction  ? 

Ink.  When  speaking  of  Scamp  ill, 

I  certainly  follow,  not  set  an  example. 
The^fellow's  a  fool,  an  impostor,  a  zany. 
Tra.  'And  the  crowd  of  to-day  shows  that 
one  fool  makes  many. 
But  we  two  will  be  wise. 
Ink.  Pray,  then,  let  us  retire. 

Tra.  I  would,  but 

Ink.  There  must  be  attraction  much  higher 
Than  Scamp,  or  the  Jews'  harp  he  nicknames 

his  lyre, 
To  call  you  to  this  hotbed. 

Tra.  I  own  it  —  'tis  true  — 

A  fair  lady 

Ink.         A  spinster  ? 
Tra.  Miss  Lilac ! 

Ink.  The  Blue ! 

The  heiress  ? 

Tra.  The  angel ! 

Ink.  The  devil !  why,  man  ! 

Pray  get  out  of  this  hobble  as  fast  as  you  can. 
You  wed  with  Miss- Lilac!  'twould  be  your 

perdition : 
She's  a  poet,  a  chymist,  a  mathematician. 
Tra.  I  say  she's  an  angel. 
Ink.  Say  rather  an  angle. 

If  you  and  she  marry,  you'll  certainly  wrangle. 
I  say  she's  a  Blue,  man,  as  blue  as  the  ether. 
Tra.  And  is  that  any  cause  for  not  coming 

together  ? 
Ink.  Humph!  I  can't  say  I  know  any  happy 
alliance 
Which  has  lately  sprung  up  from  a  wedlock 

with  science. 
She's  so  learned   in  all   things,  and   fond  of 

concerning 
Herself  in  all  matters  connected  with  learning, 

That 

Tra.        What  ? 

Ink.  I  perhaps  may  as  well  hold  my  tongue  ; 
3ut  there's  five  hundred  people  can  tell  you 
you're  wrong. 
Tra.  You  forget  Lady  Lilac's  as  rich  as  a 

Jew. 
Ink.  Is  it  miss  or  the  cash  of  mamma  you 

pursue  ? 
Tra.  Why,  Jack,  I'll  be  frank  with  you  — 
something  of  both. 
The  girl's  a  fine  girl. 


Ink.  And  you  feel  nothing  loth 

To  her  good   lady-mother's   reversion ;    and 

yet 
Her  life  is  as  good  as  your  own,  I  will  bet. 
Tra.  Let  her  live,  and  as  long  as  she  likes : 
I  demand 
Nothing  more  than  the  heart  of  her  daughter 
and  hand. 
Ink.  Why,  that   heart's  in   the  inkstand  — 

that  hand  on  the  pen. 
Tra.  A  propos  —  Will  you  write  me  a  song 

now  and  then  ? 
Ink.  To  what  purpose  ? 
Tra.  You  know,  my   dear  friend,  that  in 
prose 
My  talent  is  decent,  as  far  as  it  goes ; 

But  in  rhyme 

Ink.  You're  a  terrible  stick,  to  be  sure. 

Tra.    I   own   it ;  and  yet   in  these   times, 
there's  no  lure 
For  the  heart  of  the  fair  like  a  stanza  or  two ; 
And  so  as  I  can't,  will  you  furnish  a  few  ? 
I?ik.  In  your  name  ? 

Tra.  In  my  name.     I  will  copy  them  out, 
To  slip  into  her  hand  at  the  very  next  rout. 
Ink.  Are  you  so  far  advanced  as  to  hazard 

this  ? 
Tra.         Why, 
Do  you  think  me  subdued  by  a  Blue-stock- 
ing's eye, 
So  far  as  to  tremble  to  tell  her  in  rhyme 
What  I've  told  her  in  prose,  at  the  least,  as 
sublime  ? 
Ink.   As  sublime!    If  it  be  so,  no  need  of 

my  Muse. 
Tra.     But  consider,  dear  Inkel,  she's  one 

of  the  "  Blues." 
Ink.      As      sublime!  —  Mr.    Tracy — I've 
nothing  to  say. 
Stick  to  prose  —  As  sublime!! — but  I  wish 
you  good  day. 
Tra.   Nay,  stay,  my  dear  fellow-  -consider 

—  I'm  wrong; 

I  own  it ;  but,  prithee,  compose  me  the  song. 
Ink.  As  sublime  ! ! 

Tra.        I  but  used  the  expression  in  haste. 
Ink.   That  may  be,  Mr.  Tracy,  but  shows 

damned  bad  taste. 
Tra.    I  own  it  —  know  it — acknowledge  it 

—  what 

Can  I  say  to  you  more  ? 

Ink.  I  see  what  you'd  be  at : 

You  disparage  my  parts  with  insidious  abuse, 
Till  you  think  you  can  turn  them  best  to  your 
own  use. 

Tra.   And  is  that  not  a  sign  I  respect  them  ? 

Ink.  Why  that 

To  be  sure  makes  a  difference.  , 

Tra.  I  know  what  is  what 

And  you,  who're  a  man  of  the  gay  world,  no 

less 
Than  a  poet  of  t'other,  may  easily  guess 


224 


THE  BLUES. 


That   I    never  could    mean,  by  a  word,  to 

offend 
A  genius  like  you,  and  moreover  my  friend. 
Ink.   No  doubt;  you  by  this  time  should 
know  what  is  due 

To  a  man   of but  come — let  us  shake 

hands. 
Tra.  You  knew, 

And  you  know,  my  dear  fellow,  how  heartily  I, 
Whatever  you  publish,  am  ready  to  buy. 
I     Ink.     That's    my   bookseller's   business;   I 

care  not  for  sale ; 
Indeed  the  best  poems  at  first  rather  fail. 
There  were  Renegade's  epics,  and  Botherby's 

plays,1 
And  my  own  grand  romance  — 

Tra.  Had  its  full  share  of  praise. 

I  myself  saw  it  puffed  in  the  "  Old  Girl's  Re- 
view." 2 
Ink.   What  Review? 

Tra.  'Tis  the  English  "  Jour- 

nal de  Trevoux ;  "  3 
A  clerical  work  of  our  Jesuits  at  home. 
Have  you  never  seen  it  ? 
Ink.  That  pleasure's  to  come. 

Tra.   Make  haste  then. 
Ink.  Why  so  ? 

Tra.  I  have  heard  people  say 

That  it  threatened  to  give  up  the  ghost  t'other 
day. 
Ink.   Well,  that  is  a  sign  of  some  spirit. 
Tra.  No  doubt. 

Shall  you  be  at  the  Countess  of  Fiddlecome's 
rout  ? 
Ink.    I've  a  card,  and  shall  go  :  but  at  pres- 
ent, as  soon 
As   friend   Scamp   shall   be   pleased  to  step 

down  from  the  moon 
(Where  he  seems  to  be  soaring  in  search  of 

his  wits), 
And  an  interval  grants  from  his  lecturing  fits, 
I'm  engaged  to  the  Lady  Bluebottle's  collation, 
To  partake  of  a  luncheon  and  learned  con- 
versation : 
'Tis  a  sort  of  re-union  for  Scamp,  on  the  days 
Of  his  lecture,  to  treat  him  with  cold  tongue 

and  praise. 
And  I  own,  for  my  own  part,  that  'tis  not  un- 
pleasant. 
Will  you  go  ?    There's  Miss  Lilac  will  also 
be  present. 
Tra.   That  "  metal's  attractive." 
Ink.  No  doubt  —  to  the  pocket. 


1  [Messrs.  Southey  and  Sotheby.] 

3  ["  My  Grandmother's  Review,  the  British." 
Which  has  since  been  gathered  to  its  grandmothers.] 

3  [The  "  Journal  de  Trevoux  "  (in  fifty-six  vol- 
nmes)  is  one  of  the  most  curious  collections  of  lit- 
erary gossip  in  the  world,  —  and  the  Poet  paid  the 
British  Review  an  extravagant  compliment,  when 
he  made  this  comparison.] 


Tra.    You   should    rather   encourage    mj 

passion  than  shock  it. 
But    let    us    proceed ;    for    I    think,   by   the 

hum 

Ink.   Very  true ;  let  us  go,  then,  before  they 

can  come, 
Or  else  we'll  be  kept  here  an  hour  at  their 

levy, 
On  the  rack  of  cross-questions,  by  all  the  blue 

bevy. 
Hark!  Zounds,  they'll  be  on  us ;  I  know  by 

the  drone 
Of  old  Botherby's  spouting  ex-cathedra  tone. 
Ay !  there  he  is  at  it.    Poor  Scamp !  better 

join 
Your  friends,  or  he'll  pay  you  back  in  vour 

own  coin. 
Tra.   All  fair;  'tis  but  lecture  for  lecture. 
Ink.  That's  clear. 

But  for  God's  sake  let's  go,  or  the  Bore  will 

be  here. 

Come,  come;  nay,  I'm  off.         [Exit  INKEI.. 

Tra.  You  are  right,  and  I'll  follow; 

'Tis  high  time  for  a  "  Sic  me  servavit  Apollo!'  4 

And  yet  we  shall  have  the  whole  crew  on  our 

kibes, 
Blues,  dandies,  and  dowagers,  and  second- 
hand scribes, 
All  flocking  to  moisten  their  exquisite  throttles 
With  a  glass  of  Madeira  at  Ladv  Bluebottle's. 
{Exit  Tracy. 


ECLOGUE  SECOND. 

An  Apartment  in  the  House  of  LADY  BLUE- 
BOTTLE. —  A  Table  prepared. 

Sir  Richard  Bluebottle  solus. 

Was  there  ever  a  man  who  was  married  so 

sorry? 
Like  a  fool,  I  must  needs  do  the  thing  in  a 

hurry. 
My  life  is  reversed,  and  my  quiet  destroyed ; 


4  ["  Sotheby  is  a  good  man  —  rhymes  well  (if  not 
wisely) ;  but  is  a  bore.  He  seizes  you  by  the  but- 
ton. One  night  of  a  rout  at  Mrs.  Hope's,  he  had 
fastened  upon  me  —  (something  about  Agamemnon, 
or  Orestes,  or  some  of  his  plays)  notwithstanding 
my  symptoms  of  manifest  distress — (for  I  was  in 
love,  and  just  nicked  a  minute  when  neither  moth- 
ers, nor  husbands,  nor  rivals,  nor  gossips  were  near 
my  then  idol,  who  was  beautiful  as  the  statues  of 
the  gallery  where  we  stood  at  the  time).  Sotheby, 
I  say,  had  seized  upon  me  by  the  button  and  the 
heart-strings,  and  spared  neither.  William  Spencer, 
who  likes  fun,  and  don't  dislike  mischief,  saw  my 
case,  and  coming  up  to  us  both,  took  me  by  the 
hand,  and  pathetically  bade  me  farewell;  "for," 
said  he,  "  I  see  it  is  all  over  with  you."  Sotheby 
then  went  away:  '  sic  me  servavit  Apollo.'" — 
Byron's  Diary,  1821.] 


THE  BLUES. 


22S 


My  days,  which  once  passed  in  so  gentle  a  void, 

Must  now,  every  hour  of  the  twelve,  be  em- 
ployed : 

The  twelve,  do  I  say  ?  —  of  the  whole  twenty- 
four, 

Is  there  one  which  I  dare  call  my  own  any 
more  ? 

What  with  driving  and  visiting,  dancing  and 
dining, 

What  with  learning,  and  teaching,  and  scrib- 
bling, and  shining, 

In  science  and  art,  I'll  be  cursed  if  I  know 

Myself  from  my  wife  ;  for  although  we  are  two, 

Yet  she  somehow  contrives  that  all  things 
shall  be  done 

In  a  style  which  proclaims  us  eternally  one. 

But  the  thing  of  all  things  which  distresses 
me  more 

Than  the  bills  of  the  week  (though  they 
trouble  me  sore) 

Is  the  numerous,  humorous,  backbiting  crew 

Of  scribblers,  wits,  lecturers,  white,  blaek,  and 
blue, 

Who  are  brought  to  my  house  as  an  inn,  to 
my  cost 

—  For  the  bill  here,  it  seems,  is  defrayed  by  the 
host  — 

No  pleasure  !  no  leisure !  no  thought  for  my 
pains, 

But  to  hear  a  vile  jargon  which  addles  my 
brains ; 

A  smatter  and  chatter,  gleaned  out  of  reviews, 

By  the  rag,  tag,  and  bobtail,  of  those  they  call 
'•  Blues;  " 

A  rabble  who  know  not But  soft,  here 

they  come ! 

Would  to  God  I  were  deaf!  as  I'm  not,  I'll 
be  dumb. 

Enter     LADY     BLUEBOTTLE,     MlSS    LlLAC, 

Lady  Bluemount,  Mr.  Botherby,  In- 
kel,  Tracy,  Miss  Mazarine,  and  others, 
with  SCAMP  the  Lecturer,  etc.  etc. 

Lady  Blueb.   Ah  !  Sir  Richard,  good  morn- 
ing; I've  brought  you  some  friends. 
Sir  Rich,  (bows,  and  afterwards  aside).     If 

friends,  they're  the  first. 

Lady  Blueb.  But  the  luncheon  attends. 

I  pray  ye  be  seated,  "  sans  ceremonie." 

Mr.  Scamp,  you're  fatigued ;  take  your  chair 

there,  next  me.  [  They  all  sit. 

Sir  Rich,  (aside).   If  he  does,  his  fatigue  is 

to  come. 
Lady  Blueb.  Mr.  Tracy  — 

Lady  Bluemount  —  Miss  Lilac — be  pleased, 

pray  to  place  ye ; 
And  you,  Mr.  Botherby  — 

Both.  Oh,  my  dear  Lady, 

1  obey. 
Lady  Blueb.   Mr.  Inkel,  I  ought  to  upbraid 
ye: 
You  were  not  at  the  lecture. 


Ink.  Excuse  me,  I  was ; 

But  the  heat  forced  me  out  in  the  best  part — ■ 
alas! 

And  when 

Lady  Bleub.    To  be  sure  it  was  broiling, 
but  then 
You  have  lost  such  a  lecture  ! 

Both.  The  best  of  the  ten. 

Tra.    How  can  you  know  that  ?  there  are 

two  more. 
Both.  Because 

I   defy  him  to  beat  this  day's  wondrous  ap- 
plause. 
The  very  walls  shook. 

Ink.  Oh,  if  that  be  the  test, 

I  allow  our  friend  Scamp  has  this  day  done 

his  best. 
Miss    Lilac,   permit    me   to    help   you;  —  a 
wing  ? 
Miss  Lit.   No  more,  sir,  I  thank  you.  Who 

lectures  next  spring? 
Both.    Dick  Dunder. 

Ink.  That  is,  if  he  lives. 

Miss  Lil.  And.  why  not? 

Ink.    No  reason  whatever,  save  that  he's  a 
sot. 
Lady  Bluemount !  a  glass  of  Madeira  ? 

Lady  Bluem.  With  pleasure. 

Ink.     How  does  your  friend  Wordswords, 
that  Windermere  treasure  ? 
Does  he  stick  to  his  lakes,  like  the  leeches  he 

sings, 
And  their  gatherers,  as  Homer  sung  warriors 
and  kings  ? 
Lady  Blueb.     He  has  just  got  a  place. 
Ink.  As  a  footman  ? 

Lady  Bluem.  For  shame  ! 

Nor  profane  with  your  sneers  so  poetic  a  name. 
Ink.     Nay,  I  meant  him  no  evil,  but  pitied 
his  master; 
For  the  poet  of  pedlers  'twere,  sure,  no  dis- 
aster 
To  wear  a  new  livery ;  the  more,  as  'tis  not 
The  first  time  he  has  turned  both  his  creed 
and  his  coat. 
Lady  Bluem.     For  shame !     I    repeat.     If 

Sir  George  could  but  hear 

Lady  Blueb.     Never  mind  our  friend  Inkel ; 
we  all  know,  my  dear, 
'Tis  his  way. 

Sir  Rich.     But  this  place 

Ink.  Is  perhaps  like  friend  Scamp's, 

A  lecturer's. 

Lady  Blueb.    Excuse  me  —  'tis  one  in  "  ths 
Stamps : " 
He  is  made  a  collector.1 

Tra.  Collector ! 

Sir  Rich.  How  ? 

Miss  Lil.  What  ? 


1  [Wordsworth  was  collector  of  stamps  i'oi  Cum' 
berlaud  and  Westmoreland.] 


226 


THE  BLUES. 


Ink.     I  shall  think  of  him  oft  when  I  buy 

a  new  hat : 

There  his  works  will  appear 

Lady  Bluem.   Sir,  they  reach  to  the  Ganges. 
Ink.     I  sha'n't  go  so  far —  I  can  have  them 

at  Grange's.1 


Oh  fie! 

And  for  shame ! 
You're  too  bad. 
Very  good ! 
How  good  ? 
He  means   nought  —  'tis  his 

He  grows  rude. 
He  means  nothing;  nay,  ask 

Pray,  sir !  did  you  mean 


Lady  Blueb 
Miss  Li/. 
Lady  Bluem. 
Both. 

Lady  Bluem. 
Lady  Blueb. 

phrase. 
Lady  Bluem. 
Lady  llleub. 

him. 
Lady  Bluem. 
What  you  say  ? 

Ink.     Never  mind  if  he  did  ;  'twill  be  seen 
That  whatever  he  means  won't  alloy  what  he 
says. 
Both.    Sir! 

Ink.     Pray  be  content  with  your  portion  of 
praise ; 
'Twas  in  your  defence. 

Both.  If  you  please,  with  submission, 

I  can  make  out  my  own. 

Ink.  It  would  be  your  perdition. 

While  you  live,  my  dear  Botherby,  never  de- 
fend 
Yourself  or  your  works ;  but  leave  both  to  a 

friend. 
A  propos — Is  your  play  then  accepted  at  last  ? 
Both.     At  last  ? 

Ink.  Why  I  thought  —  that's  to  say  —  there 
had  passed 
A  few  green-room  whispers,  which  hinted  — 

you  know 
That  the  taste  of  the  actors  at  best  is  so  so.2 
Both.    Sir,  the  green-room's  in  rapture,  and 

so's  the  committee. 
Ink.    Ay  —  yours  are  the  plays  for  exciting 
our  "pity 
And  fear,"  as  the  Greek  says :  for  "  purging 

the  mind," 
I  doubt  if  you'll  leave  us  an  equal  behind. 
Both.     I    have  written   the  prologue,  and 
meant  to  have  prayed 
For  a  spice  of  your  wit  in  an  epilogue's  aid. 
Ink.    Well,    time    enough   yet,  when    the 
play's  to  be  played. 
Is  it  cast  yet  ? 

Both.  The  actors  are  fighting  for  parts, 

As  is  usual  in  that  most  litigious  of  arts. 
Lady  Blueb.     We'll  all  make  a  party,  and 
go  the  first  night. 


1  Grange  is  or  was  a  famous  pastry-cook  and 
fruiterer  in  Piccadilly. 

2  ["When  I  belonged  to  the  Drury  Lane  Com- 
mittee, the  number  of  plays  upon  the  shelves  were 
about  five  hundred.  Mr.  Sotheby  obligingly  offered 
us  all  his  tragedies,  and  I  pledged  myself,  and  — 


Tra.    And    vou    promised    the    epilogue, 

Inkel.         ' 
Ink.  Not  quite. 

However,  to  save  my  friend  Botherby  trouble, 
I'll  do  what  I  can,  though  my  pains  must  be 
double. 
Tra.    Why  so  ? 

Ink.  To  do  justice  to  what  goes  before. 

Both.     Sir,  I'm   happy  to  say,  I  have   no 
fears  on  that  score. 

Your  parts,  Mr.  Inkel,  are 

Ink.  Never  mind  mine , 

Stick  to  those  of  your  play,  which  is  quite 
your  own  line. 
Lady  Bluem.     You're   a  fugitive  writer,   I 

think,  sir,  of  rhymes  ? 
Ink.    Yes,  ma'am ;   and  a  fugitive  reader 
sometimes. 
On  Wordswords,  for  instance,  I  seldom  alight, 
Or  on  Mouthey,  his  friend,  without  taking  to 
flight. 
Lady  Bluem.  Sir,  your  taste  is  too  common  ; 
but  time  and  posterity 
Will  right  these  great   men,  and  this  age's 

severity 
Become  its  reproach. 

Ink.  I've  no  sort  of  objection, 

So  I'm  not  of  the  party  to  take  the  infection. 
Lady   Blueb.     Perhaps    you    have    doubts 

that  they  ever  will  take  f 
Ink.     Not  at  all ;  on  the  contrary,  those  of 
the  lakf 
Have  taken  already,  and  still  will  continue 
To  take  —  what  they  can,  from  a  groat  to  a 

guinea, 
Of  pension   or  place; — but  the   subject's  a 
bore. 
Lady  Bluem.  Well,  sir,  the  time's  coming. 
Ink.  Scamp  !  don't  you  feel  sore  ? 

What  say  you  to  this  ? 

Scamp.  They  have  merit,  I  own  ; 

Though  their  system's  absurdity  keeps  it  un- 
known. 
Ink.     Then  why  not   unearth   it  in  one  of 

your  lectures  ? 
Scamp.     It  is  only  time  past  which  comes 

under  my  strictures. 
Lady  Blueb.     Come,  a  truce  with  all  tart- 
ness :  — the  joy  of  my  heart 
Is  to  see  Nature's  triumph  o'er  all  that  is  art. 
Wild  nature  !  —  Grand  Shakspeare  I 
Both.  And  down  Aristotle! 

Lady  Bluem.     Sir  George3  thinks   exactly 
with  Ladv  Bluebottle ; 


notwithstanding  many  squabbles  with  my  commit- 
tee brethren  —  did  get  Ivan  accepted,  read,  and  the 
parts  distributed.  But  lo!  in  the  very  heart  of  the 
matter,  upon  some  tef>!'d-ness  on  the  par*  of  Kcan, 
or  warmth  on  that  of  the  author,  Sotheby  'vithdrew 
his  play."  —  Byron's  Diary,  1821.] 

3  [Sir  George  Beaumont  —  a  constan'    friend  e* 
Mr.  Wordsworth. 1 


THE  BLUES. 


227 


And  my  Lord  Seventy-four,1  who  protects  our 

dear  Bard, 
And  who  gave  him  his  place,  has  the  greatest 

regard 
For  the   poet,  who,  singing  of  pedlers  and 

asses, 
Has   found    out  the  way  to    dispense  with 

Parnassus. 
Tra.     And  you,  Scamp  !  — 
Scamp.     I  needs  must  confess  I'm  embar- 
rassed. 
Ink.  Don't  call  upon  Scamp,  who's  already 

so  harassed 
With   old   schools,  and   new  schools,  and  no 

schools,  and  all  schools. 
Tra.     Well,  one  thing  is  certain,  that  some 

must  be  fools. 
I  should  like  to  know  who. 

Ink.  And  I  should  not  be  sorry 

To   know  who  are  not:  —  it  would  save  us 

some  worry. 
Lady  Dlueb.  A  truce  with  remark,  and  let 

nothing  control 
This  "  feast  of  our  reason,  and  flow  of  the 

soul." 
Oh  !  my  dear  Mr.  Botherby !  sympathise  !  —  I 
Now  feel  such  a  rapture,  I'm  ready  to  fly, 
I  feel  so  elastic  —  "  so  buoyant  —  so  buoyant/"2 
Ink.   Tracy !  open  the  window. 
Tra.  I  wish  her  much  joy  on't. 

Both.   For  God's  sake,  my  Lady  Bluebottle, 

check  not 
This  gentle  emotion,  so  seldom  our  lot 
Upon   earth.     Give  it  way;    'tis   an   impulse 

which  lifts 
Our  spirits  from  earth;  the  sublimest  of  gifts  ; 
For  which  poor  Prometheus  was  chained  to 

his  mountain. 
'Tis   the   source  of  all   sentiment  —  feeling's 

true  fountain  : 
'Tis  the  Vision  of  Heaven  upon  Earth :  'tis 

the  gas 
Of  the  soul :  'tis  the  seizing  of  shades  as  they 

pass, 
And  making  them  substance  :  'tis  something 

divine :  — 


1  [It  was  not  the  late  Earl  of  Lonsdale;  but 
James,  the  first  earl,  who  offered  to  build,  and  man, 
a  ship  of  seventy-four  guns,  towards  the  close  of 
the  American  war,  for  the  service  of  his  country,  at 
kis  own  expense; — hence  the  soubriquet  in  the 
test,] 

2  Fact  from  life,  with  the  words. 


Ink.   Shall  I  help  you,  my  friend,  to  a  little 

more  wine  ? 
Both.    I  thank  you ;  not  any  more,  sir,  till  I 

dine. 
Ink.   A   propos — Do    you   dine   with    Sii 

Humphry  3  to-day  ? 
Tra.    I  should  think  with  Duke  Humphry 

was  more  in  your  way. 
Ink.    It  might  be  of  yore ;  but  we  authors 
now  look 
To  the  knight,  as  a  landlord,  much  more  than 

the  Duke. 
The   truth  is,  each  writer  now  quite   at  his 

ease  is, 
And  (except  with  his  publisher)  dines  where 

he  pleases. 
But  'tis  now  nearly  five,  and   I  must  to  the 
Park. 
Tra.   And  I'll  take  a  turn  with  you  there 
till  'tis  dark. 
And  you,  Scamp  — 

Scamp.       Excuse  me  ;  I  must  to  my  notes, 
For  my  lectures  next  week. 

Ink.  He  must  mind  whom  he  quotes 

Out  of"  Elegant  Extracts." 

Lady  Blueb.  Well,  now  we  break  up ; 

But  remember  Miss   Diddle  •*  invites  us    to 
sup. 
Ink.  Then  at  two  hours  past  midnight  we 
all  meet  again, 
For    the    sciences,   sandwiches,    hock,    and 
champagne ! 
Tra.   And  the  sweet  lobster  salad ! 
Both.  I  honor  that  meal ; 

For   'tis  then  that  our   feelings   most  genu- 
inely —  feel. 
Ink.   True ;    feeling  is  truest  then,  far  be- 
yond question : 
I  wish  to  the  gods  'twas  the  same  with  diges- 
tion ! 
Lady  Blueb.    Pshaw !  —  never    mind    that  ; 
for  one  moment  of  feeling 
Is  worth  —  God  knows  what. 
Ink.  'Tis  at  least  worth  concealing 

For  itself,  or  what  follows But  here  comes 

your  carriage. 
Sir  Rich,  (aside).    I  wish  all  these  people 

were  d d  with  my  marriage  ! 

[Exeunt. 


3  [Sir  Humphry  Davy,  President  of  the  Royal 
Society.] 

*  [Miss  Lydia  White,  an  accomplished,  clevei, 
and  truly  amiable,  but  very  eccentric  lady.] 


THE    VISION    OF   JUDGMENT, 

BY   QUEVEDO    REDIVIVUS. 

5UGGESTBD   BY  THE   COMPOSITION   SO   ENTITLED   BY  THE  AUTHOR  OF    "WAT   TYLER." 

"  A  Daniel  come  to  judgment!  yea,  a  Daniel! 
I  thank  thee,  Jew,  for  teaching  me  that  word." 


PREFACE. 


It  hath  been  wisely  said,  that  "  One  fool  makes  many.  "  and  it  hath  been  poetically  observed, 
"  That  fools  rush  in  where  angels  fear  to  tread."  —  Pope. 

If  Mr.  Southey  had  not  rushed  in  where  he  had  no  business,  and  where  he  never  was  before,  and 
never  will  be  again,  the  following  poem  would  not  have  been  written.  It  is  not  impossible  that  it  may  be 
as  good  as  his  own,  seeing  that  it  cannot,  by  any  species  of  stupidity,  natural  or  acquired,  be  worse. 
The  gross  flattery,  the  dull  impudence,  the  renegado  intolerance  and  impious  cant,  of  the  poem  by  the 
author  of  "  Wat  Tyler,"  are  something  so  stupendous  as  to  form  the  sublime  of  himself  —  containing  the 
quintessence  of  his  own  attributes.  « 

So  much  for  his  poem  —  a  word  on  his  preface.  In  this  preface  it  has  pleased  the  magnanimous 
Laureate  to  draw  the  picture  of  a  supposed  "  Satanic  School,"  the  which  he  doth  recommend  to  the 
notice  of  the  legislature ;  thereby  adding  to  his  other  laurels  the  ambition  of  those  of  an  informer.  If 
there  exists  anywhere,  excepting  in  his  imagination,  such  a  School,  is  be  not  sufficiently  armed  agahist 
it  by  his  own  intense  vanity?  The  truth  is,  that  there  are  certain  writers  whom  Mr.  S.  imagines,  like 
Scrub,  to  have  "  talked  of  him  ;  for  they  laughed  consumedly." 

I  think  I  know  enough  of  most  of  the  writers  to  whom  he  is  supposed  to  allude,  to  assert,  that  they,  in 
their  individual  capacities,  have  done  more  good,  in  the  charities  of  life,  to  their  fellow-creatures  in  any 
one  year,  than  Mr.  Southey  has  done  harm  to  himself  by  his  absurdities  in  his  whole  life;  and  this  is  saying 
a  great  deal.     But  I  have  a  few  questions  to  ask. 

ist.   Is  Mr.  Southey  the  author  of"  Wat  Tyler?  " 

2d.  Was  he  not  refused  a  remedy  at  law  by  the  highest  judge  of  his  beloved  England,  because  it  was 
a  blasphemous  and  seditious  publication?1 

1  [In  1821,  when  Mr.  Southey  applied  to  the  Court  of  Chancery  for  an  injunction  to  restrain  the  publi- 
cation of"  Wat  Tyler,"  Lord  Chancellor  Eldon  pronounced  the  following  judgment:  —  "  I  have  looked 
into  all  the  affidavits,  and  have  read  the  book  itself.  The  bill  goes  the  length  of  stating,  that  the  work 
was  composed  by  Mr.  Southey  in  the  year  1794;  that  it  is  his  own  production,  and  that  it  has  been  pub- 
lished by  the  defendants  without  his  sanction  or  authority ;  and  therefore  seeking  an  account  of  the  profits 
which  have  arisen  from,  and  an  injunction  to  restrain,  the  publication.  I  have  examined  the  cases  that 
I  have  been  able  to  meet  with  containing  precedents  for  injunctions  of  this  nature,  and  I  find  that  they  all 
proceed  upon  the  ground  of  a  title  to  the  property  in  the  plaintiff.  On  this  head  a  distinction  has  been 
taken,  to  which  a  considerable  weight  of  authority  attaches,  supported,  as  it  is,  by  the  opinion  of  Lord 
Chief  Justice  Eyre,  who  has  expressly  laid  it  down,  that  a  person  cannot  recover  in  damages  for  a  work 
which  is,  in  its  nature,  calculated  to  do  injury  to  the  public.  Upon  the  same  principle  this  court  refused 
an  injunction  in  the  case  of  Walcot  "  (Peter  Pindar)  "  71.  Walker,  inasmuch  as  he  could  not  have  recov- 
ered damages  in  an  action.  After  the  fullest  consideration,  I  remain  of  the  same  opinion  as  that  which 
I  entertained  in  deciding  the  case  referred  to.  Taking  all  the  circumstances  into  my  consideration,  it 
appears  to  me,  that  I  cannot  grant  this  injunction,  until  after  Mr.  Southey  shall  have  established  his  right 
to  the  property  by  action."  —  Injunction  refused.] 


PREFACE.  229 

3d.    Was  he  not  entitled  by  William  Smith,  in  full  parliament,  "a  rancorous  renegado  ?"1 
4th.    Is  he  not  poet  laureate,  with  his  own  lines  on  Martin  the  regicide  staring  him  in  the  face?2 
And  5th.    Putting  the  four  preceding  items  together,  with  what  conscience  dare  he  call  the  attention 
of  the  laws  to  the  publications  of  others,  be  they  what  they  may  ? 

I  say  nothing  of  the  cowardice  of  such  a  proceeding;  its  meanness  speaks  for  itself;  but  I  wish  to 
touch  upon  the  motive,  which  is  neither  more  nor  less  than  that  Mr.  S.  has  been  laughed  at  a  little  in 
some  recent  publications,  as  he  was  of  yore  in  the  "  Anti-jacobin  "  by  his  present  patrons.3  Hence  all 
this  "  skimble  scamble  stuff"  about  "  Satanic  "  and  so  forth.  However,  it  is  worthy  of  him  —  "  gualis 
ab  incepto." 

If  there  is  any  thing  obnoxious  to  the  political  opinions  of  a  portion  of  the  public  in  the  following 
poem,  they  may  thank  Mr.  Southey.  He  might  have  written  hexameters,  as  he  has  written  every  thing 
else,  for  aught  that  the  writer  cared  —  had  they  been  upon  another  subject.  But  to  attempt  tc  canonize 
a  monarch,  who,  whatever  were  his  household  virtues,  was  neither  a  successful  nor  a  patriot  king, — 
inasmuch  as  several  years  of  his  reign  passed  in  war  with  America  and  Ireland,  to  say  nothing  of  the 
aggression  upon  France,  —  like  all  other  exaggeration,  necessarily  begets  opposition.  In  whatever  man- 
ner he  may  be  spoken  of  in  tnis  new  "  Vision,"  his  public  career  will  not  be  more  favorably  transmitted 
by  history.     Of  his  private  virtues  (although  a  little  expensive  to  the  nation)  there  can  be  no  doubt. 

With  regard  to  the  supernatural  personages  treated  of,  I  can  only  say  that  I  know  as  much  about 
them,  and  (as  an  honest  man)  have  a  better  right  to  talk  of  them  than  Robert  Southey.     I  have  also 

1  [Mr  William  Smith,  M.P.  for  Norwich,  made  a  virulent  attack  on  Mr.  Southey  in  the  House  of 
Commons  on  the  14th  of  March,  1817,  and  the  Laureate  replied  by  a  letter  in  the  Courier.] 

2  [Among  the  effusions  of  Mr.  Southey 's  juvenile  muse,  we  find  this  "  Inscription  for  the  Apartment 
in  Chepstow  Castle,  where  Henry  Martin,  the  Regicide,  was  imprisoned  thirty  years:  — 

"  For  thirty  years  secluded  from  mankind 
Here  Martin  lingered.     Often  have  these  walls 
Echoed  his  footsteps,  as  with  even  tread 
He  paced  around  his  prison.     Not  to  him 
Did  Nature's  fair  varieties  exist; 
He  never  saw  the  sun's  delightful  beams; 
Save  when  through  yon  high  bars  he  poured  a  sad 
And  broken  splendor.     Dost  thou  ask  his  crime? 
He  had  rebelled  against  the  King,  and  sat 
In  judgment  on  him;  for  his  ardent  mind 
Shaped  goodliest  plans  of  happiness  on  earth, 
And  peace  and  liberty.     Wild  dreams!  but  such 
As  Plato  loved;  such  as,  with  holy  zeal, 
Our  Milton  worshipped.     Blessed  hopes!  awhile 
From  man  withheld,  even  to  the  latter  days 
When  Christ  shall  come  and  all  things  be  fulfilled."] 

8  [The  following  imitation  of  the  Inscription  on  the  Regicide's  Apartment,  written  jy  Mr.  Canning, 
appeared  in  the  "  Anti-jacobin." —  ' 

"  Inscription  for  the  Door  of  the  Cell  in  Newgate,  where  Mrs.  Brownrigg,  the  'Prentice-cide,  was  con- 
fined, previous  to  her  Execution. 

'*  For  one  long  term,  or  ere  her  trial  came, 

Here  Brownrigg  lingered.     Often  have  these  cells 

Echoed  her  blasphemies,  as  with  shrill  voice 

She  screamed  for  fresh  geneva.     Not  to  her 

Did  the  blithe  fields  of  Tothill,  or  thy  street, 

St.  Giles,  its  fair  varieties  expand; 

Till  at  the  last  in  slow-drawn  cart  she  went 

To  execution.     Dost  thou  ask  her  crime? 

She  whipped  two  female  'prentices  to  death, 

And  hid  them  in  the  coal-hole.     For  her  mind 

Shaped  strictest  plans  of  discipline.     Sage  schemes! 

Such  as  Lycurgus  taught,  when  at  the  shrine 
«  Of  the  Orthyan  goddess  he  bade  flog 

The  little  Spartans;  such  as  erst  chastised 

Our  Milton,  when  at  college.     For  this  act 

Did  Brownrigg  swing.     Harsh  laws!     But  time  shall  co«l* 

When  France  shall  reign,  and  laws  be  all  repealed."] 


230  THE    VISION  OF  JUDGMENT. 

treated  them  more  tolerantly.  The  way  in  which  that  poor  insane  creature,  the  Laureate,  deals  about 
his  judgments  in  the  next  world,  is  like  his  own  judgment  in  this.  If  it  was  not  completely  ludicrous, 
it  would  be  something  worse.     I  don't  think  that  there  is  much  more  to  say  at  present. 

QuEVEDO    ReDIV'IVOS. 

P.  S.  —  It  is  possible  that  some  readers  may  object,  in  these  objectionable  times,  to  the  freedom  with 
which  saints,  angels,  and  spiritual  persons  discourse  in  this  "  Vision."  But,  for  precedents  upon  such 
points,  I  must  refer  him  to  Fielding's  "  Journey  from  this  World  to  the  next,"  and  to  the  Visions  of. 
myself,  the  said  Quevedo,  in  Spanish  or  translated.  The  reader  is  also  requested  to  observe,  that  no, 
doctrinal  tenets  are  insisted  upon  or  discussed;  that  the  person  of  the  Deity  is  carefully  withheld  from! 
sight,  which  is  more  than  can  be  said  for  the  Laureate,  who  hath  thought  proper  to  make  him  talk,  not 
:<  like  a  school  divine,"  but  like  the  unscholarlike  Mr.  Southey.  The  whole  act ion  pas.es  on  the  out- 
side of  heaven;  and  Chaucer's  Wife  of  Bath,  Pulci's  Morgante  Maggiore,  Swift's  Tale  of  a  Tub,  and 
the  other  works  above  referred  to,  are  cases  in  point  of  the  freedom  with  which  saints,  etc.  may  be  per- 
mitted to  converse  in  works  not  intended  to  be  serious.  Q.    R. 

***  Mr.  Southey  being,  as  he  says,  a  good  Christian  and  vindictive,  threatens,  I  understand,  a  reply 
to  this  our  answer.  It  is  to  be  hoped  that  his  visionary  faculties  will  in  the  mean  time  have  acquired  a 
little  more  judgment,  properly  so  called:  otherwise  he  will  get  himself  into  new  dilemmas.  These 
apostate  jacobins  furnish  rich  rejoinders.  Let  him  take  a  specimen.  Mr.  Southey  laudeth  grievously 
"one  Mr.  Landor,"  who  cultivates  much  private  renown  in  the  shape  of  Latin  verses;  and  not  long 
ago,  the  poet  laureate  dedicated  to  him,  it  appeareth,  one  of  his  fugitive  lyrics,  upon  the  strength  of 
a  poem  called  Gebir.  Who  could  suppose,  that  in  this  same  Gebir  the  aforesaid  Savage  Landor  (for 
such  is  his  grim  cognomen)  puttcth  into  the  infernal  regions  no  less  a  person  than  the  hero  of  his  friend 
Mr.  Southey's  heaven,  —  yea,  even  George  the  Third!  See  also  how  personal  Savage  becometh,  when 
he  hath  a  mind.     The  following  is  his  portrait  of  our  late  gracious  sovereign:  — 

(Prince  Gebir  having  descended  into  the  infernal  regions,  the  shades  of  his  royal  ancestors  are,  at  his 
request,  called  up  to  his  view;  and  he  exclaims  to  his  ghostly  guide)  — 

"  Aroar,  what  wretch  that  nearest  us?  what  wretch 
Is  that  with  eyebrows  white  and  slanting  brow? 
Listen!  him  yonder,  who,  bound  down  supine, 
Shrinks  yelling  from  that  sword  there,  engine-hung. 
He  too  amongst  my  ancestors!   I  hate 
The  despot,  but  the  dastard  I  despise. 
Was  he  our  countryman?  " 

"  Alas,  O  king! 
Iberia  bore  him,  but  the  breed  accurst 
Inclement  winds  blew  blighting  from  north-east." 
"  He  was  a  warrior  then,  nor  feared  the  gods?  " 
"  Gebir,  he  feared  the  demons,  not  the  gods, 
•  Though  them  indeed  his  daily  face  adored; 

And  was  no  warrior,  yet  the  thousand  lives 
Squandered,  as  stones  to  exercise  a  sling, 
And  the  tame  cruelty  and  cold  caprice  — 
Oh  madness  of  mankind!   addressed,  adored!  " —  Gebir,  p.  28. 

1  omit  noticing  some  edifying  Ithyhallics  of  Savagius,  wishing  to  keep  the  proper  veil  over  them,  if  his 
grave  but  somewhat  indiscreet  worshipper  will  suffer  it;  but  certainly  these  teachers  of  "  great  moral 
lessons"  are  apt  to  be  found  in  strange  company. 


APPENDIX  TO  THE  PREFACE. 

[Southey,  in  1821,  published  a  poem  in  English  hexameters,  entitled  "A  Vision  of  Judgment;  "  ii. 
the  preface  to  which,  after  some  abservations  on  the  peculiar  style  of  its  versification,  occurs  the  follow- 
ing remarks:  — 


APPENDIX   TO    THE  PREFACE.  231 

"  I  am  well  aware  that  the  public  are  peculiarly  intolerant  of  such  innovations;  not  less  so  than  th 
populace  are  of  any  foreign  fashion,  whether  of  foppery  or  convenience.  Would  that  this  literary  intoler 
ance  were  under  the  influence  of  a  saner  judgment,  and  regarded  the  morals  more  than  the  manner  of  a 
composition;  the  spirit  rather  than  the  form!  Would  that  it  were  directed  against  those  monstrous  com- 
binations of  horrors  and  mockery,  lewdness  and  impiety,  with  which  English  poetry  has,  in  our  days, 
first  been  polluted!  For  more  than  half  a  century  English  literature  had  been  distinguished  by  its  moral 
purity,  the  effect,  and,  in  its  turn,  the  "ause  of  an  improvement  in  national  manners.  A  father  might, 
without  apprehension  of  evil,  have  put  in'o  the  hands  of  his  children  any  book  which  issued  from  the 
press,  if  it  did  not  bear,  either  in  its  title-page  or  frontispiece,  manifest  signs  that  it  was  intended  as  fur- 
niture for  the  brothel.  There  was  no  danger  in  any  work  which  bore  the  name  of  a  respectable  publisher, 
or  was  to  be  procured  at  any  respectable  bookseller's.  This  was  particularly  the  case  with  regard  to  out 
poetry.  It  is  now  no  longer  so:  and  woe  to  those  by  whom  the  offence  cometh !  The  greater  the  talents 
of  the  offender,  the  greater  is  his  guilt,  and  the  more  enduring  will  be  his  shame.  Whether  it  be  that 
the  laws  are  in  themselves  unable  to  abate  an  evil  of  this  magnitude,  or  whether  it  be  that  they  are 
remissly  administered,  and  with  such  injustice  that  the  celebrity  of  an  offender  serves  as  a  privilege 
whereby  he  obtains  impunity,  individuals  are  bound  to  consider  that  such  pernicious  works  would  neither 
be  published  nor  written,  if  they  were  discouraged  as  they  might,  and  ought  to  be,  by  public  feeling: 
every  person,  therefore,  who  purchases  such  books,  or  admits  them  into  his  house,  promotes  the  mischief, 
and  thereby,  as  far  as  in  him  lies,  becomes  an  aider  and  abettor  of  the  crime. 

"  The  publication  of  a  lascivious  book  is  one  of  the  worst  offences  which  can  be  committed  against  the 
well-being  of  society.  It  is  a  sin,  to  the  consequences  of  which  no  limits  can  be  assigned,  and  those  con- 
sequences no  after-repentance  in  the  writer  can  counteract.  Whatever  remorse  of  conscience  he  may 
feel  when  his  hour  comes  (and  come  it  must!)  will  be  of  no  avail.  The  poignancy  of  a  death-bed  re- 
pentance cannot  cancel  one  copy  of  the  thousands  which  are  sent  abroad;  and  as  long  as  it  continues  to 
be  read,  so  long  is  he  the  pander  of  posterity,  and  so  long  is  he  heaping  up  guilt  upon  his  soul  in  per- 
petual accumulation. 

"  These  remarks  are  not  more  severe  than  the  offence  deserves,  even  when  applied  to  those  immoral 
writers  who  have  not  been  conscious  of  any  evil  intention  in  their  writings,  who  would  acknowledge 
a  little  levity,  a  little  warmth  of  coloring,  and  so  forth,  in  that  sort  of  language  with  which  men  gloss 
over  their  favorite  vices,  and  deceive  themselves.  What  then  should  be  said  of  those  for  whom  the 
thoughtlessness  and  inebriety  of  wanton  youth  can  no  longer  be  pleaded,  but  who  have  written  in  sober 
manhood  and  with  deliberate  purpose? —  Men  of  diseased  hearts  and  depraved  imaginations,  who,  forming 
a  system  of  opinions  to  suit  their  own  unhappy  course  of  conduct,  have  rebelled  against  the  holiest  ordi- 
nances of  human  society,  and  hating  that  revealed  religion  which,  with  all  their  efforts  and  bravadoes, 
they  are  unable  entirely  to  disbelieve,  labor  to  make  others  as  miserable  as  themselves,  by  infecting  them 
with  a  moral  virus  that  eats  into  the  soul !  The  school  which  they  have  set  up  may  properly  be  called 
the  Satanic  school;  for  though  their  productions  breathe  the  spirit  of  Belial  in  their  lascivious  parts,  and 
the  spirit  of  Moloch  in  those  loathsome  images  of  atrocities  and  horrors  which  they  delight  to  represent, 
they  are  more  especially  characterized  by  a  Satanic  spirit  of  pride  and  audacious  impiety,  which  still 
betrays  the  wretched  feeling  of  hopelessness  wherewith  it  is  allied. 

"  This  evil  is  political  as  well  as  moral,  for  indeed  moral  and  political  evils  are  inseparably  connected. 
Truly  has  it  been  affirmed  by  one  of  our  ablest  and  clearest  reasoners,  that  '  the  destruction  of  govern- 
ments may  be  proved  and  deduced  from  the  general  corruption  of  the  subjects'  manners,  as  a  direct  and 
natural  cause  thereof,  by  a  demonstration  as  certain  as  any  in  the  mathematics.'  There  is  no  maxim  more 
frequently  enforced  by  Machiavelli,  than  that  where  the  manners  of  a  people  are  generally  corrupted,  theie 
the  government  cannot  long  subsist,  —  a  truth  which  all  history  exemplifies;  and  there  is  no  means 
whereby  that  corruption  can  be  so  surely  and  rapidly  diffused,  as  by  poisoning  the  waters  of  literature. 

"  Let  rulers  of  the  state  look  to  this,  in  time!  But,  to  use  the  words  of  Southey,  if  our  physicians 
think  the  best  way  of  curings  disease  is  to  pamper  it,  —  the  Lord  in  mercy  prepare  the  kingdom  to 
suffer,  what  He  by  miracle  only  can  prevent! ' 

"  No  apology  is  offered  for  these  remarks.  The  subject  led  to  them;  and  the  occasion  of  introducing 
them  was  willingly  taken,  because  it  is  the  duty  of  every  one,  whose  opinion  may  have  any  influence,  to 
expose  the  drift  and  aim  of  those  writers  who  are  laboring  to  subvert  the  foundations  of  human  virtue 
and  of  human  happiness." 

Byron  rejoined  as  follows :  — 

"  Mr.  Southey,  in  his  pious  preface  to  a  poem  whose  blasphemy  is  as  harmless  as  the  sedition  of  Wat 
Tyler,  because  it  is  equally  absurd  with  that  sincere  production,  calls  upon  the  '  legislature  to  look  to  it,' 
as  the  toleration  of  such  writings  led  to  the  French  Revolution:  not  such  writings  as  Wat  Tyler,  but  as 
those  of  the  '  Santanic  School.'  This  is  not  true,  and  Mr.  Southey  knows  it  to  be  not  true.  Every 
French  writer  of  any  freedom  was  persecuted;  Voltaire  and  Rousseau  were  exiles,  Marmontel  and  Did- 
erot were  sent  to  the  Bastile,  and  a  perpetual  war  was  waged  with  the  whole  class  by  the  existing  despot- 
ism. In  the  next  place,  the  French  Revolution  was  not  occasioned  by  any  writings  whatsoever,  but  must 
have  occurred  had  no  such  writers  ever  existed.  It  is  the  fashion  to  attribute  every  thing  to  the  French 
Revolution,  and  the  French  Revolution  to  every  thing  but  its  real  cause.  That  cause  is  obvious  —  the 
government  exacted  too  much,  and  the  people  could  neither  give  nor  bear  more.  Without  this,  the  En- 
cyclopedists might  have  written  their  fingers  off  without  the  occurrence  of  a  single  alteration.  And  the 
English  revolution —  (the  first,  I  mean)  —what  was  it  occasioned  by?  The  Puritans  were  surely  as 
pious  and  moral  as  Wesley  or  his  biographer?  Acts  —  acts  on  the  part  of  government,  and  not  writings 
against  them,  have  caused  the  past  convulsions,  *md  are  tending  to  the  future. 


232  THE    VISION  OF  JUDGMENT. 

"  I  look  upon  such  as  inevitable,  though  no  revolutionist:  I  wish  to  see  the  English  constitution  re- 
stored, and  not  destroyed.  Born  an  aristocrat,  and  naturally  one  by  temper,  with  the  greater  part  of  rr.y 
present  property  in  the  funds,  what  have  /  to  gain  by  a  revolution?  Perhaps  I  have  more  to  lose  in 
every  way  than  Mr.  Southey,  with  all  his  places  and  presents  for  panegyrics  and  abuse  into  the  bargain. 
But  that  a  revolution  is  inevitable,  I  repeat.  The  government  may  exult  over  the  repression  of  petty 
tumults:  these  are  but  the  receding  waves  repulsed  and  broken  for  a  moment  on  the  shore,  while  the 
great  tide  is  still  rolling  on  and  gaining  ground  with  every  breaker.  Mr.  Southey  accuses  usof  attacking 
the  religion  of  the  country;  and  is  he  abetting  it  by  writing  lives  of  Wesley?  One  mode  of  worship  i:; 
merely  destroyed  by  another.  There  never  was,  nor  ever  will  be,  a  country  without  a  religion.  We 
sh.ill  be  told  of  France  again:  but  it  was  only  Paris  and  a  frantic  party,  which  for  a  moment  upheld 
their  dogmatic  nonsense  of  theo-philanthropy.  The  church  of  England,  if  overthrown,  will  be  swept 
away  by  the  sectarians  and  not  by  the  sceptics.  People  are  too  wise,  too  well  informed,  too  certain  ol 
their  own  immense  importance  in  the  realms  of  space,  ever  to  submit  to  the  impiety  of  doubt.  There 
may  be  a  few  such  diffident  speculators,  like  water  in  the  pale  sunbeam  of  human  reason,  but  they  are 
very  few;  and  their  opinions,  without  enthusiasm  or  appeal  to  the  passions,  can  never  gain  proselytes  — 
unless,  indeed,  they  are  persecuted  —  that,  to  be  sure,  will  increase  any  thing 

"Mr.  Southey,  with  a  cowardly  ferocity,  exults  over  the  anticipated  'death-bed  repentance'  of  the 
objects  of  his  dislike;  and  indulges  himself  in  a  pleasant  '  Vision  of  Judgment,'  in  prose  as  well  as  verse, 
full  of  impious  impudence.  What  Mr.  Southey's  sensations  or  ours  may  be  in  the  awful  moment  of 
leaving  this  state  of  existence,  neither  he  nor  we  can  pretend  to  decide.  In  common,  I  presume,  with 
most  men  of  any  reflection,  /  have  not  waited  for  a  '  death-bed  '  to  repent  of  many  of  my  actions,  not- 
withstanding the  '  di  ibolical  pride  '  which  this  pitiful  renegado  in  his  rancor  would  impute  to  those  who 
scorn  him..  Whether  upon  the  whole  the  good  or  evil  of  my  deeds  may  preponderate  is  not  for  me  to 
ascertain;  but  as  my  means  and  opportunities  have  been  greater,  I  shall  limit  my  present  defence  to  an 
assertion,  (easily  proved,  if  necessary,)  that  I,  '  in  my  degree,'  have  done  more  real  good  in  any  one 
given  year,  since  I  was  twenty,  than  Mr.  Southey  in  the  whole  course  of  his  shifting  and  turncoat  exist- 
ence. There  are  several  actions  to  which  I  can  look  back  with  an  honest  pride,  not  to  be  damped  by  the 
calmness  of  a  hireling.  There  are  others  to  which  I  recur  with  sorrow  and  repentance;  but  the  only 
act  of  my  life  of  which  Mr.  Southey  can  have  any  real  knowledge,  as  it  was  one  which  brought  me  in 
contact  with  a  near  connection  of  his  own,1  did  no  dishonor  to  that  connection  nor  to  me. 

"  I  am  not  ignorant  of  Mr.  Southey's  calumnies  on  a  different  occasion,  knowing  them  to  be  such, 
which  he  scattered  abroad  on  his  return  from  Switzerland  against  me  and  others:  they  have  done 
him  no  good  in  this  world;  and  if  his  creed  be  the  right  one,  they  will  do  him  less  in  the  next. 
What  his  '  Jeath-bed '  may  be,  it  is  not  my  province  to  predicate :  let  him  settle  with  his  Maker  as  I 
must  do  with  mine.  There  is  something  at  once  ludicrous  and  blasphemous  in  this  arrogant  scrib- 
bler of  all  work  sitting  down  to  deal  damnation  and  destruction  upon  his  fellow-creatures,  with  Wat 
Tyler,  the  Apotheosis  of  George  the  Third,  and  the  Elegy  on  Martin  the  regicide,  all  shuffled 
together  in  his  writing-desk.  One  of  his  consolations  appears  to  be  a  Latin  note  from  a  work  of  a 
Mr.  Landor,  the  author  of  '  Gebir,'  whose  friendship  for  Robert  Southey  will,  it  seems,  'be  an 
honor  to  him  when  the  ephemeral  disputes  and  ephemeral  reputations  of  the  day  are  forgotton.'2  I 
for  one  neither  envy  him  '  the  friendship,'  nor  the  glory  in  reversion  which  is  to  accrue  from  it,  like 
Mr.  Thelusson's  fortune  in  the  third  and  fourth  generation.  This  friendship  will  probably  be  as 
memorable  as  his  own  epics,  which  (as  I  quoted  to  him  ten  or  twelve  years  ago  in  '  English  Bards  ') 
Porson  said  'would  be  remembered  when  Homer  and  Virgil  are  forgotten,  —  and  not  till  then.'  For 
the  present,  I  leave  him." 

Southey  replied  to  this  on  the  5th  of  January,  1822,  in  a  letter  addressed  to  the  Editor  of  the  London 
Courier,  o"  which  we  quote  all  that  is  of  importance:  — 

"  I  come  at  once  to  his  Lordship's  charge  against  me,  blowing  away  the  abuse  with  which  it  is  frothed, 
and  evaporating  a  strong  acid  in  which  it  is  suspended.  The  residuum  then  appears  to  be,  that  '  Mr. 
Southey,  on  his  return  from  Switzerland  (in  1817),  scattered  abroad  calumnies,  knowing  them  to  be  such, 
against  Lord  Byron  and  others.'     To  this  I  reply  with  a  direct  and  positive  denial. 

"  If  I  had  been  told  in  that  country  that  Lord  Byron  had  turned  Turk,  or  Monk  of  La  Trappe,  —  that 
he  had  furnished  a  harem,  or  endowed  an  hospital,  I  might  have  thought  the  account,  whichever  it  had 
been,  possible,  and  repeated  it  accordingly;  passing  it,  as  it  had  been  taken  in  the  small  change  of  con- 
versation, for  no  more  than  it  was  worth.  In  this  manner  I  might  have  spoken  of  him,  as  of  Baron 
Geramb,3  the  Green  Man,4  the  Indian  Jugglers,  or  any  other  figurante  of  the  time  being.     There  was 

1  [Coleridge.] 

2  Southey,  after  quoting  in  a  note  to  his  preface  a  Latin  passage  from  Mr.  Landor,  spoke  thus  of  its 
author:  —  "I  will  only  say  in  this  place  that  to  have  obtained  his  approbation  as  a  poet,  and  possessed 
his  friendship  as  a  man,  will  be  remembered  among  the  honors  of  my  life,  when  the  petty  enmities  of  this 
generation  will  be  forgotten,  and  its  ephemeral  reputations  shall  have  passed  away." 

s  [Baron  Geramb,  —  a  German  Tew,  who,  for  some  time,  excited  much  public  attention  in  London,  by 
the  extravagance  of  his  dress.  Being  very  troublesome  and  menacing  in  demanding  remuneration  from 
Government,  for  a  proposal  he  had  made  of  engaging  a  body  of  Croat  troops  in  the  service  of  England, 
he  was,  in  181 2,  sent  out  of  the  country  under  the  alien  act.  J 

*  [The  "  Green  Man  "  was  a  popular  afterpiece,  so  called  from  the  hero,  who  wore  every  thing  green, 
hat,  gloves,  etc.  etc.]  r- 


APPENDIX   TO    THE   PREFACE.  233 

no  reason  for  any  particular  delicacy  on  my  part  in  speaking  of  his  Lordship:  and,  indeed,  I  should  have 
thought  any  thing  which  might  be  reported  of  him,  would  have  injured  his  character  as  little  as  the  story 
which  so  greatly  annoyed  Lord  Keeper  Guilford,  that  he  had  ridden  a  rhinoceros.  He  may  ride  a  rhi- 
noceros, and  though  everybody  would  stare,  no  one  would  wonder.  But  making  no  inquiry  concerning 
him  when  I  was  abroad,  because  I  felt  no  curiosity,  I  heard  nothing,  and  had  nothing  to  rep-at.  When 
I  spoke  of  wonders  to  my  friends  and  acquaintance  on  my  return,  it  was  of  the  flying  tree  at  Alpnacht, 
and  the  Eleven  Thousand  virgins  at  Cologne  —  not  of  Lord  Byron.  I  sought  for  no  staler  subject  than 
St.  Ursula. 

"  Once,  and  only  once,  in  connection  with  Switzerland,  I  have  alluded  to  his  Lordship;  and  as  th« 
passage  was  curtailed  in  the  press,  I  take  this  opportunity  of  restoring  it.  In  the  '  Quarterly  Review,' 
speaking  incidentally  of  the  Jungfrau,  I  said  '  it  was  the  scene  where  Lord  Byron's  Manfred  met  the 
Devil  and  bullied  him — -though  the  Devil  must  have  won  his  cause  before  any  tribunal  in  this  world,  or 
the  next,  if  he  had  not  pleaded  more  feebly  for  himself  than  his  advocate,  in  a  cause  of  canonization, 
ever  pleaded  for  him.' 

"  With  regard  to  the  '  others,'  whom  his  Lordship  accuses  me  of  calumniating,  I  suppose  he  alludes 
to  a  party  of  his  friends,  whose  names  I  found  written  in  the  album  at  Mont-Anvert,  with  an  avowal  of 
Atheism  annexed  in  Greek,  and  an  indignant  comment,  in  the  same  language,  underneath  it.1  Those 
names,  with  that  avowal  and  the  comment,  I  transcribed  in  my  note-book,  and  spoke  of  the  circumstance 
on  my  return.  If  I  had  published  it,  the  gentleman  in  question  would  not  have  thought  himself  slan- 
dered, by  having  that  recorded  of  him  which  he  has  so  often  recorded  of  himself. 

"  The  many  opprobrious  appellations  which  Lord  Byron  has  bestowed  upon  me,  I  leave  as  I  find 
them,  with  the  praises  which  he  has  bestowed  upon  himself. 

1  How  easily  is  a  noble  spirit  discerned 
From  harsh  and  sulphurous  matter  that  lies  out 
In  contumelies,  makes  a  noise,  and  stinks! ' 

B.  Jonson. 

But  I  am  accustomed  to  such  things;  and,  so  far  from  irritating  me  are  the  enemies  who  use  such  weap- 
ons, that,  when  I  hear  of  their  attacks,  it  is  some  satisfaction  to  think  they  have  thus  employed  the 
malignity  which  must  have  been  employed  somewhere,  and  could  not  have  been  directed  against  any 
person  whom  it  could  possibly  molest  or  injure  less.  The  viper,  however  venomous  in  purpose,  is 
harmless  in  effect,  while  it  is  biting  at  the  file.  It  is  seldom,  indeed,  that  I  waste  a  word,  or  a  thought, 
upon  those  who  are  perpetually  assailing  me.  But  abhorring,  as  I  do,  the  personalities  which  disgrace 
our  current  literature,  and  averse  from  controversy  as  I  am,  both  by  principle  and  inclination,  I  make 
no  profession  of  non-resistance.  When  the  offence  and  the  offender  are  such  as  to  call  for  the  whip  and 
the  branding-iron,  it  has  been  both  seen  and  felt  that  I  can  inflict  them. 

"  Lord  Byron's  present  exacerbation  is  evidently  produced  by  an  infliction  of  this  kind  —  not  by  hear- 
say reports  of  my  conversation,  four  years  ago,  transmitted  him  from  England.  The  cause  may  be 
found  in  certain  remarks  upon  the  Satanic  school  of  poetry,  contained  in  my  preface  to  the  '  Vision  of 
Judgment.'  Well  would  it  be  for  Lord  Byron  if  he  could  look  back  upon  any  of  his  writings,  with  as 
much  satisfaction  as  I  shall  always  do  upon  what  is  there  said  of  that  flagitious  school.  Many  persons, 
and  parents  especially,  have  expressed  their  gratitude  to  me  for  having  applied  the  branding-iron  where 
it  was  so  richly  deserved.  The  Edinburgh  Reviewer,  indeed,  with  that  honorable  feeling  by  which  his 
criticisms  are  so  peculiarly  distinguished,  suppressing  the  remarks  themselves,  has  imputed  them  wholly 
to  envy  on  my  part.  I  give  him,  in  this  instance,  full  credit  for  sincerity:  I  believe  he  was  equally  in- 
capable of  comprehending  a  worthier  motive,  or  of  inventing  a  worse ;  and  as  I  have  never  condescended 
to  expose  in  any  instance,  his  pitiful  malevolence,  I  thank  him  for  having,  in  this,  stripped  it  bare  him- 
uelf,  and  exhibited  it  in  its  bald,  naked,  and  undisguised  deformity. 

"  Lord  Byron,  like  his  encomiast,  has  not  ventured  to  bring  the  matter  of  those  animadversions  into 
iriew.  He  conceals  the  fact,  that  they  are  directed  against  the  authors  of  blasphemous  and  lascivious 
books;  against  men  who,  not  content  with  indulging  their  own  vices,  labor  to  make  others  the  slaves  of 
sensuality,  like  themselves;  against  public  panders,  who,  mingling  impiety  with  lewdness,  seek  at  once 
to  destroy  the  cement  of  social  order,  and  to  carry  profanation  and  pollution  into  private  families,  and 
into  the  hearts  of  individuals. 

"  His  Lordship  has  thought  it  not  unbecoming  in  him  to  call  me  a  scribbler  of  all  work.  Let  the 
word  scribbler  pass;  it  is  an  appellation  which  will  not  stick,  like  that  of  the  Satanic  school.  But,  if  a 
scribbler,  how  am  I  one  of  all  work?  I  will  tell  Lord  Byron  what  I  have  not  scribbled  — -  what  kind  of 
work  I  have  not  done.  I  have  never  published  libels  upon  my  friends  and  acquaintance,  expressed  my 
sorrow  for  those  libels,  and  called  them  in  during  a  mood  of  better  mind  —  and  then  reissued  them,  when 
the  evil  spirit,  which  for  a  time  had  been  cast  out,  had  returned  and  taken  possession,  with  seven  others, 
more  wicked  than  himself.  I  have  never  abused  the  power,  of  which  every  author  is  in  some  degree 
possessed,  to  wound  the  character  of  a  man,  or  the  heart  of  a  woman.  I  have  never  sent  into  the  world 
a  book  to  which  I  did  not  dare  to  affix  my  name;  or  which  I  feared  to  claim  in  a  court  of  justice,  if  it 
were  pirated  by  a  knavish  bookseller.  I  have  never  manufactured  furniture  for  the  brothel.  None  of 
these  things  have  I  done;  none  of  the  foul  work  by  which  literature  is  perverted  to  the  injury  of  man- 
kind. My  hands  are  clean;  there  is  no  'damned  spot'  upon  them  —  no  taint,  which  '  all  the  perfume* 
of  Arabia  will  not  sweeten.' 

1  [Shelley  signed  his  name,  with  the  addition  of  a.Qios,  in  this  album. \ 


234 


THE  VISION  OF  JUDGMENT. 


"  Of  the  work  which  I  have  done,  it  becomes  me  not  here  to  speak  save  only  as  relates  to  th«  Satani* 
School,  and  its  Coryphaeus,  the  author  of '  Don  Juan.'  I  have  held  up  that  school  to  public  detestation, 
as  enemies  to  the  religion,  the  institutions,  and  the  domestic  morals  of  the  country.  I  have  given  them 
a  designation  to  which  their  founder  and  leader  answers.  I  have  sent  a  stone  from  my  sling  which 
has  smitten  their  Goliath  in  the  forehead.  I  have  fastened  his  name  upon  the  gibbet,  for  reproach  and 
ignominy,  as  long  as  it  shall  endure.  —  Take  it  down  who  can ! 

"  One  word  of  advice  to  Lord  Byron  before  I  conclude.  —  When  he  attacks  me  again,  let  it  be  in 
rhyme.  For  one  who  has  so  little  command  of  himself,  it  will  be  a  great  advantage  that  his  temper 
should  be  obliged  to  keep  tune.  And  while  he  may  still  indulge  in  the  same  rankness  and  virulence  oS 
insult,  the  metre  will,  in  some  degree,  seem  to  lessen  its  vulgarity." 

Byron,  without  waiting  for  the  closing  hint  of  the  foregoing  letter,  had  already  "  attacked  "  Southey 
'  in  rhyme."    On  October  i,  1821,  he  says  to  Moore, — 

"  I  have  written  about  sixty  stanzas  of  a  poem,  in  octave  stanzas  (in  the  Pulci  style,  which  the  fools 
in  England  think  was  invented  by  Whistlecraft  —  it  is  as  old  as  the  hills,  in  Italy,)  called  'The  Vision 
ef  Judgment,'  by  Quevedo  Redivivus.  In  this  it  is  my  intention  to  put  the  said  George's  Apothesis  in  a 
Whig  point  of  view,  not  forgetting  the  Poet  Laureate,  for  his  preface  and  his  other  demerits." 

Byron  had  proceeded  some  length  in  the  performance  thus  announced,  before  Southey's  letter  to  the 
"  Courier"  fell  into  his  hands.  On  seeing  it,  his  Lordship's  feelings  were  so  excited,  that  he  could  not 
wait  for  revenge  in  inkshed,  but  on  the  instant  despatched  a  cartel  of  mortal  defiance  to  the  Poet  Laure- 
ate, through  the  medium  of  Mr.  Douglass  Kinnaird,  —  to  whom  he  thus  writes,  February  6,  1822:  — 

"  I  have  got  Southey's  pretended  reply:  what  remains  to  be  done  is  to  call  him  out.  The  question  is, 
would  he  come?  for,  if  he  would  not,  the  whole  thing  would  appear  ridiculous,  if  I  were  to  take  a  long 
and  expensive  journey  to  no  purpose.  You  must  be  my  second,  and,  as  such,  I  wish  to  consult  you.  I 
apply  to  you  as  one  well  versed  in  the  duello,  or  monomachie.  Of  course  I  shall  come  to  England  as 
privately  as  possible,  and  leave  it  (supposing  that  I  was  the  survivor)  in  the  same  manner;  having  no 
other  object  which  could  bring  me  to  that  country  except  to  settle  quarrels  accumulated  during  my 
absence." 

Mr.  Kinnaird,  justly  appreciating  the  momentary  exacerbation  under  which  Byron  had  written  the 
challenge  which  this  letter  inclosed,  and  fully  aware  how  absurd  the  whole  business  would  seem  to  his 
distant  friend  after  the  lapse  of  such  a  period  as  must  intervene  before  the  return  of  post  from  Keswick 
to  Ravenna,  put  the  warlike  missive  aside;  and  it  never  was  heard  of  by  Mr.  Southey  until  after  the 
death  of  its  author.  Meantime  Byron  had  continued  his  "attack  in  rhyme"  —  and  his  "Vision  ol 
Judgment,"  after  ineffectual  negotiations  with  various  publishers  in  London,  at  length  saw  the  light  in 
1822,  in  the  pages  of  the  "  Liberal."] 


I. 

Saint  Peter  sat  by  the  celestial  gate  : 

His  keys  were  rusty,  and  the  lock  was  duTl, 

So  little  trouble  had  been  given  of  late ; 
Not  that  the  place  by  any  means  was  full, 

But  since  the  Gallic  era  "  eighty-eight" 
The  devils  had  ta'en  a  longer,  stronger  pull, 

And  "  a  pull  altogether,"  as  they  say 

At  sea  —  which  drew  most  souls  another  way. 

II. 

The  angels  all  were  singing  out  of  tune, 
And  hoarse  with  having  little  else  to  do, 

Excepting  to  wind  up  the  sun  and  moon, 
Or  curb  a  runaway  young  star  or  two, 

Or  wild  colt  of  a  comet,  which  too  soon 
Broke  out  of  bounds  o'er  the  ethereal  blue, 

Splitting  some  planet  with  its  playful  tail, 

As  boats  are  sometimes  by  a  wanton  whale. 


III. 

The  guardian  seraphs  had  retired  on  high, 
Finding  their  charges  past  all  care  below; 

Terrestrial  business  filled  nought  in  the  sky 
Save  the  recording  angel's  black  bureau; 

Who  found,  indeed,  the  facts  to  multiply 
With  such  rapidity  of  vice  and  woe, 

That  he   had  stripped  off  both  his  wings  in 
quills, 

And  yet  was  in  arrear  of  human  ills. 

IV. 

His  business  so  augmented  of  late  years, 
That   he  was  forced,  against   his  will,  no 
doubt, 

(Just  like  those  cherubs,  earthly  ministers,) 
For  some  resource  to  turn  himself  about 

And  claim  the  help  of  his  celestial  peers, 
To  aid  him  ere     j  should  be  quite  worn  out 


THE   VISION  OF  JUDGMENT. 


235 


By  the  increased  demand  for  his  remarks ; 
Six  angels  and  twelve  saints  were  named  his 
clerks. 

V. 
This  was  a  handsome  board  —  at  least  for 
heaven ; 
And  yet  they  had  even  then  enough  to  do, 
So  many  conquerors'  cars  were  daily  driven, 

So  many  kingdoms  fitted  up  anew ; 
Each  day  too  slew  its  thousands  six  or  seven, 

Till  at  the  crowning  carnage,  Waterloo, 
They  threw  their  pens  down  in  divine  disgust — 
The  page  was  so  besmeared  with  blood  and 
dust. 

VI. 

This  by  the  way ;  'tis  not  mine  to  record 
What  angels  shrink  from:    even  the  very 
devil 

On  this  occasion  his  own  work  abhorred, 
So  surfeited  with  the  infernal  revel : 

Though  he  himself  had  sharpened  every  sword 
It  almost  quenched  his  innate  thirst  of  evil. 

(Here  Satan's  sole  good  work  deserves  inser- 
tion— 

'Tis,  that  he  has  both  generals  in  reversion.) 

VII. 

Let's  skip  a  few  short  years  of  hollow  peace, 

Which  peopled  earth  no  better,  hell  as  wont, 
And  heaven  none  —  they  form  the  tyrant's 
lease, 
With  nothing  but  new  names  subscribed 
upon't ; 
'Twill  one  day  finish  :  meantime  they  increase, 
"  With  seven  heads  and  ten  horns,"  and  all 
in  front, 
Like  Saint  John's  foretold  beast;  but  ours 

are  born 
Less  formidable  in  the  head  than  horn. 

VIII. 
In  the  first  year  of  freedom's  second  dawn  * 

Died  George  the  Third  ;  although  no  tyrant, 
one 
Who  shielded  tyrants,  till  each  sense  withdrawn 

Left  him  nor  mental  nor  external  sun  : 
A  better  farmer  ne'er  brushed  dew  from  lawn, 

A  worse  king  never  left  a  realm  undone  ! 
He  died  —  but  left  his  subjects  still  behind, 
One  half  as  mad  —  and  t'other  no  less  blind. 

IX. 

He  died!  — his  death  made  no  great  stir  on 

earth ; 
His  burial  made  some  pomp;   there  was 

profusion 
Of  velvet,  gilding,  brass,  and  no  great  dearth 


1  [George  III.  died  the  29th  of  January,  1820, — 
a  year  in  which  the  revolutionary  spirit  broke  out 
all  over  the  south  of  Europe.] 


Of  aught  but  tears  —  save  thoso  shed  by 
collusion. 
For  these  things  may  be  bought  at  their  true 
worth ; 
Of  elegy  there  was  the  due  infusion  — 
Bought  also ;   and  the  torches,   cloaks,   and 

banners, 
Heralds,  and  relics  of  old  Gothic  manners, 


Formed  a  sepulchral  melodrame.    Of  all 
The  fools  who  flocked  to  swell  or  see  the 
show, 

Who  cared  about  the  corpse  ?     The  funeral 
Made  the  attraction,  and  the  black  the  woe. 

There  throbbed  not  there  a  thought  which 
pierced  the  pall ; 
And  when  the  gorgeous  coffin  was  laid  low, 

It  seemed  the  mockery  of  hell  to  fold 

The  rottenness  of  eighty  years  in  gold. 

XI. 

So  mix  his  bodyvith  the  dust!     It  might 
Return  to  what  it  must  far  sooner,  were 

The  natural  compound  left  alone  to  fight 
Its  way  back  into  earth,  and  fire,  and  air; 

But  the  unnatural  balsams  merely  blight 
What  nature  made  him  at  his  birth,  as  bare 

As  the  mere  million's  base  unmummied  clay — ■ 

Yet  all  his  spices  but  prolong  decay. 


He's  dead — and  upper  earth  with  him  has 
done ; 

He's  buried ;  save  the  undertaker's  bill, 
Or  lapidary  scrawl,  the  world  is  gone 

For  him,  unless  he  left  a  German  will; 
But  where's  the  proctor  who  will  ask  his  son  ? 

In  whom  his  qualities  are  reigning  still, 
Except  that  household  virtue,  most  uncom- 
mon, 
Of  constancy  to  a  bad,  ugly  woman. 


"  God  save  the  king !  "     It  is  a  large  economy 
In  God  to  save  the  like ;  but  if  he  will 

Be  saving,  all  the  better ;  for  not  one  am  I 
Of  those  who  think  damnation  better  still : 

I  hardly  know  too  if  not  quite  alone  am  I 
In  this  small  hope  of  bettering  future  ill 

By  circumscribing,  with  some  slight  restriction, 

The  eternity  of  hell's  hot  jurisdiction. 


I  know  this  is  unpopular ;  I  know 
'Tis  blasphemous ;    I   know  one  may  be 
damned 
For  hoping  no  one  else  may  e'er  be  so ; 
I    know   my   catechism,   1   know  we    are 
crammed 
With  the  best  doctrines  till  we  quite  o'erflow: 


236 


THE   VISION  OF  JUDGMENT. 


I  know  that  all  save  England's  church  have 
shammed, 
And  that  the  other  twice  two  hundred  churches 
And  synagogues   have  made  a  damned  bad 
purchase. 

XV. 

God  help  us  all!    God  help  me  too  !    lam, 
God  knows,  as  helpless  as  the  devil  can 
wish, 

And  not  a  whit  more  difficult  to  damn 

Than  is  to  bring  to  land  a  late-hooked  fish, 

Or  to  the  butcher  to  purvey  the  lamb ; 
Not  that  I'm  fit  for  such  a  noble  dish 

As  one  day  will  be  that  immortal  fry 

Of  almost  everybody  born  to  die. 

XVI. 

Saint  Peter  sat  by  the  celestial  gate, 

And  nodded  o'er  his  keys  ;  when,  lo  !  there 
came 
A  wondrous  noise  he  had  not  heard  of  late  — 
A  rushing  sound  of  wind,  and  stream,  and 
flame ; 
In  short,  a  roar  of  things  extremely  great, 
Which  would  have  made  aught  save  a  saint 
exclaim ; 
But  he,  with  first  a  start  and  then  a  wink. 
Said,  "There's  another  star  gone  out,  I  think  !  " 

XVII. 

But  ere  he  could  return  to  his  repose, 
A  cherub  flapped  his  right  wing  o'er  his 
eyes  — 
At  which  Saint  Peter  yawned,  and  rubbed  his 
nose: 
"  Saint  porter,"   said  the   angel,  "  prithee 
rise!  " 
Waving   a  goodly  wing,  which  glowed,    as 
glows 
An   earthly  peacock's  tail,  with   heavenly 
dyes : 
To  which  the  saint  replied,  "  Well,  what's  the 

matter  ? 
•'  Is  Lucifer  come  back  with  all  this  clatter  ?  " 

xviii. 

"  No,"  quoth  the  cherub ;  "  George  the  Third 
is  dead." 
"  And  who  is  George  the  Third  ?  "  replied 
the  apostle : 
"  What  George?  what  Third?"    "  The  king 
of  England,"  said 
The  angel.    "  Well !  he  won't  find  kings  to 
jostle 
Him  on  his  way  ;  but  does  he  wear  his  head  ? 

Because  the  last  we  saw  here  had  a  tussle, 
And  ne'er  would  have  got  into  heaven's  good 

graces, 
Had  he  not  flung  his  head  in  all  our  faces. 


XIX. 

"  He  was,  if  I  remember,  king  of  France  ;  1 
That  head  of  his,  which  could  not  keep  a 
crown 

On  earth,  yet  ventured  in  my  face  to  advance 
A  claim  to  those  of  martyrs  —  like  my  own  : 

If  I  had  had  my  sword,  as  I  had  once 
When  I  cut  ears  off,  I  had  cut  him  down; 

But  having  but  my  keys,  and  not  my  brand, 

I  only  knocked  his  head  from  out  his  hand. 

XX. 

"And  then  he  set  up  such  a  headless  howl, 
That  all  the  saints  came  out  and  took  him  in  ; 

And  there  he  sits  by  St.  Paul,  cheek  by  jowl ; 
That  fellow  Paul  —  the  parvenu!    The  skin 

Of  Saint  Bartholomew,  which  makes  his  cowl 
In  heaven,  and  upon  earth  redeemed  his  sin 

So  as  to  make  a  martyr,  never  sped 

Better  than  did  this  weak  and  wooden  head. 

XXI. 

"  But  had  it  come  up  here  upon  its  shoulders 
There  would  have  been  a  different  tale  to 
tell: 

The  fellow-feeling  in  the  saints  beholders 
Seems  to  have  acted  on  them  like  a  spell ; 

And  so  this  very  foolish  head  heaven  solders 
Back  on  its  trunk  :  it  may  be  very  well, 

And  seems  the  custom  here  to  overthrow 

Whatever  ha%  been  wisely  done  below." 

XXII. 
The  angel  answered,  "  Peter !  do  not  pout  : 

The  king  who  comes  has  head  and  all  entire, 
And  never  knew  much  what  it  was  about  — 

He  did  as  doth  the  puppet — by  its  wire, 
And  will  be  judged  like  all  the  rest,  no  doubt : 

My  business  and  your  own  is  not  to  inquire 
Into  such  matters,  but  to  mind  our  cue  — 
Which  is  to  act  as  we  are  bid  to  do." 

XXIII. 

While  thus  they  spake,  the  angelic  caravan, 
Arriving  like  a  rush  of  mighty  wind, 

Cleaving  the  fields  of  space,  as  doth  the  swar 
Some  silver  stream  (say  Ganges,  Nile,  or 
Inde, 

Or  Thames,  or  Tweed),  and  'midst  them  an 
old  man 
With  an  old  soul,  and  both  extremely  blind, 

Halted  before  the  gate,  and  in  his  shroud 

Seated  their  fellow-traveller  on  a  cloud. 

XXIV. 
But  bringing  up  the  rear  of  this  bright  host 

A  Spirit  of  a  different  aspect  waved 
His  wings,  like  thunder-clouds  above  some 
coast 


1  TLouis  XVI.,  guillotined  in  January,  1793. j 


THE   VISION  OF  JUDGMENT. 


23T 


Whose  barren  beach  with  frequent  wrecks  is 
paved ; 
His  brow  was  like  the  deep  when   tempest- 

.    tossed ; 

Fierce  and  unfathomable  thoughts  engraved 
Eternal  wrath  on  his  immortal  face, 
And  where  he  gazed  a  gloom  pervaded  space. 

XXV. 

As  he  drew  near,  he  gazed  upon  the  gate 
Ne'er  to  be  entered  more  by  him  or  sin, 

With  such  a*glance  of  supernatural  hate, 
As  made  Saint  Peter  wish  himself  within  ; 

He  pattered  with  his  keys  at  a  great  rate, 
And  sweated  through  his  apostolic  skin  : 

Of  course  his  perspiration  was  but  ichor, 

Or  some  such  other  spiritual  liquor. 

XXVI. 

The  very  cherubs  huddled  all  together, 

Like  birds  when  soars  the  falcon ;  and  they 
felt 
A  tingling  to  the  tip  of  every  feather, 

And  formed  a  circle  like  Orion's  belt 
Around  their  poor  old  charge;    who   scarce 
knew  whither 
His  guards  had  led  him,  though  they  gently 
dealt 
With  royal  manes  (for  by  many  stories, 
And  true,  we  learn  the  angels  all  are  Tories) . 

XXVII. 

As  things  were  in  this  posture,  the  gate  flew 

Asunder,  and  the  flashing  of  its  hinges 
Flung  over  space  an  universal  hue 

Of  many-colored  flame,  until  its  tinges 
Reached  even  our  speck  of  earth,  and  made  a 
new 
Aurora  borealis  spread  its  fringes 
O'er  the  North  Pole ;  the  same  seen,  when  ice- 
bound, 
By     Captain     Parry's     crew,     in     Melville's 
Sound."  l 

XXVI II. 

And  from  the  gate  thrown  open  issued  beam- 
ing 
A  beautiful  and  mighty  Thing  of  Light, 
Radiant  with  glory,  like  a  banner  streaming 
Victorious   from   some  world-o'erthrowing 
fight: 
My  poor  comparisons  must  needs  be  teeming 


1  ["  I  believe  it  is  almost  impossible  for  words  to 
give  an  idea  of  the  beauty  and  variety  which  this 
magnificent  phenomenon  displayed.  The  luminous 
arch  had  broken  into  irregular  masses,  streaming 
with  much  rapidity  in  different  directions,  varying 
continually  in  shape  and  interest,  and  extending 
themselves  from  north,  by  the  east,  to  north.  The 
usual  pale  light  of  the  aurora  strongly  resembled 
that  produced  by  the  combustion  cf  phosphorus  ;  a 
very  slight  tinge  of  red  was  noticed  on  this  occasion, 
when  the  aurora  was  most  vivid,  but  no  other  colors 
were  visible."  —  Parry  s  Voyage  in  1819-20.] 


With  earthly  likenesses,  for  here  the  night 
Of  clay  obscures  our  best  conceptions,  saving, 
Johanna  Southcote,2  or  Bob  Southey  raving. 

XXIX. 

'Twas  the  archangel  Michael :  all  men  know 
The  make  of  angels  and  archangels,  since 

There's   scarce   a  scribbler  has   not   one   tc 
show, 
From  the  fiends'  leader  to  the  angels'  princec 

There  also  are  some  altar-pieces,  though 
I  really  can't  say  that  they  much  evince 

One's  inner  notions  of  immortal  spirits  ; 

But  let  the  connoisseurs  explain  their  merits. 

XXX. 

Michael  flew  forth  in  glory  and  in  good ; 

A  goodly  work  of  him  from  whom  all  glory 
And  good  arise  ;  the  portal  past  —  he  stood  ; 

Before  him  the  young  cherubs  and  saints 
hoary  — 
(I  say  young,  begging  to  be  understood 

By  looks,  not  years ;    and  should  be  very 
sorry 
To  state,  they  were  not  older  than  St.  Peter, 
But  merely  that  they  seemed  a  little  sweeter). 

XXXI. 

The  cherubs  and  the  saints  bowed  down  be- 
fore 

That  arch-angelic  hierarch,  the  first 
Of  essences  angelical,  who  wore 

The  aspect  of  a  god  ;  but  this  ne'er  nursed 
Pride  in  his  heavenly  bosom,  in  whose  core 

No  thought,  save  for  his  Maker's  service, 
durst 
Intrude,  however  glorified  and  high  ; 
He  knew  him  but  the  viceroy  of  the  sky. 

XXXII. 

He  and  the  sombre  silent  Spirit  met  — 
They  knew  each  other  both  for  good  and 
ill; 

Such  was  their  power,  that  neither  could  forget 
His  former  friend  and  future  foe  ;  but  still 

There  was  a  high,  immortal,  proud  regret 
In  either's  eye,  as  if  'twere  less  their  will 

Than  destiny  to  make  the  eternal  years 

Their  date  of  war,  and  their  "  champ  clos  "  the 
spheres. 

XXXIII. 

But  here  they  were  in  neutral  space:  we  know 
From  Job  that  Satan  hath  the  power  to  pay 

A  heavenly  visit  thrice  a  year  or  so ; 

And  that  "  the  sons  of  God,"  like  those  of 
clay, 

Must  keep  him  company ;  and  we  might  show 


2  [Johanna  Southcote,  the  aged  lunatic,  who  fan- 
cied herself,  and  was  believed  by  many  followers. 
to  be  with  child  of  a  new  Messiah,  died  in  1815.] 


Z38 


THE   VISION  OF  JUDGMENT. 


From  the  same  book,  in  how  polite  a  way 
The  dialogue  is  held  between  the  Powers 
Of  Good  and  Evil  —but  'twould  take  up  hours. 

XXXIV. 

And  this  is  not  a  theologic  tract, 

To  prove  with  Hebrew  and  with  Arabic 

If  fob  be  allegory  or  a  fact, 

But  a  true  narrative ;  and  thus  I  pick 

From  out  the  whole  but  such  and  such  an  act 
As  sets  aside   the  slightest  thought  of  trick. 

'Tis  every  tittle  true,  beyond  suspicion, 

And  accurate  as  any  other  vision. 

XXXV. 

The  spirits  were  in  neutral  space,  before 
The  gate  of  heaven  ;  like  eastern  thresholds 
is 
Theplace  where  Death's  grand  cause  is  argued 
o'er, 
And  souls  despatch  to  that  world  or  to  this ; 
And  therefore  Michael  and  the  other  wore 
A  civil  aspect:  though  they  did  not  kiss, 
Yet  still  between  his  Darkness  and  his  Bright- 
ness 
There  passed  a  mutual  glance  of  great  polite- 
ness. 

xxxvi. 
The  Archangel  bowed,  not  like  a  modern  beau, 

'But  with  a  graceful  oriental  bend, 
Pressing  one  radiant  arm  just  where  below 

The  heart  in  good  men  is  supposed  to  tend. 
He  turned  as  to  an  equal,  not  too  low, 

But  kindly;  Satan  met  his  ancient  friend 
With  more  hauteur,  as  might  an  old  Castilian 
Poor  noble  meet  a  mushroom  rich  civilian. 

XXXVII. 

He  merely  bent  his  diabolic  brow 

An  instant;  and  then  raising  it,  he  stood 
In  act  to  assert  his  right  or  wrong,  and  show 
Cause  why  King  George  by  no  means  could 
or  should 
Make  out  a  case  to  be  exempt  from  woe 
Eternal,  more  than  other  kings,  endued 
With  better  sense  and  hearts,  whom  history 

mentions, 
Who  long  have  "  paved  hell  with  their  good 
intentions." 

XXXVIII. 

Michael  began :  "  What   wouldst  thou  with 
this  man, 
Now  dead,  and  brought  before  the  Lord  ? 
What  ill 
Hath  he  wrought  since  his  mortal  race  began, 
That  thou  canst  claim  him  ?     Speak !  and 
do  thy  will, 
If  it  be  just :  if  in  this  earthly  span 

He  hath  been  greatly  failing  to  fulfil 
His  duties  as  a  king  and  mortal,  say, 
And  he  is  thine ;  if  not,  let  him  have  way  " 


XXXIX. 

"  Michael !  "  replied  the  Prince  of  Air,  "  eveB 
here 

Before  the  gate  of  him  thou  servest,  must 
I  claim  my  subject:  and  will  make  appear 

That  as  he  was  my  worshipper  in  ditst, 
So  shall  he  be  in  spirit,  although  dear 

To  thee  and  thine,  because  nor  wine   noi 
lust 
Were  of  his  weaknesses;  yet  on  the  throne 
He  reigned  o'er  millions  to  servg  me  alone. 

XL. 

"  Look  to  our  earth,  or  rather  mine ;  it  was, 

Once,  more  thy  master's  :  but  I  triumph  not 
In  this  poor  planet's  conquest :  nor,  alas  ! 
Need  he  thou  servest  envy  me  my  lot : 
With  all  the  myriads  of  bright  worlds  which 
pass 
In  worship  round  him,  he  may  have  forgot 
Yon  weak  creation  of  such  paltry  things  : 
I   think    few    worth    damnation    save    their 
kings, — 

XLI. 

"And  these  but  as  a  kind  of  quit-rent,  to 
Assert  my  right  as  lord;  and  even  had 

I  such  an  inclination,  'twere  (as  you 

Well  know)  superfluous:  they  are   grown 
so  bad, 

That  hell  has  nothing  better  left  to  do 

Than  leave  them  to  themselves :  so  much 
more  mad 

And  evil  by  their  own  internal  curse, 

Heaven  cannot  make  them  better,  nor  I  worse. 

XLII. 

"  Look  to  the  earth,  I  said,  and  say  again: 
When  this  old,  blind,  mad,  helpless,  weak, 
poor  worm 
Began  in  youth's  first  bloom  and  flush  to  reign, 
The  world  and  he  both  wore  a  different  form, 
And  much  of  earth  and  all  the  watery  plain 
Of  ocean  called  him  king:  through  many  a 
storm 
His  isles  had  floated  on  the  abyss  of  time; 
For  the  rough  virtues  chose  them   for   their 
clime.  9 

XLII!. 

"  He  came  to  his  sceptre  young;  he  leaves  it 
old: 
Look  to  the  state  in  which   he   found  his 
realm, 
And  left  it ;  and  his  annals  too  behold, 

How  to  a  minion  first  he  gave  the  helm ; 
How  grew  upon  his  heart  a  thirst  for  gold, 
The   beggar's  vice,  which    can  but  over 
whelm 
The  meanest  hearts;  and  for  the   rest,  bul 

glance 
Thine  eye  long  America  and  France. 


THE   VISION  OF  JUDGMENT. 


239 


XL1V. 
"  Tis  true,  he  was  a  tool  from  first  to  last 

(I  have  the  workmen  safe)  ;  but  as  a  tool 
So  let  him  be  consumed.     From  out  the  past 
Of  ages,  since  mankind  have  known  the  rule 
Of  monarchs  — from  the  bloody  rolls  amassed 
Of  sin   and  slaughter  —  from   the   Caesars' 
school, 
Take  the  worst  pupil ;  and  produce  a  reign 
More  drenched   with   gore,  more   cumbered 
with  ihe  slain. 

XLV. 

"  He  ever  warred  with  freedom  and  the  free  : 
Nations  as  men,  home  subjects,  foreign  foes, 

So  that  they  uttered  the  word  '  Liberty  ! ' 
Found  George  the  Third  their  first  opponent. 
Whose 

History  was  ever  stained  as  his  will  be 
With  national  and  individual  woes  ? 

I  grant  his  household  abstinence ;  I  grant 

His  neutral  virtues,  which   most    monarchs 
want; 

XLVI. 

"  I  know  he  was  a  constant  consort;  own 
He  was  a  decent  sire,  and  middling  lord. 

All  this  is  much,  and  most  upon  a  throne ; 
As  temperance,  if  at  Apicius'  board, 

Is  more  than  at  an  anchorite's  supper  shown. 
I  grant  him  all  the  kindest  can  accord; 

And  this  was  well  for  him,  but  not  for  those 

Millions  who  found    him  what    oppression 
chose. 

XLVI  I. 

"The  New  World  shook  him  off;  the  Old 
yet  groans 

Beneath  what  he  and  his  prepared,  if  not 
Completed :  he  leaves  heirs  on  many  thrones 

To  all  his  vices,  without  what  begot 
Compassion    for    him  —  his     tame   virtues ; 
drones 

Who  sleep,  or  despots  who  have  now  forgot 
A  lesson  which  shall  be  re-taught  them,  wake 
Upon  the  thrones  of  earth  ;  but  let  them  quake  ! 

XLVIII. 
"  Five  millions  of  the  primitive,  who  hold 

The  faith  which  makes  ye  great  on  earth, 
implored 
A  part  of  that  vast  all  they  held  of  old, — 

Freedom  to  worship  —  not  alone  your  Lord, 
Michael,  but  you,  and  you,  Saint  Peter !     Cold 

Must  be  your  souls,  if  you  have  not  abhorred 
The  foe  to  catholic  participation 
In  all  the  license  of  a  Christian  nation. 

XLIX. 
"True !  he  allowed  them  to  pray  God ;  but  as 

A  consequence  of  prayer,  refused  the  law 
Which  would  have   placed  them  upon   the 
same  base 


With  those  who  did  not  hold  the  saints  in 
awe." 
But  here  Saint  Peter  started  from  his  place, 
And   cried,  "  You   may  the  prisoner  with- 
draw : 
Ere  heaven  shall  ope  her  portals  to  this  Guerph, 
While  I  am  guard,  may  I  be  damned  myself  I 


"  Sooner  will  I  with  Cerberus  exchang  i 
My  office  (and  his  is  no  sinecure) 

Than  see  this  royal  Bedlam  bigot  range 
The  azure  fields  of  heaven,  of  that  be  sure  ! 

"  Saint !  "  replied    Satan,  "  you   do   well    to 
avenge 
The  wrongs  he  made  your  satellites  endure  ; l 

And  if  to  this  exchange  you  should  be  given, 

I'll  try  to  coax  our  Cerberus  up  to  heaven." 

LI. 

Here  Michael  interposed :  "  Good  saint !  and 
devil ! 
Pray,  not  so  fast ;  you  both  outrun  discretion. 
Saint  Peter!  you  were  wont  to  be  more  civil : 
Satan  !  excuse  this  warmth  of  his  expression, 
And  condescension  to  the  vulgar's  level : 
Even  saints  sometimes  forget  themselves  in 
session. 
Have  you  got  more  to  say  ?  "  —  "  No.  "  —  "  If 

you  please, 
I'll  trouble  you  to  call  your  witnesses."   . 

LII.   * 

Then  Satan  turned  and  waved   his  swarthy 
hand, 

Which  stirred  with  its  electric  qualities 
Clouds  further  off  than  we  can  understand, 

Although  we  find   him   sometimes   in  our 
skies ; 
Infernal  thunder  shook  both  sea  and  land 

In  all  the  planets,  and  hell's  batteries 
Let  off  the  artillery,  which  Milton  mentions 
As  one  of  Satan's  most  sublime  inventions. 


This  was  a  signal  unto  such  damned  souls 
As  have  the  privilege  of  their  damnation 
Extended  far  beyond  the  mere  controls 
Of  worlds  past,  present,  or  to   come ;  no 
station 
Is  theirs  particularly  in  the  rolls 

Of  hell  assigned  ;  but  where  their  inclination 
Or  business  carries  them  in  search  of  game, 
They  may  range  freely  —  being  damned  the 
same. 

LIV0 

They  are  proud  of  this  —  as  very  well  they  may, 
It  being  a  sort  of  knighthood,  or  gilt  key 


[George  III.'s  opposition  to  the  Catholic  claims.] 


240 


THE   VISION  OF  JUDGMENT. 


Stuck  in  their  loins ;  *  or  like  to  an  "  entre  " 
Up  the  back  stairs,  or  such  free-masonry. 

I  borrow  my  comparisons  from  clay, 

Being  clay  myselT.     Let  not  those  spirits  be 

Offended  with  such  base  low  likenesses; 

We  know  their  posts  are  nobler  far  than  these. 

LV. 

When  the  great   signal  ran  from   heaven  to 
hell  — 
About  ten  million  times  the  distance  reck- 
oned 
From  our  sun  to  its  earth,  as  we  can  tell 

How  much  time  it  takes  up,  even  to  a  second, 
For  every  ray  that  travels  to  dispel 
The  fogs  of  London,  through  which,  dimly 
beaconed, 
The  weathercocks  are  gilt  some  thrice  a  year, 
If  that  the  summer  is  not  too  severe  :  —  2 

LVI. 
I  say  that  I  can  tell  —  'twas  half  a  minute  : 

I  know  the  solar  beams  take  up  more  time 
Ere,  |iacked  up  for  their  journey,  they  begin  it ; 

But  then  their  telegraph  is  less  sublime, 
And  if  they  ran  a  race,  they  would  not  win  it 

'Gainst  Satan's  couriers  bound  for  their  own 
clime. 
The  sun  takes  up  some  years  for  every  ray 
To  reach  its  goal  —  the  devil  not  half  a  day. 

LVI  I. 
Upon  the  verge  ofgpace,  about  the  size 

Of  half-a-crown,  a  little  speck  appeared 

(I've  seen  a  something  like  it  in  the  skies 

In  the  .-Egean,  ere  a  squall)  ;  it  neared 

And  growing  bigger,  took  another  guise  ; 

Like  an  aerial  ship  it  tacked,  and  steered, 
Or  7oas  steered  (I  am  doubtful  of  the  grammar 
Of  the  last  phrase,  which  makes  the  stanza 
stammer;  — 

LVI  1 1. 
But  take  your  choice)  ;  and  then  it  grew  a 
cloud ; 
And  so  it  was  —  a  cloud  of  witnesses. 
But  such  a  cloud  !     No  land  e'er  saw  a  crowd 
Of  locusts  numerous  as  the  heavens  saw 
these ; 
They  shadowed  with   their  myriads   space ; 
their  loud 
And  varied  cries  were  like  those  of  wild  geese 
(If  nations  may  be  likened  to  a  goose), 
And  realized  the  phrase  of  "  hell  broke  loose.  " 


Here  crashed  a  sturdy  oath  of  stout  John  Bull, 
Who  damned  away  his  eves  as  heretofore : 


1  [A  gold  or  gilt  key,  peeping  from  below  the 
skirts  of  the  coat,  marks  a  lord  chamberlain.] 

2  [An  allusion  to  Horace  Walpole's  expression 
in  a  letter  —  "  the  summer  has  set  in  with  its  usual 
teverity."] 


There     Paddy     brogued     "By     Jasus!"  — 
"  What's  your  wull  ?  " 
The  temperate  Scot  exclaimed  :  the  French 
ghost  swore 
In  certain  terms  I  sha'n't  translate  in  full, 
As  the  first  coachman  will ;  and  'midst  the 
war, 
The  voice  of  Jonathan  was  heard  to  express, 
"  Our  president  is  going  to  war,  I  guess. " 

LX. 
Besides  there  were  the  Spaniard,  Dutch,  and 
Dane; 
In  short,  an  universal  shoal  of  shades, 
From  Otaheite's  isle  to  Salisbury  Plain, 
Of  all    climes  and   professions,  years  and 
trades, 
Ready  to  swear  against  the  good  king's  reign. 
Bitter  as  clubs  in  cards  are  against  spades  : 
All  summoned  by  this  grand  " subpoena,"  to 
Try  if  kings  mayn't  be  damned  like  me  or  you. 

LXI. 
When  Michael  saw  this  host,  he  firstgrew  pale, 

As  angels  can;  next,  like  Italian  twilight, 
He  turned  all  colors  —  as  a  peacock's  tail, 

Or  sunset  streaming  through  a  Gothic  sky- 
light 
In  some  old  abbey,  or  a  trout  not  stale, 

Or  distant  lightning  on  the  horizon  by  night, 
Or  a  fresh  rainbow,  or  a  grand  review 
Of  thirty  regiments  in  red,  green,  and  blue. 


Then  he  addressed  himself  to  Satan  :  "  Why  — 
My  good  old  friend,  for  such  I  deem  you, 
though 

Our  different  parties  make  us  fight  so  shy, 
I  ne'er  mistake  you  for  a perso?ial foe; 

Our  difference  is  political,  and  I 

Trust  that,  whatever  may  occur  below, 

You  know  my  great  respect  for  you:  and  this 

Makes  me  regret  whate'er  you  do  amiss  — 

LXIII. 
"  Why,  my  dear  Lucifer,  would  you  abuse 

My  call  for  witnesses  ?     I  did  not  mean 
That  you  should  halfofearth  and  hell  pro  liii 

'  Ti's    even  superfluous,   since  two   honest 
clean, 
True  testimonies  are  enough  :  we  lose 

Our  time,  nay,  our  eternity,  between 
The  accusation  and  defence  :  if  we 
Hear  both,  'twill  stretch  our  immortality." 

LXIV. 

Satan  replied,  "  To  me  the  matter  is 
Indifferent,  in  a  personal  point  of  view  : 

I  can  have  fiftv  better  souls  than  this 

With  far  less  trouble  than  we   have  gont 
through 

Already ;  and  I  merely  argued  his 


THE   VISION  OF  JUDGMENT. 


241 


Late  majesty  of  Britain's  case  with  you 
Upon  a  point  of  form  :  you  may  dispose 
Of   him;     I've    kings    enough    below,   God 
knows ! " 

LXV. 

Thus  spoke  the  Demon  (late  called  '*  multi- 
faced" 
Bvmulto-scribblingSouthey).    "  Then  we'll 
'call 
One  or  two  persons  of  the  myriads  placed 

Around  our  congress,  and  dispense  with  all 

The  rest,"  quoth  Michael :  "  Who  may  be  so 

graced 

As  to  speak  first  ?  there's  choice  enough  — 

who  shall 

It  be  ?  "     Then  Satan  answered,  "  There  are 

many ; 
But  you  may  choose  Jack  Wilkes  as  well  as 
any." 

LXVI. 

A  merry,  cock-eyed,  curious  looking  sprite 
Upon  the  instant  started  from  the  throng, 

Dressed  in  a  fashion  now  forgotten  quite  ; 
For  all  the  fashions  of  the  flesh  stick  long 

By  people  in  the  next  world ;  where  unite 
All   the  costumes   since   Adam's,  right   or 
wrong, 

From  Eve's  fig-leaf  down  to  the  petticoat, 

Almost  as  scanty,  of  days  less  remote. 


The  spirit  looked  around  upon  the  crowds 
Assembled,  and  exclaimed,  "  My  friends  of 
all 

The  spheres,  we  shall  catch  cold  amongst  these 
clouds ; 
So  let's  to  business  :  why  this  general  call  ? 

H  those  are  freeholders  I  see  in  shrouds, 
And  'tis  for  an  election  that  they  bawl, 

Behold  a  candidate  with  unturned  coat ! 

Saint  Peter,  may  I  count  upon  your  vote  ?  " 

Lxvnr. 

"Sir,"  replied  Michael,  "you  mijtrike;  these 
things 
Are  of  a  former  life,  and  what  we  do 
Above  is  more  august ;  to  judge  of  kings 

Is  the  tribunal  met:  so  now  you  know." 
"  Then    I     presume    those    gentlemen   with 
wings," 
Said  Wilkes,  "  are  cherubs ;  and  that  soul 
below 
Looks  much  like  George  the  Third,  but  to  my 

mind 
A  good  deal  older  —  Bless  me  !  is  he  blind  ?  " 

LXIX. 

"  He  is  what  you  behold  him,  and  his  doom 
Depends  upon  his  deeds,"  the  Angel  said. 
"  If  you  have  aught  to  arraign  in  him,  the  tomb 


Gives  license  to  the  humblest  beggar's  head 
To  lift  itself  against  the  loftiest." --"Some," 
Said  Wilkes,  "  don't  wait  to  see  them  laid  in 
lead, 
For  such  a  liberty  —  and  I,  for  one, 
Have  told  them  what  I  thought  beneath  the 
sun." 

LXX. 

"  Above  the  sun  repeat,  then,  what  thou  hast 
To  urge  against  him,"  said  the  Archangel 
"  Why," 

Replied  the  spirit,  "  since  old  scores  are  past, 
Must  I  turn  evidence  ?     In  faith,  not  I. 

Besides,  I  beat  him  hollow  at  the  last, 
With  all  his  Lords  and  Commons  :  in  the  sky 

I  don't  like  ripping  up  old  stories,  since 

His  conduct  was  but  natural  in  a  prince. 

LXXI. 
"  Foolish,  no  doubt,  and  wicked,  to  oppress 

A  poor  unlucky  devil  without  a  shilling; 
But  then  I  blame  the  man  himself  much  less 
Than  Bute  and  Grafton,  and  shall  be  un- 
willing 
To  see  him  punished  heie  for  their  excess. 
Since  they  were  both  damned  long  ago,  and 
still  in 
Their  place  below :  for  me,  I  have  forgiven. 
And  vote  his  '  habeas  corpus'  into  heaven." 

LXXII. 

"  Wilkes,"  said  the  Devil,  "  I  understand  all 
this; 

You  turned  to  half  a  courtier  ere  you  died,1 
And  seem  to  think  it  would  not  be  amiss 

To  grow  a  whole  one  on  the  other  side 
Of  Charon's  ferry ;  you  forget  that  his 

Reign  is  concluded  ;  whatsoe'er  betide, 
He  won't  be  sovereign  more :  you've  lost  your 

labor, 
For  at  the  best  he  will  but  be  your  neighbor, 

LXXIII. 
"  However,  I  knew  what  to  think  of  it, 

When  I  beheld  you  in  your  jesting  way 
Flitting  and  whispering  round  about  the  spit 

Where  Belial,  upon  duty  for  the  day, 
With  Fox's  lard  was  basting  William  Pitt, 
His  pupil ;  I  knew  what  to  think,  I  say  : 
That  fellow  even  in  hell  breathes  further  ills  ; 
I'll  have  him  gagged — 'twas  one  of  his  owi 
bills. 

LXX  IV. 

"  Call  Junius !  "     From  the  crowd  a  shadow 
stalked, 
And  at  the  name  there  was  a  general  squeeze 


1  [For  the  political  history  of  John  Wilkes,  wno 
died  chamberlain  of  the  city  of  London,  we  must 
refer  to  any  history  of  the  reign  of  Geor^<  ■  I !  I. 
His  profligate  personal  character  is  abundantly  dis 


242 


THE   VISION  OF  JUDGMENT. 


So  that  the  very  ghosts  no  longer  walked 

In  comfort,  at  their  own  aerial  ease, 
But  were  all  rammed,  and  jammed  (but  to  be 
balked, 
As  we  shall  see),  and  jostled  hands  and 
knees, 
Like  wind  compressed  and  pent  within  a  blad- 
der, 
Or  like  a  human  colic,  which  is  sadder. 

LXXV. 

The  shadow  came  —  a  tall,  thin,  gray-haired 
figure, 
That  looked  as  it  had  been  a  shade  on  earth  ; 
Quick  in  its  motions,  with  an  air  of  vigor, 

But  nought  to  mark  its  breeding  or  its  birth  : 
Now  it  waxed  little,  then  again  grew  bigger, 

With  now  an  air  of  gloom,  or  savage  mirth  ; 
But  as  you  gazed  upon  its  features,  they 
Changed  every  instant —  to  what,  none  could 
say. 

LXXVI. 

The  more  intently  the  ghosts  gazed,  the  less 
Could  they  distinguish  whose  the  features 
were  ; 
The  Devil    himself  seemed  puzzled  even  to 
guess ; 
They  varied  like  a  dream  —  now  here,  now 
there ; 
And  several  people  swore  from  out  the  press, 
They  knew  him  perfectly ;  and  one  could 
swear 
He  was  his  father :  upon  which  another 
Was  sure  he  was  his  mother's  cousin's  brother  : 

LXXVII. 

Another,  that  he  was  a  duke,  or  knight, 

An  orator,  a  lawyer,  or  a  priest, 
A  nabob,  a  man-midwife ;  l  but  the  wight 

Mvsterious  changed  his  countenance  at  least 
As  oft  as  they  their  minds  :  though  in  full  sight 

He  stood,  the  puzzle  only  was  increased, 
The  man  was  a  phantasmagoria  in 
Himself —  he  was  so  volatile  and  thin.3 

LXXVIIL 

The  moment  that  you  had  pronounced  him 
one, 
Presto !    his    face    changed,    and    he  was 
another; 
And  when  that  change  was  hardly  well  put  on, 
It  varied,  till  I  don't  think  his  own  mother 


played  in  the  collection  of  his  letters,  published  by 
"»«  daughter  J  since  his  death.] 

[Among  the  various  persons  to  whom  the  letter5 
o\  Junius  have  been  attributed  we  find  the  Duke  of 
Portland.  Lord  George  Sackville,  Sir  Philip  Francis, 
Mr.  Burke,  Mr.  Dunning,  the  Rev.  John  Home 
Tooke,  Mr.  Hugh  Boyd,  Dr.  Wilmot,  etc.] 

2  ["  I  don't  know  what  to  think.     Why  should 
Junius  be  dead?     If  suddenly  apoplexed,  would  he 


(If  that  he  had  a  mother)  would  her  son 
Have  known,  he  shifted  so  from   one   to 
t'other; 
Till  guessing  from  a  pleasure  grew  a  task, 
At  this  epistolary  "  Iron  Mask."8 

LXXIX. 

For  sometimes  he  like  Cerberus  would  seem  — 

"  Three  gentlemen  at  once  "  (as  sigely  says 

Good  Mrs.  Malaprop)  ;  then  you  might  deem 

That  he  was  not  even  one ;  now  many  rays 

Were  flashing  round  him ;  and  now  a  thick 

steam 

Hid  him  from  sight — like  fogs  on  London 

days. 

Now  Burke,  now  Tooke,  he  grew  to  people's 

fancies, 
And  certes  often  like  Sir  Philip  Francis.4 

LXXX. 

I've  an  hypothesis —  'tis  quite  my  own ; 

I  never  let  it  out  till  now,  for  fear 
Of  doing  people  harm  about  the  throne. 

And  injuring  some  minister  or  peer, 
( )n  whom  the  stigma  might  perhaps  be  blown : 

It  is  —  my  gentle  public,  lend  thine  ear! 
'Tis,  that  what  Junius  we  are  wont  to  call 
Was  really,  truly,  nobody  at  all. 

LXXXI. 

I  don't  see  wherefore  letters  should  not  be 
Written  without  hands,  since  we  daily  view 

Them  written  without  heads ;  and  books,  we 
see, 
Are  filled  as  well  without  the  latter  too  : 

And  really  till  we  fix  on  somebody 

For  certain  sure  to  claim  them  as  his  due, 

Their  author,    like  the    Niger's    mouth,  will 
bother 

The  world  to  say  if  there  be  mouth  or  author." 

LXXXII. 
"  And  who  and  what  art  thou  ?  "  the  Archangel 
said. 
"  For  that  you  may  consult  my  title-page," 
Replied  this  mighty  shadow  of  a  shade  : 
"  If  I  have  kept  my  secret  half  an  age, 
I  scarce  shall  tell  it  now."  —  "  Canst  thou  up 
braid," 


rest  in  his  grave  without  sending  his  e'i6u>Xov  to 
shout  in  the  ears  of  posterity, '  Junius  was  X.  V.  Z., 
Esq.  buried  in  the  parish  of  *****.'  Repair  his 
monument,  ye  churchwardens!  Print  a  new  edition 
of  his  Letters,  ye  booksellers!  Impossible,  —  the 
man  must  be  alive,  and  will  never  die  without  the 
disclosure.  I  like  him; — he  was  a  good  hater."  — 
Byron's  Diary,  Nov.  23,  1813.] 

3  [The  mystery  of  "  l'homme  au  masque  de  fer," 
the  everlasting  puzzle  of  the  last  century,  has  in  the 
opinion  of  some,  been  cleared  up,  by  a  French  work- 
published  in  1825,  and  which  formed  the  basis  of 
an  entertaining  one  in  Enelish  by  Lord  Dover.] 

4  [That  the  work  entitled  "  The  Identity  of  Junius 
with  a  distinguished  Living  Character  established  ' 


THE   VISION  OF  JUDGMENT. 


243 


Continued  Michael,  "  George  Rex,  or  allege 
Aught  further  ?  "    Junius  answered, "  You  had 

better 
First  ask  him  for  his  answer  to  my  letter : 


*'  My  charges  upon  record  will  outlast 

The  brass  of  both  his  epitaph  and  tomb." 

"  Repent'st  thou  not,"  said  Michael, "  of  some 
past 
Exaggeration  ?  something  which  may  doom 

Thyself  if  false,  as  him  if  true  ?     Thou  wast 
Too  bitter  —  is  it  not  so  ?  —  in  thy  gloom 

Of  passion  ?  "  —  "  Passion !  "  cried  the  phan- 
tom dim, 

"  I  loved  my  country,  and  I  hated  him. 

LXXXIV. 

"  What  I  have  written,  I  have  written :  let 

The  rest  be  on  his  head  or  mine  !  "  So  spoke 
Old  "  Nominis  Umbra  ;  "  1  and  while  speaking 
yet, 
Away  he  melted  in  a  celestial  smoke. 
Then  Satan  said  to  Michael,  "  Don't  forget 
To    call   George   Washington,   and    John 
Home  Tooke, 
And  Franklin  ;  "  — but  at  this  time  there  was 

heard 
A  cry  for  room,  though  not  a  phantom  stirred. 

LXXXV. 

At  length  with  jostling,  elbowing,  and  the  aid 
Of  cherubim  appointed  to  that  post, 

The  devil  Asmodeus  to  the  circle  made 
His  way,  and  looked  as  if  his  journey  cost 

Some  trouble.  When  his  burden  down  he  laid, 
"What's  this?"  cried  Michael;  "why,  'tis 
not  a  ghost  ?  " 

"  I  know  it,"  quoth  the  incubus  ;  "  but  he 

Shall  be  one,  if  you  leave  the  affair  to  me. 

LXXXVI. 

"  Confound  the  renegado !     I  have  sprained 

My  left  wing,  he's  so  heavy ;  one  would  think 
Some  of  his    works    about   his   neck   were 
chained. 
But  to  the  point ;  while  hovering  o'er  the 
brink 
Of  Skiddaw2  (where  as  usual  it  still  rained), 
I  saw  a  taper,  far  below  me,  wink, 


proves  Sir  Philip  Francis  to  be  Junius,  we  will  not 
affirm;  but  this  we  can  safely  assert,  that  it  accu- 
mulates such  a  mass  of  circumstantial  evidence,  as 
renders  it  extremely  difficult  to  believe  he  is  not, 
and  that,  if  so  many  coincidences  shall  be  found  to 
have  misled  us  in  this  case,  our  faith  in  all  conclu- 
sions drawn  from  proofs  of  a  similar  kind  may 
henceforth  be  shaken.  —  Mackintosh.] 

1  [The  well   known  m»tto   of  Junius  is,  "  stat 
nominis  umira."] 

2  [Southey's  residence  was  on  the  shore  of  Der- 
wentwater,  near  the  mountain  Skiddaw.] 


And  stooping,  caught  this  fellow  at  a  libel  — 
No  less  on  history  than  the  Holy  Bible. 

LXXXVI  I. 
"  The  former  is  the  devil's  scripture,  and 

The  latter  yours,  good  Michael ;  so  the  affair 
Belongs  to  all  of  us,  you  understand. 

I  snatched  him  up  just  as  you  see  him  there, 
And  brought  him  off  for  sentence  out  of  hand : 

Fve  scarcely  been  ten  minutes  in  the  air  — 
At  least  a  quarter  it  can  hardly  be  : 
I  dare  say  that  his  wife  is  still  at  tea." 


Here  Satan  said,  "  I  know  this  man  of  old, 
And  have  expected  him  for  some  time  here ; 

A  sillier  fellow  you  will  scarce  behold, 
Or  more  conceited  in  his  petty  sphere : 

But  surely  it  was  not  worth  while  to  fold 
Such  trash  below   your  wing,   Asmodeus 
dear: 

We  had  the  poor  wretch  safe  (without  being 
bored 

With  carriage)  coming  of  his  own  accord. 

LXXXIX. 

"  But  since  he's  here,  let's  see  what  he  has 
done." 
"  Done !  "  cried  Asmodeus,  "  he  anticipates 
The  very  business ^'ou  are  now  upon, 

And  scribbles  as  if  head  clerk  to  the  Fates. 
Who  knows  to  what  his  ribaldry  may  run, 
When  such  an  ass  as   this,  like  Balaam's, 
prates  ? " 
"  Let's  hear,"  quoth  Michael,  "what  he  has  to 

say: 
You  know  we're  bound  to  that  in  every  way." 

XC. 

Now  the  bard,  glad  to  get  an  audience,  which 
By  no  means  often  was  his  case  below, 

Began  to  cough,  and  hawk,  and  hem,  and  pitch 
His  voice  into  that  awful  note  of  woe 

To  all  unhappy  hearers  within  reach 

Of  poets  when  the  tide  of  rhyme's  in  flow ; 

But  stuck  fast  with  his  first  hexameter, 

Not  one  of  all  whose  gouty  feet  would  stir. 


But  ere  the  spavined  dactyls  could  be  spurred 

Into  recitative,  in  great  dismay 
Both  cherubim  and  seraphim  were  heard 

To  murmur  loudly  through  their  long  array  ; 
And  Michael  rose  ere  he  could  get  a  word 

Of  all  his  foundered  verses  under  way, 
And  cried,  "  For  God's  sake  stop,  my  friend ! 

'twere  best  — 
Non  Di,  non  homines  —  you  know  the  rest."  3 


3  [Mediocribus  esse  poetis 
Non  Di,  non  homines,  non  concessere  columnae. 

Horace,^ 


244 


THE   VISION  OF  JUDGMENT. 


xcn. 
A  general  bustle  spread  throughout  the  throng, 
Which  seemed  to  hold  all  verse  in  detesta- 
tion ; 
The  angels  had  of  course  enough  of  song 
When  upon  service  ;  and  the  generation 
Of  ghosts  had  heard  too  much  in  life,  not  long 

Before,  to  profit  by  a  new  occasion  ; 
The    monarch,    mute    till    then,    exclaimed, 
1         "  What !  what !  1 

^Jcome  again?     No  more  —  no  more  of 
that!" 

XCIII. 
The  tumult  grew ;  an  universal  cough 

Convulsed  the  skies,  as  during  a  debate, 
When  Castlereagh  has  been  up  long  enough 

(Before  he  was  first  minister  of  state, 
I  mean  —  the  slaves  hear  now) ;  some  cried 
"  Off,  off!  " 
As  at  a  farce;  till,  grown  quite  desperate, 
The  bard  Saint  Peter  prayed  to  interpose 
(Himself  an  author)  only  for  his  prose. 

XCIV. 

The  varlet  was  not  an  ill-favored  knave ; 

A  good  deal  like  a  vulture  in  the  face, 
With  a  hook  nose  and  a  hawk's  eye,  which 
gave 

A  smart  and  sharper-looking  sort  of  grace 
To  his    whole   aspect,  which,  though   rather 
grave, 

Was  by  no  means  so  ugly  as  his  case  ; 
But  that  indeed  was  hopeless  as  can  be, 
Quite  a  poetic  felony  "  de  se." 

xcv. 

Then    Michael   blew   his  trump,  and  stilled 
the  noise 
With  one  still  greater,  as  is  yet  the  mode 
On  earth   besides ;    except   some  grumbling 
voice, 
Which  new  and  then  will  make  a  slight  in- 
road 
Upon  decorous  silence,  few  will  twice 

Lift  up  their  lungs  when  fairly  overcrowed ; 
And  now  the  bard  could  plead  his  own  bad 

cause, 
With  all  the  attitudes  of  self-applause. 

XCVI. 

He  said —  (I  only  give  the  heads)  — he  said, 
He  meant  no  harm  in  scribbling;  'twas  his 
way 
Upon  all  topics  ;  'twas,  besides,  his  bread, 


1  [The  king's  trick  of  repeating  his  words  in  this 
way  was  a  fertile  source  of  ridicule  to  Peter  Pindar 
(Dr.  Wolcot).] 

2  [Henry  James  Pye,  the  predecessor  of  Southey 
in  the  poet-laureateship,  died  in  1813.  He  was  the 
author  of  many  works  besides  his  official  Odes, 
among  others  "  Alfred,"  an  epic  poem.     Pye  was 


Of  which  he  buttered  both  sides;  'twould 
delay 
Too  long  the  assembly  (he  was  pleased  to 
dread). 
And  take  up  rather  more  time  than  a  day, 
To   name   his  works — he  would   but  cite  a 

few  — 
"Wat  Tyler"  —  "Rhymes  on  Blenheim"  — 
"  Waterloo." 

XCVI  1. 

He  had  written  praises  of  a  regicide  ; 

He  had  written  praises  of  all  kings  what* 
ever ; 
He  had  written  for  republics  far  and  wide, 

And  then  against  them  bitterer  than  ever: 
For  pantisocracy  he  once  had  cried 
Aloud,   a  scheme    less   moral    than   'twas 
clever; 
Then  grew  a  hearty  anti-jacobin  — 
Had    turned    his    coat  —  and    would    have 
turned  his  skin. 


He  had  sung  against  all  battles,  and  again 
In   their  high   praise   and  glory;    he   had 
called 
Reviewing8  "  the  ungentle  craft,"  and  then 

Become  as  base  a  critic  as  e'er  crawled  — 
Fed,  paid,  and  pampered  by  the  very  men 
By  whom  his  muse  and  morals  had  been 
mauled :« 
He  had  written  much  blank  verse,  and  blanker 

prose, 
And  more  of  both  than  anybody  knows.4 

xcix. 

He  had  written  Wesley's  life  :  —  here  turning 
round 
To  Satan,  "  Sir,  Fm  ready  to  write  yours, 
In  two  octavo  volumes,  nicely  bound, 
With    notes    and    preface,   all    that   most 
allures 
The  pious  purchaser ;  and  there's  no  ground 
For  fear,  for   I    can   choose   my  own   re- 
viewers : 


a  man  of  good  family  in  Berkshire,  sat  some  time 
in  parliament,  and  was  eminently  respectable  in 
every  thing  but  his  poetry.] 

3  bee  "  Life  of  Henry  Kirke  White." 

4  [This  sarcasm  about  Southey's  professional 
authorship  comes  with  a  bad  grace  from  a  man 
who,  for  several  years,  has  been  in  the  habit  of  re- 
ceiving several  thousand  pounds  per  annum,  all  foi 
value  received  in  Verse  and  Prose,  from  the  mag- 
nificent exchequer  of  Albemarle  Street.  What  right 
has  Lord  Byron  to  sneer  at  Southey  as  a  "writer  of 
all  work?"  Has  he  not  himself  published,  within 
these  two  years,  two  volumes  of  tragic  blank  verse; 
one  volume  of  licentious  ottava  ritna  ;  one  pam- 
phlet of  clever  polemical  criticism,  seasoned  with 
personalities  against  all  torts  of  men;  besides  writ- 
ing an  Armenian  grammar?  —  Blackwood,  1822.] 


THE   VISION  OF  JUDGMENT. 


245 


So  let  me  have  the  proper  documents, 
That  I  may  add  you  to  my  other  saints." 


Satan  bowed,  and  was  silent.     "  Well,  if  you, 

With  amiable  modesty,  decline 
My  offer,  what  says  Michael  ?   There  are  few 

Whose  memoirs  could  be  rendered  more 
divine. 
Mine  is  a  pen  of  all  work ;  not  so  new 

As  it  was  once,  but  I  would  make  you  shine 
Like  your  own  trumpet.  By  the  way,  my  own 
Has  more  of  brass  in  it,  and  is  as  well  blown. 


CI. 

about    trumpets, 


here's    my 


"  But    talkin 
Vision ! 

Now  you  shall  judge,  all  people ;  yes,  you 
shall 
Judge  with  my  judgment,  and  by  my  decision 

Be  guided  who  shall  enter  heaven  or  fall. 
\  settle  all  these  things  by  intuition, 
Times  present,  past,  to  come,  heaven,  hell, 
and  all, 
Like  King  Alfonso. l  When  I  thus  see  double, 
I  save  the  Deity  some  worlds  of  trouble." 

Gil. 

He  ceased,  and  drew  forth  an  MS. ;  and  no 
Persuasion  on  the  part  of  devils,  or  saints, 
Or  angels,  now  could  stop  the  torrent ;  so 

He  read  the  first  three  lines  of  the  contents  ; 
But  at  the  fourth,  the  whole  spiritual  show 

Had  vanished,  with  variety  of  scents, 
Ambrosial  and  sulphureous,  as  they  sprang, 
Like    lightning,    off    from    his    "  melodious 
twang."2 

cm. 
Those  grand  heroics  acted  as  a  spell ; 
The   angels  stopped   their  ears  and   plied 
their  pinions ; 
The  devils  ran  howling,  deafened,  down   to 
hell; 
The  ghosts   fled,  gibbering,  for  their  own 
dominions  — 
(For  'tis  not  yet  decided  where  they  dwell, 
And  I  leave  every  man  to  his  opinions) ; 
Michael  took  refuge  in  his  trump  —  but,  lo  ! 
His  teeth  were  set  on  edge,  he  could  not  blow  ! 


1  Alfonso,  speaking  of  the  Ptolomean  system, 
said,  that  "  had  he  been  consulted  at  the  creation  of 
the  world,  he  would  have  spared  the  Maker  some 
absurdities." 

2  See  Aubrey's  account  of  the  apparition  which 
disappeared  "  with  a  curious  perfume  and  a  most 
Melodious  twang;"  or  see  the  "Antiquary," 
vol.  i.  p.  225.  —  ["As  the  vision  shut  his  volume, 
a  strain  of  delightful  music  seemed  to  fill  the  apart- 
ment." —  "  The  usual  time,"  says  Grose,  "  at  which 
ghosts  make  their  appearance  is  midnight,  and  sel- 
dom before  it  is  dark:  though  some  audacious  spirits 
have  been  said  to  appear  even  by  day-light;  but  of 


CIV. 

Saint  Peter,  who  has  hitherto  been  known 
For  an  impetuous  saint,  upraised  his  keys, 

And  at  the  fifth  line  knocked  the  poet  down ; 
Who  fell  like  Phaeton,  but  more  at  ease, 

Into  his  lake,  for  there  he  did  not  drown; 
A  different  web  being  by  the  Destinies 

Woven  for  the  Laureate's  final  wreath,  when- 
e'er 

Reform  shall  happen  either  here  or  there. 

CV. 

He  first  sank  to  the  bottom  —  like  his  works, 

But  soon  rose  to  the  surface  —  like  himself; 

For  all  corrupted  things  are  buoyed  like  corks.3 

By  their  own  rottenness,  light  as  an  elf, 
Or  wisp  that  flits  o'er  a  morass :  he  lurks, 

It  may  be,  still,  like  dull  books  on  a  shelf, 
In  his  own  den,  to  scrawl  some  "  Life  "  or 

"Vision,"4 
As  Welborn  says —  "  the  devil  turned  precis- 
ian." 

cvi. 

As  for  the  rest,  to  come  to  the  conclusion 
Of  this  true  dream,  the  telescope  is  gone 


this  there  are  few  instances,  and  those  mostly  ghosts 
who  had  been  laid,  and  whose  terms  of  confinement 
were  expired.  I  cannot  learn  that  ghosts  carry 
tapers  in  their  hands,  as  they  are  sometimes  de- 
picted. Dragging  chains  is  not  the  fashion  of 
English  ghosts :  chains  and  black  vestments  being 
chiefly  the  accoutrements  of  foreign  spectres  seen 
in  arbitrary  governments;  dead  or  alive,  English 
spirits  are  free.  During  the  narration  of  its  busi- 
ness, a  ghost  must  by  no  means  be  interrupted  by 
questions  of  any  kind:  its  narration  being  com- 
pleted, it  vanishes  away,  frequently  in  a  flash  of 
light;  in  which  case,  some  ghosts  have  been  so 
considerate  as. to  desire  the  party  to  whom  they 
appeared  to  shut  their  eyes:  —  sometimes  its  depart- 
ure is  attended  with  most  delightful  music."  — 
Provincial  Glossary.] 

3  A  drowned  body  lies  at  the  bottom  till  rotten; 
it  then  floats,  as  most  people  know. 

4  [Southey's  Vision  of  Judgment  appears  to  u: 
to  be  an  ill-judged,  and  not  a  well-executed  work. 
Milton  alone  has  ever  founded  a  fiction  on  the  basis 
of  revelation,  without  degrading  his  subject;  but 
Milton  has  been  blamed  by  the  most  judicious 
critics,  and  his  warmest  admirers,  for  expressing 
the  counsels  of  Eternal  Wisdom,  and  the  decrees  of 
Almighty  Power,  by  words  assigned  to  the  Deity. 
It  is  impossible  to  deceive  ourselves  into  a  momen- 
tary and  poetical  belief  that  words  proceeded  from 
the  Holy  Spirit,  except  on  the  warrant  of  inspira- 
tion itself.  It  is  here  only  that  Milton  fails,  and 
here  Milton  sometimes  shocks.  The  blasphemies 
of  Milton's  devils  offend  not  a  pious  car,  because 
they  are  devils  who  utter  them.  Nor  are  we  dis- 
pleased with  the  poet's  presumption  in  feigning 
language  for  heavenly  spirits,  because  it  is  a  lan- 
guage that  lifts  the  soul  to  heaven.  The  words  are 
human;  but  the  truths  they  express,  and  the  doc- 
trines they  teach,  are  divine.  —  Blackwood,  1822.] 


246 


THE  AGE    OF  BRONZE. 


Which  kept  my  optics  free  from  al)  delusion, 
And  showed  me  what  I  in  my  turn  have 
shown. 
All  I  saw  further,  in  the  last  confusion, 


Was,  that  King  George  slipped  into  heaven 
for  one ; 
And  when  the  tumult  dwindled  to  a  calm, 
I  left  him  practising  the  hundredth  psalm 


THE   AGE   OF   BRONZE; 

OR, 

CARMEN   SECULARE   ET  ANNUS   HAUD   MIRABILIS. 
"  Impar  Congressus  Achilli." 


[This  poem  was  written  at  Genoa,  in  the  early  part  of  the  year  1823;  and  published  in  London,  by 
Mr.  John  Hunt.     Its  authenticity  was  much  disputed  at  the  time.] 


I. 
THE  "good  old  times  "  —  all  times  when  old 

are  good  — 
Are  gone  ;  the  present  might  be  if  they  would  ; 
Great  things  have  been,  and  are,  and  greater 

still 
Want  little  of  mere  mortals  but  their  will : 
A  wider  space,  a  greener  field,  is  given 
To  those  who  play  their  "  tricks  before  high 

heaven." 
I  know  not  if  the  angels  weep,  but  men 
Have   wept    enough  —  for  what  ?  —  to  weep 

again ! 

11. 
All  is  exploded  —  be  it  good  or  bad. 
Reader !  remember  when  thou  wert  a  lad, 
Then  Pitt  was  all ;  or,  if  not  all,  so  much, 
His  very  rival  almost  deemed  him  such.1 
We,  we  have  seen  the  intellectual  race 
Of  giants  stand,  like  Titans,  face  to  face — 
Athos  and  Ida,  with  a  dashing  sea 
Of  eloquence  between,  which  flowed  all  free, 
As  the  deep  billows  of  the  /Egean  roar 
Betwixt  the  Hellenic  and  the  Phrygian  shore. 
But  where  are  they  —  the  rivals !  —  a  few  feet 

1  [Mr.  Fox  used  to  say—  /  never  want  a  word,         »  [The  grave  of  Mr.  Fox,  in  Westminster  Abbey, 
but  Pitt  never  wants  the  word."]  '  is  within  eighteen  inches  of  that  of  Mr.  Pitt.] 


Of  sullen  earth  divide  each  winding  sheet.2 
How  peaceful  and  how  powerful  is  the  grave 
Which  hushes  all !  a  calm,  unstonny  wave 
Which  oversweeps  the  world.     The  theme  is 

old 
Of  "  dust  to  dust ;  "  but  half  its  tale  untold  : 
Time  tempers  not  its  terrors  —  still  the  worm 
Winds  its  cold  folds,  the  tomb  preserves  its 

form, 
Varied  above,  but  still  alike  below ; 
The  urn  may  shine,  the  ashes  will  not  glow, 
Though  Cleopatra's  mummy  cross  the  sea 
O'er  which  from  empire  she  lured  Anthony; 
Though  Alexander's  urn  a  show  be  grown 
On  shores  he  wept  to  conquer,  though  un- 
known — 
How  vain,  how  worse  than  vain,  at  length  ap- 
pear 
The  madman's  wish,  the  Macedonian's  tear! 
He  wept   for  worlds   to   conquer  —  half  the 

earth 
Knows  not  his  name,  or  but  his  death,  and 

birth, 
And  desolation ;  while  his  native  Greece 
Hath  all  of  desolation,  save  its  peace. 


THE  AGE    OF  BRONZE. 


247 


Hs  "wept  for  worlds  to  conquer!"  he  who 

ne'er 
Conceived  the  globe,  he  panted  not  to  spare ! 
With  even  the  busy  Northern  Isle  unknown, 
Which  holds  his  urn,  and  never  knew  his 

throne.1 

III. 
But  where  is  he,  the  modern,  mightier  far, 
Who,  born  no  king,  made  monarchs  draw 

his  car ; 
The  new  Sesostris,  whose  unharnessed  kings,2 
Freed  from  the  bit,  believe  themselves  with 

wings, 
And  spurn  the  dust  o'er  which  they  crawled 

of  late, 
Chained  to  the  chariot  of  the  chieftain's  state  ? 
Yes !  where  is  he,  the  champion  and  the  child 
Of  all  that's  great  or  little,  wise  or  wild  ? 
Whose  game  was  empires,  and  whose  stakes 

were  thrones  ? 
Whose  table  earth  —  whose  dice  were  human 

bones  ? 
Behold  the  grand  result  in  yon  lone  isle,3 
And,  as  thy  nature  urges,  weep  or  smile. 
Sigh  to  behold  the  eagle's  lofty  rage 
Reduced  to  nibble  at  his  narrow  cage ; 
Smile  to  survey  the  queller  of  the  nations 
Now  daily  squabbling  o'er  disputed  rations  ; 
Weep  to  perceive  him  mourning,  as  he  dines, 
O'er  curtailed  dishes  and  o'er  stinted  wines ; 
O'er  petty  quarrels  upon  petty  things. 
Is  this  the  man  who  scourged  or  feasted  kings  ? 
Behold  the  scales  in  which  his  fortune  hangs, 
A  surgeon's4  statement,  and  an  earl's5  ha- 
rangues ! 
A  bust  delayed,6  a  book  refused,  can  shake 
The  sleep  of  him  who  kept  the  world  awake. 
Is  this  indeed  the  tamer  of  the  great, 
Now  slave  of  all  could  tease  or  irritate  — 
The  paltry  gaoler7  and  the  prying  spy, 
The  staring  stranger  with  his  note-book  nigh  ?  8 
Plunged  in  a  dungeon,  he  had  still  been  great ; 
How  low,  how  little  was  this  middle  state, 
Between  a  prison  and  a  palace,  where 
How  few  could  feel  for  what  he  had  to  bear ! 
Vain  his  complaint, —  my  lord  presents  his  bill, 
His  food  and  wine  were  doled  out  duly  still : 


1  [The  sarcophagus,  of  breccia,  which  is  supposed 
to  have  contained  the  dust  of  Alexander,  came  into 
the  possession  of  the  English  army,  at  the  capitula- 
tion of  Alexandria  in  1S02,  and  is  now  in  the  British 
Museum.] 

-  [Sesostris  is  said,  by  Diodorus,  to  have  had  his 
chariot  drawn  by  eight  vanquished  sovereigns.] 

3  [St.  Helena.] 

*  \Mr.  Barry  O'Meara.] 

5  Earl  Bathurst.] 

6  The  bust  of  his  son.] 

7  Sir  Hudson  Lowe.] 

8  [Captain  Basil  Hall's  interesting  account  of  his 
interview  with  the  ex-emperor  occurs  in  his  "  Voy- 
age to  Loo-choo."] 


Vain  was  his  sickness,  never  was  a  clime 

So  free  from  homicide  —  to  doubt's  a  crime ; 

And  the  stiff  surgeon,  who  maintained  his 

cause, 
Hath  lost  his  place,  and  gained  the  world's 

applause. 
But  smile  —  though  all  the  pangs  of  brain 

and  heart 
Disdain,  defy,  the  tardy  aid  of  art ; 
Though,  save  the  few  fond  friends  and  imaged 

face 
Of  that  fair  boy  his  sire  shall  ne'er  embrace, 
None  stand  by  his  low  bed —  though  even  the 

mind 
Be  wavering,  which   long    awed    and    awes 

mankind : 
Smile  —  for  the  fettered  eagle  breaks  his  chain. 
And  higher  worlds  than  this  are  his  again.9 

IV. 
How,  if  that  soaring  spirit  still  retain 
A  conscious  twilight  of  his  blazing  reign, 
How  must  he  smile,  on  looking  down,  to  see 
The  little  that  he  was  and  sought  to  be ! 
What  though  his  name  a  wider  empire  found 
Than   his   ambition,  though    with    scarce  a 

bound ; 
Though  first  in  glory,  deepest  in  reverse, 
He  tasted  empire's  blessings  and  its  curse ; 
Though  kings  rejoicing  in  their  late  escape 
From  chains,  would  gladly  be/.6^>  tyrant's  ape; 
How  must  he  smile,  and  turn  to  yon  lone 

grave, 
The  proudest  sea-mark  that  o'ertops  the  wave  J 
What  though  his  gaoler,  duteous  to  the  last, 
Scarce  deemed  the  coffin's  lead  could  keep 

him  fast, 
Refusing  one  poor  line  along  the  lid, 
To  date  the  birth  and  death  of  all  it  hid; 
That  name  shall  hallow  the  ignoble  shore, 
A  talisman  to  all  save  him  who  bore  : 
The  fleets  that  sweep  before  the  eastern  blast 
Shall  hear  their  sea-boys  hail  it  from  the  mast; 
When  Victory's  Gallic  column  shall  but  rise, 
Like  Pompey's  pillar,  in  a  desert's  skies, 
The  rocky  isle  that  holds  or  held  his  dust 
Shall  crown  the  Atlantic  like  the  hero's  bust, 
And  mighty  nature  o'er  his  obsequies 
Do  more  than  niggard  envy  still  denies. 
But  what  are  these  to  him  ?     Can  glory's  lus. 
Touch  the  freed  spirit  or  the  fettered  dust  ? 
Small  care  hath  he  of  what  his  tomb  consists ; 
Nought  if  he  sleeps  —  nor  more  if  he  exists1 
Alike  the  better-seeing  shade  will  smile 
On  the  rude  cavern  of  the  rocky  isle, 
As  if  his  ashes  found  their  latest  home 
In  Rome's  Pantheon  or  Gaul's  mimic  dome. 
He  wants  not  this ;  but  France  shall  feel  the 

want 
Of  this  last  consolation,  though  so  scant; 

11  [Buonaparte  died  the  5th  of  May,  1821.] 


248 


THE  AGE   OF  BRONZE. 


Her  honor,  fame,  and  faith  demand  his  bones, 
To  rear  above  a  pyramid  of  thrones; 
Or  carried  onward  in  the  battle's  van, 
To  form,  like  Guesclin's  *  dust,  her  talisman. 
But  be  it  as  it  is  —  the  time  may  come 
His  name  shall  beat  the  alarm,  like  Ziska's 
drum.2 

V. 

Oh  heaven !  of  which  he  was  in  power  a  feat- 
ure; 
Oh  Earth  !   of  which  he  was  a  noble  creature ; 
Thou  isle!  to  be  remembered  long  and  well, 
That  saw'st  the    unfledged  eaglet  chip   his 

shell ! 
Ye  Alps,  which  viewed  him  in  his  dawning 

flights 
Hover,  the  victor  of  a  hundred  fights ! 
Thou  Rome,  who  saw'st  thy  Caesar's  deeds 

outdone ! 
Alas !  why  passed  he  too  the  Rubicon  — 
The  Rubicon  of  man's  awakened  rights, 
To  herd  with  vulgar  kings  and  parasites  ? 
Egypt !  from  whose  all  dateless  tombs  arose 
Forgotten  Pharaohs  from  their  long  repose, 
And  shook  within  their  pyramids  to  hear 
A  new  Cambyses  thundering  in  their  ear; 
While  the  dark  shades  of  forty  ages  stood 
"Like  startled  giants  by  Nile's  famous  flood; 
Or  from  the  pyramid's  tall  pinnacle 
Beheld  the  desert  peopled,  as  from  hell, 
With  clashing  hosts,  who  strewed  the  barren 

sand 
To  re-manure  the  uncultivated  land ! 
Spain  !  which,  a  moment  mindless  of  the  Cid, 
Beheld  his  banner  flouting  thy  Madrid  ! 
Austria !  which  saw  thy  twice-ta'en  capital 
Twice  spared  to  be  the  traitress  of  his  fall ! 
Ye  race  of  Frederic  !  —  Frederics  but  in  name 
And  falsehood  —  heirs  to  all  except  his  fame  ; 
Who,  crushed  at  Jena,  crouched  at  Berlin,  fell 
First,  and  but  rose  to  follow!     Ye  who  dwell 
Where  Kosciusko  dwelt,  remembering  yet 
The   unpaid  amount  of  Catherine's   bloody 

debt! 
Poland  —  o'er  which  the  avenging  angel  past, 
But  left  thee  as  he  found  thee,  still  a  waste, 
Forgetting  all  thy  still  enduring  claim. 
Thy  lotted  people  and  extinguished  name, 
Thy  sigh  for  freedom,  thy  long-flowing  tear, 


1  [Guesclin,  constable  of  France,  died  in  the 
midst  of  his  triumphs,  before  Chateauneufde  Ran- 
don,  in  1380.  The  English  garrison,  which  had 
conditioned  to  surrender  at  a  certain  time,  marched 
out  the  day  after  his  death:  and  the  commander  re- 
spectfully laid  the  keys  of  the  fortress  on  the  bier, 
so  that  it  might  appear  to  have  surrendered  to  his 
ashes.] 

2  [John  Ziska  —  a  distinguished  leader  of  the 
Hussites.  It  is  recorded  of  him,  that,  in  dying,  he 
ordered  his  skin  to  be  made  the  covering  of  a  drum. 
The  Bohemians  hold  his  memory  in  superstitious 
feneration.] 


That  sound  that  crashes  in  the  tyrant's  ear — ■ 
Kosciusko!      On  —  on  —  on  —  the    thirst    ot 

war 
Gasps  for  the  gore  of  serfs  and  of  their  czar. 
The  half  barbaric  Moscow's  minarets 
Gleam  in  the  sun,  but  'tis  a  sun  that  sets! 
Moscow  !  thou  limit  of  his  long  career, 
For  which  rude  Charles  had  wept  his  frozen 

tear 
To  see  in  vain  —  he  saw  thee  —  how  ?   with 

spire 
And  palace  fuel  to  one  common  fire. 
To  this  the  soldier  lent  his  kindling  match, 
To  this  the  peasant  gave  his  cottage  thatch, 
To    this   the    merchant    flung    his    hoarded 

store, 
The  prince  his  hall  —  and  Moscow  was  no 

more ! 
Sublimest  of  volcanoes!  Etna's  flame 
Pales  before  thine,  and  quenchless  Hecla's 

tame ; 
Vesuvius  shows  his  blaze,  an  usual  sight 
For    gaping    tourists,    from    his    hackneyed 

height : 
Thou  stand'st  alone  unrivalled,  till  the  fire 
To  come,  in  which  all  empires  shall  expire ! 

Thou  other  element!  as  strong  and  stern, 
To  teach  a  lesson  conquerors  will  not  learn  !  — 
Whose  icy  wing  flapped  o'er  the  faltering  foe, 
Till  fell  a  hero  with  each  flake  of  snow ; 
How  did  thy  rtumbing  beak  and  silent  fang 
Pierce,  till  hosts  perished  with  a  single  pang! 
In  vain  shall  Seine  look  up  along  his  banks 
For  the  gay  thousands  of  his  dashing  ranks! 
In  vain  shall  France  recall  beneath  her  vines 
Her  youth  —  their  blood  flows  faster  than  her 

wines ; 
Or  stagnant  in  their  human  ice  remains 
In  frozen  mummies  on  the  Polar  plains. 
In  vain  will  Italy's  broad  sun  awaken 
Her  offspring  chilled;  its  beams  are  now  for- 
saken. 
Of  all  the  trophies  gathered  from  the  war, 
What  shall  return  ?  —  the  conqueror's  broken 

car! 
The  conqueror's  yet  unbroken  heart !    Again 
The  horn  of  Roland  sounds,  and  not  in  vain. 
Lutzen,  where  fell  the  Swede  of  victory,3 
Beholds  him  conquer,  but,  alas !  not  die  : 
Dresden  surveys  three  despots  fly  once  more 
Before  their  sovereign,  —  sovereign  as  before ; 
But  there  exhausted  Fortune  quits  the  field, 
And  Leipsic's  treason  bids  the  unvanquished 

yield ; 
The  Saxon  jackal  leaves  the  lion's  side 
To  turn  the  bear's,  and  wolf's,  and  fox's  guide  ;      . 
And  backward  to  the  den  of  his  despair 
The  forest  monarch  shrinks,  but  finds  no  lair! 

3  [Gustavus  Adolphus  fell  at  the  great  battle  ol 
Lutaea,  in  Norember,  1632.] 


THE  AGE    OF  BRONZE. 


249 


Oh  ye!  and  each,  and  all!    Oh  France!  who 

found 
Thy  long  fair  fields,  ploughed  up  as  hostile 

ground, 
Disputed  foot  by  foot,  till  treason,  still 
His  only  victor,  from  Montmartre's  hill 
Looked  down  o'er  trampled  Paris !  and  thou 

Isle.i 
Which  seest  Etruria  from  thy  ramparts  smile, 
Thou  momentary  shelter  of  his  pride, 
Till  wooed  by  danger,  his  yet  weeping  bride  ! 
Oh,  France !  retaken  by  a  single  march, 
Whose  path  was  through  one  long  triumphal 

arch ! 
Oh,  bloody  and  most  bootless  Waterloo! 
Which  proves  how  fools  may  have  their  for- 
tune too. 
Won  half  by  blunder,  half  by  treachery  : 
Oh,  dull  Saint  Helen  !  with  thy  gaoler  nigh  — 
Hear!    hear  Prometheus2  from  his  rock  ap- 
peal 
To  earth,  air,  ocean,  all  that  felt  or  feel 
His  power  and  glory,  all  who  yet  shall  hear 
A  name  eternal  as  the  rolling  year; 
He  teaches  them  the  lesson  taught  so  long, 
So  oft,  so  vainly  —  learn  to  do  no  wrong  ! 
A  single  step  into  the  right  had  made 
This  man  the  Washington  of  worlds  betrayed  : 
A  single  step  into  the  wrong  has  given 
His    name    a    doubt    to    all    the    winds    of 

heaven ; 
The  reed  of  Fortune,  and  of  thrones  the  rod, 
Of  Fame  the  Moloch  or  the  demigod ; 
His  country's  Caesar,  Europe's  Hannibal, 
Without  their  decent  dignity  of  fall. 
Yet  Vanity  herself  had  better  taught 
A  surer  path  even  to  the  fame  he  sought, 
By  pointing  out  on  history's  fruitless  page 
Ten  thousand  conquerors  for  a  single  sage. 
While    Franklin's    quiet   memory   climbs   to 

heaven, 
Calming  the  lightning  which  he  thence  hath 

riven, 
Or  drawing  from  the  no  less  kindled  earth 
Freedom  and  peace  to  that  which  boasts  his 

birth ;  3 
While  Washington's  a  watchword,  such  as 

ne'er 
Shall  sink  while  there's  an  echo  left  to  air : 4 


}  [The  Isle  of  Elba.] 

2  [I  refer  the  reader  to  the  first  address  of  Prome- 
theus in  /Eschylus,  when  he  is  left  alone  by  his 
attendants,  and  before  the  arrival  of  the  Chorus  of 
Sea-nymphs.] 

3  [The  celebrated  motto  on  a  French  medal  of 
Franklin  was  — 

"  Eripuit  coelo  fulmen,  sceptrumque  tyrannis."] 

4  ["  To  be  the  first  man  (not  the  Dictator),  not 
the  Sylla,  but  the  Washington,  or  Aristides.  the 
ieader  in  talent  and  truth,  is  to  be  next  to  the  Di- 
irinity."  —  Byron's  Diary .] 


While  even  the  Spaniard's  thirst  of  gold  and 

war 
Forgets  Pizarro  to  shout  Bolivar ! 
Alas  !  why  must  the  same  Atlantic  wave 
Which  wafted  freedom  gird  a  tyrant's  grave  — 
The  king  of  kings,  and  yet  of  slaves  the  slave, 
Who  bursts  the  chains  of  millions  to  renew 
The  very  fetters  which  his  arm  broke  through. 
And  crushed  the  rights  of  Europe  and  his 

own, 
To  flit  between  a  dungeon  and  a  throne  ? 

VI. 

But  'twill  not  be  —  the  spark's  awakened  — 

lo! 
The  swarthy  Spaniard  feels  his  former  glow; 
The  same  high  spirit  which  beat  back  the 

Moor 
Through  eight  long  ages  of  alternate  gore 
Revives  —  and  where  ?  in  that  avenging  clime 
Where   Spain   was   once    synonymous    with 

crime, 
Where  Cortes'  and  Pizarro's  banner  flew, 
The  infant  world  redeems  her  name  of  "New." 
Tis  the  old  aspiration  breathed  afresh, 
To  kindle  souls  within  degraded  flesh, 
Such  as  repulsed  the  Persian  from  the  shore 
Where  Greece  was —  No !  she  still  is  Greece 

once  more. 
One  common  cause  makes  myriads  of  one 

breast, 
Slaves  of  the  east,  or  helots  of  the  west ; 
On  Andes'  and  on  Athos'  peaks  unfurled, 
The   self-same  standard  streams  o'er  either 

world ; 
The     Athenian     wears     again     Harmodius' 

sword ; 5 
The  Chili  chief  abjures  his  foreign  lord; 
The   Spartan   knows   himself   once   more  a 

Greek, 
Young   Freedom   plumes   the   crest  of  each 

cacique ; 
Debating  despots,  hemmed  on  either  shore, 
Shrink  vainly  from  the  roused  Atlantic's  roar; 
Through  Calpe's  strait  the  rolling  tides  ad- 
vance, 
Sweep    slightly   by  the    half-tamed    land    of 

France, 
Dash   o'er  the   old    Spaniard's    cradle,  and 

would  fain 
Unite  Ausonia  to  the  mighty  main  : 
But  driven  from  thence  awhile,  yet  not  for  aye. 
Break  o'er  th'  /Egean,  mindful  of  the  day 
Of  Salamis! — there,  there  the  waves  arise, 
Not  to  be  lulled  by  tyrant  victories. 


5  ("The  famous  hymn,  ascribed  to  Callistratus:  — ■ 
"  Covered  with  myrtle-wreaths,  I'll  wear  my  sword 
Like  brave  Harmodius,  and  his  patriot  friend 
Aristogeiton,  who  the  laws  restored, 

The   tyrant  slew,   and  bade   oppression  end/ 
etc.  etc.] 


250 


THE  AGE    OF  BRONZE. 


Lone,  lost,  abandoned  in  their  utmost  need 
By   Christians,   unto  whom   they  gave  their 

creed. 
The  desolated  lands,  the  ravaged  isle, 
The  fostered  feud  encouraged  to  beguile, 
The  aid  evaded,  and  the  cold  delay, 
Prolonged  but  in  the  hope  to  make  a  prey ;  — 
These,  these  shall  tell  the  tale,  and  Greece  can 

show 
The  false  friend  worse  than  the  infuriate  foe. 
But  this  is    well :    Greeks   only  should  free 

Greece, 
Not  the  barbarian,  with  his  mask  of  peace. 
How  should  the  autocrat  of  bondage  be 
The  king  of  serfs,  and  set  the  nations  free  ? 
Better  still  serve  the  haughty  Mussulman, 
Than  swell  the  Cossaque's  prowling  caravan  ; 
Better  still  toil  for  masters,  than  await, 
The  slave  of  slaves,  before  a  Russian  gate, — 
Numbered  by  hordes,  a  human  capital, 
A  live  estate,  existing  but  for  thrall, 
Lotted  by  thousands,  as  a  meet  reward 
For  the  first  courtier  in  the  Czar's  regard ; 
While  their  immediate  owner  never  tastes 
His  sleep,  sans  dreaming  of  Siberia's  wastes ; 
Better  succumb  even  to  their  own  despair, 
And  drive  the  camel  than  purvey  the  bear. 

VII. 
But  not  alone  within  the  hoariest  clime 
Where  Freedom  dates  her  birth  with  that  of 

Time, 
And  not  alone  where,  plunged  in  night,  a  crown 
Of  Incas  darkened  to  a  dubious  cloud, 
'The  dawn  revives  :  renowned,  romantic  Spain 
Holds  back  the  invader  from  her  soil  again. 
Not  now  the  Roman  tribe  nor  Punic  horde 
Demand  her  fields  as  lists  to  prove  the  sword ; 
Not  now  the  Vandal  or  the  Visigoth 
Pollute  the  plains,  alike  abhorring  both  ; 
Nor  old  Pelayo  on  his  mountain  rears 
The  warlike  fathers  of  a  thousand  years. 
That  seed  is  sown  and  reaped,  as  oft  the  Moor 
Sighs  to  remember  on  his  dusky  shore. 
Long  in  the  peasant's  song  or  poet's  page 
Has  dwelt  the  memory  of  Abencerrage ; 
The  Zegri,  and  the  captive  victors,  flung 
Back  to  the  barbarous  realm  from  whence  they 

sprung. 
But  these  are  gone  —  their  faith,  their  swords, 

their  sway, 
Yet  left  more  anti-christian  foes  than  they : 
The  bigot  monarch  and  the  butcher  priest, 
The  Inquisition,  with  her  burning  feast, 
The  faith's  red  "auto,"  fed  with  human  fuel, 
While  sate  the  catholic  Moloch,  calmly  cruel, 
Enjoying,  with  inexorable  eye, 
That  fiery  festival  of  agony ! 
The  stern  or  feeble  sovereign,  one  or  both 
By  turns ;    the  haughtiness  whose  pride  was 

sloth ; 
The  long  degenerate  noble ;  the  debased 


Hidalgo,  and  the  peasant  less  disgraced, 
But  more  degraded  ;  the  unpeopled  realm  ; 
The  once  proud  navy  which  forgot  the  helm 
The  once  impervious  phalanx  disarrayed  ; 
The  idle  forge  that  formed  Toledo's  blade ; 
The  foreign  wealth  that  flowed  on  ev'rv  short}, 
Save  hers  who  earned  it  with  the  natives'  gore ; 
The    very    language   which    might   vie   with 

Rome's 
And  once  was   known  to  nations  like   their 

homes 
Neglected  or  forgotten  :  —  such  was  Spain  ; 
But  such  she  is  not,  nor  shall  be  again. 
These  worst,  these  home  invaders,  felt  and  feel 
The  new  Numantine  soul  of  old  Castile. 
Up!  up  again  !  undaunted  Tauridor! 
The  bull  of  Phalaris  renews  his  roar; 
Mount,  chivalrous  Hidalgo!  not  in  vain 
Revive  the  cry  —  "  Iago  !  and  close  Spain !  "  1 
Yes,  close  her  with  your  armed  bosoms  round 
And  form  the  barrier  which  Napoleon  found, 
The  exterminating  war,  the  desert  plain, 
The  streets  without  a  tenant,  save  the  slain ; 
The  wild  sierra,  with  its  wilder  troop 
Of  vulture-plumed  guerrillas,  on  the  stoop 
For  their  incessant  prey ;  the  desperate  wall 
Of  Saragossa,  mightiest  in  her  fall ; 
The  man  nerved  to  a  spirit,  and  the  maid 
Waving  her  more  than  Amazonian  blade; 
The  knife  of  Arragon,2  Toledo's  steel; 
The  famous  lance  of  chivalrous  Castile; 
The  unerring  rifle  of  the  Catalan ; 
The  Andalusian  courser  in  the  van , 
The  torch  to  make  a  Moscow  of  Madrid ; 
And  in  each  heart  the  spirit  of  the  Cid  :  — 
Such  have  been,   such   shall   be,   such   are. 

Advance 
And  win —  not  Spain,  but  thine  own  freedom, 

France ! 

VIII. 
But  lo !  a  Congress !  3    What !  that  hallowed 

name 
Which  freed  the  Atlantic  ?     May  we  hope  the 

same 
For  outworn  Europe  ?    With  the  sound  arise , 
Like  Samuel's  shade  to  Saul's  monarchic  eyes, 
The  prophets  of  young  Freedom,  summoned 

far 
From  climes  of  Washington  and  Bolivar; 
Henry,  the  forest-born  Demosthenes, 
Whose  thunder  shook  the  Philip  of  the  seas; 
And  stoic  Franklin's  energetic  shade, 
Robed  in  the  lightnings  which  his  hand  allayed; 
And  Washington,  the  tyrant-tamer,  wake, 


1  ["  Santiago,  y  serra  Espana!  "  the  old  Spanish 
war-cry.] 

2  The  Arragonians  are  peculiarly  dexterous  in 
the  use  of  this  weapon,  and  displayed  it  particularly 
in  former  French  wars. 

3  [The  Congressof  the  Sovereigns  of  Russia,  Aus- 
tria, Prussia,  etc.  etc.  etc.,  which  assembled  at  Ve- 
rona, in  the  autumn  of  1822.] 


THE  AGE    OF  BRONZE. 


251 


To  bid  ns  blush  for  these  old  chains,  or  break. 
But  who  compose  this  senate  of  the  few 
That  should  redeem  the  many  ?      Who  renew 
This  consecrated  name,  till  now  assigned 
To  councils  held  to  benefit  mankind  ? 
Who  now  assemble  at  the  holy  call  ? 
The  blest  Alliance,  which  says  three  are  all ! 
An  earthly  trinity !  which  wears  the  shape 
Of  heaven's,  as  man  is  mimicked  by  the  ape. 
A  pious  unity !  in  purpose  one  — 
To  melt  three  fools  to  a  Napoleon. 
Why,  Egypt's  gods  were  rational  to  these ; 
Their  dogs  and  oxen  knew  their  own  degrees, 
And,  quiet  in  their  kennel  or  their  shed, 
Cared  little,  so  that  they  were  duly  fed ; 
But  these,  more  hungry,  must  have  something 

more, 
The  power  to  bark  and  bite,  to  toss  and  gore, 
Ah !   how  much  happier  were  good  /Esop's 

frogs 
Than  we !  for  ours  are  animated  logs, 
With  ponderous  malice  swaying  to  and  fro, 
And  crushing  nations  with  a  stupid  blow; 
All  dully  anxious  to  leave  little  work 
Unto  the  revolutionary  stork. 


Thrice  blest  Verona!  since  the  holy  three 
With  their  imperial  presence  shine  on  thee ; 
Honored  by  them,  thy  treacherous  site  forgets 
The  vaunted  tomb  of  "  all  the  Capulets ;  "  1 
I'hy  Scaligers  ■ —  forwhat  was  "  Dog  the  Great," 
"  Can  Grande," 2  (which  I  venture  to  trans- 
late,) 
To  these  sublimer  pugs  ?     Thy  poet  too, 
Catullus,  whose  old  laurels  yield  to  new; 
Thine  amphitheatre,  where  Romans  sate ; 
And  Dante's  exile  sheltered  by  thy  gate ; 
Thy  good  old  man,  whose  world  was  all  within 
Thy  wall,  nor  knew  the  country  held  him  in  :3 
Would  that  the  royal  guests  it  girds  about 
Were  so  far  like,  as  never  to  get  out ! 
Ay,    shout  1    inscribe !    rear   monuments    of 
shame, 


1  ["  I  have  been  over  Verona.  The  amphitheatre 
is  wonderful — beats  even  Greece.  Of  the  truth  of 
Juliet's  story,  they  seem  tenacious  to  a  degree,  insist- 
ing on  the  fact  —  giving  a  date  (1303),  and  showing 
a  tomb.  It  is  a  plain,  open,  and  partly  decayed 
sarcophagus,  with  withered  leaves  in  it,  in  a  wild 
and  desolate  conventual  garden,  once  a  cemetery, 
now  ruined  to  the  very  graves.  The  situation 
struck  me  as  very  appropriate  to  the  legend,  being 
blighted  as  their  love.  I  have  brought  away  a  few 
pieces  of  the  granite,  to  give  to  my  daughter  and 
my  nieces.  The  Gothic  monuments  of  the  Scaliger 
princess  pleased  me,  but  '  a  poor  virtuoso  am  I.'" 
—  Byren's  Letters,  Nov.  1816.] 

2  Cane  I.  Delia  Scala,  surnamed  the  Great,  died 
in  1329:  he  was  the  protector  of  Dante,  who  cele- 
brated him  as  "  il  Gran  Lombardo."] 

3  [Claudian's  famous  old  man  of  Verona,  "  aui 
suburbium  nunquam  egressus  est."] 


To  tell  Oppression  that  the  world  is  tame. 

Crowd  to  the  theatre  with  loyal  rage, 

The  comedy  is  not  upon  the  stage ; 

The  show  is  rich  in  ribandry  and  stars, 

Then  gaze  upon  it  through  thy  dungeon  bars; 

Clap  thy  permitted  palms,  kind  Italy, 

For  thus  much  still  thy  fettered  hands  are  free  - 

X. 

Resplendent    sight!     Behold    the    coxcoml 

Czar* 
The  autocrat  of  waltzes  and  of  war ! 
As  eager  for  a  plaudit  as  a  realm, 
And  just  as  fit  for  flirting  as  the  helm ; 
A  Calmuck  beauty  with  a  Cossack  wit, 
And  generous  spirit,  when  'tis  not  frost-bit; 
Now  half  dissolving  to  a  liberal  thaw 
But  hardened  back  whene'er  the  morning's 

raw; 
With  no  objection  to  true  liberty, 
Except  that  it  would  make  the  nations  free. 
How  well  the  imperial  dandy  prates  of  peace ! 
How  fain,  if  Greeks  would  be  his  slaves,  free 

Greece ! 
How  nobly  gave  he  back  the  Poles  their  Diet, 
Then  told  pugnacious  Poland  to  be  quiet ! 
How  kindly  would  he  send  the  mild  Ukraine, 
With  all  her  pleasant  pulks,  to  lecture  Spain  I 
How  royally  show  off  in  proud  Madrid 
His  goodly  person,  from  the  South  long  hid! 
A    blessing    cheaply    purchased,    the   world 

knows, 
By  having  Muscovites  for  friends  or  foes. 
Proceed,  thou  nauu  sake  of  great  Philips's  son ! 
La  Harpe,  thine  Aristotle,  beckons  on  ; 
And  that  which  Scythia  was  to  him  of  yore 
Find  with  thy  Scythians  on  Iberia's  shore. 
Yet  think  upon,  thou  somewhat  aged  youth, 
Thy  predecessor  on  the  banks  of  Pruth  ; 
Thou  hast  to  aid  thee,  should  his  lot  be  thine, 
Many  an  old  woman,  but  no  Catherine.5 
Spain,  too,  hath  rocks,  and  rivers,  and  defiles  — 
The  bear  may  rush  into  the  lion's  toils. 
Fatal  to  Goths  are  Xeres'  sunny  fields ; 
Think'st  thou  to  thee  Napoleon's  victor  yields? 
Better  reclaim  thy  deserts,  turn  thy  swords 
To  ploughshares,  shave  and  wash  thy  Bashkir 

hordes, 
Redeem  thy  realms  from  slavery  and  the  knout, 
Than  follow  headlong  in  the  fatal  route, 
To  infest  the  clime  whose  skies  and  laws  are 

pure 
With  thy  foul  legions.  Spain  wants  no  manure : 
Her  soil  is  fertile,  but  she  feeds  no  foe ; 
Her  vultures,  too,  were  gorged  not  long  ago ; 
And  wouldst  thou  furnish  them  with  fresher 

prey  ? 

4  [The  Emperor  Alexander:  who  died  in  1825.] 

5  The  dexterity  of  Catherine  extricated  Peter 
(called  the  Great  by  courtesy),  when  surrounded 
dv  the  Mussulmans  on  the  banks  of  the  river  Pruth, 


252 


THE  AGE    Of  URONZE. 


Alas  !  thou  wilt  not  conquer,  but  purvey. 
I  am  Diogenes,  though  Russ  and  Hun 
Stand  between  mine  and  many  a  myriad's  sun  ; 
But  were  I  not  Diogenes,  I'd  wander 
Rather  a  worm  than  such  an  Alexander  ! 
Be  slaves  who  will,  the  cynic  shall  be  free; 
His  tub  hath  tougher  walls  than  sinope  : 
Still  will  he  hold  his  lantern  up  to  scan 
The  face  of  monarchs  for  an  "  honest  man." 

XI. 
And  what  doth  Gaul,  the  all-prolific  land 
.'  >t  tie  plus  ultra  ultras  and  their  band 
Oi  mercenaries  ?  and  her  noisy  chambers 
And  tribune,  which  each  orator  first  clambers 
Before  he  finds  a  voice,  and  when  'tis  found, 
1  lours  "  the  lie  "  echo  for  his  answer  round  ? 
Our  British  Commons  sometimes  deign   to 

"hear!  " 
A  Gallic  senate  hath  more  tongue  than  ear ; 
Even  Constant,  their  sole  master  of  debate, 
Must  fight  next  day  his  speech  to  vindicate. 
But  this  costs  little  to  true  Franks,  who  had 

rather 
Combat  than  listen,  were  it  to  their  father. 
What  is  the  simple  standing  of  a  shot, 
To  listening  long,  and  interrupting  not? 
Though  this  was  not  the  method  of  old  Rome, 
When  Tully  fulmined  o'er  each  vocal  dome, 
Demosthenes  has  sanctioned  the  transaction, 
In  saying  eloquence  meant  "Action,  action  !  " 

XII. 
But  where's  the  monarch  ?  hath  he  dined  ? 

or  yet 
Groans  beneath  indigestion's  heavy  debt  ? 
Have  revolutionary  pates  risen, 
And  turned  the  royal  entrails  to  a  prison  ? 
Have    discontented    movements   stirred   the 

troops  ? 
Or  have  no  movements   followed  traitorous 

soups  ? 
Have  Carbonaro  cooks  not  carbonadoed 
Each   course   enough  ?   or  doctors  dire  dis- 
suaded 
Repletion?     Ah  !  in  thy  dejected  looks 
I  read  all  France's  treason  in  her  cooks ! 
Good  classic  Louis !  is  it,  canst  thou  say, 
Desirable  to  be  the  "  Desire  ?  " 
Why  wouldst  thou    leave    calm    Hartwell's 

green  abode,1 
Apician  table,  and  Horatian  ode, 
To  rule  a  people  who  will  not  be  ruled, 
And  love  much  rather  to  be  scourged  than 

schooled  ? 
Ah !  thine  was  not  the  temper  or  the  taste 
For  thrones  ;  the  table  sees  thee  better  placed  : 
A  mild  Epicurean,  formed,  at  best, 

1  [Hartwell,  in  Buckinghamshire  —  the  residence 
of  Louis  XVIII.  during  the  latter  years  of  the  Emi- 
gration.] 


To  be  a  kind  host  and  as  good  a  guest, 
To  talk  of  letters,  and  to  know  by  heart 
One  half the  poet's,  all  the  gourmand's  art : 
A  scholar  always,  now  and  then  a  wit, 
And  gentle  when  digestion  may  permit;  — 
But  not  to  govern  lands  enslaved  or  free; 
The  gout  was  martyrdom  enough  for  thee. 

XIII. 

Shall  noble  Albion  pass  without  a  phrase 
From  a  bold  Briton  in  her  wonted  praise  ? 
"  Arts  —  arms  —  and  George  —  and  glory  — 

and  the  isles  — 
And  happy  Britain  —  wealth  — and  Freedom's 

smiles  — 
White  cliffs,  that  held  invasion  far  aloof — 
Contented  subjects,  all  alike  tax-proof — 
Proud  Wellington,  with  eagle  beak  so  curled, 
That  nose,  the  hook  where  he  suspends  the 

world !  2 
And  Waterloo  —  and  trade  —  and (hush ! 

not  yet 

A  syllable  of  imposts  or  of  debt) 

And  ne'er  (enough)  lamented  Castlereagh, 
Whose  penknife  slit  a  goose-quill  t'other  day  — 
And     '  pilots    who    have    weathered    every 

storm '  —  3 
(But,  no,  not  even  for  rhyme's   sake,  name 

Reform)." 
These  are  the  themes  thus  sung  so  oft  before, 
Methinks  we  need  not  sing  them  any  more ; 
Found  in  so  nxany  volumes  far  and  near, 
There's  no  occasion  you  should   find  them 

here. 
Yet   something    may   remain    perchance    to 

chime 
With  reason,  and,  what's  stranger  still,  with 

rhyme. 
Even  this  thy  genius,  Canning !  may  permit, 
Who,  bred  a  statesman,  still  wast  born  a  wit, 
And  never,  even  in  that  dull  House,  couldst 

tame 
To  unleavened  prose  thine  own  poetic  flame  ; 
Our  last,  our  best,  our  only  orator,4 


2  "  Naso  suspendit  adunco."  —  Horace. 
The  Roman  applies  it  to  one  who  merely  was 

imperious  to  his  acquaintance. 

3  ["  The  Pilot  that  weathered  the  storm,"  is  the 
burden  of  a  song  in  honor  of  Pitt,  by  Canning] 

4  ["  I  have  never  heard  any  one  who  fulfilled  my 
ideal  of  an  orator.  Grattan  would  have  been  neai 
it,  but  for  his  harlequin  delivery.  Pitt  I  nevei 
heard  —  Fox  but  once;  and  then  he  struck  me  as  a 
debater,  which  to  me  seems  as  different  from  an 
orator  as  an  improvisatore  or  a  versifier  from  a 
poet.  Grey  is  great,  but  it  is  not  oratory.  Canning 
is  sometimes  very  like  one.  Whitbread  was  the 
Demosthenes  of  bad  taste  and  vulgar  vehemence, 
but  strong,  and  English.  Holland  is  impressive 
from  sense  and  sincerity.  Burdett  is  sweet  and  sil- 
very as  Belial  himself,  and,  I  think,  the  greatest 
favorite  m  Pandemonium."  —  Byron's  Diary, 
1831.I 


THE  AGE    OF  BRONZE. 


253 


Even  I  can  praise  thee  —  Tories  do  no  more : 
Nay,  not  so   much ;  —  they  hate  thee,  man, 

because 
Thy  spirit  less  upholds  them  than  it  awes. 
The  hounds  will  gather  to  their  huntsman's 

hollo, 
And  where  he  leads  the   duteous   pack  will 

follow ; 
But  not  for  love  mistake  their  yelling  cry; 
Their  yelp  for  game  is  not  an  eulogy ; 
Less  faithful  far  than  the  four-footed  pack, 
A  dubious  scent  would  lure  the  bipeds  back. 
Thy  saddle-girths  are  not  yet  quite  secure, 
Nor  royal  stallion's  feet  extremely  sure ;  * 
The  unwieldy  old  white  horse  is  apt  at  last 
To  stumble,  kick,  and  now  and  then  stick  fast 
With  his  great  self  and  rider  in  the  mud  : 
But  what  of  that  ?  the  animal  shows  blood. 


Alas,  the  country !  how  shall  tongue  or  pen 

Bewail  her  now  //^country  gentlemen  ? 

The  last  to  bid  the  cry  of  warfare  cease, 

The  first  to  make  a  malady  of  peace. 

For  what  were  all  these  country  patriots  born  ? 

To  hunt,  and  vote,  and  raise  the  price  of  corn  ? 

But  corn,  like  every  mortal  thing,  must  fall, 

Kings,  conquerors,  and  markets  most  of  all. 

And  must  ye  fall  with  every  ear  of  grain  ? 

Why  would  you  trouble  Buonaparte's  reign? 

He  was  your  great  Triptolemus ;  his  vices 

Destroyed  but  realms,  and  still  maintained 
your  prices ; 

He  amplified  to  every  lord's  content 

The  grand  agrarian  alcbymy,  high  rent. 

Why  did  the  tyrant  stumble  on  the  Tartars, 

And  lower  wheat  to  such  desponding  quar- 
ters ? 

Why  did  you  chain  him  on  yon  isle  so  lone  ? 

The  man  was  worth  much  more  upon  his 
throne. 

True,  blood  and  treasure  boundlessly  were 
spilt, 

But  what  of  that  ?  the  Gaul  may  bear  the 
guilt : 

But  bread  was  high,  the  farmer  paid  his  way, 

And  acres  told  upon  the  appointed  day. 

But  where  is  now  the  goodly  audit  ale  ? 

The  purse-proud  tenant,  never  known  to  fail  ? 

The  farm  which  never  yet  was  left  on  hand  ? 

The  marsh  reclaimed  to  most  improving 
land? 


1  [On  the  suicide  of  Lord  Londonderry,  in  Aug- 
ust, 1822,  Mr.  Canning,  who  had  prepared  to  sail 
for  India  as  Governor-General,  was  made  Secretary 
of  State  for  Foreign  Affairs,  —  not  much,  it  was 
alleged,  to  the  personal  satisfaction  of  George  the 
Fourth,  or  of  the  high  Tories  in  the  cabinet.  He 
lived  to  verify  some  of  the  predictions  of  the  poet  — 
to  abandon  the  foreign  policy  of  his  predecessor  — 
to  break  up  the  Tory  party  by  a  coalition  with  the 
Whigs  —  and  to  prepare  the  way  for  Reform  in 
Parliament.] 


The  impatient  hope  of  the  expiring  lease? 
The  doubling  rental  ?    What  an  evil's  peace! 
In   vain   the  prize   excites   the  ploughman's 

skill, 
In  vain  the  Commons  pass  their  patriot  bill ; 
The  landed  interest —  (you  may  understand 
The    phrase    much    better   leaving   out   the 

land)  — 
The  land  self-interest  groans  from  shore  to 

shore, 
For  fear  that  plenty  should  attain  the  poor. 
Up,  up  again,  ye  rents !  exalt  your  notes, 
Or  else  the  ministry  will  lose  their  votes, 
And  patriotism,  so  delicately  nice, 
Her  loaves  will  lower  to  the  market  price; 
For  ah !    "  the   loaves  and  fishes,"  once  so 

high, 
Are  gone  —  their  oven  closed,  their  ocean  dry, 
And  nought  remains  of  all  the  millions  spent, 
Excepting  to  grow  moderate  and  content. 
They  who  are  not  so,  had  their  turn  —  and 

turn 
About  still  flows  from  Fortune's  equal  urn ; 
Now  let  their  virtue  be  its  own  reward, 
And  share  the  blessings  which   themselves 

prepared. 
See  these  inglorious  Cincinnati  swarm, 
Farmers  of  war,  dictators  of  the  farm  ; 
Their  ploughshare  was  the  sword  in  hireling 

hands, 
Their  fields  manured  by  gore  of  other  lands  ; 
Safe  in  their  barns,  these  Sabine  tillers  sent 
Their  brethren  out  to  battle  —  why  ?  for  rent ! 
Year  after  year  they  voted  cent,  per  cent., 
Blood,  sweat,  and  tear-wrung  millions  —  why? 

for  rent ! 
They   roared,  they   dined,  they   drank,  they 

swore  they  meant 
To  die  for  England  —  why  then  live  ?  —  for 

rent! 
The  peace  has  made  one  general  malcontent 
Of  these  high-market  patriots  ;  war  was  rent ! 
Their  love  of  country,  millions  all  mis-spent, 
How  reconcile  ?  by  reconciling  rent ! 
And  will  they  not  repay  the  treasures  lent  ? 
No  :  down  with  every  thing,  and  up  with  rent  \ 
Their  good,  ill,  health,  wealth,  joy,  or  discon 

tent, 
Being,  end,  aim,  religion  —  rent,  rent,  rent! 
Thou  sold'st  thy  birthright,  Esau  !  for  a  mess , 
Thou  shouldst  have  gotten   more,  or  eaten 

less; 
Now    thou    hast    swilled    thy    pottage,    thy 

demands 
Are  idle  ;   Israel  says  the  bargain  stands. 
Such,  landlords  !  was  your  appetite  for  war, 
And,  gorged  with   blood,  you  grumble  at  a 

scar! 
What!    would  they  spread  their  earthquake 

even  o'er  cash  ? 
And  when   land   crumbles,  bid   firm   papet 

crash  ? 


254 


THE  AGE    OF  BRONZE. 


So  rent  may  rise,  bid  bank  and  nation  fall, 
And  found  on  'Change  a  Fundling  Hospital  ? 
Lo,  Mother  Church,  while  all  religion  writhes, 
Like  Niobe,  weeps  o'er  her  offspring,  Tithes  ; 
The  prelates  go  to  —  where  the  saints   have 

gone, 
And  proud  pluralities  subside  to  one; 
Church,  state,  and  faction  wrestle  in  the  dark, 
Tossed  by  the  deluge  in  their  common  ark. 
Shorn  of  her  bishops,  banks,  and  dividends, 
Another  Babel  soars  —  but  Britain  ends. 
And  why  ?  to  pamper  the  self-seeking  wants, 
And  prop  the  hill  of  these  agrarian  ants. 
"  Go  to   these   ants,  thou   sluggard,  and  be 

wise ;  " 
Admire  their  patience  through  each  sacrifice, 
Till  taught  to  feel  the  lesson  of  their  pride, 
The  price  of  taxes  and  of  homicide  ; 
Admire  their  justice,  which  would  fain  deny 
The   debt   of  nations :  —  pray  who   7>iade   it 

high  f 

XV. 
Or  turn  to  sail  between  those  shifting  rocks, 
The  new  Symplegades —  the  crushing  Stocks, 
Where  Midas  might  again  his  wish  behold 
In  real  paper  or  imagined  gold. 
That  magic  palace  of  Alcina  shows 
More  wealth  than  Britain  ever  had  to  lose, 
Were  all  her  atoms  of  unleavened  ore, 
And  all  her  pebbles  from  Pactolus'  shore. 
There  Fortune  plays,  while  Rumor  holds  the 

stake, 
And  the  world  trembles  to  bid  brokers  break. 
How  rich  is  Britain !  not  indeed  in  mines, 
Or  peace  or  plenty,  corn  or  oil,  or  wines ; 
No  land  of  Canaan,  full  of  milk  and  honey, 
Nor  (save  in  paper  shekels)  ready  money : 
But  let  us  not  to  own  the  truth  refuse, 
Was  ever  Christian  land  so  rich  in  Jews  ? 
Those  parted  with  their  teeth  to  good  King 

John, 
And  now,  ye  kings !    they  kindly  draw  your 

own ; 
All  states,  all  things,  all  sovereigns  they  con- 
trol, 
And  waft  a  loan  "  from  Indus  to  the  pole." 
The  banker  —  broker  —  baron 1  —  brethren, 

speed 
To  aid  these  bankrupt  tyrants  in  their  need. 
Nor  these  alone ;  Columbia  feels  no  less 
Fresh  speculations  follow  each  success ; 
And  philanthropic  Israel  deigns  to  drain 
Her  mild  per-centage  from  exhausted  Spain. 
Not  without    Abraham's   seed    can    Russia 

march ; 
'Tis  gold,  not  steel,  that  rears  the  conqueror's 

arch. 
Two  Jews,  a  chosen  people,  can  command 
In    every     realm     their     scripture-promised 

land :  — 


f  Baron  Rothschild.] 


Two  Jews  keep  down  the  Romans,  and  up- 
hold 
The  accursed  Hun,  more  brutal  than  of  old: 
Two  Jews  —  but  not  Samaritans  —  direct 
The  world,  with  all  the  spirit  of  their  sect. 
What  is  the  happiness  of  earth  to  them? 
A  congress  forms  their  "  New  Jerusalem," 
Where  baronies  and  orders  both  invite  — 
Oh,  holy  Abraham  !   dost  thou  see  the  sight  ? 
Thy  followers  mingling  with  these  royal  swine 
Who  spit  not  "  on  their  Jewish  gaberdine," 
But  honor  them  as  portion  of  the  show  — 
(Where  now,  oh  pope!  is  thy  forsaken  toe  : 
Could  it  not  favor  Judah  with  some  kicks  ? 
Or  has  it  ceased  to  "  kick  against  the  pricks  ?  ") 
On  Shylock's  shore  behold  them  stand  afresh, 
To  cut  from  nations'  hearts  their  "  pound  of 
flesh." 

XVI. 

Strange  sight  this  Congress  !  destined  to  unite 
All  that's  incongruous,  all  that's  opposite. 
I  speak  not  of  the  Sovereigns  —  they're  alike, 
A  common  coin  as  ever  mint  could  strike : 
But  those  who   sway  the   puppets,  pull   the 

strings, 
Have  more  of  motley  than  their  heavy  kings. 
jews,  authors,  generals,  charlatans,  combine, 
While  Europe  wonders  at  the  vast  design  : 
There  Metternich,  power's  foremost  parasite, 
Cajoles ;  there  Wellington  forgets  to  fight ; 
There   Chateaubriand    forms   new  books   of 

martyrs ;  5 
And  subtle  Greeks8  intrigue  for  stupid  Tar- 
tars ; 
There     Montmorenci,     the    sworn     foe    to 

charters,4 
Turns  a  diplomatist  of  great  eclat, 
To  furnish  articles  for  the  "  Debats ;  " 
Of  war  so  certain  —  yet  not  quite  so  sure 
As  his  dismissal  in  the  "  Moniteur." 
Alas!  how  could  his  cabinet  thus  err? 
Can  peace  be  worth  an  ultra-minister  ? 
He  falls  indeed,  perhaps  to  rise  again, 
"Almost  as  quickly  as  he  conquered  Spain."5 

XVII. 
Enough  of  this —  a  sight  more  mournful  woos 
The  averted  eve  of  the  reluctant  muse. 


2  Monsieur  Chateaubriand,  who  has  not  forgotten 
the  author  in  the  minister,  received  a  handsome 
compliment  at  Verona  from  a  literary  sovereign: 
"Ah!  Monsieur  C,  are  you  related  to  that  CI  a- 
teaubriand  who  —  who  —  who  has  written  seme- 
thing?"  (£crit  queique  chose!)  It  is  said  that  the 
author  of  Atala  repented  him  for  a  moment  of  his 
legitimacy. 

3  [Count  Capo  d'Istrias  —  afterwards  Presidents! 
Greece.  The  Count  was  murdered,  in  September, 
1S31,  by  the  brother  and  son  of  a  Mainotc  chief 
whom  he  had  imprisoned.] 

4  [The  Duke  de  Montmorenci-Laval.] 

b  [From  Pope's  verses  on  Lord  Peterborough.] 


THE  AGE    OF  BRONZE. 


255 


The  imperial  daughter,  the  imperial  bride, 
The  imperial  victim  —  sacrifice  to  pride  ; 
The  mother  of  the  hero's  hope,  the  boy, 
The  young  Astyanax  of  modern  Troy ; 
The  still  pale  shadow  of  the  loftiest  queen 
That  earth  has  yet  to  see,  or  e'er  hath  seen ; 
She  flits  amidst  the  phantoms  of  the  hour, 
The  theme  of  pity,  and  the  wreck  of  power. 
Oh,  cruel  mockery !  Could  not  Austria  spare 
A   daughter  ?     What    did    France's    widow 

there  ? 
Her  fitter  place  was  by  St.  Helen's  wave, 
Her  only  throne  is  in  Napoleon's  grave. 
But,  no,  — she  still  must  hold  a  petty  reign, 
Flanked  by  her  formidable  chamberlain  ; 
The  martial  Argus,  whose  not  hundred  eyes 
Must  watch  her  through  tbese  paltry  pagean- 
tries. * 
What  though  she  share  no  more,  and  shared 

in  vain, 
A  sway  suqjassing  that  of  Charlemagne, 
Which  swept  from  Moscow  to  the  southern 

seas ! 
Yet  still  she  rules  the  pastoral  realm  of  cheese, 
Where  Parma  views  the  traveller  resort 
To  note  the  trappings  of  her  mimic  court. 
But  she  appears !  Verona  sees  her  shorn 
Of  all  her  beams  —  while  nations  gaze  and 

mourn  — 
Ere  yet  her  husband's  ashes  have  had  time 
To  chill  in  their  inhospitable  clime; 
(If  e'er  those  awful  ashes  can  grow  cold;  — 
But  no,   their   embers   soon  will    burst  the 

mould;) 
She    comes !  —  the    Andromache    (but    not 

Racine's, 
Nor  Homer's,) — Lo !    on  Pyrrhus'  arm  she 

leans ! 
Yes !  the  right  arm,  yet  red  from  Waterloo, 


1  [Count  Neipperg,  chamberlain  and  second  hus- 
band to  Maria  Louisa,  had  but  one  eye.  The  count 
died  in  1831.] 


Which  cut  her  lord's  half-shattered  sceptre 

through, 
Is  offered  and  accepted  !     Could  a  slave 
Do    more?   or   less?  —  and   he   in   his   new 

grave ! 
Her  eye,  her  cheek,  betray  no  inward  strife, 
And  the  ^x-empress  grow  as  ex  a  wife ! 
So  much  for  human  ties  in  royal  breasts ! 
Why  spare   men's  feelings,  when  their  own 

are  jests  ? 

XVIII. 

But,  tired  of  foreign  follies,  I  turn  home, 
And  sketch  the  group  —  the  picture's  yet  to 

come. 
My  muse  'gan  weep,  but,  ere  a  tear  was  spilt 
She  caught  Sir  William  Curtis  in  a  kilt ! 
While  thronged  the  chiefs  of  every  Highland 

clan 
To  hail  their  brother,  Vich  Ian  Alderman  ! 
Guildhall  grows  Gael,  and  echoes  with  Erse 

roar, 
While  all  the  Common  Council  cry  "  Clay- 
more !  " 
To  see  proud  Albyn's  tartans  as  a  belt 
Gird  the  gross  sirloin  of  a  city  Celt,2 
She  burst  into  a  laughter  so  extreme, 
That  I  awoke  —  and  lo !  it  was  no  dream ! 
Here,  reader,  will  we  pause  :  —  if  there's  no 

harm  in 
This   first  —  you'll   have,   perhaps,  a  second 
"  Carmen." 


2  [George  the  Fourth  is  said  to  have  been  some- 
what annoyed,  on  entering  the  levee-room  at  Holy- 
rood  (Aug.  1822)  in  full  Stuart  tartan,  to  see  only 
one  figure  similarly  attired  (and  of  similar  bulk)  — 
that  of  Sir  William  Curtis.  The  city  knight  had 
every  thing  complete  —  even  the  knife  stuck  in  the 
garter.  He  asked  the  King,  if  he  did  not  think 
him  well  dressed.  "Yes!"  replied  his  Majesty, 
"  only  you  have  no  spoon  in  your  hose."  The  de- 
vourer  of  turtle  had  a  fine  engraving  executed  of 
himself  in  his  Celtic  attire. J 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE: 

A     ROMAUNT. 


L'univers  est  une  espece  de  livre,  dont  on  n'a  lu  que  la  premiere  page  quand  on  n'a  vu  que  son  pays. 
J'en  ai  fcuillete  un  assez  grand  nombre,  que  j'ai  trouve  egalement  mauvaises.  Cet  examen  ne  m'a  point 
eti  infructueux.  Je  ha'issais  ma  patrie.  Toutes  Ies  impertinences  des  peuples  divers,  parmi  lesquels  j'ai 
vecu,  m'ont  reconcilie  avec  elle.  Quand  je  n'aurais  tire  d'autre  benefice  de  ines  voyages  que  celui-la,  je 
n'en  regrettcrais  ni  les  frais  ni  les  fatigues.  —  Le  Cosmopolite.1 


PREFACE    TO  THE   FIRST   AND    SECOND  CANTOS. 

The  following  poem  was  written,  for  the  most  part,  amidst  the  scenes  which  it  attempts  to  describe.  It 
was  begun  in  Albania;  and  the  parts  relative  to  Spain  and  Portugal  were  composed  from  the  author's 
observations  in  those  countries.  Thus  much  it  may  be  necessary  to  state  for  the  correctness  of  the  descrip- 
tions The  scenes  attempted  to  be  sketched  are  in  Spain,  Portugal,  Epirus,  Acarnania,  and  Greece. 
There,  for  the  present,  the  poem  stops:  its  reception  will  determine  whether  the  author  may  venture  to 
conduct  his  readers  to  the  capital  of  the  East,  through  Ionia  and  Phrygia:  these  two  cantos  are  merely 
experimental.  t 

A  fictitious  character  is  introduced  for  the  sake  of  giving  some  connection  to  the  piece;  which,  how- 
ever, makes  no  pretension  to  regularity.  It  has  been  suggested  to  me  by  friends,  on  whose  opinions  I 
set  a  high  value,  that  in  this  fictitious  character,  "  Childe  Harold,"  I  may  incur  the  suspicion  of  having 
intended  some  real  personage:  this  I  beg  leave,  once  for  all,  to  disclaim —  Harold  is  the  child  of  irr  a  ri- 
nation,  for  the  purpose  I  have  stated.  In  some  very  trivial  particulars,  and  those  merely  local,  there 
might  be  grounds  for  such  a  notion;  but  in  the  main  points,  I  should  hope,  none  whatever. 

It  is  almost  superfluous  to  mention  that  the  appellation  "  Childe,"  as  "  Childe  Waters,""  Childe  Child- 
ers,"  etc.  is  used  as  more  consonant  with  the  old  structure  of  versification  which  I  have  adopted.  The 
"Good  Night,"  in  the  beginning  of  the  first  canto,  was  suggested  by  "  Lord  Maxwell's  Good  Night,"  ia 
the  Border  Minstrelsy,  edited  by  Mr.  Scott. 

With  the  different  poems  which  have  been  published  on  Spanish  subjects,  there  may  be  found  some 
slight  coincidence  in  the  first  part  which  treats  of  the  Peninsula,  but  it  can  only  be  casual;  as,  with  the 
exception  of  a  few  concluding  stanzas,  the  whole  of  this  poem  was  written  in  the  Levant. 

The  stanza  of  Spenser,  according  to  one  of  our  most  successful  poets,  admits  of  every  variety.  Dr. 
Beattie  makes  the  following  observation:  — "  Not  long  ago  I  began  a  poem  in  the  style  and  stanza  ol 
Spenser,  in  which  I  proposed  to  give  full  scope  to  my  inclination,  and  be  either  droll  or  pathetic,  descrip- 
tive or  sentimental,  tender  or  satirical,  as  the  humor  strikes  me:  for,  if  I  mistake  not,  the  measure  which 
I  have  adopted  admits  equally  of  all  these  kinds  of  composition."  -  —  Strengthened  in  my  opinion  by  such 
authority,  and  by  the  example  of  some  in  the  highest  order  of  Italian  poets,  I  shall  make  no  apology  for 
attempts  at  similar  variations  in  the  following  composition;  satisfied  that,  if  they  are  unsuccessful,  their 
failure  must  be  in  the  execution,  rather  than  in  the  design  sanctioned  by  the  practice  of  Ariosto,  Thorn- 
ton, and  Reattie. 

London,  February,  i8ia. 

1  [Par  M.  de  Montbron,  Paris,  1798.  Byron  somewhere  calls  it  "  an  amusing  little  volume,  full  ai 
French  flippancy."] 

2  Beanie's  Letters. 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE.  257 


ADDITION  TO  THE   PREFACE. 

I  HAVE  dow  waited  till  almost  all  our  periodical  journals  have  distributed  their  usual  portion  of  criti« 
cism.  To  the  justice  of  the  generality  of  their  criticisms  I  have  nothing  to  object:  it  would  ill  become 
me  to  quarrel  with  their  very  slight  degree  of  censure,  when,  perhaps,  if  they  had  been  less  kind  they  had 
been  more  candid.  Returning,  therefore,  to  all  and  each  my  best  thanks  for  their  liberality,  on  one 
point  alone  shall  I  venture  an  observation.  Amongst  the  many  objections  justly  urged  to  the  very  indif- 
ferent character  of  the  "  vagrant  Childe  "  (whom,  notwithstanding  many  hints  to  the  contrary,  I  still 
maintain  to  be  a  fictitious  personage),  it  has  been  stated  that,  besides  the  anachronism,  he  is  very 
unknightly,  as  the  times  of  the  Knights  were  times  of  Love,  Honor,  and  so  forth.  Now,  it  so  happens 
that  the  good  old  times,  when  "  l'amour  du  bon  vieux  tems,  l'amour  antique  "  flourished,  were  the  most 
profligate  of  all  possible  centuries.  Those  who  have  any  doubts  on  this  subject  may  consult  Sainte- 
VaXaye,  passim ,  and  more  particularly  vol.  ii.  p.  69.  The  vows  of  chivalry  were  no  better  kept  than  any 
other  vows  whatsoever;  and  the  songs  of  the  Troubadours  were  not  more  decent,  and  certainly  were 
much  less  refined,  than  those  of  Ovid.  The  "  Cours  d'amour,  parlemens  d'amour,  ou  de  court^sie  et  de 
gentilesse  "  had  much  more  of  love  than  of  courtesy  or  gentleness.  See  Roland  on  the  same  subject  with 
Sainte-Palaye.  Whatever  other  objection  may  be  urged  to  that  most  unamiable  personage,  Childe  Har- 
old, he  was  so  far  perfectly  knightly  in  his  attributes — "  No  waiter,  but  a  knight  templar."1  By  the 
by,  I  fear  that  Sir  Tristrem  and  Sir  Lancelot  were  no  better  than  they  should  be,  although  very  poetical 
personages  and  true  knights  "  sans  peur,"  though  not  "  sans  reproche."  If  the  story  of  the  institution 
of  the  "  Garter"  be  not  a  fable,  the  knights  of  that  order  have  for  several  centuries  borne  the  badge  of  a 
Countess  of  Salisbury,  of  indifferent  memory.  So  much  for  chivalry.  Burke  need  not  have  regretted 
that  its  days  are  over,  though  Marie-Antoinette  was  quite  as  chaste  as  most  of  those  in  whose  honors 
lances  were  shivered,  and  knights  unhorsed. 

Before  the  days  of  Bayard,  and  down  to  those  of  Sir  Joseph  Banks  2  (the  most  chaste  and  celebrated 
of  ancient  and  modern  times),  few  exceptions  will  be  found  to  this  statement;  and  I  fear  a  little  investi- 
gation will  teach  us  not  to  regret  these  monstrous  mummeries  of  the  middle  ages. 

I  now  leave"  Childe  Harold  "to  live  his  day,  such  as  he  is;  it  had  been  more  agreeable,  and  certainly 
more  easy,  to  have  drawn  an  amiable  character.  It  had  been  easy  to  varnish  over  his  faults,  to  make 
him  do  more  and  express  less,  but  he  never  was  intended  as  an  example,  further  than  to  show,  that  early 
perversion  of  mind  and  morals  leads  to  satiety  of  past  pleasures  and  disappointment  in  new  ones,  and 
that  even  the  beauties  of  nature,  and  the  stimulus  of  travel  (except  ambition,  the  most  powerful  of  all 
excitements)  are  lost  on  a  soul  so  constituted,  or  rather  misdirected.  Had  I  proceeded  with  the  poem, 
this  character  would  have  deepened  as  he  drew  to  the  close;  for  the  outline  which  I  once  meant  to  fill 
up  for  him  was,  with  some  exceptions,  the  sketch  of  a  modern  Timon,3  perhaps  a  poetical  Zeluco.* 

London,  1813. 

1"  The  Rovers,  or  the  Double  Arrangement."    Anti-jacobin. 

■  [This  compliment  to  Banks  was  ironical.  His  affairs  with  the  women  of  Otaheite,  during  Cook's  first 
voyage,  had  long  been  the  subject  of  raillery  in  England.] 

3  [In  one  of  his  early  poems  —  "  Childish  Recollections,"  —  Byron  compares  himself  to  the  Athenian 
misanthrope:  — 

"  Weary  of  Love,  of  Life,  devoured  with  spleen, 
I  rest  a  perfect  Timon,  not  nineteen,"  etc.] 

4  [It  was  Dr.  Moore's  object,  in  this  powerful  romance,  to  trace  the  fatal  effects  resulting  from  a  fond 
mother's  unconditional  compliance  with  the  humors  and  passions  of  an  only  child.  With  high  advan- 
tages of  person,  birth,  fortune,  and  ability,  Zeluco  is  represented  as  miserable,  through  every  scene  oi 
kfe.  owing  to  the  spirit  of  unbridled  self-indulgence  thus  pampered  in  infancy.] 


Z5S 


CHILD E  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


TO  IANTHE.1 


Not  in  those  climes  where  I  have  late  been 
straying. 

Though  Beauty  long  hath  there  been  match- 
less deemed ; 

Not  in  those  visions  to  the  heart  displaying 

Forms  which  it  sighs  but  to  have  only 
dreamed, 

Hath  aught  like  thee  in  truth  or  fancy 
seemed : 

Nor,  having  seen  thee,  shall  I  vainly  seek 

To  paint  those  charms  which  varied  as  they 
beamed  — 

To  such  as  see  thee  not  my  words  were  weak  ; 
To  those  who  gaze  on  thee  what  language 
could  they  speak  ? 

Ah  !  may'st  thou  ever  be  what  now  thou  art, 
Nor  unlieseem  the  promise  of  thy  spring, 
As  fair  in  form,  as  warm  yet  pure  in  heart, 
Love's  image  upon  earth  without  his  wing, 
And  guileless  beyond  Hope's  imagining ! 
And  surely  she  who  now  so  fondly  rears 
Thy  youth,  in  thee,  thus  hourly  brightening, 
Beholds  the  rainbow  of  her  future  years, 
Before  whose  heavenly  hues  all  sorrow  disap- 
pears. 

Young  Peri  of  the  West!  — 'tis  well  for  me 
My  years  already  doubly  number  thine  ; 
My  loveless  eye  unmoved  may  gaze  on  thee, 
And  safely  view  thy  ripening  beauties  shine  ; 
Happy,  I  ne'er  shall  see  them  in  decline  ; 
Happier,  that  while  all  younger  hearts  shall 
bleed, 


Mine   shall   escape   the  doom   thine   eyes 

assign 
To  those  whose  admiration  shall  succeed, 
But  mixed  with  pangs  to  Love's  even  loveliest 
hours  decreed. 

Oh !    let  that  eye,  which,  wild  as  the  Ga- 
zelle's, 
Now  brightly  bold  or  beautifully  shy, 
Wins  as  it  wanders,  dazzles  where  it  dwells, 
Glance  o'er  this  page,  nor  to  my  verse  deny 
That  smile  for  which  my  breast  might  vainly 

sigh,  i 

Could  I  to  thee  be  ever  more  than  friend  : 
This  much,  dear  maid,  accord;  nor  ques- 
tion why 
To  one  so  young  my  strain  I  would  com 
mend. 
But  bid  me  with  my  wreath  one  matchless  lily 
blend. 

Such  >s   thy  name  with  this  my  verse  en- 
twined ; 
And  long  as  kinder  eyes  a  look  shall  cast 
On  Harold's  page,  Ianthe's  here  enshrined 
Shall  thus  be  first  beheld,  forgotten  last : 
My  days  once  numbered,  should  this  hom- 
age pas^ 
Attract  thy  fairy  fingers  near  the  lyre 
Of  him  who  hailed  thee,  loveliest  as  thou 

wast, 
Such  is  the  most  my  memory  may  desire; 
Though   more   than    Hope  can  claim,  could 
j.  nendship  less  require  ? 


1  [Lady  Charlotte  Harley,  afterwards  Lady  Charlotte  Bacon,  second  daughter  of  the  Earl  of  Oxford, 
in  the  autumn  of  1812,  when  these  lines  were  addressed  to  her,  had  not  completed  her  eleventh  year 
Her  juvenile  beauty  has  been  preserved  in  a  portrait  which  Westall  painted  at  Byron's  request.] 


CANTO  THE  FIRST. 


OH,  thou!  in  Hellas  deemed  of  heavenly 

birth, 
Muse!  formed  or  fabled  at  the  minstrel's 

will! 
Since  shamed  full  oft  by  later  lyres  on  earth, 
Mine  dares  not  call  thee'from  thy  sacred  hill : 
Yet  there  I've  wandered  by  thy  vaunted  rill ; 
Yes!    sighed   o'er   Delphi's   long  deserted 

shrine,1 

_  1  The  little  village  of  Castri  stands  partly  on  the 
site  of  Delphi.     Along  the  path  of  the  mountain, 


Where,  save  that  feeble  fountain,  all  is  still; 
Nor  mote  my  shell  awake  the  weary  Nine 
To  grace  so  plain  a  tale  —  this  lowly  lay  of  mine, 


from  Chrysso,  are  the  remains  of  sepulchres  hewn 
in  and  from  the  rock.  "  One,"  said  the  guide,  "  of 
a  king  who  broke  his  neck  hunting."  His  majesty 
had  certainly  chosen  the  fittest  spot  for  such  an 
achievement.  A  little  above  Castri  is  a  cave,  sup- 
posed the  Pythian,  of  immense  depth;  the  uppe. 
part  of  it  is  paved,  and  now  a  cow-house.  On  the 
other  side  of  Castri  stands  a  Greek  monastery, 
some  way  above  which  is  the  cleft  in  the  rock,  with 
a  range  of  caverns  difficult  of  ascent,  piu\  apparently 


CHILD E  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


259 


Whilome  in  Albion's  isle  there  dwelt  a  youth, 
Who  ne  in  virtue's  ways  did  take  delight ; 
But  spent  his  days  in  riot  most  uncouth, 
And  vexed  with  mirth  the  drowsy  ear  of 

Night. 
Ah,  me  !  in  sooth  he  was  a  shameless  wight, 
Sore  given  to  revel  and  ungodly  glee  ; 
Few  earthly  things  found  favor  in  his  sight, 
Save  concubines  and  carnal  companie, 
A.nd  flaunting  wassailers    of  high   and   low 

degree. 

III. 

Childe  Harold  was  he  hight :  —  but  whence 

his  name 
And  lineage  long,  it  suits  me  not  to  say ; 
Suffice  it,  that  perchance  they  were  of  fame, 
And  had  been  glorious  in  another  day : 
But  one  sad  losel  soils  a  name  for  aye, 
However  mighty  in  the  olden  time ; 
Nor  all  that  heralds  rake  from  coffined  clay, 
Nor  florid  prose,  nor  honied  lies  of  rhvme, 
Can  blazon  evil  deeds,  or  consecrate  a  crime. 


Childe  Harold  basked  him  in  the  noontide 

sun, 
Disporting  there  like  any  other  fly, 
Nor  deemed  before  his  little  day  was  done 
One  blast  might  chill  him  into  misery. 
But  long  ere  scarce  a  third  of  his  passed  by, 
Worse  than  adversity  the  Childe  befell ; 
He  felt  the  fulness  of  satiety : 
Then  loathed  he  in  his  native  land  to  dwell, 
Which  seemed  to  him  more  lone  than  Ere- 
mite's sad  cell. 

V. 

For  he  through  Sin's  long  labyrinth  had  run, 
Nor  made  atonement  when  he  did  amiss, 
Had  sighed  to  many  though  he  loved  but 

one, 
And  that  loved  one ,  alas  !  could  ne'er  be  his. 
Ah,  happy  she !  to  'scape  from  him  whose 

kiss 
Had  been  pollution  unto  aught  so  chaste ; 
Who  soon  had  left  her  charms  for  vulgar 

bliss, 
And  spoiled  her  goodly  lands  to  gild  his 

waste, 
Nor  calm  domestic  peace  had  ever  deigned 

to  taste. 


leading  to  the  interior  of  the  mountain;  probably 
to  the  Corycian  Cavern  mentioned  by  Pausanias. 
From  this  part  descend  the  fountain  and  the  "  Dews 
of  Caslalie." —  ["  We  were  sprinkled,"  says  Hob- 
house,  "  with  the  spray  of  the  immortal  rill,  and 
here,  if  anywhere,  should  have  felt  the  poetic  inspi- 
ration: we  drank  deep,  too,  of  the  spring;  but  — 
(I  can  answer  for  myseir)  —  without  feeling  sensi- 
ble of  any  extraordinary  effect. "J 


VI. 

And  now  Childe  Harold  was  sore  sick  at 

heart, 
And  from  his  fellow  bacchanals  would  flee ; 
Tis  said,  at  times  the  sullen  tear  would  start, 
But  Pride  congealed  the  drop  within  his  ee  : 
Apart  he  stalked  in  joyless  reverie, 
And  from  his  native  land  resolved  to  go, 
And  visit  scorching  climes  beyond  the  sea; 
With  pleasure  drugged,  he  almost  longed 

for  woe, 
And  e'en  for  change  of  scene  would  seek  the < 

shades  below. 

VII. 

The  Childe  departed  from  his  father's  hall : 

It  was  a  vast  and  venerable  pile ; 

So  old,  it  seemed  only  not  to  fall, 

Yet  strength  was  pillared  in  each  massy  aisle. 

Monastic  dome!  condemned  to  uses  vile! 

Where  superstition  once  had  made  her  den 

Now  Paphian  girls  were  known  to  sing  and 

smile ; 
And  monks  might  deem  their  time  was  come 

agen, 
If  ancient  tales  say  true,  nor  wrong  these  holy 

men. 

VIII. 
Yet  oft-times  in  his  maddest  mirthful  mood 
Strange  pangs   would   flash   along   Childe 

Harold's  brow, 
As  if  the  memory  of  some  deadly  feud 
Or  disappointed  passion  lurked  below : 
But  this  none  knew,  nor  haply  cared  to  know; 
For  his  was  not  that  open,  artless  soul 
That  feels  relief  by  bidding  sorrow  flow, 
Nor  sought  he  friend  to  counsel  or  condole, 
Whate'er  this  grief  mote  be,  which  he  could 
not  control. 

IX. 

And  none  did  love  him  —  though  to  hall  and 

bower 
He  gathered  revellers  from  far  and  near, 
He  knew  them  flatterers  of  the  festal  hour; 


1  [In  these  stanzas,  and  indeed  throughout  hig 
works,  we  must  not  accept  too  literally  Byron's  tes- 
timony against  himself —  he  took  a  morbid  pleasure 
in  darkening  every  shadow  of  his  self-portraiture. 
His  life  at  Newstead  had,  no  doubt,  been,  in  some 
points  loose  and  irregular  enough;  but  it  certainly 
never  exhibited  any  thing  of  the  profuse  and  Sul- 
tanic  luxury  which  the  language  in  the  text  might 
seem  to  indicate.  In  fact,  the  narrowness  of  his 
means  at  the  time  the  verses  refer  to  would  alone 
have  precluded  this.  His  household  economy, 
while  he  remained  at  the  Abbey,  is  known  to  have 
been  conducted  on  a  very  moderate  scale;  and,  be- 
sides, his  usual  companions,  though  far  from  being 
averse  to  convivial  indulgences,  were  not  only,  as 
Moore  says,  "  of  habits  and  tastes  too  intellectual 
for  mere  vulgar  debauchery,"  but,  assuredly,  quite 
incapable  of  playing  the  parts  of  flatterers  and 
parasites.] 


260 


CHILD E  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


The  heartless  parasites  of  present  cheer. 
Yea!  none  did  love  him  —  not  his  lemans 

dear  — 
But  pomp  and  power  alone  are  woman's 

care, 
And  where  these  are  light  Eros  finds  a  fere  ; 
Maidens,  like  moths,  are   ever   caught   by 

glare, 
And  Mammon  wins  his  way  where  Seraphs 

might  despair. 

X. 

Childe  Harold  had  a  mother — not  forgot, 
Though  parting  from  that  mother  he  did 

shun ; 
A  sister  whom  he  loved,  but  saw  her  not 
Before  his  weary  pilgrimage  begun  : 
If  friends  he  had,  he  .bade  adieu  to  none. 
Yet  deem  not  thence  his  breast  a  breast  of 

steel : 
Ye,  who  have  known  what  'tis  to  dote  upon 
A  few  dear  objects,  will  in  sadness  feel 
Such   partings   break   the  heart  they  fondly 

hope  to  heal. 

XI. 

His  house,  his  home,  his  heritage,  his  lands, 
The  laughing  dames  in  whom  he  did  delight, 
Whose  large  blue  eyes,  fair  locks,  and  snowy 

hands, 
Might  shake  the  saintship  of  an  anchorite, 
And  long  had  fed  his  youthful  appetite ; 
His  goblets  brimmed  with  every  costly  wine, 
Ana  all  that  mote  to  luxury  invite, 
Without  a  sigh  he  left,  to  cross  the  brine, 
And  traverse  Paynim  shores,  and  pass  Earth's 

central  line.1 

XII. 

The  sails  were  filled,  and  fair  the  light  winds 

blew, 
As  glad  to  waft  him  from  his  native  home; 
And  fast  the  white  rocks  faded  from  his  view, 
And  soon  were  lost  in  circumambient  foam  : 
And  then,  it  may  be,  of  his  wish  to  roam 
Reoented  he,  but  in  his  bosom  slept 
The  silent  thought,  nor  from  his  lips  did 

come 
One  word  of  wail,  whilst  others  sate  and 

wept, 
And  to  the  reckless  gales  unmanly  moaning 

kept. 

XIII. 

But  when  the  sun  was  sinking  in  the  sea, 
He  seized  his  harp,  which  he  at  times  could 

string, 
And  strike,  albeit  with  untaught  melody, 
When  deemed  he  no  strange  ear  was  listen- 
ing: 
And  now  his  fingers  o'er  it  he  did  fling, 
And  tuned  his  farewell  in  the  dim  twilight, 


1  [Byron  originally  intended  to  visit  India.] 


While  flew  the  vessel  on  her  snowy  wing. 
And  fleeting  shores  receded  from  his  sigl**. 
Thus   to    the    elements   he   poured   his    last 
"  Good  Night." 

i. 
"  ADIEU,  adieu  !  my  native  shore 
Fades  o'er  the  waters  blue ; 
The  Night-winds  sigh,  the  breakers  roar. 

And  shrieks  the  wild  sea-mew. 
Yon  Sun  that  sets  upon  the  sea 

We  follow  in  his  flight ; 
Farewell  awhile  to  him  and  thee, 
My  native  Land  —  Good  Night! 

2. 
"  A  few  short  hours  and  he  will  rise 
To  give  the  morrow  birth  ; 
And  I  shall  hail  the  main  and  skies, 

But  not  my  mother  earth. 
Deserted  is  my  own  good  hall, 

Its  hearth  is  desolate; 
Wild  weeds  are  gathering  on  the  wall; 
My  dog  howls  at  the  gate. 

3- 
"  Come  hither,  hither,  my  little  page!  ^ 
Why  dost  thou  weep  and  wail  ? 
Or  dost  thou  dread  the  billows'  rage, 

Or  tremble  at  the  gale  ? 
But  dash  the  tear-drop  from  thine  eye; 

Our  ship  is  swift  and  strong : 
Our  fleetest  falcon  scarce  can  fly 
More  merrily  along." 

4- 
"  Let  winds  be  shrill,  let  waves  roll  high, 
I  fear  not  wave  nor  wind, 
Yet  marvel  not.  Sir  Childe,  that  I 

Am  sorrowful  in  mind ; 
For  I  have  from  my  father  gon«», 

A  mother  whom  I  love, 
And  have  no  friend,  save  these  aioae, 
But  thee  —  and  one  above. 


"  My  father  blessed  me  fervently, 
Yet  did  not  much  complain ; 
But  sorely  will  my  mother  sigh 
Till  I  come  back  again."  — 
"  Enough,  enough,  my  little  lad! 
Such  tears  become  thine  eye, 
If  I  thy  guileless  bosom  had, 
Mine  own  would  not  be  dry.3 


2  [This  "  little  page  "  was  Robert  Rushton,  t\t\ 
son  of  one  of  Byron's  tenants.  "  I  take  Robert 
with  me,"  says  the  poet,  in  a  letter  to  his  mother; 
"  I  like  him,  because,  like  myself,  he  seems  a  friend 
less  animal."  The  boy,  being  sickly,  Byron,  e* 
reaching  Gibraltar,  sent  him  back  to  England.] 

3  [Here  follows  in  the  original  MS. :  — 

"  My  Mother  is  a  high-born  dame, 
And  much  misliketh  me 


CHILDE   HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


261 


*  Come  hither,  hither,  my  staunch  yeoman,1 
Why  dost  thou  look  so  pale  ? 
Or  dost  thou  dread  a  French  foeman  ? 
Or  shiver  at  the  gale  ?  " 
'  Deem'st  thou  I  tremble  for  my  life  ? 
Sir  Childe,  I'm  not  so  weak; 
But  thinking  on  an  absent  wife 
Will  blanch  a  faithful  cheek. 


"  My  spouse  and  boys  dwell  near  thy  hall, 
Along  the  bordering  lake, 
And  when  they  on  their  father  call, 
What  answer  shall  she  make  ?  " 
"  Enough,  enough,  my  yeoman  good, 
Thy  grief  let  none  gainsay ; 
But  I,  who  am  of  lighter  mood, 
WTill  laugh  to  flee  away. 

8. 
"  For  who  would  trust  the  seeming  sighs 
Of  wife  or  paramour  ? 
Fresh  feres  will  dry  the  bright  blue  eyes 

We  late  saw  streaming  o'er. 
For  pleasures  past  I  do  not  grieve, 

Nor  perils  gathering  near; 

My  greatest  grief  is  that  I  leave 

No  thing  that  claims  a  tear. 


'And  now  I'm  in  the  world  alone, 

Upon  the  wide,  wide  sea  : 
But  why  should  I  for  others  groan, 

When  none  will  sigh  for  me  ? 
Perchance  my  dog  will  whine  in  vain, 

Till  fed  by  stranger  hands ; 
But  long  ere  I  come  back  again 

He'd  tear  me  where  he  stands.2 


She  saith  my  riot  bringeth  shame 

On  all  my  ancestry  : 
I  had  a  sister  once  I  ween, 

Whose  tears  perhaps  will  flow; 
But  her  fair  face  I  have  not  seen 
For  three  long  years  and  moe."] 
1  [William  Fletcher,  his  faithful  valet.     This  un- 
sophisticated "  yeoman  "  was  a  constant  source  of 
pleasantry   to   his   master: — e.g.   "Fletcher,"   he 
says,  in  a  letter  to  his  mother,  "  is  not  valiant:   he 
requires   comforts   that    I    can  dispense  with,   and 
sighs  for  beer,  and  beef,  and  tea,  and  his  wife,  and 
the  devil  knows  what  besides.     WTe  were  one  night 
lost  in  a  thunder-storm,  and  since,  nearly  wrecked. 
In    both   cases    he  was   sorely   bewildered;    from 
apprehensions  of  famine  and  banditti  in  the  first, 
and  drowning  in   the   second   instance.     His  eyes 
were  a  little  hurt  by  the  lightning,  or  crying,  I  don't 
know  which.     I  did  what  I   could  to  console  him, 
but  found  him  incorrigible.     He  sends  six  sighs  to 
Sally.     I   shall   settle   him   in   a  farm:    for  he   has 
served  me  faithfully,  and  Sally  is  a  good  woman."] 
'■  [Here  follows  in  the  original  MS. :  — 
"  Methinks  it  would  my  bosom  glad, 
To  change  my  proud  estate, 


"  With  thee,  my  bark,  I'll  swiftly  go 

Athwart  the  foaming  brine; 
Nor  care  what  land  thou  bear'st  me  to, 

So  not  again  to  mine. 
Welcome,  welcome,  ye  dark-blue  waves \ 

And  when  you  fail  my  sight, 
Welcome,  ye  deserts,  and  ye  caves ! 

My  native  Land —  Good  Night !  "  3 


On,  on  the  vessel  flies,  the  land  is  gone, 
And   winds  are  rude  in  Biscay's  sleepless 

bay. 
Four  days  are  sped,  but  with  the  fifth,  anon. 
New   shores  descried   make  every  bosom 

gay; 
And  Cintra's  mountain  greets  them  on  their 

way, 
And  Tagus  dashing  onward  to  the  deep, 
His  fabled  golden  tribute  bent  to  pay  ; 
And  soon  on  board  the  Lusian  pilots  leap, 
And  steer  'twixt  fertile  shores  where  yet  few 

rustics  reap. 

xv. 

Oh,  Christ !  it  is  a  goodly  sight  to  see 
What  Heaven  hath  done  for  this  delicious 

land! 
What  fruits  of  fragrance  blush  on  every  tree ! 
What  goodly  prospects  o'er  the  hills  expand ! 
But  man  would  mar  them  with  an  impious 

hand : 
And  when   the  Almighty  lifts  his   fiercest 

scourge 


And  be  again  a  laughing  lad 

With  one  belo\  ed  playmate. 
Since  youth  I  scarce  hive  passed  an  hour 

Without  disgust  or  pain, 
Except  sometimes  in  Lady's  bower, 

Or  when  the  bowl  1  drain."] 

s  [Originally,  the  "little  page"  a_id  the  "yeo- 
man" were  introduced  in  the  following  stanzas:  — 

"  And  of  his  train  there  was  a  henchman  page, 
A  peasant  boy,  who  served  his  master  well; 
And  often  would  his  pranksome  prate  engage 
Childe   Harold's  ear,  when  his  proud  heart  did 

swell 
With  sable  thoughts  that  he  disdained  to  tell. 
Then  would  he  smile  on  him,  and  Alwin  smiled, 
When  aught  that  from  his  young  lips  archly  fell 
The  gloomy  film  from  Harold's  eye  beguiled ; 
And   pleased   for    a   glimpse   appeared  the  woefu 

Childe. 

"  Him  and  one  yeoman  only  did  he  take 
To  travel  eastward  to  a  far  countrie; 
And,  though  the  boy  was  grieved  to  leave  the  lak€ 
On  whose  fair  banks  he  f  rew  from  infancy, 
Eftsoons  his  little  hea  't  beat  merrily 
With  hope  of  foreign  nations  to  behold, 
And  many  things  right  marvellous  to  see, 
Of  which  our  vaunting  voyagers  oft  hr.ve  told, 

In  many  a  tome  as  true  as  Mandeville's  of  old."] 


262 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


'Gainst  those  who  most  transgress  his  high 

command, 
With  treble  vengeance  will   his  hot  shafts 
urge 
Gaul's  locust  host,  and  earth  from  fellest  foe- 
men  purge. 

XVI. 

What  beauties  doth  Lisboa1  first  unfold  1 
Her  image  floating  on  that  noble  tide, 
Which  poets  vainly  pave  with  sands  of  gold, 
But  now  whereon  a  thousand  keels  did  ride 
Of  mighty  strength,  since  Albion  was  allied, 
And  to  the  Lusians  did  her  aid  afford  : 
A  nation  swoln  with  ignorance  and  pride, 
Who  lick  yet  loathe  the  hand  that  waves 
the  sword 
To  save  them  from  the  wrath  of  Gaul's  un- 
sparing lord. 

XVII. 

But  whoso  entereth  within  this  town, 
That,  sheening  far,  celestial  seems  to  be, 
Disconsolate  will  wander  up  and  down, 
Mid  many  things  unsightly  to  strange  ee; 
For  hut  and  palace  show  like  filthily: 
The  dingy  denizens  are  reared  in  dirt; 
Ne  personage  of  high  or  mean  degree 
Doth  care  for  cleanness  of  surtout  or  shirt, 
Though  shent  with  Egypt's  plague,  unkempt, 
unwashed;  unhurt. 

XVIII. 

Poor,  paltry  slaves !  yet  born  'midst  noblest 

scenes  — 
Why,  Nature,  waste  thy  wonders  on  such 

men  ? 
Lo  !  Cintra's  2  glorious  Eden  intervenes 
In  variegated  maze  of  mount  and  glen. 


1  ["  A  friend  advises  Ulissipont ;  but  Lisbon  is 
the  Portuguese  word,  consequently  the  best.  Ulis- 
sipont is  pedantic;  and  as  I  had  lugged  in  Htllas 
and  Eros  not  long  before,  there  would  have  been 
something  like  an  affectation  of  Greek  terms,  which 
I  wished  to  avoid.  On  the  submission  of  Lusitania 
to  the  Moors,  they  changed  the  name  of  the  capital, 
which  till  then  had  been  Ulisipo,  or  Lispo;  because, 
in  the  Arabic  alphabet,  the  letter  /  is  not  used. 
Hence,  I  believe,  Lisboa;  whence  again,  the 
French  Lisbonne,  and  our  Lisbon,  —  God  knows 
which  the  earlier  corruption!  ''Byron,  MS.] 

2  ["  To  make  amends  for  the  filthinessof  Lisbon, 
and  Us  still  filthier  inhabitants,  the  village  of  Cintra, 
about  fifteen  miles  from  the  capital,  is,  perhaps,  in 
every  respect,  the  most  delightful  in  Europe.  It 
contains  beauties  of  every  description,  natural  and 
artificial:  palaces  and  gardens  rising  in  the  midst 
of  rocks,  cataracts,  and  precipices;  convents  on 
stupendous  heights;  a  distant  view  of  the  sea  and 
the  Tagus;  and,  besides  (though  that  is  a  secondary 
consideration),  is  remarkable  as  the  scene  of  Sir 
Hew  Dalrymple's  convention.  It  unites  in  itself 
all  the  wildness  of  the  western  Highlands,  with  the 
verdure  of  the  south  of  France."  —  B.  to  Mrs. 
Byron,  1809.] 


Ah,  me  1  what  hand  can  pencil  guide,  01 
pen, 

To  follow  half  on  which  the  eye  dilates 

Through  views  more  dazzling  unto  mortal 
ken 

Than  those  whereof  such  things  the  bard 
relates, 
Who  to  the  awe-struck  world  unlocked  Ely- 
sium's gates  ? 

XIX. 

The    horrid    crags,    by    toppling    convest 

crowned, 
The  cork-trees  hoar  that  clothe  the  shaggy 

steep, 
The  mountain-moss  by  scorching  skies  im- 

browned, 
The    sunken   glen,   whose   sunless   shrubs 

must  weep, 
The  tender  azure  of  the  unruffled  deep, 
The   orange   tints   that  gild   the    greenest 

bough, 
The  torrents  that  from  cliff  to  valley  leap, 
The  vine  on  high,  the  willow  branch  below, 
Mixed  in  one  mighty  scene,  with  varied  beauty 

glow. 

XX. 

Then  slowly  climb  the  many-winding  way, 
And  frequent  turn  to  linger  as  you  go, 
From  loftier  rocks  new  loveliness  survey, 
And  rest  ye  at  "  Our  Lady's  house  of  woe;  "3 
Where  frugal  monks  their  little  relics  show, 
And  sundry  legends  to  the  stranger  tell: 
Here  impious  men  have  punished  been,  and 

lo! 
Deep  in  yon  cave  Honorius  long  did  dwell, 
In  hope  to  merit  Heaven  by  making  earth  a 

Hell. 

XXI. 

And  here  and  there,  as  up  the  crags  you 

spring, 
Mark  many  rude-carved  crosses  near  the 

path : 
Yet  deem  not  these  devotion's  offering  — 
These  are  memorials  frail  of    murderous 

wrath : 
For  wheresoe'er  the  shrieking  victim  hath 

3  The  convent  of  "  Our  Lady  of  Punishment," 
Nossa  Senora  de  Pena,  on  the  summit  of  the 
rock.  Below,  at  some  distance,  is  the  Cork  Con- 
vent, where  St.  Honorius  dug  his  den,  over  which 
is  his  epitaph.  From  the  hills,  the  sea  adds  to  the 
beauty  of  the  view.  —  [Since  the  publication  of  this 
poem,  I  have  been  informed  of  the  misapprehension 
of  the  term  Nossa  Senora  de  Pena.  It  was  owing 
to  the  want  of  the  tilde,  or  mark  over  the  «,  which 
alters  the  signification  of  the  word:  with  it,  Pena 
signifies  a  rock  ;  without  it,  Pena  has  the  sense  I 
adopted.  I  do  not  think  it  necessary  to  alter  the 
passage;  as  though  the  common  acceptation  affixed 
to  it  is  "  Our  Lady  of  the  Rock,"  I  may  well  as- 
sume the  other  sense  from  the  severities  practised 
there.  —  Ncte  to  2d  Edition.] 


CHILDE   HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


263 


Poured  forth  his  blood  beneath  the  assas- 
sin's knife, 

Some   hand  erects   a  cross  of  mouldering 
lath  ; 

And  grove  and  glen  with  thousand  such 
are  rife 
Throughout  this  purple  land,  where  law  se- 
cures not  life.1 

XXII. 

On  sloping  mounds,  or  in  the  vale  beneath, 
Are  domes  where  whilome  kings  did  make 

repair ; 
But  now  the  wild  flowers  round  them  only 

breathe ; 
Yet  ruined  splendor  still  is  lingering  there, 
And  yonder  towers  the  Prince's  palace  fair  : 
There     thou     too,     Vathek ! 2     England's 

wealthiest  son, 
Once  formed  thy  Paradise,  as  not  aware 
When  wanton  Wealth  her  mightiest  deeds 

hath  done, 
Meek  Peace  voluptuous  lures  was  ever  wont 

to  shun. 

xxm. 

Here   didst   thou  dwell,   here   schemes   of 

pleasure  plan, 
Beneath    yon    mountain's    ever   beauteous 

brow : 
But  now,  as  if  a  thing  unblest  by  Man, 
Thy  fairy  dwelling  is  as  lone  as  thou ! 
Here  giant  weeds  a  passage  scarce  allow 
To  halls  deserted,  portals  gaping  wide; 
Fresh  lessons  to  the  thinking  bosom,  how 
Vain  are  the  pleasaunces  on  earth  supplied  ; 
Swept  into  wrecks  anon  by  Time's  ungentle 

tide! 


1  It  is  a  well-known  fact,  that  in  the  year  1809, 
the  assassinations  in  the  streets  of  Lisbon  and  its 
vicinity  were  not  confined  by  the  Portuguese  to 
their  countrymen;  but  that  Englishmen  were  daily 
butchered:  and  so  far  from  redress  being  obtained, 
we  were  requested  not  to  interfere  if  we  perceived 
any  compatriot  defending  himself  against  his  allies. 
I  was  once  stopped  in  the  way  to  the  theatre  at 
eight  o'clock  in  the  evening,  when  the  streets  were 
not  more  empty  than  they  generally  are  at  that 
hour,  opposite  to  an  open  shop,  and  in  a  carriage 
with  a  friend:  had  we  not  fortunately  been  armed, 
I  have  not  the  least  doubt  that  we  should  have 
"  adorned  a  tale  "  instead  ol  telling  one.  The  crime 
of  assassination  is  not  confined  to  Portugal:  in  Sicily 
and  Malta  we  are  knocked  on  the  head  at  a  hand- 
some average  nightly,  and  not  a  Sicilian  or  Maltese 
is  ever  punished! 

2  ["  Vathek  "  (says  Byron,  in  one  of  his  diaries) 
"  was  one  of  the  tales  I  had  a  very  early  admiration 
of.  For  correctness  of  costume,  beauty  of  descrip- 
tion, and  power  of  imagination,  it  far  surpasses  all 
European  imitations;  and  bears  such  marks  of  orig- 
inality, that  those  who  have  visited  the  East  will 
find  some  difficulty  in  believing  it  to  be  more  than 
a  translation.  As  an  eastern  tale,  even  Rasselas 
must  bow  before  it :  his  '  happy  valley  '  will  not 
bear  a  comparison  with  the  '  Hall  of  Eblis.'  "] 


XXIV. 

Behold  the  hall  where  chiefs  were  late  con- 
vened ! 3 
Oh!  dome  displeasing  unto  British  eye! 
With  diadem  hight  foolscap,  lo !  a  fiend, 
A  little  fiend  that  scoffs  incessantly, 
There  sits  in  parchment  robe  arrayed,  and 

by 
His  side  is  hung  a  seal  and  sable  scroll, 
Where    blazoned  glare   names   known   tr 

chivalry, 
And  sundry  signatures  adorn  the  roll, 
Whereat  the  Urchin  points  and  laughs  with 
all  his  soul.4 


3  The  Convention  of  Cintra  was  signed  in  the 
palace  of  the  Marchese  Marialva. —  [Byron  was 
mistaken.  "  The  armistice,  the  negotiations,  the 
convention  itself,  and  the  execution  of  its  provisions, 
were  all  commenced,  conducted,  and  concluded,  at 
the  distance  of  thirty  miles  from  Cintra,  with  which 
place  they  had  not  the  slightest  connection,  politi- 
cal, military,  or  local." — Napier's  History  of  the 
Peninsular  H'ar.] 

*  The  passage  stood  differently  in  the  original 
MS.  The  following  verses  Byron  omitted  at  the 
entreaty  of  his  friends:  — 

In  golden  characters  right  well  designed, 
First  on  the  list  appeareth  one  "  Junot;" 
Then  certain  other  glorious  names  we  find, 
Which  rhyme  compelleth  me  to  place  below: 
Dull  victors!   baffled  by  a  vanquished  foe, 
Wheedled  by  conynge  tongues  of  laurels  due, 
Stand,  worthy  of  each  other,  in  a  row  — 
Sir  Arthur,  Harry,  and  the  dizzard  Hew 
Dalrymple,  seely  wight,  sore  dupe  of  t'other  tew. 
Convention  is  the  dwarfish  demon  styled 
That  foiled  the  knights  in  Marialva's  dome: 
Of  brains  (if  brains  they  had)  he  them  beguiled, 
And  turned  a  nation's  shallow  joy  to  gloom. 
For  well  I  wot,  when  first  the  news  did  come, 
That  Vimiera's  field  by  Gaul  was  lost, 
For  paragraph  ne  paper  scarce  had  room, 
Such  Paeans  teemed  for  our  triumphant  host, 
In  Courier,  Chronicle,  and  eke  in  Morning  Post; 
But  when  Convention  sent  his  handy-work, 
Pens,  tongues,  feet,  hands,  combined  in  wild  up- 
roar; 
Mayor,  aldermen,  laid  down  the  uplifted  fork; 
The  Bench  of  Bishops  half  forgot  to  snore; 
Stern  Cobbett,  who  for  one  whole  week  forbore 
To   question   aught,   once   more  with   transport 

leapt, 
And  bit  his  devilish  quill  agen,  and  swore 
With  foe  such  treaty  never  should  be  kept, 
Then   burst   the    blatant*   beast,   and  roared,  an3 
raged,  and  —  slept ! 
Thus  unto  Heaven  appealed  the  people:  Heaven, 
Which  loves  the  lieges  of  our  gracious  King, 
Decreed,  that,  ere  our  generals  were  forgiven, 
Inquiry  should  be  held  about  the  thing. 
But  Mercy  cloaked  the  babes  beneath  her  wing; 


*"  Blatant  beast"  —  a  figure  for  the  mob,  I 
think  first  used  by  Smollett  in  his  "  Adventures  o( 
an  Atom."  Horace  has  the  "  bellua  multorum  cap* 
turn:  "  in  England  fortunately  enough,  the  illus 
trious  mobility  have  not  even  one. 


264 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


XXV. 

Convention  is  the  dwarfish  demon  styled 
That  foiled  the  knights  in  Marialva's  dome: 
Of  brains  (if  brains  they  had)  he  them  be- 
guiled, 
And  turned  a  nation's  shallow  joy  to  gloom. 
Here   Folly   dashed   to   earth    the   victor's 

plume, 
And  Policy  regained  what  arms  had  lost : 
For  chiefs   like  ours  in  vain  may  laurels 

bloom  ! 
Woe  to  the  conquering,  not  the  conquered 
host, 
Since  baffled  Triumph  droops  on  Lusitania's 
coast ! 

XXVI. 

And  ever  since  that  martial  synod  met, 
Britannia  sickens,  Cintra!  at  thy  name; 
And  folks  in  office  at  the  mention  fret, 
And  fain  would  blush,  if  blush  they  could, 

for  shame. 
How  will  posterity  the  deed  proclaim ! 
Will  not  our  own  and  fellow-nations  sneer, 
To  view  these  champions  cheated  of  their 

fame, 
By  foes  in  fight  o'erthrown,  yet  victors  here, 
Where  Scorn  her  finger  points  through  many 

a  coming  year  ? 

XXVII. 

So  deemed  the  Childe,  as  o'er  the  moun- 
tains he 
Did  take  his  way  in  solitary  guise  : 
Sweet  was  the  scene,  yet  soon  he  thought  to 

flee, 
More  restless  than  the  swallow  in  the  skies  : 
Though  here  awhile  he  learned  to  moralize, 
For  Meditation  fixed  at  times  on  him  ; 
And  conscious  Reason  whispered  to  despise 
His  early  youth,  misspent  in  maddest  \\  him  ; 
But  as  he  gazed  on  truth  his  aching  eyes  grew 
dim. 

XXVIII. 

To  horse  !  to  horse  ! 1  he  quits,  for  ever  quits 
A  scene  of  peace,  though  soothing  to  his 
soul  : 


And  as  they  spared  our  foes,  so  spared  we  them ; 

(Where  was  the  pity  of  our  sires  for  Byrtg?*) 

Yet  knaves,  not  idiots,  should  the  law  condemn; 
Then    live,    ye   gallant   knights'    and   bless   your 
Judges'  phlegm! 

1  ["  After  remaining  ten  days  in  Lisbon,  we  sent 
our  baggage  and  part  of  our  servants  by  sea  to  Gi- 
braltar, and  travelled  on  horseback  to  Seville;  a  dis- 
tance of  nearly  four  hundred  miles.  The  horses 
are  excellent:  we  rode  seventy  miles  a  day.     Eggs 

*  By  this  query  it  is  not  meant  that  our  foolish 
generals  should  have  been  shot,  but  that  Byng 
might  have  been  spared,  though  the  one  suffered 
and  the  others  escaped,  probably  for  Candide's 
teason,  "  pour  encourager  les  autres." 


Again  he  rouses  from  his  moping  fits, 
But  seeks  not  now  the  harlot  and  the  bowl. 
Onward  he  flies,  nor  fixed  as  yet  the  goal 
Where  he  shall  rest  him  on  his  pilgrimage; 
And  o'er  him  many  changing  scenes  must 

roll 
Ere  toil  his  thirst  for  travel  can  assuage, 
Or  he  shall  calm  his  breast,  or  learn  experi- 
ence sage. 

XXIX. 

Yet  Mafra  shall  one  moment  claim  delay, 

Where  dwelt  of  yore  the  Lusians'  luckless 
queen ; 2 

And  church  and  court  did  mingle  their  ar- 
ray, 

And  mass  and  revel  were  alternate  seen ; 

Lordlings  and  freres  —  ill-sorted  fry  I  ween  ! 

But  here  the  Babylonian  whore  hath  built3 

A  dome,  where  Haunts  she  in  such  glorious 
sheen, 

That  men  forget  the  blood  which  she  hath 
spilt, 
And  bow  the  knee  to  Pomp  that  loves  to  var- 
nish guilt. 

XXX. 

O'er  vales  that  teem  with  fraits,  romantic 
hills, 

(Oh,  that  such  hills  upheld  a  freeborn  race  !) 

Whereon  to  gaze  the  eye  with  joyaunce  fills, 

Childe  Harold  wends  through  many  a  pleas- 
ant place. 

Though  sluggards   deem   it   but  a  foolish 
chase, 

And   marvel   men   should   quit   their  easy 
chair. 


and  wine,  and  hard  beds,  are  all  the  accommodation 
we  found,  and,  in  such  torrid  weather,  quite  enough." 
—  B.  Letters,  1809.] 

2  ["  Her  luckless  Majesty  went  subsequently 
mad;  and  Dr.  Willis,  who  so  dexterously  cudgelled 
kingly  pericraniuins,  could  make  nothing  of  hers." 
— Byron  MS.  The  Queen  labored  under  a  melan- 
choly kind  of  derangement,  from  which  she  never 
recovered.     She  died  in  Brazil  in  1816.] 

8  The  extent  of  Mafra  is  prodigious:  it  contains 
a  palace,  convent,  and  most  superb  church.  The 
six  organs  arc  the  most  beautiful  I  ever  beheld,  in 
point  of  decoration :  we  did  not  hear  them,  bin  were 
told  that  their  tones  were  correspondent  to  their 
splendor.  Mafra  is  termed  the  Escurial  of  Portugal. 
["  About  ten  miles  to  the  right  of  Cintra,"  says 
Byron,  in  a  letter  to  his  mother,  "  is  the  palace  of 
Mafra,  the  boast  of  Portugal,  as  it  might  be  of  any 
country,  in  point  of  magnificence,  without  elegance. 
There  is  a  convent  annexed:  the  monks,  who  pos- 
sess large  revenues,  are  courteous  enough,  and  un- 
derstand Latin,  so  that  we  had  a  long  conversation. 
They  have  a  large  library,  and  asked  me  if  the  Eng- 
lish had  any  books  in  their  country." — Mafra  was 
erected  by  John  V.,  in  pursuance  of  a  vow,  made 
in  a  dangerous  fit  of  illness,  to  found  a  convent  for 
the  use  of  the  poorest  friary  in  the  kingdom.  Upon 
inquiry,  this  poorest  was  found  at  Mafra;  where 
twelve  Franciscans  lived  together  in  a  hut. J 


CHFLDE   HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


263 


The  toilsome  way,  and  long,  long  league  to 

trace, 
Oh !  there  is  sweetness  in  the  mountain  air, 
And  life,  that  bloated  Ease  can  never  hope  to 
share. 

XXXI. 
More  bleak  to  view  the  hills  at  length  recede, 
And,  less  luxuriant, smoother  vales  extend; 
Immense  horizon-bounded  plains  succeed! 
Far  as  the  eye  discerns,  withouten  end, 
Spain's  realms  appear  whereon  her  shep- 

'  herds  tend 
Flocks,  whose   rich   fleece  right  well   the 

trader  knows  — 
Now  must  the  pastor's  arm  his  lambs  de- 
fend : 
For  Spain  is  compassed  by  unyielding  foes, 
And  all  must  shield  their  all,  or  share  Subjec- 
tion's woes. 

XXXII. 
Where  Lusitania  and  her  Sister  meet, 
Deem  ye  what  bounds  the  rival  realms  di- 
vide ? 
Or  ere  the  jealous  queens  of  nations  greet, 
Doth  Tayo  interpose  his  mighty  tide  ? 
Or  dark  Sierras  rise  in  craggy  pride  ? 
Or  fence  of  art,  like  China's  vasty  wall  ?  — 
Ne  barrier  wall,  ne  river  deep  and  wide, 
Ne  horrid  crags,  nor  mountains  dark  and 

tall, 
Rise  like  the  rocks  that  part  Hispania's  land 
from  Gaul : 

XXXIII. 
But  these  between  a  silver  streamlet  glides, 
And  scarce  a  name  distinguished!  the  brook, 
Though  rival  kingdoms  press  its  verdant 

sides. 
Here  leans  the  idle  shepherd  on  his  crook, 
And  vacant  on  the  rippling  waves  doth  look, 
That  peaceful  still  'twixt  bitterest  foemen 

flow; 
For  proud  each  peasant  as  the  noblest  duke : 
Well  doth  the  Spanish  hind  the  difference 
know 
Fwixt  him  and  Lusian  slave,  the  lowest  of 
the  low.1 

XXXIV. 
But  ere  the  mingling  bounds  have  far  been 

passed, 
Dark  Guadiana  rolls  his  power  along 
In  sullen  billows,  murmuring  and  vast, 
So  noted  ancient  roundelays  among. 
Whilome  upon  his  banks  did  legions  throng 
Of  Moor  and  Knight,  in  mailed  splendor 
drest : 


1  As  I  found  the  Portuguese,  so  I  have  charac- 
terized them.  That  they  are  since  improved,  at 
least  in  courage,  is  evident.  The  late  exploits  of 
L«rd  Wellington  have  effaced  the  follies  of  Cintra. 
He  has,  indeed,  done  wonders:  he  has,  perhaps, 
changed  the  character  of  a  nation,  reconciled  rival 


Here  ceased  the  swift  their  race,  here  sunk 

the  strong; 
The  Paynim  turban  and  the  Christian  crest 
Mixed  on   the  bleeding  stream,  by  floating 

hosts  oppressed. 

XXXV. 

Oh,  lovely  Spain  !  renowned,  romantic  land ! 
Where  is  that  standard  which  Pelagio  bore, 
When  Cava's  traitor-sire  first  called  the  band 
That  dyed  thy  mountain  streams  with  Gothic 

gore  ?  2 
Where  are  those  bloody  banners  which  ot 

yore 
Waved  o'er  thy  sons,  victorious  to  the  gale, 
And  drove  at  last  the  spoilers  to  their  shore  ? 
Red  gleamed  the  cross,  and  waned  the  cres- 
cent pale, 
While  Afric's  echoes  thrilled  with  Moorish 

matrons'  wail. 

xxxvi. 
Teems  not  each  ditty  with  the  glorious  tale  ? 
Ah  !  such,  alas  !  the  hero's  amplest  fate  ! 
When  granite  moulders  and  when  records 

fail, 
A  peasant's  plaint  prolongs  his  dubious  date. 
Pride  !  bend  thine  eye  from  heaven  to  thine 

estate, 
See  how  the  Mighty  shrink  into  a  song ! 
Can   Volume,   Pillar,   Pile,  preserve    thee 

great? 
Or  must    thou    trust    Tradition's    simple 

tongue, 
When  Flattery  sleeps  with  thee,  and  History 

does  thee  wrong  ? 

XXXVII. 

Awake,  ye  sons  of  Spain  !  awake  !  advance  ! 
Lo[  Chivalry,  your  ancient  goddess,  cries; 
But  wields  not,  as  of  old,  her  thirsty  lance, 
Nor  shakes  her  crimson   plumage   in   the 

skies : 
Now  on  the  smoke  of  blazing  bolts  she  flies, 


superstitions,  and  baffled  an  enemy  who  never  re- 
treated before  his  predecessors.  —  1812.  [In  the 
Peninsular  War  the  "  Lusian  slave"  proved  greatly 
superior  to  the  "  Spanish  hind."  When  commanded 
by  English  officers  and  brigaded  with  English 
troops,  the  Portuguese  made  excellent  soldiers.] 

2  Count  Julian's  daughter,  the  Helen  of  Spain. 
Pelagius  preserved  his  independence  in  the  fast- 
nesses of  the  Asturias,  and  the  descendants  of  hi; 
followers,  after  some  centuries,  completed  then 
struggle  by  the  conquest  of  Granada.  —  [Count 
Julian's  daughter,  called  Cava  by  the  Moors,  is 
called  Florinda  by  the  Spaniards.  She  is  said  to 
have  been  violated  by  Roderick,  the  King  of  the 
Goths,  and  her  father  in  revenge  invited  the  Moors 
to  invade  Spain.  The  Goths  were  defeated  (a.d. 
711),  Roderick  was  killed,  and  the  Moors  remained 
masters  of  the  greater  part  of  the  Peninsula;  but 
Pelagius  in  the  north,  kept  them  at  bay,  and  even 
recovered  portions  of  the  territory  they  had  won.] 


266 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


And  speaks  in  thunder  through  yon  engine's 

roar! 
In  every  peal  she  calls  —  "  Awake !  arise !  " 
Say,  is  her  voice  more  feeble  than  of  yore, 
"Vhen  her  war-song  was  heard  on  Andalusia's 
shore  ? 

XXXVIII. 

Hark !  heard  you  not  those  hoofs  of  dread- 
ful note  ? 

Sounds  not  the  clang  of  conflict   on   the 
heath  ? 

Saw  ye  not  whom  the  reeking  sabre  smote ; 

Nor  saved  your  brethren  ere  they  sank  be- 
neath 

Tyrants  and  tyrants'  slaves?  —  the  fires  of 
death, 

The  bale-fires  flash  on  high  :  —  from  rock  to 
rock 

Each  volley  tells  that  thousands  cease   to 
breathe  • 

Death  rides  upon  the  sulphury  Siroc, 
Red  Battle  stamps  his  foot,  and  nations  feel 
the  shock. 

XXXIX. 

Lo!    where   the   Giant   on    the    mountain 

stands, 
His  blood-red  tresses  deep'ning  in  the  sun, 
With  death-shot  glowing  in  his  fiery  hands, 
And  eye  that  scorcheth  all  it  glares  upon  ; 
Restless  it  rolls,  now  fixed,  and  now  anon 
Flashing  afar,  —  and  at  his  iron  feet 
Destruction  cowers,  to  mark  what  deeds  are 

done ; 
For  on    this    morn    three    potent   nations 

meet, 
To  shed  before  his  shrine  the  blood  he  deems 

most  sweet.1 

XL. 

By  Heaven  !  it  is  a  splendid  sight  to  see 
(For  one  who  hath  no  friend,  no  brother 

there) 
Their  rival  scarfs  of  mixed  embroidery, 
Their  various  arms  that  glitter  in  the  air ! 
What  gallant  war-hounds  rouse  them  from 

their  lair, 
And  gnash  their  fangs,  loud  yelling  for  the 

prey! 
All  join  the  chase,  but  few  the  triumph  share  ; 
The  Grave  shall  bear  the  chiefest  prize  away, 
And  Havoc  scarce  for  joy  can  number  their 

array. 


_*_  ["  A  bolder  prosopopoeia,"  says  a  nameless 
Critic,  "  or  one  better  imagined  or  expressed,  can- 
not easily  be  found  in  the  whole  range  of  ancient 
and  modern  poetry.  Unlike  the  '  plume  of  Horror,' 
or  the  'eagle-winged  Victory,'  described  by  our 
great  epic  poet,  this  gigantic  figure  is  a  distinct  ob- 
ject, perfect  in  lineaments,  tremendous  in  opera- 
tion, and  vested  with  all  the  attributes  calculated  to 
•xcite  terror  and  admiration."] 


XU. 

Three  hosts  combine  to  offer  sacrifice ; 

Three  tongues  prefer  strange   orisons   ©■ 
high; 

Three  gaudy  standards  flout  the  pale  blue 
skies ; 

The  shouts  are  France,  Spain,  Albion,  Vic- 
tory ! 

The  foe,  the  victim,  and  the  fond  ally 

That  fights  for  all,  but  ever  fights  in  vain, 

Are  met  —  as   if  at  home  they  could  not 
die  — 

To  feed  the  crow  on  Talavera's  plain, 
And  fertilize  the  field  that  each  pretends  to 
gain.2 


2  [The  following  note  Byron  suppressed  with  re- 
luctance, at  the  urgent  request  of  a  friend.  It 
alludes,  inter  alia,  to  the  then  recent  publication 
of  Sir  Walter  Scott's  Vision  of  Don  Roderick,  the 
profits  of  which  had  been  given  to  the  cause  of 
Portuguese  patriotism:  — "  We  have  heard  wonders 
of  the  Portuguese  lately,  and  their  gallantry.  Pray 
Heaven  it  continue:  yet  'would  it  were  bed-time, 
Hal,  and  all  were  well!  '  They  must  fight  a  great 
many  hours,  by  '  Shrewsbury  clock,'  before  the 
number  of  their  slain  equals  that  of  our  countrymen 
butchered  by  these  kind  creatures,  now  metamor- 
phosed into  '  ca^adores,'  and  what  not.  I  merely 
state  a  fact,  not  confined  to  Portugal;  for  in  Sicily 
and  Malta  we  are  knocked  on  the»head  at  a  hand- 
some average  nightly,  and  not  a  Sicilian  or  Maltese 
is  ever  punishefl!  The  neglect  of  protection  is  dis- 
graceful to  our  government  and  governors;  for  the 
murders  are  as  notorious  as  the  moon  that  shines 
upon  them,  and  the  apathy  that  overlooks  them. 
The  Portuguese,  it  is  to  be  hoped,  are  compli- 
mented with  the  '  Forlorn  Hope,'  —  if  the  cowards 
are  become  brave  (like  the  rest  of  their  kind,  in  a 
corner),  pray  let  them  display  it.  But  there  is  a 
subscription  for  these  '  Bpaav-SeiXoi,'  (they  need 
not  be  ashamed  of  the  epithet  once  applied  to  the 
Spartans) ;  and  all  the  charitable  patronymics,  from 
ostentatious  A.  to  diffident  Z.,  and  £i :  i :  o  from 
'  An  Admirer  of  Valor,'  are  in  requisition  for  the 
lists  at  Lloyd's,  and  the  honor  of  British  benevo- 
lence. Well !  we  have  fought,  and  subscribed,  and 
bestowed  peerages,  and  buried  the  killed  by  our 
friends  and  foes;  and,  lo!  al!  this  is  to  be  done  over 
again!  Like  Lien  Chi  (in  Goldsmith's  Citizen  of 
the  World) ,.  as  '  we  grow  older,  we  grow  never  the 
better.'  It  would  be  pleasant  to  learn  who  will  sub- 
scribe for  us,  in  or  about  the  year  1815,  and  what  na- 
tion will  send  fiftythousand  men, first  to  be  decimated 
in  the  capital,  and  then  decimated  again  (in  the  Irish 
fashion,  nine  out  of  ten),  in  the  'bed  of  honor;  ' 
which,  as  Sergeant  Kite  says,  is  considerably  larger 
and  more  commodious  than  '  the  bed  of  Ware.' 
Then  they  must  have  a  poet  to  write  the  '  Vision 
of  Don  Perceval,'  and  generously  bestow  the  profits 
of  the  well  and  widely  printed  quarto,  to  rebuild  the 
'  Backwynd '  and  the  '  Canongate,'  or  furnish  new 
kilts  for  the  half-roasted  Highlanders.  Lord  Well- 
ington, however,  has  enacted  marvels;  and  so  did 
his  Oriental  brother,  whom  I  saw  charioteering  over 
the  French  flag,  and  heard  clipping^  bad  Spanish, 
after  listening  to  the  speech  of  a  patriotic  cobbler  of 
Cadiz,  on  the  event  of  his  own  entry  into  that  city, 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


267 


XLII. 

There  shall  they  rot — Ambition's  honored 

fools ! 
Yes,  Honor  decks  the  turf  that  wraps  their 

clay! 
Vain  Sophistry !  in  these  behold  the  tools, 
The  broken  tools,  that  tyrants  cast  away 
By  myriads,  when  they  dare  to  pave  their 

way 
With  human  hearts  —  to  what?  —  a  dream 

alone. 
Can  despots  compass  aught  that  hails  their 

sway  ? 
Or  call  with  truth  one  span  of  earth  their 

own, 
Save  that  wherein  at  last  they  crumble  bone 

by  bone  ? 

XLIII. 

Oh,  Albuera,  glorious  field  of  grief! 

As  o'er  thy  plain  the  Pilgrim  pricked  his 

steed, 
Who  could  foresee  thee,  in  a  space  so  brief, 
A  scene  where  mingling  foes  should  boast 

and  bleed ! 
Peace  to  the  perished!  may  the  warrior's 

meed 
And  tears  of  triumph  their  reward  prolong! 
Till  others  fall  where  other  chieftains  lead, 
Thy  name   shall   circle   round  the  gaping 

throng, 
And  shine   in  worthless  lays,  the  theme   of 

transient  song. 

XLIV. 

Enough  of  Battle's  minions !  let  them  play 
Their  game  of  lives,  and  barter  breath  for 

fame : 
Fame  that  will  scarce  re-animate  their  clay. 
Though  thousands  fall  to  deck  some  single 

name. 
In  sooth  'twere  sad  to  thwart  their  noble  aim 
Who  strike,  blest  hirelings !  for  their  coun- 
try's good, 


and  the  exit  of  some  five  thousand  bold  Britons  out 
of  this  '  best  of  all  possible  worlds.'  Sorely  were 
we  puzzled  how  to  dispose  of  that  same  victory  of 
Talavera;  and  a  victory  it  surely  was  somewhere, 
for  everybody  claimed  it.  The  Spanish  despatch  and 
mob  called  it  Cuesta's,  and  made  no  great  mention 
of  the  Viscount;  the  French  called  it  theirs  (to  my 
great  discomfiture,  —  for  a  French  consul  stopped 
my  mouth  in  Greece  with  a  pestilent  Paris  gazette, 
just  as  I  had  killed  Sebastiani,  'in  buckram,'  and 
King  Joseph,  '  in  Kendal  green'),  —  and  we  have 
not  yet  determined  -what  to  call  it,  or  whose  ;  for, 
certes,  it  was  none  of  our  own.  Howbeit,  Massena's 
retreat  is  a  great  comfort ;  and  as  we  have  not  been  in 
the  habit  of  pursuing  for  some  years  past,  no  wonder 
we  are  a  little  awkward  at  first.  No  doubt  we  shall 
improve;  or,  if  not,  we  have  only  to  take  to  our 
old  way  of  retrograding,  and  there  we  are  at 
home."] 


And  die,  that  living  might  have  proved  her 

shame ; 
Perished,  perchance,  in  some  domestic  feud, 
Or  in  a  narrower  sphere  wild   Rapine's  path 

pursued. 

XLV. 

Full  swiftly  Harold  wends  his  lonely  way 
Where  proud  Sevilla  1  triumphs  unsubdued : 
Yet  is  she  free  —  the  spoiler's  wished-for 

prey! 
Soon,  soon  shall  Conquest's  fiery  foot  in- 
trude, 
Blackening  her  lovely  domes  with  traces 

rude. 
Inevitable  honr !  'Gainst  fate  to  strive 
Where    Desolation    plants    her    famished 

brood 
Is  vain,  or  Ilion,  Tyre  might  yet  survive, 
And  Virtue  vanquish  all,  and  Murder  cease 
to  thrive. 

XLVI. 

But  all  unconscious  of  the  coming  doom, 

The  feast,  the  song,  the  revel  here  abounds  ; 

Strange  modes  of  merriment  the  hours  con- 
sume, 

Nor  bleed  these  patriots  with  their  country's 
wounds : 

Nor  here  War's  clarion,  but  Love's  rebeck  2 
sounds ; 

Here  Folly  still  his  votaries  inthralls ; 

And  young-eyed  Lewdness  walks  her  mid- 
night rounds: 

Girt  with  the  silent  crimes  of  Capitals, 
Still  to  the  last  kind  Vice  clings  to  the  totter- 
ing walls. 

XLVI  I. 

Not  so  the  rustic — with  his  trembling  mate 

He  lurks,  nor  casts  his  heavy  eye  afar, 

Lest  he  should  view  his  vineyard  desolate, 

Blasted  below  the  dun  hot  breath  of  war. 

No  more  beneath  soft  Eve's  consenting  star 


1  ["  At  Seville,  we  lodged  in  the  house  of  two 
Spanish  unmarried  ladies,  women  of  character,  the 
eldest  a  fine  woman,  the  youngest  pretty.  The 
freedom  of  manner,  which  is  general  here,  aston- 
ished me  not  a  little;  and,  in  the  course  of  furthei 
observation,  I  find  that  reserve  is  not  the  character- 
istic of  Spanish  belles.  The  eldest  honored  youi 
unworthy  son  with  very  particular  attention,  em- 
bracing him  with  great  tenderness  at  parting  (I  was 
there  but  three  days),  after  cutting  off  a  lock  of  his 
hair,  and. presenting  him  with  one  of  her  own,  about 
three  feet  in  length,  which  I  send  you,  and  beg  you 
will  retain  till  my  return.  Her  last  words  were, 
'  Adios,  tu  hermoso,  me  gusto  mucho!'  'Adieu, 
you  pretty  fellow,  you  please  me  much ! '  "  —  Byron 
to  his  Mother,  August,  1809.] 

2  [A  kind  of  fiddle,  with  only  two  strings,  played 
on  by  a  bow,  said  to  have  been  brought  by  the 
Moors  into  Spain.  "  The  Spanish  women,"  wrote 
Byron  in  August,  1809,  "  are  certainly  fascinating, 
but  their  minds  have  only  one  idea,  and  the  bush 
•iess  of  their  lives  is  intrigue."] 


Z68 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


Fandango  twirls  his  jocund  Castanet : 

Ah,  monarchs  !  could  ye  taste  the  mirth  ye 

mar, 
Not  in  the  toils  of  Glory  would  ye  fret; 
The  hoarse  dull  drum  would  sleep,  and  Man 

be  happy  yet ! 

XLVIII. 

How  carols  now  the  lusty  muleteer  ? 
Of  love,  romance,  devotion  is  his  lay, 
As  whilome   he   was  wont  the   leagues  to 

cheer, 
His  quick  bells  wildly  jingling  on  the  way  ? 
No !    as  he  speeds,   he    chants   "  Viva  el 

Rey!"i 
And  checks  his  song  to  execrate  Godoy, 
The  royal  wittol  Charles,  and  curse  the  day 
When  first  Spain's  queen  beheld  the  black- 
eyed  boy, 
\nd    gore-faced    Treason   sprung   from    her 
adulterate  joy. 

XLIX. 

On  yon  long,  level  plain,  at  distance  crowned 
With  crags,  whereon  those  Moorish  turrets 

rest, 
Wide     scattered      hoof-marks      dint     the 

wounded  ground ; 
And,  scathed  by  fire,  the  greensward's  dark- 
ened vest 
Tells  that  the  foe  was  Andalusia's  guest : 
Here  was  the  camp,  the  watch-flame,  and 

the  host, 
Here  the  bold  peasant  stormed  the  dragon's 

nest; 
Still    does    he    mark    it   with    triumphant 

boast, 
And  points  to  yonder  cliffs,  which  oft  were 

won  and  lost. 

L. 

And  whomsoe'er  along  the  path  you  meet 
Bears  in  his  cap  the  badge  of  crimson  hue, 
Which  tells  you  whom  to  shun  and  whom 

to  greet : 2 
Woe  to  the  man  that  walks  in  public  view 
Without  of  loyalty  this  token  true : 
Sharp  is  the  knife,  and  sudden  is  the  stroke ; 
And  sorely  would  the  Gallic  foeman  rue, 


'"Viva  el  Rey  Fernando!"  Long  live  King 
Ferdinand!  is  the  chorus  of  most  of  the  Spanish 
patriotic  songs.  They  are  chiefly  in  dispraise  of  the 
old  king  Charles,  the  Queen,  and  the  Prince  of 
Peace.  I  have  heard  many  of  them:  some  of  the 
airs  are  beautiful.  Don  Manuel  Godoy,  the  Prin- 
(ipe  cie  la  Paz,  of  an  ancient  but  decayed  family, 
was  born  at  Badajoz,  on  the  frontiers  of  Portugal, 
and  was  originally  in  the  ranks  of  the  Spanish 
guards;  till  his  person  attracted  the  queen's  eyes, 
and  raised  him  to  the  dukedom  of  Alcudia,  etc.  etc. 
It  is  to  thisman  that  the  Spaniards  universally  im- 
pute the  ruin  of  their  country. 

1  The  red  cockade,  with  "  Fernando  VII.,"  in  the 
centre. 


If  subtle  poniards,  wrapt  beneath  the  cloke, 
Could  blunt  the   sabre's  edge,  or  clear  the 
cannon's  smoke. 


At  every  turn  Morena's  dusky  height 
Sustains  aloft  the  battery's  iron  load; 
And,  far  as  mortal  eye  can  compass  sight, 
The  mountain-howitzer,  the  broken  road, 
The  bristling  palisade,  the  fosse  o'erflowed, 
The  stationed  bands,  the  never-vacant  watch, 
The  magazine  in  rocky  durance  stowed, 
The  holstered  steed   beneath  the  shed  of 

thatch, 
The    ball-piled    pyramid,3    the    ever-blazing 

match, 

LI  I. 

Portend  the  deeds  to  come  :  —  but  he  whose 
nod 

Has  tumbled  feebler  despots  from  their  sway, 

A  moment  pauseth  ere  he  lifts  the  rod ; 

A  little  moment  deigneth  to  delay  : 

Soon  will  his  legions  sweep  through  these 
their  way; 

The  West  must  own  the  Scourger  of  the 
world. 

Ah  !   Spain !  how  sad  will  be  thy  reckoning- 
day, 

When  soars  Gaul's  Vulture,  with  his  wings 
unfurled, 
And  thou  shaft  view  thy  sons  in  crowds  to  Ha- 
des hurled. 

LIU. 

And  must  they  fall  ?  the  young,  the  proud, 
the  brave, 

To  swell  one  bloated  Chiefs  unwholesome 
reign  ? 

No  step  between  submission  and  a  grave  ? 

The  rise  of  rapine  and  the  fall  of  Spain  ? 

And  doth  the  Power  that  man  adores  ordain 

Their  doom,  nor  heed  the  suppliant's  ap- 
peal ? 

Is  all  that  desperate  Valor  acts  in  vain  ? 

And  Counsel  sage,  and  patriotic  Zeal, 
The  Veteran's  skill,  Youth's  fire,  and  Man* 
hood's  heart  of  steel  ? 

LIV. 

Is  it  for  this  the  Spanish  maid,  aroused, 
Hangs  on  the  willow  her  unstrung  guitar, 
And,  all  unsexed,  the  anlace  hath  espoused, 
Sung  the  loud  song,  and  dared  the  deed  of 

war  ? 
And  she,  whom  once  the  semblance  of  a  scar 
Appalled,    an   owlet's    larum    chilled   with 

dread. 


3  All  who  have  seen  a  battery  will  recollect  the 
pyramidal  firm  in  which  shot  and  shells  are  piled. 
The  Sierra  Morena  was  fortified  in  every  dcfilo 
through  which  I  passed  in  my  way  to  Seville- 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


269 


Now  views  the  column-scattering  bayonet 

jar, 
The  falchion  flash,  and  o'er  the  yet  warm 
dead 
Stalks  with  Minerva's  step  where  Mars  might 
quake  to  tread. 

LV. 

Ye  who  shall  marvel  when  you  hear  her  tale, 
Oh !  had  you  known  her  in  her  softer  hour, 
Marked  her  black  eye  that  mocks  her  coal- 
black  veil, 
Heard  her  light,  lively  tones  in  Lady's  bower, 
Seen  her  long  locks  that  foil  the  painter's 

power, 
Her  fairy  form,  with  more  than  female  grace, 
Scarce   would  you   deem   that  Saragoza's 

tower 
Beheld  her  smile  in  Danger's  Gorgon  face, 
Thin  the  closed  ranks,  and   lead   in  Glory's 
fearful  chase. 

LVI. 

Her  lover   sinks  — she   sheds  no  ill-timed 
tear; 

Her  chief  is  slain  —  she  fills  his  fatal  post; 

Her  fellows  flee  —  she  checks  their  base  ca- 
reer; 

The  foe  retires  —  she  heads  the  sallying  host : 

Who  can  appease  like  her  a  lover's  ghost  ? 

Who  can  avenge  so  well  a  leader's  fall  ? 

What  maid  retrieve  when   man's    flushed 
hope  is  lost  ? 

Who  hang  so  fiercely  on  the  flying  Gaul, 
Foiled  by  a  woman's  hand,  before  a  battered 
wall  ?  i 

LVII. 

Yet  are  Spain's  maids  no  race  of  Amazons, 
But  formed  for  all  the  witching  arts  of  love  : 


1  Such  were  the  exploits  of  the  Maid  of  Saragoza, 
who  by  her  valor  elevated  herself  to  the  highest  rank 
of  heroines.  When  the  author  was  at  Seville  she 
walked  daily  on  the  Prado,  decorated  with  medals 
and  orders,  by  command  of  the  Junta.  —  [The  ex- 
ploits of  Augustina,  the  famous  heroine  of  both  the 
sieges  of  Saragoza,  are  recorded  at  length  in  South- 
cy's  History  of  the  Peninsular  War.  At  the  time 
when  she  first  attracted  notice,  by  mounting  a  bat- 
tery where  her  lover  had  fallen,  and  working  a  gun 
in  his  room,  she  was  in  her  twenty-second  year,  ex- 
ceedingly pretty,  and  in  a  soft  feminine  style  of 
beauty.  She  has  further  had  the  honor  to  be  painted 
by  Wilkie,  and  alluded  to  in  Wordsworth's  Disser- 
tation on  the  Convention  of  Cintra;  where  a  noble 
passage  concludes  in  these  words:  —  "  Saragoza  has 
exemplified  a  melancholy,  yea  a  dismal  truth,  —  yet 
consolatory  and  full  of  joy,  —  that  when  a  people 
are  called  suddenly  to  fight  for  their  liberty,  and  are 
sorely  pressed  upon,  their  best  field  of  battle  is  the 
floors  upon  which  their  children  have  played;  the 
chambers  where  the  family  of  each  man  has  slept; 
upon  or  under  the  roofs  by  which  they  have  been 
sheltered;  in  the  gardens  of  their  recreation ;  in  the 
street,  or  in  the  market-place;  before  the  altars  of 
their  temples,  and  among  their  congregated  dwell- 
ings, blazing  or  uprooted."] 


Though  thus  in  arms  they  emulate  her  sons, 
And  in  the  horrid  phalanx  dare  to  move, 
"Tis  but  the  tender  fierceness  of  a  dove, 
Pecking  the  hand  that  hovers  o'er  her  mate  : 
In  softness  as  in  firmness  far  above 
Remoter  females,  famed  for  sickening  prate ; 
Her  mind  is  nobler  sure,  her  charms'perchance 
as  great. 

LVI  1 1. 
The  seal  Love's  dimpling  finger  hath  im- 
pressed 
Denotes  how  soft  that  chin  which  bears  his 

touch : 2 
Her  lips,  whose  kisses  pout  to  leave  their 

nest, 
Bid  man  be  valiant  ere  he  merit  such : 
Her  glance  how  wildly  beautiful !  how  much 
Hath  Phoebus  wooed  in  vain  to  spoil  her 

cheek, 
Which  glows  yet  smoother  from  his  amorous 

clutch ! 
Who  round  the  North  for  paler  dames  would 

seek  ? 
How  poor  their  forms  appear !  how  languid, 

wan,  and  weak ! 

LIX. 
Match  me,  ye  climes !  which  poets  love  to 

laud; 
Match  me,  ye  harams  of  the  land !  where 

now3 
I  strike  my  strain,  far  distant,  to  applaud 
Beauties  that  e'en  a  cynic  must  avow; 
Match  me  those  Houries,  whom  ye  scarce 

allow 
To  taste  the  gale  lest  Love  should  ride  the 

wind, 
With  Spain's  dark-glancing  daughters4  — 

deign  to  know, 
There  your  wise  Prophet's  paradise  we  find, 
His  black-eyed  maids  of  Heaven,  angeli- 
cally kind. 

LX. 
Oh,  thou  Parnassus!5  whom  I  now  survey, 
Not  in  the  phrensy  of  a  dreamer's  eye, 
Not  in  the  fabled  landscape  of  a  lay, 
But  soaring  snow-clad  through  thy  native 

sky, 

-  "  Sigilla  in  mento  impressa  Amoris  digitulo 
Vestigio  demonstrant  mollitudinem." 

Aul.  Gel. 

3  This  stanza  was  written  in  Turkey. 

4  ["  Long  black  hair,  dark  languishing  eyes, 
clear  olive  complexions,  and  forms  more  graceful 
in  motion  than  can  be  conceived  by  an  Englishman, 
used  to  the  drowsy,  listless  air  of  his  countrywomen, 
added  to  the  most  becoming  dress,  and,  at  the  same 
time,  the  most  decent  in  the  world,  render  a  Span- 
ish beauty  irresistible."  —  Byron  to  kis  Mother, 
Aug.  1809.] 

6  These  stanzas  were  written  in  Castri  (TJelphos), 
at  the  foot  of  Parnassus,  now  called  AiaKuupa  (Liar 
kura) ,  Dec.  i8og. 


170 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


In  the  wild  pomp  of  mountain  majesty! 
What  marvel  if  I  thus  essay  to  sing  ? 
The  humblest  of  thy  pilgrims  passing  by 
Would  gladly  woo  thine  Echoes  with  his 

string, 
Though  from  thy  heights  no  more  one  Muse 

will  wave  her  wing. 

LXI. 

Oft  have  I  dreamed  of  Thee !  whose  glori- 
ous name 
Who  knows  not,  knows  not  man's  divinest 

lore : 
And  now  I  view  thee,  'tis,  alas !  with  shame 
That  I  in  feeblest  accents  must  adore. 
When  I  recount  thy  worshippers  of  yore 
I  tremble,  and  can  only  bend  the  knee; 
Nor  raise  my  voice,  nor  vainly  dare  to  soar, 
But  gaze  beneath  thy  cloudy  canopy 
In  silent  joy  to  think  at  last  I  look  on  Thee!  * 

LXI  I. 

Happier  in  this  than  mightiest  bards  have 

been, 
Whose  fate  to  distant  homes  confined  their 

lot, 
Shall  I  unmoved  behold  the  hallowed  scene, 
Which  others  rave  of,  though  they  know  it 

not? 
Though  here  no  more  Apollo  haunts  his 

grot, 
And  thou,  the  Muses'  seat,  art  now  their 

grave, 
Some  gentle  spirit  still  pervades  the  spot, 
Sighs  in  the  gale,  keeps  silence  in  the  cave, 
And  glides  with  glassy  foot  o'er  yon  melodious 

wave. 

LXIII. 

Of  thee  hereafter. —  Ev'n  amidst  my  strain 
I  turned  aside  to  pay  my  homage  here ; 
Forgot   the   land,  the   sons,  the    maids   of 

Spain ; 
Her  fate,  to  every  freeborn  bosom  dear; 
And  hailed  thee,  not  perchance  without  a 

tear. 
Now  to  my  theme  —  but  from  thy  holy  haunt 
Let  me  some  remnant,  some  memorial  bear ; 


1  ["  Upon  Parnassus,  going  to  the  fountain  of 
Delphi  (Castri),  in  1809,  I  saw  a  flight  of  twelve 
eagles  (Hobhouse  says  they  were  vultures  —  at 
least  in  conversation),  and  I  seized  the  omen.  On 
the  day  before,  I  composed  the  lines  to  Parnassus 
(in  Childe  Harold),  and  on  beholding  the  birds, 
had  a  hope  that  Apollo  had  accepted  my  homage. 
I  have  at  least  had  the  name  and  fame  of  a  poet, 
during  the  poetical  period  of  life  (from  twenty  to 
thirty); — whether  it  will  last  is  another  matter: 
hut  I  have  been  a  votary  of  the  deity  and  place,  and 
am  grateful  for  what  he  has  done  in  my  behalf, 
leaving  the  future  in  his  hands,  as  I  left  the  past." 
—  Byron's  Diary,  1821.] 


Yield  me  one  leaf  of  Daphne's  deathlesi 

plant, 
Nor  let  thy  votary's  hope  be  deemed  an  idl6 

vaunt. 

LXIV. 
But   ne'er  didst  thou,  fair   Mount!    when 

Greece  was  young, 
See  round  thy  giant  base  a  brighter  choir, 
Nor  e'er  dip  Delphi,  when  her  priestess  sung 
The  Pythian  hymn  with  more  than  mortal 

fire, 
Behold  a  train  more  fitting  to  inspire 
The  song  of  love  than  Andalusia's  maids, 
N'utst  in  the  glowing  lap  of  soft  desire: 
All !  that  to  these  were  given  such  peaceful 

shades 
As  Greece  can  still  bestow,  though  Glory  fly 

her  glades. 

LXV. 
Fair  is  proud  Seville;  let  her  country  boast 
Her  strength,  her  wealth,  her  site  of  ancient 

days ; 2 
But  Cadiz,  rising  on  the  distant  coast, 
Calls    forth     a    sweeter,    though     ignoble 

praise. 
Ah,   Vice !    how  soft    are    thy   voluptuous 

ways ! 
While  boyish  blood  is  mantling,  who  can 

'scape 
The  fascination.of  thy  magic  gaze  ? 
A  Cherub-liydra  round  us  dost  thou  gape, 
And  mould  to  every  taste  thy  dear  delusive 

shape. 

LXVI. 

When    Paphos    fell    by    time  —  accursed 

Time! 
The  Queen  who  conquers  all  must  yield  to 

thee  — 
The  Pleasures  fled,  but  sought  as  warm  a 

clime; 
And  Venus,  constant  to  her  native  sea, 
To  nought  else  constant,  hither  deigned  to 

flee; 
And  fixed  her  shrine  within  these  walls  of 

white ; 
Though   not  to  one  dome  circumscribeth 

she 
Her  worship,  but,  devoted  to  her  rite, 
A    thousand    altars    rise,   for    ever    blazing 

bright.3 

LXVII. 

From  morn  till  night,  from  night  till  startled 

Morn 
Peeps    blushing  on    the  revel's   laughing 

crew, 


-  Seville  was  the  Hispnlis  of  the  Romans. 

3  ["  Cadiz,  sweet  Cadiz!  —  it  is  the  first  spot  in 
the  creation.  The  beauty  of  its  streets  and  man- 
sions is  only  excelled  by  the  loveliness  of  its  inhab 
itants.     It  is  a  complete  Cythera,  full  of  the  fines! 


CHILD E  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


271 


The  song  is  heard,  the  rosy  garland  worn ; 
Devices  quaint,  and  frolics  ever  new, 
Tread  on  each  other's  kibes.   A  long  adieu 
He  bids  to  sober  joy  that  here  sojourns: 
Nought  interrupts  the  riot,  though  in  lieu 
Of  true  devotion  monkish  incense  burns, 
A.nd  love  and  prayer  unite,  or  rule  the  hour 
by  turns. 

LXVIII. 
The  Sabbath  comes,  a  day  of  blessed  rest ; 
What  hallows  it  upon  this  Christian  shore  ? 
Lo  !  it  is  sacred  to  a  solemn  feast ; 
Hark !  heard  you  not  the  forest-monarch's 

roar? 
Crashing  the  lance,  he  snuffs  the  spouting 

gore 
Of  man  and  steed,  o'erthrown  beneath  his 

horn ; 
The  thronged  arena  shakes  with  shouts  for 

more; 
Yells  the  mad  crowd  o'er  entrails  freshly 

torn, 
Nor  shrinks  the  female  eye,  nor  even  affects 

to  mourn. 

LXIX. 
The  seventh  day  this ;  the  jubilee  of  man. 
London !  right  well  thou  knowest  the  day 

of  prayer, 
Then  thy  spruce  citizen,  washed  artisan, 
And  smug  apprentice  gulp  their  weekly  air : 
Thy     coach   of    hackney,    whiskey,    one- 
horse  chair, 
And  humblest  gig  through  sundry  suburbs 

whirl ; 
To    Hampstead,  Brentford,  Harrow  make 

repair ; 
Till   the   tired  jade   the   wheel    forgets   to 

hurl, 
Provoking  envious  gibe  form  each  pedestrian 

churl.1 

LXX. 
Some  o'er  thy  Thamis  row  the  ribboned 

fair, 
Others  along  the  safer  turnpike  fly; 
Some  Richmond-hill  ascend,  some  scud  to 

Ware, 


ivomen  in  Spain;  the  Cadiz  belles  being  the  Lan- 
cashire witches  of  their  land."  —  Byron  to  his 
Mother.     1809.] 

1  ["  In  thus  mixing  up  the  light  with  the  solemn, 
it  was  the  intention  of  the  poet  to  imitate  Ariosto. 
But  it  is  far  easier  to  rise  with  grace,  from  the  level 
of  a  strain  generally  familiar,  into  an  occasional 
short  burst  of  pathos  or  splendor,  than  to  interrupt 
thus  a  prolonged  tone  of  solemnity  by  any  descent 
into  the  ludicrous  or  burlesque.  In  the  former  case, 
the  transition  may  have  the  effect  of  softening  or 
elevating;  while,  in  the  latter,  it  almost  invariably 
shocks;  — for  the  same  reason,  perhaps,  that  a  trait 
of  pathos  or  high  feeling,  in  comedy,  has  a  peculiar 
charm;   while  the  intrusion  of  comic  scenes  into 


And  many  to  the  steep  of  Highgate  hie. 
Ask  ye  Boeotian  shades !  the  reason  why  ?  2 
'Tis  to  the  worship  of  the  solemn  Horn, 
Grasped  in  the  holy  hand  of  Mystery, 
In  whose  dread  name  both  men  and  maids 

are  sworn, 
And  consecrate  the  oath  with  draught,  and 

dance  till  morn.3 

LXXI. 

All   have   their    fooleries  —  not    alike    are 

thine, 
Fair  Cadiz,  rising  o'er  the  dark  blue  sea! 
Soon  as  the  matin  bell  proclaimeth  nine, 
Thy  saint  adorers  count  the  rosary : 
Much  is  the  Virgin  teased  to  shrive  them 

free 
(Weil  do  I  ween  the  only  virgin  there) 
From  crimes  as  numerous  as  her  beadsmen 

be; 
Then  to  the  crowded  circus  forth  they  fare  : 
Young,   old,   high,   low,  at    once  the    same 

diversion  share. 

LXXII. 

The    lists    are    oped,   the   spacious    area 

cleared, 
Thousands  on  thousands  piled  are  seated 

round 
Long  ere  the  first   loud   trumpet's  note   is 

heard, 
Ne  vacant  space  for  lated  wight  is  found  : 
Here   dons,  grandees,   but   chiefly   dames 

abound, 
Skilled  in  the  ogle  of  a  roguish  eye, 
Yet  ever  well  inclined  to  heal  the  wound ; 
None  through  their  cold  disdain  are  doomed 

to  die 
As  moon-struck  bards   complain,  by  Love's 

sad  archery. 

LXXIII. 

Hushed  is  the  din  of  tongues  —  on  gallant 
steeds, 

With  milk-white  crest,  gold  spur,  and  light- 
poised  lance, 

Four  cavaliers  prepare  for  venturous  deeds, 

And  lowly  bending  to  the  lists  advance ; 


tragedy,  however  sanctioned  among  us  by  habit 
and  authority,  rarely  fails  to  offend.  The  poet  was 
himself  convinced  of  the  failure  of  the  experiment. 
and  in  none  of  the  succeeding  cantos  of  Childe 
Harold  repeated  it."  —  Moore. .] 

2  This  was  written  at  Thebes,  and  consequently 
in  the  best  situation  for  asking  and  answering  such 
a  question;  not  as  the  birthplace  of  Pindar,  but  as 
the  capital  of  Boeotia,  where  the  first  riddle  was  pro- 
pounded and  solved. 

3  [Byron  alludes  to  a  ridiculous  custom  which 
formerly  prevailed  at  the  public-houses  in  Highgate, 
of  administering  a  burlesque  oath  to  all  travellers 
of  the  middling  rank  who  stopped  there.    The  party 


872 


CHILD E  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


Rich  are  their  scarfs,  their  charges  featly 

prance ;  ■ 
If  in  the  dangerous  game  they  shine  to-day, 
The  crowd's  loud  shout  and  ladies'  lovely 

glance, 
Best  prize  of  better  acts,  they  bear  away, 
And  all  that  kings  or  chiefs  e'er  gain  their 
toils  repay, 

LXXIV. 

In  costly  sheen  and  gaudy  cloak  arrayed, 
But  all  afoot,  the  light-limbed  Matadore 
Stands  in  the  centre,  eager  to  invade 
The  lord  of  lowing  herds ;  but  not  before 
The   ground,  with  cautious  tread,  is  trav- 
ersed o'er, 
Lest  aught  unseen  should  lurk  to  thwart  his 

speed: 
His  arms  a  dart,  he  fights  aloof,  nor  more 
Can    man    achieve    without    the    friendly 
Steed  — 
Alas !  too  oft  condemned  for  him  to  bear  and 
bleed. 

LXXV. 

Thrice  sounds  the  clarion ;  lo !  the  signal 

falls, 
The  den  expands,  and  Expectation  mute 
Gapes   round   the   silent    circle's    peopled 

walls. 
Bounds  with  one  lashing  spring  the  mighty 

brute, 
And,  wildly  staring,  spurns,  with  sounding 

foot, 
The  sand,  nor  blindly  rushes  on  his  foe  : 
Here,  there,  he  points  his  threatening  front, 

to  suit 
His  first  attack,  wide  waving  to  and  fro 
His  angry  tail ;  red  rol's  his  eye's  dilated  glow. 

LXXVI. 

Sudden  he  stops ;  his  eye  is  fixed :  away, 
Away,  thou  heedless  boy !  prepare  the  spear  : 
Now  is  thy  time,  to  perish,  or  display 
The  skill  that  yet  may  check  his  mad  career. 
With  well-timed  croupe  the  nimble  coursers 

veer ; 
V»i  foams  the  bull,  bu*  not  unscathed  he 

goes; 
Streams  from  his  flank  the  crimson  torrent 

clear : 
He   flies,  he  wheels,   distracted   with    his 

throes ; 
Dart  follows  dart ;  lance  lance  ;  loud  bellow- 

ings  speak  his  woes. 


was  sworn  on  a  pair  of  horns,  fastened,  "  never  to 
kiss  the  maid  when  he  could  the  mistress;  never  to 
eat  brown  bread  when  he  could  get  white;  never 
to  drink  small  beer  when  he  could  get  strong;" 
with  m.iny  other  injunctions  of  the  like  kind,  —  to 
all  which  was  added  the  saving  clause,  —  "unless 
jrou  like  it  best."! 


LXXVII. 

Again  he  comes  ;  nor  dart  nor  lance  avail, 

Nor  the  wild  plunging  of  the  tortured  horse ; 

Though    man  and   man's  avenging    arms 
assail, 

Vain  are  his  weapons,  vainer  is  his  force. 

One  gallant  steed  is  stretched  a  mangled 
corse ; 

Another,  hideous  sight !  unseamed  appears, 

Hisgory  chest  unveils  life's  panting  source ; 

Though  death-struck,  still  his  feeble  frame 
he  rears ; 
Staggering,  but  stemming  all,  his   lord   un- 
harmed he  bears. 


Foiled,  bleeding,  breathless,  furious  to  the 

last, 
Full  in  the  centre  stands  the  bull  at  bay, 
Mid  wounds,  and  clinging  darts,  and  lances 

brast, 
And  foes  disabled  in  the  brutal  fray : 
And  now  the  Matadores  around  him  play, 
Shake  the  red  cloak,  and  poise  the  ready 

brand. 
Once  more  through  all  he  bursts  his  thun- 
dering way  — 
Vain  rage !  the  mantle  quits  the  conynge 
hand, 
Wraps   his  fierce  eye — 'tis   past  —  he  sinks 
upon  the  sand !  * 

LXXIX. 

Where  his  vast  neck  just  mingles  with  the 
spine, 

Sheathed  in  his  form  the  deadly  weapon 
lies. 

He   stops  —  he  starts  —  disdaining  to   de- 
cline : 

Slowly  he  falls,  amidst  triumphant  cries, 

Without  a  groan,  without  a  struggle  dies. 

The  decorated  car  appears  —  on  high 

The  corse  is  piled  —  sweet  sight  for  vulgar 
eyes  — 

Four  steeds  that  spurn  the  rein,  as  swift  as 
shy, 
Hurl  the  dark  bulk  along,  scarce  seen  in  dash- 
ing by. 

LXXX. 
Such  the  ungentle  sport  that  oft  invites 

The  Spanish  maid,  and  cheers  the  Spanish 
swain. 

1  [So  inveterate  was,  at  one  time,  the  rage  of  the 
Spanish  people  for  this  amusement,  that  even  boys 
mimicked  its  features  in  their  play.  In  the  slaugh- 
ter-house itself  the  professional  bull-fighter  gave 
public  lessons;  and  such  was  the  force  of  depraved 
custom,  that  ladies  of  the  highest  rank  were  not 
ashamed  to  appear  amidst  the  filth  and  horror  cf  the 
shambles.  The  Spaniards  received  this  sport  from 
the  Moors,  among  whom  it  was  celebrated  witi 
great  pomp  and  splendor.] 


CHILD E  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


273 


Nurtured  in  blood  betimes,  his  heart  delights 
In  vengeance,  gloating  on  another's  pain. 
What   private   feuds   the   troubled   village 

stain ! 
Though  now  one   phalanxed  host  should 

meet  the  foe 
Enough,  alas !  in  humble  homes  remain, 
To  meditate  'gainst  friends  the  secret  blow, 
For  some  slight  cause  of  wrath,  whence  life's 

warm  stream  must  flow. 

LXXXI. 

But  Jealousy  has  fled :  his  bars,  his  bolts, 
His  withered  centinel,  Duenna  sage! 
And  all  whereat  the  generous  soul  revolts, 
Which  the  stern  dotard  deemed  he  could 

encage 
Have  passed  to  darkness  with  the  vanished 

age. 
Who  late  so  free  as  Spanish  girls  were  seen, 
(Ere  War  uprose  in  his  volcanic  rage,) 
With   braided   tresses    bounding   o'er  the 
green, 
While  on  the  gay  dance  shone  Night's  lover- 
loving  Queen  ? 

LXXXII. 

Oh !  many  a  'Jme,  and  oft,  had  Harold  loved, 
Or  dreamed  he  loved,  since  Rapture  is  a 

dream ; 
But  now  his  wayward  bosom  was  unmoved, 
For  not  yet  had  he  drunk  of  Lethe's  stream  ; 
And  lately  had  he  learned  with  truth  to  deem 
Love  has  no  gift  so  grateful  as  his  wings : 
How  fair,  how  young,  how  soft   soe'er  he 

seem, 
Full  from  the  fount  of  Joy's  delicious  springs 
■some  bitter  o'er  the  flowers  its  bubbling  venom 

flings.1 

LXXXIII. 

Yet  to  the  beauteous  form  he  was  not  blind, 
Though  now  it  moved  him  as  it  moves  the 

wise; 
Not  that  Philosophy  on  such  a  mind 
E'er   deigned  to   bend   her  chastely-awful 

eyes : 
But  Passion  raves  itself  to  rest,  or  flies ; 
And  Vice,  that   digs   her  own  voluptuous 

tomb, 
Had  buried  long  his  hopes,  no  more  to  rise  : 
Pleasure's     palled     victim !     life-abhorring 

gloom 
Vrote  on  his  faded  brow  curst  Cain's  unrest- 
ing doom. 

LXXXIV. 

Still  he  beheld,  nor  mingled  with  the  throng ; 
But  viewed  them   not  with    misanthropic 
hate: 


1 "  Medio  de  fonte  leporum,"  etc.  —  Lucret. 


Fain  would  he  now  have  joined  the  danc?; 

the  song ; 
But  who  may  smile  that  sinks  beneath  his 

fate? 
Nought  that  he  saw  his  sadness  could  abate . 
Yet  once  he  struggled  'gainst  the  demon's 

sway, 
And  as  in  Beauty's  bower  he  pensive  sate. 
Poured  forth  this  unpremeditated  lay, 
To  charms  as  fair  as  those  that  soothed  hi? 

happier  day. 

TO  INEZ. 


Nay,  smile  not  at  my  sullen  brow; 

Alas !  I  cannot  smile  again : 
Yet  Heet>ren  avert  that  ever  thou 

Shouldst  weep,  and  haply  weep  in  vain. 


And  dost  thou  ask,  what  secret  woe 
I  bear,  corroding  joy  and  youth  ? 

And  wilt  thou  vainly  seek  to  know 
A  pang,  even  thou  must  fail  to  soothe  ? 


It  is  not  love,  it  is  not  hate. 

Nor  low  Ambition's  honors  lost, 

That  bids  me  loathe  my  present  state. 
And  fly  from  all  I  prized  the  most : 


It  is  that  weariness  which  springs 
From  all  I  meet,  or  hear,  or  see : 

To  me  no  pleasure  Beauty  brings ; 

Thine  eyes  have  scarce  a  charm  for  me. 


It  is  that  settled,  ceaseless  gloom 
The  fabled  Hebrew  wanderer  bore; 

That  will  not  look  beyond  the  tomb, 
But  cannot  hope  for  rest  before. 

6. 

What  Exile  from  himself  can  flee  ? 

To  zones,  though  more  and  more  remote 
Still,  still  pursues,  where'er  I  be, 

The  blight  of  life  —  the  demon  Thought, 


Yet  others  rapt  in  pleasure  seem, 
And  taste  of  all  that  I  forsake ; 

Oh !  may  they  still  of  transport  dream, 
And  ne'er  at  least  like  me,  awake ! 


Through  many  a  clime  'tis  mine  to  go, 
With  many  a  retrospection  curst ; 

And  all  my  solace  is  to  know, 

Whate'er  betides,  I've  known  the  worst 


*74 


CHILD E   HAROLD'S  PILGRLMAGB. 


What  is  that  worst  ?     Nay  do  not  ask — 
In  pity  from  the  search  forbear; 

Smile  on  —  nor  venture  to  unmask 

Man's  heart,  and  view  the  Hell  that's  there.1 

LXXXV. 

Adieu,  fair  Cadiz!  yea,  a  long  adieu! 
Who  may  forget  how  well  thy  walls  have 

stood  ? 
When  all  wert  changing  thou  alone  wert 

true, 
First  to  be  free  and  last  to  be  subdued : 
And  if  amidst  a  scene,  a  shock  so  rude, 
Some  native  blood  was  seen  thy  streets  to 

•dye; 


1  In  place  of  this  song,  which  was  written  at 
Athens,  January  25,  1S10,  and  which  contains,  as 
Moore  says,  "  some  of  the  dreariest  touches  of  sad- 
ness that  ever  Byron's  pen  let  fall,"  we  find,  in  the 
first  draught  of  the  Canto,  the  following  :  — 


Oh  never  »»lk  again  to  me 

OS  northern  climes  and  British  ladies: 
It  has  not  been  your  lot  to  see, 

Like  m';,  the  lovely  girl  of  Cadiz. 
Ahhough  Ser  eye  be  not  of  blue, 

Nor  fait  her  locks,  like  English  lasses, 
How  far  its  own  expressive  hue 

The  languid  azure  eye  surpasses. 


Prometheus-like,  from  heaven  she  stole 

The  fire,  that  through  those  silken  lashes 
In  darkest  glances  seems  to  roll, 

From  eyes  that  cannot  hide  their  flashes: 
And  as  along  her  bosom  steal 

In  lengthened  flow  her  raven  tresses, 
You'd  swear  each  clustering  lock  could  feel, 

And  curled  to  give  her  neck  caresses. 


Our  English  maids  are  long  to  woo, 

And  frigid  even  in  possession; 
And  if  their  charms  be  fair  to  view, 

Their  lips  are  slow  at  Love's  confession: 
But  born  beneath  a  brighter  sun, 

For  love  ordained  the  Spanish  maid  is, 
And  who,  —  when  fondly,  fairly  won, — 

Enchants  you  like  the  Girl  of  Cadiz? 


The  Spanish  maid  is  no  coquette, 

Nor  joys  to  see  a  lover  tremble, 
And  if  she  love,  or  if  she  hate, 

Alike  she  knows  not  to  dissemble. 
Her  heart  can  ne'er  be  bought  or  sold  — 

Howe'er  it  beats,  it  beats  sincerely; 
And,  though  it  will  not  bend  to  gold, 

'Twill  love  you  long  and  love  you  dearly. 


The  Spanish  girl  that  meets  your  love 
Ne'er  taunts  you  with  a  mock  denial, 

J'or  every  thought  is  bent  to  prove 
Her  passion  in  the  hour  of  trial. 


A  traitor  only  fell  beneath  the  feud :  * 
Here  all  were  noble,  save  Nobility; 
None  hugged  a  conqueror's  chain,  save  fallen 
Chivalry. 

LXXXVI. 

Such  be  the  sons  of  Spain,  and  strange  hei 

fate ! 
They  fight  for  freedom  who  were  never  free ; 
A  Kingless  people  for  a  nerveless  state, 
Her  vassals  combat  when  their  chieftains 

flee, 
True  to  the  veriest  slaves  of  Treachery : 
Fond  of  a  land  which  gave  them  nought  but 

life, 
Pride  points  the  path  that  leads  to  Liberty ; 
Back  to  the  struggle,  baffled  in  the  strife, 
War,  war  is  still  the  cry,  "  War  even  to  the 

knife !  "  3 

LXXXVII. 

Ye,  who  would  more  of  Spain  and  Spaniards 

know 
Go,  read  whate'er  is  writ  of  bloodiest  strife  : 
Whate'er  keen  Vengeance  urged  on  foreign 

foe 
Can  act,  is  acting  there  against  man's  life  : 
From  flashing  scimitar  to  secret  knife, 
War  mouldeth  there  each  weapon  to  his 

need  — 
So  may  he  guard  the  sister  and  the  wife, 
So  may  he  make  each  curst  oppressor  bleed, 
So  may  such  foes  deserve  the  most  remorse- 
less deed ! * 


When  thronging  foemen  menace  Spain, 
She  dares  the  deed  and  shares  the  danger; 

And  should  her  lover  press  the  plain, 
She  hurls  the  spear,  her  love's  avenger. 


And  when,  beneath  the  evening  star, 

She  mingles  in  the  gay  Bolero, 
Or  sings  to  her  attuned  guitar 

Of  Christian  knight  or  Moorish  hero, 
Or  counts  her  beads  with  fairy  hand 

Beneath  the  twinkling  rays  of  Hesper, 
Or  joins  devotion's  choral  band, 

To  chaunt  the  sweet  and  hallowed  vesper; 


In  each  her  charms  the  heart  must  move 

Of  all  who  venture  to  behold  her; 
Then  let  not  maids  less  fair  reprove 

Because  her  bosom  is  not  colder: 
Through  many  a  clime  'tis  mine  to  roam 

Where  many  a  soft  and  melting  maid  is, 
But  none  abroad,  and  few  at  home, 

May  match  the  dark-eyed  Girl  of  Cadiz. 

J  Alluding  to  the  conduct  and  death  of  Solano, 
the  governor  01  Cadiz,  in  May,  1800. 

3  "  War  to  the  knife."     Palafox's  answer  to  the 
French  general  at  the  siege  of  Saragoza. 

*  The  Canto,  in  the  original  MS.,  closes  with  the 
following  staruas :  — 


CHILDE   HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


275 


LXXXVIII. 

Flows  there  a  tear  of  pity  for  the  dead  ? 
Look  o'er  the  ravage  of  the  reeking  plain  ; 
Look  on  the  hands  with  female  slaughter 

red ; 
Then  to  the  dogs  resign  the  unburied  slain, 
Then  to  the  vulture  let  each  corse  remain, 
Albeit  unworthy  of  the  prey-bird's  maw ; 
Let  their  bleached  bones,  and  blood's  un- 

bleaching  stain, 
Long  mark  the  battle-field  with  hideous  awe  : 
Fhus  only  may  our  sons  conceive  the  scenes 

we  saw ! 

LXXXIX. 

Nor  yet,  alas !  the  dreadful  work  is  done  ; 
Fresh  legions  pour  adown  the  Pyrenees  : 
It  deepens  still,  the  work  is  scarce  begun, 
Nor  mortal  eye  the  distant  end  foresees. 
Fallen  nations  gaze  on  Spain  ;  if  freed,  she 

frees 
More  than  her  fell  Pizarros  once  enchained  : 
Strange  retribution !  now  Columbia's  ease 
Repairs  the  wrongs  that  Quito's  sons  sus- 
tained, 
While  o'er  the  parent  clime  prowls  Murder 
unrestrained. 


Ye,   who  would  more  of  Spain   and   Spaniards 

know, 
Sights,  Saints,  Antiques,  Arts,  Anecdotes,  and 

War, 
Go!  hie  ye  hence  to  Paternoster  Row  — 
Are  they  not  written  in  the  Book  of  Carr,* 
Green   Erin's    Knight  and   Europe's   wandering 

star! 
Then  listen,  Reader,  to  the  Man  of  Ink, 
Hear  what  he  did,  and  sought,  and  wrote  afar; 
All  these  are  cooped  within  one  Quarto's  brink, 
This  borrow,  steal, —  don't  buy,  —  and  tell  us  what 

you  think. 

There  may  you  read,  with  spectacles  on  eyes, 
How  many  Wellesleys  did  embark  for  Spain, 
As  if  therein  they  meant  to  colonize, 
How  many  troops  y-crossed  the  laughing  main 
That  ne'er  beheld  the  said  return  again; 
How  many  buildings  are  in  such  a  place, 
How  many  leagues  from  this  to  yonder  plain, 
How  many  relics  each  cathedral  grace, 
And  where  Giralda  stands  on  her  gigantic  base. 

There  may  you  read  (Oh,  Phoebus,  save  Sir  John  ! 
That  these  my  words  prophetic  may  not  err) 
All  that  was  said,  or  sung,  or  lost,  or  won, 
By  vaunting  Wellesley  or  by  blundering  Frere, 
He  that  wrote  half  the  "  Needy  Knife-Grinder,"  \ 
Thus  poesy  the  way  to  grandeur  paves  — 


*  Porphyry  said  that  the  prophecies  of  Daniel 
were  written  after  their  completion,  and  such  may 
be  my  fate  here;  but  it  requires  no  second  sight  to 
foretell  a  tome :  the  first  glimpse  of  the  knight  was 
enough. 

t  [The  "  Needy  Knife-grinder,"  in  the  Anti- 
Jacobin,  was  a  joint  production  of  Frere  and  Can- 
ning.] 


Not  all  the  blood  at  Talavera  shed, 

Not  all  the  marvels  of  Barossa's  fight, 

Not  Albuera  lavish  of  the  dead, 

Have  won  for  Spain  her  well-asserted  right. 

When  shall  her  Olive-Branch  be  free  from 

blight  ? 
When  shall  she  breathe  her  from  the  blush- 
ing toil  ? 
How  many  a  doubtful  day  shall   sink   in 

night, 
Ere  the  Frank  robber  turn  him  from  his 

spoil, 
And  Freedom's  stranger-tree  grow  native  of 

the  soil  1 

XCI. 
And  thou,  my  friend!1  —  since  unavailing 

woe 
Bursts  from  my  heart,  and  mingles  with  the 

strain  — 
Had  the  sword  laid  thee  with  the  mighty  low, 
Pride  might  forbid  e'en  Friendship  to'com- 

plain : 


Who  would  not  such  diplomatists  prefer? 
But  cease,  my  Muse,  thy  speed  some  respite  craves, 
Leave  Legates  to  their  house,  and  armies  to  their 
graves. 

Yet  here  of  Vulpes  mention  may  be  made, 
Who  for  the  Junta  modelled  sapient  laws, 
Taught  them  to  govern  ere  they  were  obeyed; 
Certes,  fit  teacher  to  command,  because 
His  soul  Socratic  no  Xantippe  awes; 
Blest  with  a  dame  in  Virtue's  bosom  nurst,  — 
With  her  let  silent  admiration  pause!  — 
True  to  her  second  husband  and  her  first: 
On  such  unshaken  fame  let  Satire  do  its  worst. 

1  The  Honorable  John  Wingfield,  of  the  Guards, 
who  died  of  a  fever  at  Coimbra.  I  had  known  him 
ten  years,  the  better  half  of  his  life,  and  the  happiest 
part  of  mine.  In  the  short  space  of  one  month,  I 
have  lost  her  who  gave  me  being,  and  most  of 
those  who  had  made  that  being  tolerable.  To  me 
the  lines  of  Young  are  no  fiction:  — 
"  Insatiate  archer!  could  not  one  suffice? 

Thy  shaft  flew  thrice,  and  thrice  my  peace  was 
slain, 

And  thrice  ere  thrice  yon  moon  had  filled  her  horn." 
I  should  have  ventured  a  verse  to  the  memory  of 
the  late  Charles  Skinner  Matthews,  Fellow  of 
Downing  College,  Cambridge,  were  he  not  too 
much  above  all  praise  of  mine.  His  powers  of 
mind,  shown  in  the  attainment  of  greater  honors, 
against  the  ablest  candidates,  than  those  of  any 
graduate  on  record  at  Cambridge,  have  sufficiently 
established  his  fame  on  the  spot  where  it  was  ac- 
quired; while  his  softer  qualities  live  in  the  recol- 
lection of  friends  who  loved  him  too  well  to  envy 
his  superiority. —  ["To  him  all  the  men  I  ever 
knew  were  pigmies.  He  was  an  intellectual  giant. 
It  is  true  I  loved  Wingfield  better;  he  was  the  earli- 
est and  the  dearest,  and  one  of  the  few  one  could 
never  repent  of  having  loved:  but  inability  —  Ah, 
you  did  not  know  Matthews!  "  —  Byron  to  Dallas, 
1812.] 


f!6 


CHILD E  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


But  thus  unlaurelled  to  descend  in  vain, 
By  all  forgotten,  save  the  lonely  breast, 
And    mix    unbleeding    with    the    boasted 

slain, 
While   Glory  crowns   so   many  a   meaner 
crest ! 
What  hadst  thou  done  to  sink  so  peacefully 
to  rest  ? 

xcn. 

"    Oh,  known  the  earliest,  and  esteemed  the 

most! 
Dear  to  a  heart  where  nought  was  left  so 

dear ! 
Though  to  my  hopeless  days  for  ever  lost, 
In  dreams  deny  me  not  to  see  thee  here ! 
And  Morn  in  secret  shall  renew  the  tear 


Of  Consciousness  awaking  to  her  woes, 
And  Fancy  hover  o'er  thy  bloodless  bier, 
Till  my  frail  frame  return  to  whence  it  rose, 
And   mourned   and   mourner   lie    united    in 
repose. 

XCI1I. 

Here  is  one  fytte  of  Harold's  pilgrimage  : 
Ye  who  of  him  may  further  seek  to  know, 
Shall  find  some  tidings  in  a  future  page, 
If  he  that  rhymeth  now  may  scribble  moe. 
Is  this  too  much  ?  stern  Critic  !  say  not  so  : 
Patience!  and  ye  shall  hear  what  be  In-held 
In  other  lands,  where  he  was  doomed  to  go  : 
Lands  that  contain  the  monuments  of  Eld, 
Ere  Greece  and  Grecian  arts  by  barbarous 
hands  were  quelled. 


CANTO   THE   SECOND. 


I. 

Come,  blue-eyed    maid   of  heaven! — but 

thou,  alas, 
Didst  never  yet  one  mortal  song  inspire  — 
Goddess  of  Wisdom  !  here  thy  temple  was, 
And  is,  despite  of  war  and  wasting  fire,1 
And  years,  that  bade  thy  worship  to  expire. 
But  worse  than  steel,  and  flame,  and  ages 

slow, 
Is  the  dread  sceptre  and  dominion  dire 
Of  men  who  never  felt  the  sacred  giow 
That  thoughts  of  thee  and  thine  on  polished 

breasts  bestow. 


Ancient  of  days !  august  Athena !  2  where, 
Where  are  thy  men  of  might  ?  thy  grand 
in  soul  ? 


1  Part  of  the  Acropolis  was  destroyed  by  the  ex- 
plosion of  a  magazine  during  the  Venetian  siege. — 
[On  the  highest  part  of  Lycabettus,  as  Chandler 
v.  as  informed  by  an  eye-witness,  the  Venetians,  in 
1687,  placed  four  mortars  and  six  pieces  of  cannon, 
when  they  battered  the  Acropolis.  One  of  the 
bombs  was  fatal  to  some  of  the  sculpture  on  the 
west  front  of  the  Parthenon.  "  In  1667,"  says  Hob- 
house,  "  every  antiquity  of  which  there  is  now  any 
trace  in  the  Acropolis,  was  in  a  tolerable  state  of 
preservation.  This  great  temple  might,  at  that 
period,  be  called  entire;  — having  been  previously 
a  Christian  church,  it  was  then  a  mosque,  the  most 
beautiful  m  the  world."] 

*  We  can  all  feel,  or  imagine,  the  regret  with 
which  the  ruins  of  cities,  once  the  capitals  of  em- 
pires, are  beheld :  the  reflections  suggested  by  such 
objects  are  too  trite  to  require  recapitulation.  But 
never  did  the  littleness  of  man,  and  the  vanity  of 
bis  very  best  virtues,  of  patriotism  to  exalt,  and  of 


Gone  —  glimmering  through  the  dream  of 

things  that  were : 
First  in  the  race  that  led  to  Glory's  goal, 
They  won,  and  passed  away  —  is  this  the 

whole  ? 
A  schoolboy's  tale,  the. wonder  of  an  hour! 
The  warriot's  weapon   and   the    sophist's 

stole 


valor  to  defend  his  country,  appear  more  conspicu- 
ous than  in  the  record  of  what  Athens  was,  and  the 
certainty  of  what  she  now  is.  This  theatre  of  con- 
tention between  mighty  factions,  of  the  struggles  of 
orators,  the  exaltation  and  deposition  of  tyrants, 
the  triumph  and  punishment  of  generals,  is  now 
become  a  scene  of  petty  intrigue  and  perpetual  dis- 
turbance, between  the  bickering  agents  of  certain 
British  nobility  and  gentry.  "  The  wild  foxes,  the 
owls  and  serpents  in  the  ruins  of  Babylon,"  were 
surely  less  degrading  than  such  inhabitants.  The 
Turks  have  the  plea  of  conquest  for  their  tyranny, 
and  the  Greeks  have  only  suffered  the  fortune  of 
war,  incidental  to  the  bravest;  but  how  are  the 
mighty  fallen,  when  two  painters  contest  the  privi- 
lege of  plundering  the  Parthenon,  and  triumph  in 
turn,  according  to  the  tenor  of  each  succeeding  fir- 
man! Sylla  could  but  punish,  Philip  subdue,  and 
Xerxes  burn  Athens;  but  it  remained  for  the  paltry 
antiquarian,  and  his  despicable  agents,  to  render 
her  contemptible  as  himself  and  his  pursuits.  The 
Parthenon,  before  its  destruction  in  part,  by  fire 
during  the  Venetian  siege,  had  been  a  temple,  a 
church,  and  a  mosque.  In  each  point  of  view  it  is 
an  object  of  regard:  it  changed  its  worshippers;  but 
still  it  was  a  place  of  worship  thrice  sacred  to  devo- 
tion: its  violation  is  a  triple  sacrilege.  But  -» 
"  Man,  proud  man, 

Drest  in  a  little  brief  authority, 

Plays  such  fantastic  tricks  before  high  heaven 

As  make  the  angels  weep." 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


277 


Are  sought  in  vain,  and  o'er  each  moulder- 
ing tower, 
Dim  with  the  mist  of  years,  gray  flits  the  shade 
of  power. 

III. 

Son  of  the  morning,  rise  1   approach  you 

here! 
Come  —  but    molest  not  yon    defenceless 

urn: 
Look  on  this  spot  —  a  nation's  sepulchre  ! 
Abode  of  gods,  whose  shrines   no   longer 

burn. 
Even  gods  must  yield —  religions  take  their 

turn : 
'Twas  love's — 'tis  Mahomet's — and  other 

creeds 
Will  rise  with   other  years,  till   man   shall 

learn 
Vainly  his  incense  soars,  his  victim  bleeds ; 
Poor  child  of  Doubt  and  Death,  whose  hope 

is  built  on  reeds. l 

IV. 

Bound  to  the   earth,   he   lifts  his    eye  to 

heaven  — - 
Is't  not  enough,  unhappy  thing!  to  know 
Thou  art  ?  Is  this  a  boon  so  kindly  given, 
That   being,  thou  would'st   be   again,  and 

g°. 
Thou   know'st    not,  reck'st    not  to    what 

region,  so 
On  earth  no  more,  but  mingled  with   the 

skies  ? 


1  [In  the  original  MS.  the  following  note  to  this 
stanza  had  been  prepared  fur  publication,  but  was 
afterwards  withdrawn,  "  from  a  fear,"  says  the  poet, 
"  that  it  might  be  considered  rather  as  an  attack, 
than  a  defence  of  religion  :  "  —  "In  this  age  of  big- 
otry, when  the  puritan  and  priest  have  changed 
places,  and  the  wretched  Catholic  is  visited  with  the 
'  sins  of  his  fathers,'  even  unto  generations  far  be- 
yond the  pale  of  the  commandment,  the  cast  of 
opinion  in  these  stanzas  will,  doubtless,  meet  with 
many  a  contemptuous  anathema.  But  let  it  be  re- 
membered, that  the  spirit  they  breathe  is  despond- 
ing, not  sneering,  scepticism;  that  he  who  has  seen 
the  Greek  and  Moslem  superstitions  contending  for 
mastery  over  the  former  shrines  of  Polytheism  — 
who  has  left  in  his  own,  '  Pharisees,  thanking  God 
that  they  are  not  like  publicans  and  sinners,'  and 
Spaniards  in  theirs,  abhorring  the  heretics,  who 
have  holpen  them  in  their  need,  —  will  be  not  a  lit- 
tle bewildered,  and  begin  to  think,  that  as  only  one 
of  them  can  be  right,  they  may,  most  of  them,  be 
wrong.  With  regard  to  morals,  and  the  effect  of 
religion  on  mankind,  it  appears,  from  all  historical 
testimony,  to  have  had  less  effect  in  making  them 
love  their  neighbors,  than  inducing  that  cordial 
Christian  abhorrence  between  sectaries  and  schis- 
matics. The  Turks  and  Quakers  are  the  most  tol- 
erant: if  an  Infidel  pays  his  heratch  to  the  former, 
he  may  pray  how,  when,  and  where  he  pleases;  and 
the  mild  tenets,  and  devout  demeanor  of  the  latter, 
make  their  lives  the  truest  commentary  on  the  Ser- 
mon on  the  Mount."] 


Still  wilt  thou   dream   on  future  joy  and 

woe  ? 
Regard  and  weigh  yon  dust  before  it  flies  : 
That   little   urn   saith    more   than    thousand 
homilies. 

v. 

Or  burst  the  vanished  Hero's  lofty  mound ; 

Far  on  the  solitary  shore  he  sleeps  :  2 

He    fell,     and    falling    nations    mourned 

around ; 
But  now  not  one  of  saddening  thousands 

weeps, 
Nor  warlike-worshipper  his  vigil  keeps 
Where   demi-gods    appeared,  as    records 

tell. 
Remove  yon  skull  from  out  the  scattered 

heaps : 
Is  that  a  temple  where  a  God  may  dwell? 
Why   even   the  worm   at   last    disdains   her 

shattered  cell ! 

VI. 

Look  on  its  broken  arch,  its  ruined  wall, 
Its  chambers  desolate,  and  portals  foul : 
Yet,  this  was  once  Ambition's  airy  hall, 
The  dome  of  Thought,  the  palace  of  the 

Soul : 
Behold  through   each   lack-lustre,   eyeless 

hole, 
The  gay  recess  of  Wisdom  and  of  Wit, 
And   Passion's  host,  that   never  brooked 

control. 
Can  all  saint,  sage,  or  sophist  ever  writ, 
People  this  lonely  tower,  this  tenement  refit  ? 

VII. 

Well    didst  thou    speak,  Athena's  wisest 

son! 
"  All    that  we   know  is,  nothing  can    be 

known." 
Why  should  we  shrink  from  what  we  cannot 

shun  ? 
Each   hath   his  pang,  but   feeble  sufferers 

groan 
With   brain-born   dreams  of  evil  all  their 

own. 
Pursue  what  Chance  or  Fate  proclaimed! 

best; 
Peace  waits  us  on  the  shores  of  Acheron  : 
There  no  forced  banquet  claims  the  sated 

guest, 
But  Silence  spreads  the  couch  of  ever  welcome 

rest. 


-  It  was  not  always  the  custom  of  the  Greeks  to 
burn  their  dead;  the  greater  Ajax,  in  particular, 
was  interred  entire.  Almost  all  the  chiefs  became 
gods  after  their  decease;  and  he  was  indeed  neg 
lected,  who  had  not  annual  games  near  his  tomb,  or 
festivals  in  honor  of  his  memory  by  his  country- 
men, as  Achilles,  Brasidas,  etc.,  and  at  last  even 
Antinous,  whose  death  was  as  heroic  as  his  life  was 
infamous. 


m 


CHILD E  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


VIII. 

Yet  if,  as  holiest  men  have  deemed,  there  be 
A  land  of  souls  beyond  that  sable  shore, 
To  shame  the  doctrine  of  the  Sadducee 
And  sophists,  madly  vain  of  dubious  lore , 
How  sweet  it  were  in  concert  to  adore 
With  those  who  made  our  mortal  labors 

light ! 
To  hear  each  voice  we  feared  to  hear  no 

more ! 
Behold   each    mighty  shade    revealed    to 

sight, 
The    Bactrian,   Samian   sage,   and   all    who 

taught  the  right ! 1 

IX. 

There,  thou !  —  whose  love  and  life  together 
fled, 

Have   left  me    here  to   love  and    live  in 
vain  — 

Twined  with  my  heart,  and  can  I  deem  thee 
dead 

When  busy  Memory  flashes  on  my  brain  ? 

Well — 1  will  dream   that    we    may   meet 
again, 

And  woo  the  vision  to  my  vacant  breast : 

If  aught  of  young  Remembrance  then  re- 
main, 

Be  as  it  may  Futurity's  behest, 
For  me  'twere  bliss  enough  to  know  thy  spirit 
blest !  2 

x. 

Here  let  me  sit  upon  this  massy  stone, 
The  marble  column's  yet  unshaken  base ; 
Here,  son  of  Saturn  !  was  thy  fav'rite  throne  : 
Mightiest  of  many  such  !  Hence  let  me  trace 
The  latent  grandeur  of  thy  dwelling-place. 
It  may  not  be  :  nor  even  can  Fancy's  eye 
Restore  what  Time  hath  labored  to  deface. 
Yet  these  proud  pillars  claim  no  passing 

sigh; 
Unmoved  the  Moslem  sits,  the  light  Greek 

carols  by. 

XI. 

But  who,  of  all  the  plunderers  of  yon  fane 
On  high,  where  Pallas  lingered,  loth  to  flee 


1  [In  the  MS.,  instead  of  this  stanza,  was  the 

following:  — 

"  Frown  not  upon  me,  churlish  Priest!  that  I 
Look  not  for  life,  where  life  may  never  be; 
I  am  no  sneerer  at  thy  phantasy; 
Thou  pitiest  me,  —  alas!   I  envy  thee, 
Thou  bold  discoverer  in  an  unknown  sea, 
Of  happy  isles  and  happier  tenants  there; 

1  ask  thee  not  to  prove  a  Sadducee; 

Still  dream  of  Paradise,  thou  know'st  not  where, 
But   lov'st   too   well   to   bid  thine   erring  brother 
share." 

2  [Byron  wrote  this  stanza  at  Newstead,  in  Octo- 
ber, 1811,  on  hearing  of  the  death  of  his  Cambridge 
friend,  young  Eddlestone.] 


The  latest  relic  of  her  ancient  reign ; 
The  last,  the  worst,  dull  spoiler,  who  was  he  ? 
Blush,  Caledonia!  such  thy  son  could  be! 
England  !  I  joy  no  child  he  was  of  thine  : 
Thy  free-born  men  should  spare  what  once 

was  free ; 
Yet    they  could    violate    each    saddening 

shrine, 
And  bear  these  altars  o'er  the  long-reluctant 

brine.3 

XII. 

But  most  the  modern  Pict's  ignoble  boast, 
To  rive  what  Goth,  and  Turk,  and  Time 

hath  spared : 4 
Cold  as  the  crags  upon  his  native  coast, 
His  mind  as  barren  and  his  heart  as  hard, 
Is  he  whose  head  conceived,  whose  hand 

prepared, 
Aught  to  displace  Athena's  poor  remains : 
Her   sons   too  weak  the  sacred  shrine  to 

guard, 
Yet  felt  some  portion  of  their  mother's  pains,5 
And  never  knew,  till  then,  the  weight  of  Des- 
pot's chains. 

XIII. 

What!    shall    it    e'er  be   said  by    British 
tongue, 

Albion  was  happy  in  Athena's  tears  ? 

Though  in  thy  name  the  slaves  her  bosom 
wrung, 

Tell  not  the  deed  to  blushing  Europe's  ears ; 

The  ocean  queen,  the  free  Britannia,  bears 

The  last  poor  plunder  from  a  bleeding  land  : 

Yes,  she,  whose  gen'rous  aid  her  name  en- 
dears, 

Tore  down  those  remnants  with  a  harpy's 
hand, 
Which  envious  Eld  forbore,  and  tyrants  left 
to  stand.6 


3  The  temple  of  Jupiter  Olympius,  of  which  six- 
teen columns,  entirely  of  marble,  yet  survive :  orig- 
inally there  were  one  hundred  and  fifty.  These 
columns,  however,  are  by  many  supposed  to  have 
belonged  to  the  Pantheon. 

*  See  Appendix  to  this  Canto  [A],  for  a  note  too 
long  to  be  placed  here. 

5  I  cannot  resist  availing  myself  of  the  permis- 
sion of  my  friend  Dr.  Clarke,  whose  name  requires 
no  comment  with  the  public,  but  whose  sanction 
will  add  tenfold  weight  to  my  testimony,  to  insert 
the  following  extract  from  a  very  obliging  letter  of 
his  to  me,  as  a  note  to  the  above  lines:  —  "  When 
the  last  of  the  Metopes  was  taken  from  the  Parthe- 
non, and,  in  moving  of  it,  great  part  of  the  super- 
structure with  one  of  the  triglyphs  was  thrown  down 
by  the  workmen  whom  Lord  Elgin  employed,  the 
Disdar,  who  beheld  the  mischief  done  to  the  building, 
took  his  pipe  from  his  mouth,  dropped  a  tear,  and, 
in  a  supplicating  tone  of  voice,  said  to  Lusieri, 
TcAos!  —  I  was  present."  The  Disdar  alluded  to 
was  the  father  of  the  present  Disdar. 

6  [After  stanza  xiii.  the  original  MS.  has  the 
following :  — 


CHTLDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


279 


XIV. 
Where  was  thine  ^Egis,  Pallas !  that  appalled 
Stern  Alaric  and  Havoc  on  their  way  ?  l 
Where  Peleus'  son  ?   whom  Hell  in  vain 

enthralled, 
His  shade  from  Hades  upon  that  dread  day 
Bursting  to  light  in  terrible  array  ! 
What !  could  not  Pluto  spare  the  chief  once 

more, 
To  scare  a  second  robber  from  his  prey  ? 
Idly  he  wandered  on  the  Stygian  shore, 
Nor  now  preserved  the  walls  he  loved  to  shield 

before. 

XV. 
Cold  is  the  heart,  fair  Greece !  that  looks  on 

thee, 
Nor  feels  as  lovers  o'er  the  dust  they  loved  ; 
Dull  is  the  eye  that  will  not  weep  to  see 
1'hy  walls  defaced,  thy  mouldering  shrines 

removed 
By  British  hands,  which  it  had  best  behooved 
To  guard  those  relics  ne'er  to  be  restored. 
Curst  be  the  hour  when  from  their  isle  they 

roved, 
And  once  again  thy  hapless  bosom  gored, 
And  snatched  thy  shrinking  Gods  to  northern 

climes  abhorred ! 

XVI. 

But  where  is  Harold  ?  shall  I  then  forget 
To  urge  the  gloomy  wanderer  o'er  the  wave  ? 
Little  recked  he  of  all  that  men  regret ; 
No  loved-one  now  in  feigned  lament  could 

rave ; 
No  friend  the  parting  hand  extended  gave, 
Ere  the  cold  stranger  passed  to  other  climes ; 
Hard  is  his  heart  whom  charms  may  not 

enslave  ; 
But  Harold  felt  not  as  in  other  times, 
And  left  without  a  sigh  the  land  of  war  and 

crimes. 


"  Come,  then,  ye  classic  Thanes  of  each  degree, 
Dark  Hamilton  and  sullen  Aberdeen, 
Come  pilfer  all  the  Pilgrim  loves  to  see, 
All  that  yet  consecrates  the  fading  scene: 
Oh!  better  were  it  ye  had  never  been, 
Nor  ye,  nor  Elgin,  nor  that  lesser  wight, 
The  victim  sad  of  vase-collecting  spleen, 
House-furnisher  withal,  one  Thomas  hight, 

rhan   ye    should   bear   one    stone   from    wronged 
Athena's  site. 

"  Or  will  the  gentle  Dilettanti  crew 
Now  delegate  the  task  to  digging  Gell, 
That  mighty  limner  of  a  birds'-eye  view, 
How  like  to  Nature  let  his  volumes  tell; 
Who  can  with  him  the  folio's  limits  swell 
With  all  the  Author  saw,  or  said  he  saw? 
Who  can  topographize  or  delve  so  well? 
No  boaster  he,  nor  impudent  and  raw, 

His  pencil,  pen,  and  shade,  alike  without  a  flaw."] 
1  According  to  Zosimus,  Minerva  and  Achilles 

frightened  Alaric  from  the  Acropolis;    but  others 


XVII. 
He  that  has  sailed  upon  the  dark  blue  sea 
Has  viewed  at  times,  I  ween,  a  full  fair  sight ; 
When  the  fresh  breeze  is  fair  as  breeze  may 

be, 
The  white  sail  set,  the  gallant  frigate  tight; 
Masts,  spires,  and  strand  retiring  to  the  right 
The  glorious  main  expanding  o'er  the  bow. 
The  convoy  spread  like  wild  swans  in  theii 

flight, 
The  dullest  sailer  wearing  bravely  now, 
So  gaily  curl  the  waves  before  each  dashing 

prow. 

XVIII. 
And  oh,  the  little  warlike  world  within  ! 
The  well-reeved  guns,  the  netted  canopy,2 
The  hoarse  command,  the  busy  humming 

din, 
When,  at  a  word,  the  tops  are  manned  on 

high: 
Hark,  to  the  Boatswain's  call,  the  cheering 

cry! 
While  through  the  seaman's  hand  the  tackle 

glides, 
Or  schoolboy  Midshipman  that,  standing  by. 
Strains  his  shrill  pipe  as  good  or  ill  betides, 
And  well  the  docile  crew  that  skilful  urchin 

guides. 

XIX. 
White  is  the  glassy  deck,  without  a  stain, 
Where  on  the  watch  the  staid  Lieutenant 

walks : 
Look  on  that  part  which  sacred  doth  remain 
For  the  lone  chieftain,  who  majestic  stalks, 
Silent  and  feared  by  all  —  not  oft  he  talks 
With  aught  beneath  him,  if  he  would  pre- 
serve 
That   strict   restraint,  which  broken,  ever 

balks 
Conquest  and  Fame:    but   Britons  rarely 

swerve 
From  law,  however  stern,  which  tends  their 

strength  to  nerve. 


Blow!    swiftly  blow,  thou  keel-compelling 

gale! 
Till  the  broad  sun  withdraws  his  lessening 

ray; 
Then  must  the  pennant-bearer  slacken  sail, 
That  lagging  barks  may  make  their  lazy  way. 
Ah !  grievance  sore,  and  listless  dull  delav, 
To  waste  on  sluggish  hulks  the  sweetest 

breeze ! 
What  leagues  are  lost,  before  the  dawn  of 

day, 


relate  that  the  Gothic  king  was  nearly  as  mischiev- 
ous as  the  Scottish  peer.  —  See  Chandler. 

2  To  prevent  blocks  or  splinters  from  falling  on 
deck  during  action. 


280 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S   PILGRIMAGE. 


Thus  loitering  pensive  on  the  willing  seas, 
The  flapping  sail  hauled  down  to  halt  for  logs 

like  these' 

XXI. 
The  moon  is  up;  by  Heaven,  a  lovely  eve! 
Long  streams  of  light  o'er  dancing  waves 

expand ; 
Now  lads  on  shore  may  sigh,  and  maids 

believe : 
Such  be  our  fate  when  we  return  to  land ! 
Meantime  some  rude  Arion's  restless  hand 
Wakes  the  brisk  harmony  that  sailors  love; 
A  circle  there  of  merry  listeners  stand, 
Or  to  some  well-known  measure  featly  move, 
Thoughtless,  as  if  on  shore  they  still  were  free 

to  rove. 

XXII. 
Through  Calpe's  straits  survey  the  steepy 

shore- 
Europe  and  Afric  on  each  other  gaze ! 
Lands  of  the  dark-eyed  Maid  and  dusky 

Moor 
Alike  beheld  beneath  pale  Hecate's  blaze: 
How  softly  on  the  Spanish  shore  she  plays, 
Disclosing  rock,  and  slope,  and  forest  brown, 
Distinct,  though  darkening  with  her  waning 

phase ; 
But  Mauritania's  giant-shadows  frown, 
From    mountain-cliff    to    coast    descending 

sombre  down. 

XXIII. 
'Tis  night,  when  Meditation  bids  us  feel 
We  once  have  loved,  though  love  is  at  an 

end: 
The  heart,  lone  mourner  of  its  baffled  zeal, 
Though  friendless  now,  will  dream  it  had  a 

friend. 
Who  with  the  weight  of  years  would  wish 

to  bend, 
When   Youth   itself  survives  young  Love 

and  Joy? 
Alas  !  when  mingling  souls  forget  to  blend, 
Death  hath  but  little  left  him  to  destroy? 
Vh !  happy  years !  once  more  who  would  not 

be  a  boy  ? 

XXIV. 

Thus  bending  o'er  the  vessel's  laving  side, 
To  gaze  on  Dian's  wave-reflected  sphere. 
The  soul  forgets  her  schemes  of  Hope  and 

Pride, 
And  flies  unconscious  o'er  each  backward 

year. 
None  are  so  desolate  but  something  dear, 
Dearer  than  self,  possesses  or  possessed 
A  thought,  and  claims  the  homage  of  a  tear ; 
A  flashing  pang!  of  which  the  weary  breast 
Vould  still,  albeit  in  vain,  the  heavy  heart 

divest. 

XXV. 

To  sit  on  rocks,  to  muse  o'er  flood  and  fell, 
To  slowly  trace  the  forest's  shady  scene, 


Where  things  that  own  not  man's  dominion 

dwell, 
And  mortal  foot  hath  ne'er  or  rarely  been ; 
To  climb  the  trackless  mountain  all  unseen, 
With  the  wild  flock  that  never  needs  a  fold  ; 
Alone  o'er  steeps  and  foaming  falls  to  lean  ; 
This  is  not  solitude;  'tis  but  to  hold 
Converse  with  Nature's  charms,  and  view  her 
stores  unrolled. 

XXVI. 

But  midst  the  crowd,  the  hum,  the  shock  oi 

men, 
To  hear,  to  see,  to  feel,  and  to  possess, 
And  roam  along,  the  world's  tired  denizen, 
With  none  who  bless  us,  none  whom  we 

can  bless, 
Minions  of  splendor  shrinking  from  distress  ! 
None  that,  with  kindred  consciousness  en- 
dued, 
If  we  were  not,  would  seem  to  smile  the  less, 
Of  all  that  flattered,  followed,  sougnt,  and 
sued; 
This  is  to  be  alone ;  this,  this  is  solitude ! 

XXVII. 
More  blest  the  life  of  godly  eremite, 
Such  as  on  lonely  Athos  may  be  seen,1 
Watching  at  eve  upon  the  giant  height, 
Which  looks  o'er  waves  so  blue,  skies  so 

serene. 
That  he  who  there  at  such  an  hour  hath 

been, 
Will  wistful  linger  on  that  hallowed  spot ; 
Then  slowly  tear  him   from   the  witching 

scene, 
Sigh  forth  one  wii.i  that  such  had  been  his 
lot, 
Then  turn  to  hate  a  world  he  had  almost  for- 
got. 

XXVIII. 

Pass  we  the   long,  unvarying  course,  the 

track 
Oft  trod,  that  never  leaves  a  trace  behind ; 
Pass  we  the  calm,  the  gale,  the  change,  the 

tack, 
And  each  well  known  caprice  of  wave  and 

wind ; 
Pass  we  the  joys  and  sorrows  sailors  find, 


1  [One  of  Byron's  chief  delights  was,  as  he  him- 
self states  in  one  of  his  journals,  after  bathing  in 
some  retired  spot,  to  seat  himself  on  a  high  rock 
above  the  sea,  and  there  remain  for  hours,  gazing 
upon  the  sky  and  the  waters.  "  He  led  the  life," 
says  Sir  Egerton  Brydges,  "  as  he  wrote  the  strains, 
of  a  true  poet.  He  could  sleep,  and  very  frequently 
did  sleep,  wrapped  up  in  his  rough  great  coat,  on 
the  hard  boards  of  a  deck,  while  the  winds  and  the 
waves  were  roaring  round  him  on  every  side,  and 
could  subsist  on  a  crust  and  a  glass  of  water.  It 
would  be  difficult  to  persuade  me,  that  he  who  is  a 
coxcomb  in  his  manners,  and  artificial  in  his  habits 
of  life,  could  write  good  poetry."] 


CHILDE   HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


281 


Cooped  in  their  winged  sea-girt  citadel ; 

The  foul,  the  fair,  the  contrary,  the  kind, 

As  breezes  rise  and  fall  and  billows  swell, 

Till  on  some  jocund  morn  —  lo,  land !  and  all 

is  well. 

XXIX. 

But  not  in  silence  pass  Calypso's  isles,1 
The  sister  tenants  of  the  middle  deep ; 
There  for  the  weary  still  a  haven  smiles, 
Though  the  fair  goddess  long  hath  ceased 

to  weep, 
And  o'er  her  cliffs  a  fruitless  watch  to  keep 
For  him  who  dared  prefer  a  mortal  bride : 
Here,  too,  his  boy  essayed  the  dreadful  leap 
Stern   Mentor  urged  from  high  to  yonder 

tide; 
While  thus  of  both  bereft,  the  nymph-queen 

doubly  sighed. 

XXX. 

Her  reign  is  past,  her  gentle  glories  gone  : 
But  trust  not  this  ;  too  easy  youth,  beware  ! 
A  mortal  sovereign  holds   her   dangerous 

throne, 
And  thou  mayest  find  a  new  Calypso  there. 
Sweet  Florence  !  could  another  ever  share 
This  wayward,  loveless  heart,  it  would  be 

thine : 
But  checked  by  every  tie,  I  may  not  dare 
To  cast  a  worthless  offering  at  thy  shrine, 
Nor  ask  so  dear  a  breast  to  feel  one  pang  for 

mine. 

XXXI. 

Thus  Harold  deemed,  as  on  that  lady's  eye 
He  looked,  and   met   its   beam  without   a 

thought, 
Save  Admiration  glancing  harmless  by: 
Love  kept  aloof,  albeit  not  far  remote, 
Who  knew  his  votary  often  lost  and  caught, 
But  knew  him  as  his  worshipper  no  more, 
And  ne'er  again  the  boy  his  bosom  sought : 
Since  now  he  vainly  urged  him  to  adore. 
Well  deemed  the  little  God  his  ancient  sway 

was  o'er. 

XXXII. 

Fair  Florence2  found,  in  sooth  with  some 

amaze, 
One  who,  'twas  said,  still  sighed  to  all  he 

saw. 
Withstand,  unmoved,  the  lustre  of  her  gaze, 
Which  others  hailed  with  real  or  mimic  awe, 
Their  hope,  their  doom,  their  punishment, 

their  law ; 
All  that  gay  Beauty  from   her  bondsmen 

claims : 
And  much  she  marvelled  that  a  voufh  so  raw 


1  Goza  is  said  to  have  been  the  island  of  Calypso. 

2  [Mrs.  Spencer  Smith,  an  accomplished  but 
eccentric  lady,  whose  acquaintance  the  poet  formed 
at  Malta.] 


Nor  felt,  nor  feigned  at   least,  the  oft-told 
flames, 
Which,   though   sometimes   they  frown,  yet 
rarely  anger  dames. 

XXXIII. 

Little  knew  she  that  seeming  marble  heart, 
Now  masked  in  silence  or  withheld  by  pride, 
Was  not  unskilful  in  the  spoiler's  art,3 
And   spread  its  snares  licentious   fat   and 

wide ; 
Nor  from  the  base  pursuit  had  turned  aside, 
As  long  as  aught  was  worthy  to  pursue : 
But  Harold  on  such  arts  no  more  relied ; 
And  had  he  doted  on  those  eyes  so  blue, 
Yet  never  would  he  join  the  lover's  whining 

crew. 

XXXIV. 

Not  much  he   kens,  I  ween,  of  woman's 
breast, 

Who   thinks  that  wanton  thing  is  won  by 
sighs ; 

What  careth  she  for  hearts  when  once  pos- 
sessed ? 

Do  proper  homage  to  thine  idol's  eyes ; 

But  not  too  humbly,  or  she  will  despise 

Thee  and  thy  suit,  though  told  in  moving 
tropes : 

Disguise  even  tenderness,  if  thou  art  wise  ; 

Brisk   Confidence    still  best  with  woman 
copes ; 
Pique  her  and  soothe  in  turn,  soon  Passion 
crowns  thy  hopes. 

XXXV. 

'Tis  an  old  lesson ;  Time  approves  it  true, 
And  those  who  know  it  best,  deplore  it  most ; 
When  all  is  won  that  all  desire  to  woo, 
The  paltry  prize  is  hardly  worth  the  cost : 
Youth  wasted,  minds  degraded,  honor  lost, 
These   are   thy  fruits,  successful   Passion ! 

these ! 
If,  kindly  cruel,  early  Hope  is  crost. 
Still  to  the  last  it  rankles,  a  disease, 
Not  to  be  cured  when  Love  itself  forgets  to 

please. 

XXXVI. 

Away !  nor  let  me  loiter  in  my  song, 

For  we    have    many   a  mountain-path   to 

tread, 
And  many  a  varied  shore  to  sail  along, 
By  pensive  Sadness,  not  by  Fiction,  led  — 
Climes,  fair  withal  as  ever  mortal  head 
Imagined  in  its  little  schemes  of  thought ; 
Or  e'er  in  new  Utopias  were  ared, 


3  [Against  this  line  it  is  sufficient  to  set  the  poet's 
own  declaration,  in  1821,  —  "I  am  not  a  Joseph, 
nor  a  Scipio,  but  I  can  safely  affirm,  that  I  never 
in  my  life  seduced  any  woman."] 


282 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


To  teach  man  what  he  might  be,  or  he 
ought ; 
K  that  corrupted  thing  could  ever  such  be 
taught. 

XXXVII. 

Dear  Nature  is  the  kindest  mother  still, 
Though  alway  changing,  in  her  aspect  mild  ; 
From  her  bare  bosom  let  me  take  my  fill, 
Her  never-weaned,  though  not  her  favored 

child. 
Oh !  she  is  fairest  in  her  features  wild, 
Where  nothing  polished  dares  pollute  her 

path : 
To  me  by  day  or  night  she  ever  smiled, 
Though  I  have  marked  her  when  none  other 

hath, 
And  sought  her  more  and  more,  and  loved 

her  best  in  wrath. 

XXXVIII. 

Land  of  Albania !  where  Iskander  rose, 
Theme  of  the  young,  and  beacon  of  the 

wise, 
And  he  his  namesake,  whose  oft-baffled  foes 
Shrunk  from  his  deeds  of  chivalrous  em- 
prize  : 
Land  of  Albania ! !  let  me  bend  mine  eyes 
On  thee,  thou  rugged  nurse  of  savage  men ! 
The  cross  decends,  thy  minarets  arise, 
And  the  pale  crescent  sparkles  in  the  glen, 
Through  many  a  cypress  grove  within  each 
city's  ken. 

XXXIX. 

Childe  Harold  sailed,  and  passed  the  bar- 
ren spot 

Where  sad  Penelope  o'erlooked  the  wave  ;  2 

And  onward  viewed  the  mount,  not  yet  for- 
got, 

The  lover's  refuge,  and  the  Lesbian's  grave. 

Dark  Sappho !    could  not  verse  immortal 
save 

That   breast   imbued   with   such  immortal 
fire? 

Could  she  not  live  who  life  eternal  gave  ? 

If  life  eternal  may  await  the  lyre, 
That  only  heaven  to  which  Earth's  children 
may  aspire. 

XL. 

'Twas  on  a  Grecian  autumn's  gentle  eve 
Childe    Harold    hailed    Leucadia's    cape 

afar ; 3 
A  spot  he  longed  to  see,  nor  cared  to  leave  : 
Oft  did  he  mark  the  scenes  of  vanished  war, 
Actium,  Lepanto,  fatal  Trafalgar;4 


1  See  Appendix  to  this  Canto,  Note  [B]. 

2  Ithaca. 

3  Leucadia,  now  Santa  Maura.  From  the  prom- 
ontory (the  Lover's  Leap)  Sappho  is  said  to  have 
thrown  herself. 

4  Actium  and  Trafalgar  need  no  further  mention. 
The  battle  of  Lepanto,  equally  bloody  and  consid- 


Mark  them  unmoved,  for  he  would  not  de- 

light 
(Born  beneath  some  remote  inglorious  star) 
In  themes  of  bloody  fray,  or  gallant  fight, 
But  loathed  the  bravo's  trade,  and  laughed  at 

martial  wight. 


But  when  he  saw  the  evening  star  above 
Leucadia's  far-projecting  rock  of  woe, 
And  hailed  the  last  resort    f  fruit'ess  love, 
He  felt,  or  deemed  he  felt,  no  common  glow : 
And  as  the  stately  vessel  glided  slow 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  that  ancient  mount, 
He  watched  the  billows'  melancholy  flow, 
And,  sunk  albeit  in  thought  as  he  was  wont, 
More  placid  seemed  his  eye,  and  smooth  his 
pallid  front. 

XLII. 

Morn  dawns;  and  with  it  stern  Albania's 

hills, 
Dark  Suli's  rocks,  and  Pindus'  inland  peak, 
Robed  half  in  mist,  bedewed  with  snowy  rills, 
Arrayed  in  many  a  dun  and  purple  streak, 
Arise ;  and,  as  the  clouds  along  them  break, 
Disclose  the  dwelling  of  the  mountaineer: 
Here  roams  the  wolf,  the  eagle  whets  his 

beak, 
Birds,  beasts  of  prey,  and  wilder  men  appear, 
And  gathering  storms  around  convulse  the 

closing  year. 

XLIII. 

Now  Harold  felt  himself  at  length  alone, 
And  bade  to  Christian  tongues  a  long  adieu ; 
Now  he  adventured  on  a  shore  unknown, 
Which  all  admire,  but  many  dread  to  view  : 
His  breast  was  armed  'gainst  fate,  his  wants 

were  few ; 
Peril  he  sought  not,  but  ne'er  shrank  to  meet : 
The  scene  was  savage,  but  the  scene  was 

new; 
This  made  the  ceaseless  toil  of  travel  sweet, 
Beat  back  keen  winter's  blast,  and  welcomed 

summer's  heat. 

XLIV. 

Here  the  red  cross,  for  still  the  cross  is  here, 
Though  sadly  scoffed  at  by  the  circumcised, 
Forgets  that  pride  to  pampered  priesthood 

dear; 
Churchman  and  votary  alike  despised. 
Foul  superstition  !  howsoe'er  disguised, 
Idol,  saint,  virgin,  prophet,  crescent,  cross, 
For  whatsoever  symbol  thou  art  prized, 
Thou  sacerdotal  gain,  but  general  loss ! 
Who  from  true  worship's  gold  can  separate 

thy  dross  ? 

erable,  but  less  known,  was  fought  in  the  Gulf  \A 
Patras.  Here  the  author  of  Don  Quixote  lost  his 
left  hand. 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


2S3 


XLV. 

Ambracia's  gulf  behold,  where  once  was  lost 
A  world  for  woman,  lovely,  harmless  thing  ! 
In  yonder  rippling  bay,  their  naval  host 
Did  many  a  Roman  chief  and  Asian  king1 
To  doubtful  conflict,  certain  slaughter  bring  : 
Look  where  the  second  Caesar's  trophies 

rose : 2 
Now,  like  the  hands  that  reared  them,  wither- 
ing : 
Imperial  anarchs,  doubling  human  woes! 
God  !  was  thy  globe  ordained  for  such  to  win 

and  lose  ? 

XLVI. 
From  the  dark  barriers  of  that  rugged  clime, 
Even  to  the  centre  of  Illyria's  vales, 
Childe  Harold  passed  o'er  many  a  mount 

sublime, 
Through  lands  scarce  noticed  in  historic 

tales ; 
Yet  in  famed  Attica  such  lovely  dales 
Are  rarely  seen  ;  nor  can  fair  Tempe  boast 
A  charm  they  know  not ;  loved  Parnassus 

fails, 
Though   classic  ground   and   consecrated 

most, 
To  match  some  spots  that  lurk  within  this 

lowering  coast. 

XLVI  I. 
He  passed  bleak  Pindus,  Acherusia's  lake,8 
And  left  the  primal  city  of  th    land, 
And  onwards  did  his  further  journey  take 
To  greet  Albania's  chief,4  whose  dread  com- 
mand 


1  It  is  said,  that,  on  th  i  y  previous  to  th  battle 
of  Actium,  Antony  had  irteen  kings  at  h.s  levee. 
—  ['To-day"  (Nov.  12),  "I  s  .w  the  remains  of 
the  town  of  Actium,  near  wh  h  Antony  lost  the 
world,  in  a  small  bay,  wher  t  o  frigates  could 
hardly  manoeuvre:  a  broken  wall  is  the  sole  rem- 
nant. On  another  part  of  the  gulf  stand  the  ruins 
of  Nicopolis,  built  by  Augustus,  in  hon  r  of  his 
victory."]  — Byron  to  his  Mother ,  1809. 

2  Nicopolis,  whose  ruins  are  most  extensive,  is 
at  some  distance  from  Actium,  where  the  wall  of 
the  Hippodrome  survives  in  a  few  fragments.  These 
ruins  are  large  masses  of  brickwork,  the  bricks  of 
which  are  joined  by  interstices  of  mortar,  as  large 
as  the  bricks  themselves,  and  equally  durable. 

3  According  to  Pouqucville,  the  lake  of  Yanina: 
but  Pouqueville  is  always  out. 

4  The  celebrated  Ali  Pacha.  Of  this  extraordi- 
nary man  there  is  an  incorrect  account  in  Pouque- 
ville's  Travels.  —  ["  I  left  Malta  in  the  Spider 
brig-of-war,  on  the  21st  of  September,  and  arrived 
in  eight  days  at  Prevesa.  I  thence  have  traversed 
the  interior  of  the  province  of  Albania,  on  a  visit  to 
the  Pacha,  as  far  as  Tepaleen,  his  highness's  coun- 
t  y  palace,  where  I  stayed  three  days.  The  name 
of  the  '  icha  is  Ali,  and  he  is  considered  a  man  of 
th  first  abilitu  he  governs  the  whole  of  Albania 
(the  ancient  Illyricum),  Epirus,  and  part  of  Mace- 
donia.9' —  Byrgn  io  his  Mother.] 


Is  lawless  law ;  for  with  a  bloody  hand 
He  sways  a  nation,  turbulent  and  bold  : 
Yet  here  and  there  some  daring  mountain- 
band 
Disdain  his  power,  and  from  their  rocky  hold 
Hurl  their  defiance  far,  nor  yield,  unless  to 
gold.5 

XLVIII. 
Monastic  Zitza  !  6  from  thy  shad)'  brow. 
Thou  small,  but  favored  spot  of  holy  ground ! 
Where'er  we  gaze,  around,  above,  below, 
What  rainbow  tints,  what  magic  charms  are 

found ! 
Rock,  river,  forest,  mountain,  all  abound, 
And  bluest  skies  that  harmonize  the  whole  : 
Beneath,  the  distant  torrent's  rushing  sound 
Tells  where  the  volumed  cataract  doth  roll 
Between  those  hanging  rocks,  that  shock  yet 
please  the  soul. 

XLIX. 

Amidst  the  grove  that  crowns  yon  tufted  hill. 
Which,  were  it  not  for  many  a  mountain  nigh 
Rising  in  lofty  ranks,  and  loftier  still, 
Might  well  itself  be  deemed  of  dignity, 
The  convent's  white  walls  glisten  fair  on 

high: 

Here  dwells  the  caloyer,'  nor  rude  is  he, 

Nor  niggard  of  his  cheer ;  the  passer  by 

Is  welcome  still ;  nor  heedless  will  he  flee 

From  hence,  if  he  delight  kind  Nature's  sheen 

to  see. 

L. 
Here  in  the  sultriest  season  let  him  rest, 
Fresh  is  the  green  beneath  those  aged  trees ; 
Here  winds  of  gentlest  wing  will  fan  his 

breast, 


6  Five  thousand  Suliotes,  among  the  rocks  and 
in  the  castle  of  Suli,  withstood  thirty  thousand  Al- 
banians for  eighteen  years;  the  castle  at  last  was 
taken  by  bribery.  In  this  contest  there  were  several 
acts  performed  not  unworthy  of  the  better  days  of 
Greece. 

6  The  convent  and  village  of  Zitza  are  four  hours' 
journey  fr_m  Joannina,  or  Yanina,  the  capital  ol 
the  Pachalick.  In  the  valley  the  river  Halamas 
(once  the  Acheron)  flows,  and,  not  far  from  Zitza, 
forms  a  fine  cataract.  The  situation  is  perhaps  the 
finest  in  Greece,  though  the  approach  to  Delvinachj 
and  parts  of  Acarnania  and  iEtolia  may  contest  the 
palm.  Delphi,  Parnassu  ,  and,  in  Attica,  even 
Cape  Colonna  and  Port  Raphti,  are  very  inferior; 
as  also  very  scene  in  Ionia,  or  the  Troad :  I  am 
almost  inclined  to  add  the  approach  to  Constanti- 
nople; but,  from  the  different  features  of  the  last, 
a  comparison  can  hardly  be  made.  ["  Zitza,"  says 
the  poet's  companion,  "  is  a  village  inhabited  by 
Greek  peasants.  Perhaps  there  is  not  in  the  world 
a  more  romantic  prospect  than  that  which  is  viewed 
from  the  summit  of  the  hill.  The  foreground  is  a 
gentle  declivity,  terminating  on  every  side  in  as 
extensive  landscape  of  green  hills  and  dale,  enriched 
with  vineyards,  and  dotted  with  frequent  flocks."] 
The  Greek  monks  are  so  called. 


2S4 


CHILD E  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


From  heaven  itself  he  may  inhale  the  breeze  : 
The  plain  is  far  beneath  —  oh  !  let  him  seize 
Pure  pleasure  while  he  can  ;  the  scorching 

ray 
Here  pierceth  not,  impregnate  with  disease  : 
Then  let  his  length  the  loitering  pilgrim  lay, 
And  gaze,  untired,  the  morn,  the  noon,  the 
eve  away. 

LI. 

Dusky  and  huge,  enlarging  on  the  sight, 
Nature's  volcanic  amphitheatre,1 
Chimaera's  alps  extend  from  left  to  right : 
Beneath,  a  living  valley  seems  to  stir ; 
Flocks  play,  trees  wave,  streams  flow,  the 

mountain-fir 
Nodding  above ;  behold  black  Acheron  !  2 
Once  consecrated  to  the  sepulchre. 
Pluto !  if  this  be  bell  I  look  upon, 
Close  shamed  Elysium's  gates,  my  shade  shall 

seek  for  none. 


No  city's  towers  pollute  the  lovely  view ; 
Unseen  is  Yanina,  though  not  remote, 
Veiled  by  the  screen  of  hills  :  here  men  are 

few, 
Scanty  the  hamlet,  rare  the  lonely  cot : 
But  peering  down  each  precipice,  the  goat 
Browseth ;   and,  pensive  o'er  his  scattered 

flock, 
The  little  shepherd  in  his  white  capote8 
Doth  lean  his  boyish  form  along  the  rook, 
Or  in  his  cave  awaits  the  tempest's  short-lived 

shock. 

LIII. 

Oh  !  where,  Dodona !  is  thine  aged  grove, 
Prophetic  fount,  and  oracle  divine  ? 
What  valley  echoed  the  response  of  Jove  ? 
What  trace  remaineth  of  the  Thunderer's 

shrine  ? 
All,  all  forgotten  —  and  shall  man  repine 
That  his  frail  bonds  to  fleeting  life  are  broke  ? 
Cease,  fool !  the  fate  of  gods  may  well  be 

thme : 
Wouldst  thou  survive  the  marble  or  the  oak  ? 
When  nations,  tongues,  and  worlds  muJ  sink 

beneath  the  stroke ! 


Epirus'  bounds  recede,  and  mountains  fail ; 
Tired  of  up-gazing  still,  the  wearied  eye 
Reposes  gladly  on  as  smooth  a  vale 
As  ever  Spring  yclad  in  grassy  dye : 
Even  on  a  plain  no  humble  beauties  lie, 
Where  some  bold  river  breaks  the  long  ex- 
panse, 
And  woods  along  the  banks  are  waving  high, 


1  The  Chimariot  mountains  appear  to  have  been 
volcanic. 

2  Now  called  Kalamas.        3  Albanese  cloak. 


Whose  shadows  in  the  glassy  waters  dance, 
Or  with  the  moonbeam   sleep  in  midnight's 
solemn  trance. 

LV. 

The  sun  had  sunk  behind  vast  Tomerit,* 
And  Laos  wide  and  fierce  came  roaring  by ;  * 
The  shades  of  wonted  night  were  gathering 

yet, 
When,  down  the  steep  banks  winding  warily. 
Childe  Harold  saw,  like  meteors  in  the  sky, 
The  glittering  minarets  of  Tepalen, 
Whose  walls  o'erlook  the  stream  ;  and  draw- 
ing nigh, 
He  heard  the  busy  hum  of  warrior-men 
Swelling  the   breeze   that  sighed   along   the 
lengthening  glen.6 


He  passed  the  sacred  Haram's  silent  tower, 
And  underneath  the  wide  o'erarching  gate 
Surveyed  the  dwelling  of  this  chief  of  power, 
Where  all  around  proclaimed  his  high  estate. 
Amidst  no  common  pomp  the  despot  sate, 
While  busy  preparation  shook  the  court, 
Slaves,  eunuchs,  soldiers,  guests,  and  san- 
tons  wait ; 


*  Anciently  Mount  Tomarus. 

6  The  river  Laos  was  full  at  the  time  the  author 
passed  it;  and  immediately  above  Tepaleen,  was  to 
the  eye  as  wide  as  the  Thames  at  Westminster;  at 
least  in  the  opinion  of  the  author  and  his  fellow- 
traveller.  In  the  summer  it  must  be  much  nar- 
rower. It  certainly  is  the  finest  river  in  the  Levant; 
neither  Achelous,  Alpheus,  Acheron,  Scamander, 
nor  Ca  ster,  approached  it  in  breadth  or  beauty. 

■  ["Ali  Pacha,  hearing  that  an  Englishman  of 
rank  was  in  his  dominions,  left  orders,  in  Yanina, 
with  the  commandant,  to  provide  a  house,  and  sup- 
ply me  with  every  kind  of  necessary  gratis.  I 
rode  out  on  the  vizier's  horses,  and  saw  the  palaces 
of  himself  and  grandsons.  I  shall  never  forget  the 
singular  scene  on  entering  Tepaleen,  at  five  in  the 
afternoon  (Oct.  n),  as  the  sun  was  going  down. 
It  brought  to  my  mind  (with  some  change  of  dress-, 
however)  Scott's  description  of  Branksome  Castle 
in  his  Lay,  and  the  feudal  system.  The  Albanians 
in  their  dresses  (the  most  magnificent  in  the  world, 
consisting  of  a  long  white  kilt,  gold-worked  cloak, 
crimson  velvet  gold-laced  jacket  and  waistcoat,  sil- 
ver-mounted pistols  and  daggers);  the  Tartars, 
with  their  high  caps;  the  Turks  in  their  vast  pelis- 
ses and  turbans;  the  soldiers  and  black  slaves  with 
the  horses,  the  former  in  groups,  in  an  immense 
large  open  gallery  in  front  of  the  palace,  the  latter 
placed  in  a  kind  of  cloister  below  it;  two  hundred 
steeds  ready  caparisoned  to  move  in  a  moment: 
couriers  entering  or  passing  out  with  despatches' 
the  kettle-drums  beating;  boys  calling  the  hour 
from  the  minaret  of  the  mosque;  —  altogether,  with 
the  singular  appearance  of  the  building  itself,  formed 
a  new  and  delightful  spectacle  to  a  stranger.  I  was 
conducted  to  a  very  handsome  apartment,  and  my 
health  inquired  after  by  the  vizier's  secretary,  '  a  la 
mode  Turque.  "  —  Byron's  Letters.} 


CHILDE   HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


285 


Within,  a  palace,  and  without,  a  fort : 
Here  men  of  every  clime  appear  to  make  resort. 

LVII. 
Richly  caparisoned,  a  ready  row 
Of  armed  horse,  and  many  a  warlike  store, 
Circled  the  wide  extending  court  below ; 
Above,  strange  groups  adorned  the  corri- 

dore ; 
And  oft-times  through   the  area's  echoing 

door, 
Some  high-capped  Tartar  spurred  his  steed 

away ; 
The  Turk,  the  Greek,  the  Albanian,  and  the 

Moor, 
Here  mingled  in  their  many-hued  array. 
While  the  deep  war-drum's  sound  announced 

the  close  of  day. 


The  wild  Albanian  kirtled  to  his  knee, 
With  shawl-girt  head  and  ornamented  gun, 
And  gold-embroidered  garments,  fair  to  see  : 
The  crimson-scarfed  men  of  Macedon  ; 
The  Delhi  with  his  cap  of  terror  on, 
And  crooked  glaive;  the  lively.supple  Greek; 
And  swarthy  Nubia's  mutilated  son  ; 
The   bearded  Turk,  that   rarely  deigns  to 
speak, 
Muster  of  all  around,  too  potent  to  be  meek, 

LIX. 

Are  mixed   conspicuous :   some  recline  in 

groups, 
Scanning  the  motley  scene  that  varies  round  ; 
There   some    grave    Moslem    to    devotion 

stoops, 
And  some  that  smoke,  and  some  that  play, 

are  found ; 
Here    the   Albanian    proudly   treads    the 

ground ; 
Half  whispering  there  the  Greek  is  heard  to 

prate ; 
Hark !  from  the  mosque  the  nightly  solemn 

sound, 
The  Muezzin's  call  doth  shake  the  minaret, 
There  is  no  god  but  God  !  —  to  prayer  —  lo  ! 

God  is  gTeat !  "  1 


1  ["  On  our  arrival  at  Tepaleen,  we  were  lodged 
in  the  palace.  During  the  night,  we  were  disturbed 
by  the  perpetual  carousal  which  seemed  to  be  kept 
up  in  the  gallery,  and  by  the  drum  and  the  voice  of 
the  '  Muezzin,'  or  chanter,  calling  the  Turks  to 
prayers  from  the  minaret  or  the  mosque  attached  to 
the  palace.  The  chanter  was  a  boy,  and  he  sang 
out  his  hymn  in  a  sort  of  loud  melancholy  recita- 
tive. He  was  a  long  time  repeating  the  purport  of 
these  few  words :  '  God  most  high!  I  bear  witness, 
that  there  is  no  god  but  God,  and  Mahomet  is  his 
prophet:  come  to  prayer;  come  to  the  asylum  of 
9alvation;  great  God!  there  is  no  god  but  God!  '  " 
«—  Hobhouse.\ 


LX. 

Just  at  this  season  Ramazani's  fast 2 
Through  the  long  day  its  penance  did  main- 
tain : 
But  when  the  lingering  twilight  hour  was  past, 
Revel  and  feast  assumed  the  rule  again : 
Now  all  was  bustle,  and  the  menial  train 
Prepared  and  spread  the  plenteous  board 

within ; 
The  vacant  gallery  now  seemed  made  in 

vain, 
But  from  the  chambers  came  the  mingling 
din, 
As  page  and  slave  anon  were  passing  out  and 
in. 

LXI. 
Here  woman's  voice  is  never  heard  :  apart, 
And  scarce  permitted,  guarded,  veiled,  to 

move, 
She  yields  to  one  her  person  and  her  heart, 
Tamed  to  her  cage,  nor  feels  a  wish  to  rove  : 
For,  not  unhappy  in  her  master's  love, 
And  joyful  in  a  mother's  gentlest  cares, 
Blest  cares  !  all  other  feelings  far  above ! 
Herself  more  sweetly  rears  the   babe   she 
bears, 
Who  never  quits  the  breast,  no  meaner  pas- 
sion shares. 

LXII. 

In  marble-paved  pavilion,  where  a  spring 
Of  living  water  from  the  centre  rose, 
Whose  bubbling  did  a  genial  freshness  fling, 
And  soft  voluptuous  couches  breathed  re- 
pose, 
Ali  reclined,  a  man  of  war  and  woes  :3 


2  ["  We  were  a  little  unfortunate  in  the  time  we 
chose  for  travelling,  for  it  was  during  the  Ramazan, 
or  Turkish  Lent,  which  fell  this  year  in  October, 
and  was  hailed  at  the  rising  of  the  new  moon,  on 
the  evening  of  the  8th,  by  every  demonstration  of 
joy:  but  although,  during  this  month,  the  strictest 
abstinence  is  observed  in  the  daytime,  yet  with  the 
setting  of  the  sun  the  feasting  commences:  then  is 
the  time  for  paying  and  receiving  visits,  and  for 
the  amusements  of  Turkey,  puppet-shows,  jugglers, 
dancers,  and  story-tellers."  —  Hobhouse.~\ 

3  ["  On  the  12th,  I  was  introduced  to  Ali  Pacha. 
The  vizier  received  me  in  a  large  room  paved  with 
marble;  a  fountain  was  playing  in  the  centre.  He 
received  me  standing,  a  wonderful  compliment  from 
a  Mussulman,  and  made  me  sit  down  on  his  right 
hand.  His  first  question  was,  why,  at  so  early  an 
age,  I  left  my  country.  He  then  said,  the  English 
minister  had  told  him  I  was  of  a  great  family,  and 
desired  his  respects  to  my  mother;  which  I  now,  in 
the  name  of  Ali  Pacha,  present  to  you.  He  said 
he  was  certain  I  was  a  man  of  birth,  because  I  had 
small  ears,  curling  hair,  and  little  white  hands.  He 
told  me  to  consider  him  as  a  father,  whilst  I  was  in 
Turkey,  and  said  he  looked  on  me  as  his  own  son. 
Indeed,  he  treated  me  like  a  child,  sending  me  al- 
monds and  sugared  sherbet,  fruit,  and  sweetmeats, 
twenty  times  a  day.  I  then,  after  coffee  and  pipes, 
retired."  —  Byron  to  his  Mother.] 


286 


CHILD E  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


Yet  in  his  lineaments  ye  cannot  trace, 
While  Gentleness  her  milderradiance  throws 
Along  that  aged  venerable  face, 
The  deeds  that  lurk  beneath,  and  stain  him 
with  disgrace. 

I.XIII. 

It  is  not  that  yon  hoary  lengthening  beard 
111  suits  the  passions  which  belong  to  youth  ; ] 
Love  conquers  age  —  so  Hafiz  hath  averred, 
So  sings  the  Teian,  and  he  sings  in  sooth  — 
But  crimes  that  scorn  the  tender  voice  of 

Ruth, 
Beseeming  all  men  ill,  but  most  the  man 
In  years,  have  marked  him  with  a  tiger's 

tooth ; 
Blood  follows  blood,  and,  through  their  mor- 
tal span, 
In   bloodier   acts   conclude    those  who  with 
blood  began.2 

LXIV. 

'Mid  many  things  most  new  to  ear  and  eye 
The  pilgrim  rested  here  his  weary  feet, 
And  gazed  around  on  Moslem  luxury, 
Till  quickly  wearied  with  that  spacious  seat 
Of  Wealth  and  Wantonness,  the  choice  re- 
treat 
Of  sated  Grandeur  from  the  city's  noise  : 
And  were  it  humbler  it  in  sooth  were  sweet ; 
But  Peace  abhorreth  artificial  joys, 
And  Pleasure,  leagued  with  Pomp,  the  zest  of 
both  destroys. 

LXV. 
Fierce  are  Albania's  children,  yet  they  lack 
Not  virtues,  were  those  virtues  more  mature. 
Where  is  the  foe  that  ever  saw  their  back  ? 
Who  can  so  well  the  toil  of  war  endure  ? 
Their  native  fastnesses  not  more  secure 
Than  they  in  doubtful  time   of  troublous 
need : 


1  THobhouse  describes  the  vizier  as  "  a  short 
man,  about  five  feet  five  inches  in  height,  and  very 
fat;  possessing  a  very  pleasing  face,  fair  and  round, 
with  blue  quick  eyes,  not  at  all  settled  into  a  Turk- 
ish gravity."  Dr.  Holland  happily  compares  the 
spirit  which  lurked  under  Ali's  usual  exterior,  as 
"  the  fire  of  a  stove,  burning  fiercely  under  a  smooth 
and  polished  surface."  When  the  doctor  returned 
from  Albania,  in  1813,  he  brought  a  letter  from  the 
Pacha  to  Lord  Byron.  "  It  is,"  says  the  poet,  "  in 
Latin,  and  begins  '  Excellentissime,  necnoii  Caris- 
sime,'  and  ends  about  a  gun  he  wants  made  for  him. 
He  tells  me  that,  last  spring,  he  took  a  town,  a  hos- 
tile town,  where,  forty-two  years  ago,  his  mother 
and  sisters  were  treated  as  Miss  Cunegunde  was  by 
the  Bulgarian  cavalry.  He  takes  the  town,  selects 
all  the  survivors  of  the  exploit  —  children,  grand- 
children, etc.  to  the  tune  of  six  hundred,  and  has 
them  shot  before  his  face.  So  much  for  '  dearest 
friend.'  "] 

2  [The  fate  of  AH  was  such  as  the  poet  antici- 
pated. He  was  assassinated  by  order  of  the  Sultan 
in  February,  1822.  His  head  was  sent  to  Constan- 
tinople, and  exhibited  at  the  gates  of  the  seraglio.] 


Their  wrath  how  deadly !  but  their  friend- 
ship sure. 

When  Gratitude  or  Valor  bids  them  bleed, 
Unshaken  rushing  on  where'er  their  chief 
may  lead. 

LXVI. 

Childe  Harold  saw  them  in  their  chieftain's 

tower 
Thronging  to  war  in  splendor  and  success ; 
And  after  viewed  them,  when,  within  their 

power, 
Himself  awhile  the  victim  of  distress; 
That  saddening  hour  when  bad  men  hot- 

lier  press : 
But  these  did  shelter  him  beneath  their  roof, 
When  less  barbarians  would  have  cheered 

him  less, 
And  fellow-countrymen  have  stood  aloof — 8 
In  aught  that  tries  the  heart  how  few  withstand 

the  proof! 

LXVII. 

It  chanced  that  adverse  winds  once  drove 
his  bark 

Full  on  the  coast  of  Suli's  shaggy  shore, 

When  all  around  was  desolate  and  dark ; 

To  land  was  perilous,  to  sojourn  more; 

Yet  for  a  while  the  mariners  forbore, 

Dubious  to  trust  where  treachery  might 
lurk: 

At  length  they  ventured  forth,  though  doubt- 
ing sore' 

That  those  who  loathe  alike  the  Frank  and 
Turk 
Might  once  again  renew  their  ancient  butcher- 
work. 

LXVII  1. 

Vain  fear!  the  Suliotes  stretched  the  wel- 
come hand, 

Led  them  o'er  rocks  and  past  the  dangerous 
swamp, 

Kinder  than  polished  slaves  though  not  so 
bland, 

And  piled  the  hearth,  and  wrung  their  gar- 
ments damp, 

And  filled  the  bowl,  and  trimmed  the  cheer- 
ful lamp, 

And  spread  their  fare ;  though  homely,  all 
they  had : 

Such  conduct  bears  Philanthropy's  rare 
stamp  — 

To  rest  the  weary  and  to  soothe  the  sad, 
Doth  lesson  happier  men,  and  shames  at  least 
the  bad. 

LXIX. 

It  came  to  pass,  that  when  he  did  address 
Himself  to  quit  at  length  this  mountain-land, 
Combined     marauders     half-way    barred 
egress, 


3  Alluding  to  the  wreckers  of  Cornwall. 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


287 


And  wasted  far  and  near  with  glaive  and 

brand ; 
And  therefore  did  he  take  a  trusty  band 
To  traverse  Acarnania's  forest  wide, 
In  war  well  seasoned,  and  with  labors  tanned, 
Till  he  did  greet  white  Achelous'  tide, 
\nd  from    his  further  bank  ^Etolia's  wolds 

espied. 

LXX. 
Where  lone  Utraikev  forms  its  circling  cove, 
And  weary  waves  retire  to  gleam  at  rest, 
How  brown  the  foliage  of  the  green  hill's 

grove, 
Nodding  at   midnight  o'er  the  calm  bay's 

breast, 
As  winds  come  lightly  whispering  from  the 

west, 
Kissing,   not   ruffling,  the  blue   deep's   se- 
rene :  — 
Here  Harold  was  received  a  welcome  guest ; 
Nor  did  he  pass  unmoved  the  gentle  scene, 
For  many  a  joy  could  he  from  Night's  soft 

presence  glean. 

LXXI. 

On  the  smooth  shore  the  night-fires  brightly 

blazed, 
The  feast  was  done,  the  red  wine  circling 

fast.i 
And  he  that  unawares  had  there  ygazed 
With    gaping    wonderment    had     stared 

aghast ; 
For  ere  night's  midmost,  stillest  hour  was 

past, 
The  native  revels  of  the  troop  began ; 
Each  Palikar  2  his  sabre  from  him  cast, 
And  bounding  hand  in  hand,  man  linked  to 

man, 
Yelling  their  uncouth  dirge,  long  daunced  the 

kirtled  clan.3 


1  The  Albanian  Mussulmans  do  not  abstain  from 
wine,  and  indeed,  very  few  of  the  others. 

2  Palikar,  shortened  when  addressed  to  a  single 
person,  from  IlaAiKapi,  a  general  name  for  a  soldier 
amongst  the  Greeks  and  Albanese  who  speak  Ro- 
Tjaic:  it  means,  properly,  "  a  lad.'' 

3  ["  In  the  evening  the  gates  were  secured,  and 
preparations  were  made  for  feeding  our  Albanians. 
A  goat  was  killed  and  roasted  whole,  and  four  fires 
were  kindled  in  the  yard,  round  which  the  soldiers 
seated  themselves  in  parties.  After  eating  and 
drinking,  the  greatest  part  of  them  assembled  round 
the  largest  of  the  fires,  and,  whilst  ourselves  and 
the  aiders  of  the  party  were  seated  on  the  ground, 
danced  round  the  blaze,  to  their  own  songs,  with 
astonishing  energy.  All  their  songs  were  relations 
of  some  robbing  exploits.  One  of  them,  which  de- 
tained them  more  than  an  hour,  began  thus:  — 
'When  we  set  out  from  Parga,  there  were  sixty  of 
K6: '  th<*n  came  the  burden  of  the  verse,  — 

'  Robbers  all  at  Parga! 

Robbers  all  at  Parga! ' 
'  KAecJ>Tei?  — oTe  Hapyal 

KAe^Ttis  7rore  Ilapya! ' 


LXXII. 

Childe  Harold  at  a  little  distance  stood 
And  viewed,  but  not  displeased,  the  revelrie, 
Nor  hated  harmless  mirth,  however  rude : 
In  sooth,  it  was  no  vulgar  sight  to  see 
Their  barbarous,  yet  their  not  indecent,  glee  ; 
And,  as  the  flames  along  their  faces  gleamed, 
Their  gestures  nimble,  dark  eyes  flashing 

free, 
The  long  wild  locks  that  to  their  girdles 

streamed, 
While  thus  in  concert  they  this  lay  half  sang, 

half  screamed  :  — 4 


TAMBOURGI !  Tambourgi !  5  thy  'larum  afar 
Gives  hope  to  the  valiant,  and  promise  of  war ; 
All  the  sons  of  the  mountains  arise  at  the  note, 
Chimariot,  Illyrian,  and  dark  Suliote!6 


Oh !  who  is  more  brave  than  a  dark  Suliote, 
In  his  snowy  camese  and  his  shaggy  capote  ? 
To  the  wolf  and  the  vulture  he  leaves  his  wild 

flock, 
And  descends  to  the  plain  like  the  stream  from 

the  rock. 

3- 
Shall  the  sons  of  Chimari,  who  never  forgive 
The  fault  of  a  friend,  bid  an  enemy  live  ? 
Let  those  guns  so  unerring  such  vengeance 

forego  ? 
What  mark  is  so  fair  as  the  breast  of  a  foe  ? 


Macedonia  sends  forth  her  invincible  race ; 
For  a  time  they  abandon  the  cave  and  the 
chase : 


and,  as  they  roared  out  this  stave,  they  whirled 
round  the  fire,  dropped,  and  rebounded  from  their 
knees,  and  again  whirled  round,  as  the  chorus  was 
again  repeated.  The  rippling  of  the  waves  upon 
the  pebbly  margin  where  we  were  seated,  filled  up 
the  pauses  of  the  song  with  a  milder,  and  not  more 
monotonous  music.  The  night  was  very  dark ;  but, 
by  the  flashes  of  the  fires,  we  caught  a  glimpse  of 
the  woods,  the  rocks,  and  the  lake,  which,  together 
with  the  wild  appearance  of  the  dancers,  presented 
us  with  a  scene  that  would  have  made  a  fine  picture 
in  the  hands  of  such  an  artist  as  the  author  of  the 
Mysteries  of  Udolpho.  As  we  were  acquainted 
with  the  character  of  the  Albanians,  it  did  not  at  all 
diminish  our  pleasure  to  know,  that  every  one  of 
our  guard  had  been  robbers,  and  some  of  them  a 
very  short  time  before.  It  was  eleven  o'clock  be- 
fore we  had  retired  to  our  room,  at  which  time  the 
Albanians,  wrapping  themselves  up  in  their  capotes, 
went  to  sleep  round  the  fires."  —  Hobhouse.\ 

4  [For  a  specimen  of  the  Albanian  or  Arnaout 
dialect  of  the  Illyric,  see  Appendix  to  this  Canto, 
Note  [C].] 

5  Drummer. 

e  These  stanzas  are  partly  taken  from  different 
Albanese  songs,  as  far  as  I  was  able  to  make  then! 


288 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


But  those  scarfs  of  blood-red  shall  be  redder, 

before 
The  sabre  is  sheathed  and  the  battle  is  o'er. 

5- 
Then  the  pirates  of  Parga  that  dwell  by  the 

waves, 
And  teach  the  pale  Franks  what  it  is  to  be 

slaves, 
Shall  leave  on  the  beach  the  long  galley  and 
J         oar, 
(And  track  to  his  covert  the  captive  on  shore. 


I  ask  not  the  pleasures  that  riches  supply, 
My  sabre  shall  win  what  the  feeble  must  buy  ; 
Shall  win  the  young  bride  with  her  long  flow- 
ing hair 
And  many  a  maid  from  her  mother  shall  tear. 


I  love  the  fair  face  of  the  maid  in  her  youth, 

Her  caresses  shall  lull  me,  her  music  shall 
soothe ; 

Let  her  bring  from  the  chamber  her  many- 
toned  lyre, 

And  sing  us  a  song  on  the  fall  of  her  sire. 


Remember  the  moment  when  Previsa  fell,1 
The  shrieks  of  the  conquered,  the  conquerors' 

yell; 
The  roofs  that  we  fired,  and  the  plunder  we 

shared, 
The  wealthy  we   slaughtered,  the  lovely  we 

spared. 

9- 
I  talk  not  of  mercy,  I  talk  not  of  fear ; 
He  neither  must  know  who  would  serve  the 

Vizier : 
Since  the  days  of  our  prophet  the  Crescent 

ne'er  saw 
A  chief  ever  glorious  like  Ali  Pashaw. 


Dark  Muchtarhis  son  to  the  Danube  is  sped, 
Let   the    yellow-haired'2    Giaours3  view   his 

horse-tail  4  with  dread  ; 
When  his   Delhis5   come  dashing  in  blood 

o'er  the  banks, 
How  few  shall   escape  from   the  Muscovite 

ranks ! 


out  by  the  exposition  of  the  Albanese  in  Romaic 
and  Italian. 

1  It  was  taken  by  storm  from  the  French. 

2  Yellow  is  the  epithet  given  to  the  Russians, 
s  Infidel. 

*  The  insignia  of  a  Pacha 

6  Horsemen,  answering  to  our  forlorn  hope. 


Selictar ! 6  unsheathe  then  our  chiefs  scimitar : 
Tambourgi !  thy  'larum  gives  promise  of  war. 
Ye  mountains,  that  see  us  descend  to  the  shore, 
Shall  view  us  as  victors,  or  view  us  no  more  ! 

LXXIII. 

Fair  Greece !  sad  relic  of  departed  worth  !  "' 
Immortal,  though  no  more;  though  fallen, 

great ! 
Who  now  shall  lead  thy  scattered  children 

forth, 
And  long  accustomed  bondage  uncreate  ? 
Not  such  thy  sons  who  whilome  did  await. 
The  hopeless  warriors  of  a  willing  doom, 
In  bleak  Thermopylae's  sepulchra!  strait  — 
Oh  !  who  that  gallant  spirit  shall  resume, 
Leap  from  Eurotas'  banks,  and  call  thee  from 

the  tomb  ? 

LXXIV. 

Spirit  of  freedom  !  when  on  Phyle's  brow  8 
Thou  sat'st  with  Thrasybulus  and  his  train, 
Couldst   thou   forebode    the   dismal    hour 

which  now 
Dims  the  green  beauties  of  thine  Attic  plain  ? 
Not  thirty  tyrants  now  enforce  the  chain, 
But  every  carle  can  lord  it  o'er  thy  land  ; 
Nor  rise  thy  sons,  but  idly  rail  in  vain, 
Trembling  beneath  the  scourge  of  Turkish 

hand,       * 
From  birth  till  death  enslaved;  in  word,  in 

deed,  unmanned. 

LXXV. 

In  all  save  form  alone,  how  changed!  and 

who 
That  marks  the  fire  still  sparkling  in  each 

eye, 
Who  but  would  deem  their  bosoms  burned 

anew 
With  thy  unquenched  beam,  lost  Liberty! 
And  many  dream  withal  the  hour  is  nigh 
That  gives  them  back  their  fathers'  heritage  : 
For  foreign  arms  and  aid  they  fondly  sigh, 
Nor  solely  dare  encounter  hostile  rage, 
Or   tear  their  name   defiled   from   Slavery's 

mournful  page. 

LXXVI. 

Hereditary  bondsmen  !  know  ye  not 
Who  would  be  free  themselves  must  strike 
the  blow  ? 


6  Sword-bearer. 

7  Some  thoughts  on  the  present  state  of  Greece 
will  be  found  in  the  Appendix  to  this  Canto,  Note 

8  Phyle,  which  commands  a  beautiful  view  of 
Athens,  has  still  considerable  remains:  itwas  seized 
bv  Thrasybulus,  previous  to  the  expulsion  of  the 
Thirty. 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


289 


By  their  right  arms  the  conquest  must  be 

wrought  ? 
Will  Gaul  or  Muscovite  redress  ye  ?  no ! 
True,  they  may  lay  your  proud  despoilers 

low, 
But  not  for  you  will  freedom's  altars  flame. 
Shades  of  the  Helots !  triumph  o'er  your 

foe! 
Greece !  change  thy  lords,  thy  state  is  still 

the  same ; 
Thy  glorious  day  is  o'er,  but  not  thine  years 

of  shame. 

LXXVII. 
The  city  won  for  Allah  from  the  Giaour, 
The  Giaour  from  Othman's  race  again  may 

wrest ; 
And  the  Serai's  impenetrable  tower 
Receive  the  fiery  Frank,  her  former  guest ;  i 
Or  Wahab's  rebel  brood  who  dared  divest 
The  prophet's2  tomb  of  all  its  pious  spoil, 
May  wind  their  path  of  blood  along  the 

West ; 
But  ne'er  will  freedom  seek  this  fated  soil, 
But  slave  succeed  to  slave  through  years  of 

endless  toil. 

LXXVII  I. 
Yet   mark    their  mirth  —  ere  lenten   days 

begin, 
That  penance  which  their  holy  rites  prepare 
To  shrive  from  man  his  weight  of  mortal  sin, 
By  daily  abstinence  and  nightly  prayer; 
But  ere  his  sackcloth  garb  Repentance  wear, 
Some  days  of  joyaunce  are  decreed  to  all, 
To  take  of  pleasaunce  each  his  secret  share, 
In  motley  robe  to  dance  at  masking  ball, 
i^nd  join  the  mimic  train  of  merry  Carnival. 

LXXIX. 

And  whose  more  rife  with  merriment  than 

thine, 
Oh  Stamboul !  once  the  empress  of  their 

reign  ? 
Though    turbans    now    pollute    Sophia's 

shrine, 
And  Greece  her  very  altars  eyes  in  vain  : 
(Alas  !  her  woes  will  still  pervade  my  strain  !) 
Gay  were  her  minstrels  once,  for  free  her 

throng, 
All  felt  the  common  joy  they  now  must  feign, 
Nor  oft  I've  seen  such  sight,  nor  heard  such 

song, 
A.s  wooed  the  eye,  and  thrilled  the  Bosphorus 

along.3 


1  When  taken  by  the  Latins,  and  retained  for 
several  years. 

2  Mecca  and  Medina  were  taken  some  time  ago 
bv  the  Wahabees,  a  sect  yearly  increasing. 

3  [Of  Constantinople  Byron  says.  —  "I  have 
seen  the  ruins  of  Athens,  of  Ephesus,  and  Delphi; 
I  have  traversed  great  part  of  Turkey,  and  many 
Bther  parts  of  Europe,  and  some  of  Asia;    but  I 


LXXX. 

Loud  was  the  lightsome  tumult  on  the  shore, 
Oft  Music  changed,  but  never  ceased  hei 

tone, 
And  timely  echoed  back  the  measured  oar, 
And  rippling  waters  made  a  pleasant  moan  : 
The  Queen   of  tides   on  high   consenting 

shone, 
And  when  a  transient  breeze  swept  o'er  the 

wave, 
'Twas,    as   if  darting   from   her  heavenly 

throne, 
A  brighter  glance  her  form  reflected  gave, 
Till  sparkling  billows  seemed  to  light  the  banks 

they  lave. 

LXXXI. 

Glanced  many  a  light  caique  along  the  foam, 
Danced  on  the  shore  the  daughters  of  the 

land, 
Ne  thought  had  man  or  maid  of  rest  or 

home, 
While  many  a  languid  eye  and  thrilling  hand 
Exchanged  the  look  few  bosoms  may  with- 
stand, 
Or  gently  prest,  returned  the  pressure  still: 
Oh  Love !  young  Love !  bound  in  thy  rosy 

band, 
Let  sage  or  cynic  prattle  as  he  will, 
These  hours,  and  only  these,  redeem  Life '3 
years  of  ill ! 

LXXXII. 

But,  midst  the  throng  in  merry  masquerade. 
Lurk  there  no  hearts  that  throb  with  secret 

pain, 
Even  through  the  closest  searment  half  be- 
trayed ? 
To  such  the  gentle  murmurs  of  the  main 
Seem  to  reecho  all  they  mourn  in  vain ; 
To  such  the  gladness  of  thegamesome  crowd 
Is  source  of  wayward  thought  and  stern  dis- 
dain : 
How  do  they  loathe  the  laughter  idly  loud, 
And  long  to  change  the  robe  of  revel  for  the 
shroud ! 

LXXXIII. 

This  must  he    feel,  the  true-born   son  of 

Greece, 
If  Greece  one  true-born  patriot  still  caa 

boast : 
Not  such  as  prate  of  war,  but  skulk  in  peace, 
The  bondsman's  peace,  who  sighs  for  all  he 

lost, 
Yet  with  smooth  smile  his  tyrant  can  accost, 
And  wield  the  slavish  sickle,  not  the  sword : 
Ah  !  Greece  !  they  love  thee  least  who  owe 

thee  most ; 


never  beheld  a  work  of  nature  or  art  which  yielded 
an  impression  like  the  prospect  on  each  side,  froK 
the  Seven  Towers  to  the  end  of  the  Golden  Horn."J 


290 


CHILD E  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


Their  birth,  their  blood,  and  that  sublime 
record 
Of  hero  sires,  who  shame  thy  now  degenerate 
horde. 

LXXXIV. 

When  riseth  Lacedemon's  hardihood, 
When  Thebes  Epaminondas  rears  again, 
When  Athens'  children  are  with  hearts  en- 
dued, 
When  Grecian  mothers  shall  give  birth  to 

men, 
Then  may'st  thou  be  restored ;  but  not  till 

then. 
A  thousand  years  scarce  serve  to  form  a 

state ; 
An  houi  may  lay  it  in  the  dust :  and  when 
Can  man  its  shattered  splendor  renovate, 
Recall  its  virtues  back,  and  vanquish  Time 
and  Fate!        Lxxxy 

And  yet  how  lovely  in  thine  age  of  woe, 
Land  of  lost  gods  and  godlike  men !    art 

thou  : 
Thy  vales  of  evergreen,  thy  hills  of  snow,1 
Proclaim  thee  Nature's  varied  favorite  now  ; 
Thy  fanes,  thy  temples  to  thy  surface  bow, 
Commingling  slowly  with  heroic  earth, 
Broke  by  the  share  of  every  rustic  plough  : 
So  perish  monuments  of  mortal  birth, 
So  perish  all  in  turn,  save  well-recorded  Worth; 

LXXXVI. 

Save  where  some  solitary  column  mourns 
Above  its  prostrate  brethren  of  the  cave,3 
Save  where  Tritonia's  airy  shrine  adorns 
Colonna's  cliff,3  and  gleams  along  the  wave  • 


1  On  many  of  the  mountains,  particularly  Liakura, 
the  snow  never  is  entirely  melted,  notwithstanding 
the  intense  heat  of  the  summer;  but  I  never  saw  it 
lie  on  the  plains,  even  in  winter. 

-  Of  Mount  Pentelicus,  from  whence  the  marble 
was  dug  that  constructed  the  public  edifices  of 
Athens.  The  modern  name  is  Mount  Mendeli. 
An  immense  cave,  formed  by  the  quarries,  still  re- 
mains, and  will  till  the  end  of  time. 

3  In  all  Attica,  if  we  except  Athens  itself  and  Mar- 
athon, there  is  no  scene  more  interesting  than  Cape 
Colonna.  To  the  antiquary  and  artist,  sixteen  col- 
umns are  an  inexhaustible  source  of  observation 
and  design;  to  the  philosopher,  the  supposed  scene 
of  some  of  Plato's  conversations  will  not  be  unwel- 
come; and  the  traveller  will  be  struck  with  the 
beauty  of  the  prospect  over  "  Isles  that  crown  the 
/Egean  deep:"  but  for  an  Englishman,  Colonna 
has  yet  an  additional  interest,  as  the  actual  spot  of 
Falconer's  Shipwreck.  Pallas  and  Plato  are  for- 
gotten, in  the  recollection  of  Falconer  and  Camp- 
bell:— 
"  Here  in  the  dead  of  night  by  Lonna's  steep, 

The  seaman's  cry  was  heard  along  the  deep." 
This  temple  of  Minerva  may  be  seen  at  sea  from  a 
great  distance.  In  two  journeys  which  I  made,  and 
one  voyage  to  Cape  Colonna,  the  view  from  either 
side,  by  land,  was  less  striking  than  the  approach 
from  the  isles.     In  our  second  land  excursion,  we 


Save    o'er    some    warrior's    half-forgotten 

grave, 
Where  the  gray  stones  and  unmolested  grass 
Ages,  but  not  oblivion,  feebly  brave, 
While  strangers  only  not  regardless  pass, 
Lingering  like  me,  perchance,  to  gaze,  and 

sigh  "  Alas !  " 

LXXXVII, 

Yet  are  thy  skies  as  blue,  thy  crags  as  wild ; 
Sweet  are  thy  groves,  and  verdant  are  thy 

fields, 
Thine  olive  ripe  as  when  Minerva  smiled, 
And    still    his    honied    wealth     Hymettus 

yields ; 
There  the  blithe  bee  his  fragrant  fortress 

builds, 
The  freeborn  wanderer  of  thy  mountain-air ; 
Apollo  still  thy  long,  long  summer  gilds, 
Still  in  his  beam  Mendeli's  marbles  glare; 
Art,  Glory,  Freedom  fail,  but  Nature  still  is 

fair. 

LXXXVIII. 

Where'er    we    tread    'tis    haunted,    holy 

ground; 
No  earth  of  thine  is  lost  in  vulgar  mould, 
But    one    vast    realm   of   wonder  spreads 

around, 
And  all  the  Muse's  tales  seem  truly  told, 
Till  the  sense  aohes  with  gazing  to  behold 
The  scenes,our  earliest  dreams  have  dwelt 

upon : 
Each  hill  and  dale,  each  deepening  glen 

and  wold 
Defies  the  power  which  crushed  thy  temples 

gone : 
Age  shakes  Athena's  tower,  but  spares  gray 

Marathon. 

LXXXIX. 

The  sun,  the  soil,  but  not  the  slave,  the  same  ; 
Unchanged  in  all  except  its  foreign  lord  — 
Preserves  alike  its  bounds  and  boundless 
fame, 


had  a  narrow  escape  from  a  party  of  Mainotes, 
concealed  in  the  caverns  beneath.  We  were  told 
afterwards,  by  one  of  their  prisoners,  subsequently 
ransomed,  that  they  were  deterred  from  attacking 
us  by  the  appearance  of  my  two  Albanians:  conjec- 
turing very  sagaciously,  but  falsely,  that  we  had 
a  complete  guard  of  these  Arnaouts  at  hand,  they 
remained  stationary,  and  thus  saved  our  party, 
which  was  too  small  to  have  opposed  any  effectual 
resistance.  Colonna  is  no  less  a  resort  of  painters 
than  of  pirates;  there 

"  The  hireling  artist  plants  his  paltry  desk. 
And  makes  degraded  nature  picturesque." 

(See  Hodgson's  Lady  Jane  Grey,  etc.\ 
But  there  Nature,  with  the  aid  of  Art,  has  done 
that  for  herself.  I  was  fortunate  enough  to  engage 
a  very  superior  German  artist:  and  hope  to  renew 
my  acquaintance  with  this  and  many  other  Levan- 
tine scenes,  by  the  arrival  of  his  performances. 


CHILD E  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


291 


The  Battle-field,  where  Persia's  victim  horde 
First  bowed  beneath  the  brunt  of  Hellas' 

sword, 
As  on  the  morn  to  distant  Glory  dear, 
When  Marathon  became  a  magic  word ;  1 
Which  uttered,  to  the  hearer's  eye  appear 
The  camp,  the  host,  the  fight,  the  conqueror's 

career. 

xc. 
The  flying  Mede,  his  shaftless  broken  bow ; 
The  fiery  Greek,  his  red  pursuing  spear ; 
Mountains   above,  Earth's,  Ocean's   plain 

below ; 
Death  in  the  front,  Destruction  in  the  rear ! 
Such  was  the  scene  —  what  now  remaineth 

here  ? 
What  sacred  trophy  marks  the   hallowed 

ground, 
Recording  Freedom's  smile  and  Asia's  tear  ? 
The  rifled  urn,  the  violated  mound, 
The  dust  thy  courser's  hoof,  rude  stranger ! 

spurns  around. 


Yet  to  the  remnants  of  thy  splendor  past 
Shall    pilgrims,    pensive,    but    unwearied, 

throng ; 
Long  shall  the  voyager,  with  th'  Ionian  blast, 
Hail  the  bright  clime  of  battle  and  of  song; 
Long    shall    thine    annals    and    immortal 

tongue 
Fill  with  thy  fame  the  youth  of  many  a 

shore ; 
Boast  of  the  aged  !  lesson  of  the  young! 
Which  sages  venerate  and  bards  adore, 
As  Pallas  and  the  Muse  unveil  their  awful  lore. 

XCII. 

The  parted  bosom  clings  to  wonted  home, 
If  aught  that's  kindred  cheer  the  welcome 

hearth ; 
He  that  is  lonely,  hither  let  him  roam, 
And  gaze  complacent  on  congenial  earth. 
Greece  is  no  lightsome  land  of  social  mirth  : 
But  he  whom  Sadness  sootheth  may  abide, 
And  scarce  regret  the  region  of  his  birth, 
When  wandering  slow  by  Delphi's  sacred 

side, 
Or  gazing  o'er  the  plains  where  Greek  and 

Persian  died. 


i  "  Siste  Viator  —  heroa  calcas!  "  was  the  epitaph 
on  the  famous  Count  Merci;  — what  then  must  be 
our  feelings  when  standing  on  the  tumulus  of  the 
two  hundred  (Greeks)  who  fell  on  Marathon?  The 
principal  barrow  has  recently  been  opened  by 
Fauvel:  few  or  no  relics,  as  vases,  etc.  were  found 
by  the  excavator.  The  plain  of  Marathon  was 
offered  to  me  for  sale  at  the  sum  of  sixteen  thousand 
piastres,  about  nine  hundred  pounds!  Alas!  — 
■'  Expende  —  quot  libras  in  duce  summo  —  inven- 
ies!  "  —  was  the  dust  of  Miltiades  worth  no  more? 
It  could  scarcely  have  fetched  less  if  sold  by  weight. 


Let  such  approach  this  consecrated  land. 
And  pass  in  peace  along  the  magic  waste ; 
But  spare  its  relics — -let  no  busy  hand 
Deface  the  scenes,  already  how  defaced ! 
Not  for  such   purpose  were   these   altars 

placed : 
Revere  the  remnants  nations  once  revered : 
So  may  our  country's  name  be  undisgraced, 
So  may'st  thou  prosper  where  thy  youth 

was  reared, 
By  every  honest  joy  of  love  and  life  endeared ! 

XCIV. 

For  thee,  who  thus  in  too  protracted  song 
Hast  soothed  thine  idlesse  with  inglorious 

lays, 
Soon  shall  thy  voice  be  lost  amid  the  throng 
Of  louder  minstrels  in  these  later  days : 
To  such  resign  the  strife  for  fading  bays  — 
111  may  such  contest  now  the  spirit  move 
Which  heeds  nor  keen  reproach  nor  partial 

praise, 
Since  cold  each  kinder  heart  that   might 

approve, 
And  none  are  left  to  please  when  none  are  left 

to  love. 

XCV. 

Thou  too  art  gone,  thou  loved  and  lovely 

one! 
Whom  youth  and  youth's  affections  bound 

to  me ; 
Who  did  for  me  what  none  beside  have 

done, 
Nor  shrank  from  one  albeit  unworthy  thee. 
What  is  my  being  ?  thou  hast  ceased  to  be! 
Nor  stayed  to  welcome  here  thy  wanderer 

home, 
Who  mourns  o'er  hours  which  we  no  more 

shall  see  — 
Would  they  had  never  been,  or  were  to 

come! 
Would  he  had  ne'er  returned  to  find  fresfe 

cause  to  roam ! 

XCVI. 

Oh  !  ever  loving,  lovely,  and  beloved ! 

How  selfish  Sorrow  ponders  on  the  past, 

And  clings  to  thoughts  now  better  far  re- 
moved ! 

But  Time  shall  tear  thy  shadow  from  me 
last. 

All  thou  couldst  have  of  mine,  stern  Death ! 
thou  hast ; 

The  parent,  friend,  and  now  the  more  than 
friend : 

Ne'er  yet  for  one  thine  arrows  flew  so  fast, 

And  grief  with  grief  continuing  still  to  blend, 
Hath  snatched  the  little  joy  that  life  had  yet 
to  lend. 


292 


CHILD E  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


XCVII. 

Then  must  I  plunge  again  into  the  crowd, 
And  follow  all  that  Peace  disdains  to  seek  ? 
Where    Revel   calls,  and    Laughter,  vainly 

loud, 
False  to  the  heart,  distorts  the  hollow  cheek, 
To  leave  the  flagging  spirit  doubly  weak ; 
Still  o'er  the  features,  which  perforce  they 

cheer, 
To  feign  the  pleasure  or  conceal  the  pique  ; 
Smiles  form  the  channel  of  a  future  tear, 
Dr  raise  the  writhing  lip  with  ill-dissembled 

sneer. 

XCVIII. 

What  is  the  worst  of  woes  that  wait  on  age  ? 
What   stamps   the  wrinkle  deeper   on   the 

brow  ? 
To  view  each  loved  one  blotted  from  life's 

page, 
And  be  alone  on  earth,  as  I  am  now.  * 

1  [This  stanza  was  written   October   n,   1811; 


Before  the  Chastener  humbly  let  me  bow, 
O'er   hearts   divided    and  o'er   hopes   de- 
stroyed : 
Roll  on,  vain  days  !  full  reckless  may  ye  flow, 
Since  Time  hath  reft  whate'er  my  soul  en- 
joyed, 
And  with    the  ills  of  Eld  mine  earlier  years 
alloyed. 

upon  which  day  the  poet,  in  a  letter  to  a  friend, 
says,  —  "  It  seems  as  though  I  were  to  experience 
in  my  youth  the  greatest  misery  of  age.  My  friends 
fall  around  me,  and  I  shall  be  left  a  lonely  tree 
before  I  am  withered.  Other  men  can  always  take 
refuge  in  their  families:  I  have  no  resource  but  ray 
own  reflections,  and  they  present  no  prospect  here 
or  hereafter,  except  the  selfish  satisfaction  of  sur- 
viving my  friends.  I  am  indeed  very  wretched." 
In  reference  to  this  stanza,  "  Surely,"  said  Professor 
Clarke  to  the  author  of  the  '  Pursuits  of  Literature,' 
"  Lord  Byron  cannot  have  experienced  such  keen' 
anguish  as  these  exquisite  allusions  to  what  older 
men  may  have  felt  seem  to  denote."  — "  I  fear  he 
has,"  answered  Matthias;  —  "  he  could  not  other- 
wise have  written  such  a  poem."] 


APPENDIX  TO   CANTO  THE   SECOND. 


Note  [A].     See  p.  278. 

"  To  rive  what  Goth,  and  Turk,  and  Time  hath 
spared."  —  Stanza  xii.  line  2. 

At  this  moment  (January  3,  1810),  besides  what 
has  been  already  deposited  in  London,  an  Hydriot 
vessel  is  in  the  Pyraeus  to  receive  every  portable 
relic.  Thus,  as  I  heard  a  young  Greek  observe,  in 
common  with  many  of  his  countrymen  —  for,  lost 
as  they  are,  they  yet  feel  on  this  occasion  —  thus 
may  Lord  Elgin  boast  of  having  ruined  Athens. 
An  Italian  painter  of  the  first  eminence,  named 
Lusieri,  is  the  agent  of  devastation ;  and  like  the 
Greek^f  nder  of  Verres  in  Sicily,  who  followed  the 
same  profession,  he  has  proved  the  able  instrument 
of  plunder.  Between  this  artist  and  the  French 
Consul  Fauvel,  who  wishes  to  rescue  the  remains 
for  his  own  government,  there  is  now  a  violent  dis- 
pute concerning  a  car  employed  in  their  convey- 
ance, the  wheel  of  which  —  I  wish  they  were  both 
broken  upon  it  —  has  been  locked  up  by  the  Consul, 
and  Lusieri  has  laid  his  complaint  bctore  the  Way- 
wode.  Lord  Elgin  has  been  extremely  happy  in 
his  choice  of  Signor  Lusieri.  During  a  residence 
of  ten  years  in  Athens,  he  never  had  the  curiosity 
to  proceed  as  far  as  Sunium  (now  Caplonna),  till 
he  accompanied  us  in  our  second  excursion.  How- 
ever, his  works,  as  far  as  they  go,  are  most  beauti- 
ful: but  they  are  almost  all  unfinished.  While  he 
and  his  patrons  confine  themselves  to  tasting  medals, 
appreciating  cameos,  sketching  columns,  and  cheap- 
ening gems,  their  little  absurdities  are  as  harmless 
as  insect  or  fox  hunting,  maiden  speechifying, 
barouche-driving,  or  any  such  pastime;  but  when 
they  carry  away  three  01  four  shiploads  of  the  most 


valuable  and  Massy  relics  that  time  and  barbarism 
have  left  to  the  most  injured  and  most  celebrated  ot 
cities;  when  they  destroy,  in  a  vain  attempt  to  tear 
down,  those  works  which  have  been  the  admiration 
of  ages,  I  know  no  motive  which  can  excuse,  no 
name  which  can  designate,  the  perpetrators  of  this 
dastardly  devastation.  It  was  not  the  least  of  the 
crimes  laid  to  the  charge  of  Verres,  that  he  had 
plundered  Sicily,  in  the  manner  since  imitated  at 
Athens.  The  most  unblushing  impudence  could 
hardly  go  further  than  to  affix  the  name  of  its  plun- 
derer to  the  walls  of  the  Acropolis;  while  the  wan- 
ton and  useless  defacement  of  the  whole  range  of 
the  basso-relievos,  in  one  compartment  of  the 
temple,  will  never  permit  that  name  to  be  pro- 
nounced by  an  observer  without  execration. 

On  this  occasion  I  speak  impartially:  I  am  not 
a  collector  or  admirer  of  collections,  consequently 
no  rival;  but  I  have  some  early  prepossession  in 
favor  of  Greece,  and  do  not  think  the  honor  of  Eng- 
land advanced  by  plunder,  whether  of  India  or 
Attica. 

Another  noble  Lord  has  done  better,  because  he 
has  done  less:  but  some  others,  more  or  less  noble, 
yet  "all  honorable  men,"  have  done  best,  because, 
after  a  deal  of  excavation,  and  execration,  briberv 
to  the  Waywode,  mining  and  countermining,  they 
have  done  nothing  at  all.  We  had  such  ink-shed, 
and  wine-shed,  which  almost  ended  in  bloodshed! 
Lord  E.'s  "prig"  —  see  Jonathan  Wild  for  the 
definition  of ' '  priggism ' '  —  quarrelled  with  another, 
Gropius '  by  name  (a  very  good  name  too  for  his 


1  This   Sr.    Gropius  was  employed  by  a   noble 
Lord  for  the  sole  purpose  of  sketching,  in  which  he 


APPENDIX   TO    CANTO    THE  SECOND. 


293 


business),  and  muttered  something  about  satisfac- 
tion, in  a  verbal  answer  to  a  note  of  the  poor  Prus- 
sian :  this  was  stated  at  table  to  Gropius,  who 
laughed,  but  could  eat  no  dinner  afterwards.  The 
rivals  were  not  reconciled  when  I  left  Greece.  I 
have  reason  to  remember  their  squabble,  for  they 
wanted  to  make  me  their  arbitrator. 


Note  [B].    See  p.  282. 

'  Land  of  Albania  !  let  me  bend  mine  eyes 
On  thee,  thou  rugged  nurse  of  savage  men  /" 
Stanza  xxxvii.  lines  5  and  6. 

Albania  comprises  part  of  Macedonia,  Illyria, 
Chaonia,  and  Epirus.  Iskander  is  the  Turkish 
word  for  Alexander;  and  the  celebrated  Scanderbeg 
(Lord  Alexander)  is  alluded  to  in  the  third  and 
fourth  lines  of  the  thirty-eighth  stanza.  I  do  not 
know  whether  I  am  correct  in  making  Scanderbeg 
the  countryman  of  Alexander,  who  was  born  at 
Pella  in  Macedon,  but  Mr.  Gibbon  terms  him  so, 
and  adds  Pyrrhus  to  the  list,  in  speaking  of  his 
exploits. 

Of  Albania  Gibbon  remarks,  that  a  country 
"  within  sight  of  Italy  is  less  known  than  the  inte- 
rior of  America."  Circumstances,  of  little  conse- 
quence to  mention,  led  Mr.  Hobhouse  and  myself 
into  that  country  before  we  visited  any  other  part 
of  the  Ottoman  dominions;  and  with  the  exception 
of  Major  Leake,  then  officially  resident  at  Joannina, 
no  other  Englishmen  have  ever  advanced  beyond 
the  capital  into  the  interior,  as  that  gentleman  very 
lately  assured  me.  Ali  Pacha  was  at  that  time 
(October,  1809)  carrying  on  war  against  Ibrahim 
Pacha,  whom  he  had  driven  to  Berat,  a  strong  for- 
tress which  he  was  then  besieging;  on  our  arrival 
at  Joannina  we  were  invited  to  Tepaleni,  his  high- 
ness's  birthplace,  and  favorite  Serai,  only  one  day's 
distance  from  Berat;  at  this  juncture  the  Vizier 
had  made  it  his  head-quarters.  After  some  stay  in 
the  capital,  we  accordingly  followed;  but  though 
furnished  with  every  accommodation,  and  escorted 
by  one  of  the  Vizier's  secretaries,  we  were  nine  days 
(on  account  of  the  rains)  in  accomplishing  a  journey 
which,  on  our  return,  barely  occupied  four.  On 
our  route  we  passed  two  cities,  Argyrocastro  and 
Libochabo,  apparently  little  inferior  to  Yanina  in 
size;  and  no  pencil  or  pen  can  ever  do  justice  to 
the  scenery  in  the  vicinity  of  Zitza  and  Delvinachi, 
the  frontier  village  of  Epirus  and  Albania  Proper. 

excels;  but  I  am  sorry  to  say,  that  he  has,  through 
the  abused  sanction  of  that  most  respectable  name, 
been  treading  at  humble  distance  in  the  steps  of" 
Sr.  Lusieri.  —  A  shipful  of  his  trophies  was  detained, 
and  I  believe  confiscated,  at  Constantinople,  in 
1810.  I  am  most  happy  to  be  now  enabled  to  state, 
that  "  this  was  not  in  his  bond;  "  that  he  was  em- 
ployed solely  as  a  painter,  and  that  his  noble  patron 
disavows  all  connection  with  him,  except  as  an 
artist.  If  the  error  in  the  first  and  second  edition 
of  this  poem  has  given  the  noble  Lord  a  moment's 
pain,  I  am  very  sorry  for  it:  Sr.  Gropius  has  as- 
sumed for  years  the  name  of  his  agent:  and  though 
I  cannot  much  condemn  myself  for  sharing  in  the 
mistake  of  so  many,  I  am  happy  in  being  one  of 
the  first  to  be  undeceived.  Indeed,  I  have  as  much 
pleasure  in  contradicting  this  as  I  felt  regret  in 
stating  it.  —  Note  to  third  edition. 


On  Albania  and  its  inhabitants  I  am  unwilling  to 
descant,  because  this  will  be  done  so  much  better 
by  my  fellow-traveller,  in  a  work  which  may  prob- 
ably precede  this  in  publication,  that  I  as  little 
wish  to  follow  as  I  would  to  anticipate  him.  But 
some  few  observations  are  necessary  to  the  text. 
The  Arnaouts,  or  Albanese,  struck  me  forcibly  by 
their  resemblance  to  the  Highlanders  of  Scotland, 
in  dress,  figure,  and  manner  of  living.  Their  very 
mountains  seemed  Caledonian,  with  a  kinder  cli- 
mate. The  kilt,  though  white;  the  spare,  active 
form;  their  dialect,  Celtic  in  its  sound,  and  their 
hardy  habits,  all  carried  me  back  to  Morven.  No 
nation  are  so  detested  and  dreaded  by  their  neigh- 
bors as  the  Albanese;  the  Greeks  hardly  regard 
them  as  Christians,  or  the  Turks  as  Moslems;  and 
in  fact  they  are  a  mixture  of  both,  and  sometimes 
neither.  Their  habits  are  predatory  —  all  are 
armed;  and  the  red-shawled  Arnaouts,  the  Mon- 
tenegrins, Chimariots,  and  Gegdes,  are  treacherous; 
the  other  differ  somewhat  in  garb,  and  essentially 
in  character.  As  far  as  my  own  experience  goes, 
I  can  speak  favorably.  I  was  attended  by  two,  an 
Infidel  and  a  Mussulman,  to  Constantinople  and 
ever  other  part  of  Turkey  which  came  within  my 
observation;  and  more  faithful  in  peril,  or  indefati- 
gable in  service,  are  rarely  to  be  found.  The  In- 
fidel was  named  Basilius,  the  Moslem,  Dervish 
Tahiri;  the  former  a  man  of  middle  age,  and  the 
latter  about  my  own.  Basili  was  strictly  charged 
by  Ali  Pacha  in  person  to  attend  us;  and  Dervish 
was  one  of  fifty  who  accompanied  us  through  the 
forests  of  Acarnania  to  the  banks  of  Achelous,  and 
onward  to  Messalonghi  in  ^Etolia.  There  I  took 
him  into  my  own  service,  and  never  had  occasion 
to  repent  it  till  the  moment  of  my  departure. 

When  in  1810,  after  the  departure  of  my  friend 
Mr.  Hobhouse  for  England,  I  was  seized  with  a 
severe  fever  in  the  Morea,  these  men  saved  my  life 
by  frightening  away  my  physician,  whose  throat 
they  threatened  to  cut  if  I  was  not  cured  within  a 
given  time.  To  this  consolatory  assurance  of  pos- 
thumous retribution,  and  a  resolute  refusal  of  Dr. 
Romanelli's  prescriptions,  I  attributed  my  recovery. 
I  had  left  my  last  remaining  English  servant  at 
Athens;  my  dragoman  was  as  ill  as  myself,  and  my 
poor  Arnaouts  nursed  me  with  an  attention  which 
would  have  done  honor  to  civilization.  They  had 
a  variety  of  adventures;  for  the  Moslem,  Dervish, 
being  a  remarkably  handsome  man,  was  always 
squabbling  with  the  husbands  of  Athens;  insomuch 
that  four  of  the  principal  Turks  paid  me  a  visit  of 
remonstrance  at  the  Convent,  on  the  subject  of  his 
having  taken  a  woman  from  the  bath  —  whom  he 
had  lawfully  bought  however — a  thing  qui'e  con- 
trary to  etiquette.  Basili  also  was  extremely  gal- 
lant amongst  his  own  persuasion,  and  had  the 
greatest  veneration  for  the  church,  mixed  with  the 
highest  contempt  of  churchmen,  whom  he  cufM 
upon  occasion  in  a  most  heterodox  manner.  Yet 
he  never  passed  a  church  without  crossing  himself; 
and  I  remember  the  risk  he  ran  in  entering  St, 
Sophia,  in  Stambol,  because  it  had  once  been  a 
place  of  his  worship.  On  remonstrating  with  him 
on  his  inconsistent  proceedings,  he  invariably  an- 
swered, "Our  church  is  holy,  our  priests  are 
thieves;  "  and  then  he  crossed  himself  as  usual, 
and  boxed  the  ears  of  the  first  "  papas  "  who  refused 
to  assist  in  any  required  operation,  as  was  always 
found  to  be  necessary  wht.  a  priest  had  any  influ- 
ence with  the  Cogia  Bashi  of  his  village.     Indeed 


294 


CHILD E  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


a  more  abandoned  race  of  miscreants  cannot  exist 
than  the  lower  orders  of  the  Greek  clergy. 

When  preparations  were  made  for  my  return, 
my  Albanians  were  summoned  to  receive  their  pay. 
Basili  took  his  with  an  awkward  show  of  regret  at 
my  intended  departure,  and  marched  away  to  his 
quarters  with  his  bag  of  piastres.  I  sent  for  Der- 
vish, but  for  some  time  he  was  not  to  be  found;  at 
last  he  entered,  just  as  Signor  Logotheti,  father  to 
the  ci-devant  Anglo-consul  of  Athens,  and  some 
other  of  my  Greek  acquaintances,  paid  me  a  visit. 
Dervish  took  the  money,  but  on  a  sudden  dashed  it 
to  the  ground;  and  clasping  his  hands,  which  he 
raised  to  his  forehead,  rushed  out  of  the  room 
weeping  bitterly.  From  that  moment  to  the  hour 
of  my  embarkation,  he  continued  his  lamentations, 
and  all  our  efforts  to  console  him  only  produced  this 
answer,  "  M'  a<j>eiv^i,"  "  He  leaves  me."  Signor 
Logotheti,  who  never  wept  before  for  any  thing  less 
than  the  loss  of  a  part  (about  the  fourth  of  a  farth- 
ing), melted;  the  padre  of  the  convent,  my  attend- 
ants, my  visitors,  —  and  I  verily  believe  that  even 
Sterne's  "  foolish,  fat  scullion  "  would  have  left  her 
"  fish-kettle,"  to  sympathize  with  the  unaffected 
and  unexpected  sorrow  of  this  barbarian. 

For  my  own  part,  when  I  remembered  that,  a 
short  time  before  my  departure  from  England,  a 
noble  and  most  intimate  associate  had  excused  him- 
self from  taking  leave  of  me  because  he  had  to  at- 
tend a  relation  "  to  a  milliner's,"  I  felt  no  less  sur- 
prised than  humiliated  by  the  present  occurrence 
and  the  past  recollection.  That  Dervish  would 
leave  me  with  some  regret  was  to  be  expected: 
when  master  and  man  have  been  scrambling  over 
the  mountains  of  a  dozen  provinces  together,  they 
are  unwilling  to  separate;  but  his  present  feelings, 
contrasted  with  his  native  ferocity,  improved  my 
opinion  of  the  human  heart.  I  believe  this  almost 
feudal  fidelity  is  frequent  amongst  them.  One  day, 
on  our  journey  over  Parnassus,  an  Englishman  in 
my  service  gave  him  a  push  in  some  dispute  about 
the  baggage,  which  he  unluckily  mistook  for  a 
blow;  he  spoke  not,  but  sat  down  leaning  his  head 
upon  his  hands.  Foreseeing  the  consequences,  we 
endeavored  to  explain  away  the  affront,  which  pro- 
duced the  following  answer: — "I  have  been  a 
robber;  I  am  asoldier;  no  captain  ever  struck  me; 
you  are  my  master,  I  have  eaten  your  bread,  but 
by  that  bread!  (an  usual  oath)  had  it  been  other- 
wise, I  would  have  stabbed  the  dog  your  servant, 
and  gone  to  the  mountains."  So  the  affair  ended, 
but  from  that  day  forward  he  never  thoroughly  for- 
gave the  thoughtless  fellow  who  insulted  him.  Der- 
vish excelled  in  the  dance  of  his  country,  conjectured 
to  be  a  remnant  of  the  ancient  Pyrrhic:  be  that  as 
it  may,  it  is  manly,  and  requires  wonderful  agility. 
It  is  very  distinct  from  the  stupid  Romaika,  the 
dull  round-about  of  the  Greeks,  of  which  our  Athe- 
nian party  had  so  many  specimens. 

The  Albanians  in  general  (I  do  not  mean  the 
cultivators  of  the  earth  in  the  provinces,  who  have 
also  that  appellation,  but  the  mountaineers)  have  a 
fine  cast  of  countenance;  and  the  most  beautiful 
women  I  ever  beheld,  in  stature  and  in  features,  we 
saw  levelling  the  road  broken  down  by  the  torrents 
between  Delvinachi  and  Libochabo.  Their  manner 
of  walking  is  truly  theatrical:  but  this  strut  is  prob- 
ably the  effect  of  the  capote,  or  cloak,  depending 
from  one  shoulder.  Their  long  hair  reminds  you  of 
the  Soartans,  and  their  courage  in  desultory  war- 
fare is  unquestionable.     Though   they  have   some 


cavalry  amongst  the  Gegdes,  I  never  saw  a  good 
Arnaout  horseman;  my  own  preferred  the  English 
saddles,  which,  however,  they  could  never  keep. 
But  on  foot  they  are  not  to  be  subdued  by  fatigue. 


Note  [C].    See  p.  287. 
"  While  thus  in  concert,"  etc. 

Stanza  lxxii.  line  last. 

As  a  specimen  of  the  Albanian  or  Arnaout  dia 
lect  of  the  Illyric,  I  here  insert  two  of  their  mosl 
popular  choral  songs,  which  are  generally  chanted 
in  dancing  by  men  or  women  indiscriminately.  The 
first  words  are  merely  a  kind  of  chorus  without 
meaning,  like  some  in  our  own  and  all  other  lan- 
guages. 

1.  1. 

Bo,  Bo,  Bo,  Bo,  Bo,  Bo,     Lo,  Lo,  I  come,  I  come; 
Naciarura,  popuso.  be  thou  silent. 


Naciarura  na  civin 
Ha  pen  derini  ti  hin. 


Ha  pe  uderi  escrotini 
Ti  vin  ti  mar  servetini. 


Caliriote  me  surme 
Ea  ha  pe  pse  dua  tive. 


Buo,  Bo,  Bo,  Bo,  Bo, 
Gi  egem  spirta  esimiro. 


Caliriote  vu  le  funde 
Ede  vete  tunde  tunde. 


Caliriote  me  surme 
Ti  mi  put  e  poi  mi  le. 


Se  ti  puta  citi  mora 
Si  mi  ri  ni  veti  udo  gia. 


Va  le  ni  il  che  cadale 
Celo  more,  more  celo. 


Plu  hari  ti  tirete 

Plu  huron  cia  pr»  seti. 


I  come,  I  run,  open  the 
door  that  I  may  enter. 


Open  the  door  by  halves, 
that  I  may  take  my  tur- 
ban. 

4- 

Caliriotes  '  with  the  dark 
eyes,  open  the  gate  that 
I  may  enter. 


Lo,  Lo,  I  hear  thee,  my 
soul. 


An  Arnaout  girl,  in  costly 
garb,  walks  with  grace* 
ful  pride. 


Caliriote  maid  of  the  dark 
eyes,  give  me  a  kiss. 


If  I  have  kissed  thee,  what 
hast  thou  gained?  My 
soul  is  consumed  witb 
fire. 

9- 

Dance  lightly,  more  gei> 
tly,  and  gently  still. 


Make  not  so  much  dust  to 
destroy  your  embroid- 
ered hose. 


The  last  stanza  would  puzzle  a  commentator:  the 
men  have  certainly  buskins  of  the  most  beautiful 
texture,  but  the  ladies  (to  whom  the  above  :s  sup- 

1  The  Albanese,  particularly  the  women,  are  fr* 


APPENDIX   TO   CANTO    THE  SECOND. 


295 


posed  to  be  addressed)  have  nothing  under  their 
little  yellow  boots  and  slippers  but  a  well-turned  and 
sometimes  very  white  ankle.  The  Arnaout  girls 
are  much  handsomer  than  the  Greeks,  and  their 
dress  is  far  more  picturesque.  They  preserve  their 
shape  much  longer  also,  from  being  always  in  the 
open  air.  It  is  to  be  observed,  that  the  Arnaout  is 
not  a  written  language:  the  words  of  this  song, 
therefore,  as  well  as  the  one  which  follows,  are  spelt 
according  to  their  pronunciation.  They  are  copied 
by  one  who  speaks  and  understands  the  dialect 
perfectly,  and  who  is  a  native  of  Athens. 


Ndi  sefda  tinde  ulavossa 
Vettimi  upri  vi  lofsa. 


I  am  wounded  by  thy  love, 
and  have  loved  but  to 
scorch  myself. 


Ah  vaisisso  mi  privi  lof-      Thou  hast  consumed  me ! 

se  Ah,   maid!     thou   hast 

Si  mi  rini  mi  la  vosse.  struck  me  to  the  heart. 


Uti  tasa  roba  stua 
Sitti  eve  tulati  dua. 


Roba  stinori  ssidua 
Qu  mi  sini  vetti  dua. 


Qurmini  dua  civileni 
Roba  ti  siarmi  tildi  eni. 


Utara  pisa  vaisisso  me 
simi  rin  ti  hapti 

Eti  mi  bire  a  piste  si  gui 
dendroi  tiltati. 


Udi  vura  udorini  udiri 
cicova  cilti  mora 

Udorini  talti  hollna  u 
ede  caimoni  mora. 


I  have  said  I  wish  no  dow- 
ry, but  thine  eyes  and 
eye  lashes. 


The    accursed    dowry   I 
want  not,  but  thee  only. 


Give  me  thy  charms,  and 
let  the  portion  feed  the 
flames. 

6. 

I  have  loved  thee,  maid, 
with  a  sincere  soul,  but 
thou  hast  left  me  like  a 
withered  tree. 


If  I  have  placed  my  hand 
on  thy  bosom,  what 
have  I  gained?  my 
hand  is  withdrawn,  but 
retains  the  flame. 


I  believe  the  two  last  stan2as,  as  they  are  in  a 
different  measure,  ought  to  belong  to  another  bal- 
lad. An  idea  something  similar  to  the  thought  in 
the  last  lines  was  expressed  by  Socrates,  whose 
arm  having  come  in  contact  with  one  of  his  "  inro- 
KoAn-ioi,"  Critobulus  or  Cleobulus,  the  philosopher 
complained  of  a  shooting  pain  as  far  as  his  shoulder 
for  some  days  after,  and  therefore  very  properly  re- 
solved to  teach  his  disciples  in  future  without 
touching  them. 


Note  [D].     See  p.  288. 

"  Fair  Greece!  sad  relic  of  departed  worth  ! 

Immortal,  though  no  more;  though  fallen, 

great.'"  —  Stanza  lxxiii.  lines  1  and  2. 


quently  termed  "  Caliriotes;  "  for  what  reason  I  in- 
quired in  vain. 


Before  I  say  any  thing  about  a  city  of  which 
everybody,  traveller  or  not,  has  thought  it  neces- 
sary to  say  something,  I  will  request  Miss  Owen- 
son,  when  she  next  borrows  an  Athenian  heroine 
for  her  four  volumes,  to  have  the  goodness  to  marry 
her  to  somebody  more  of  a  gentleman  than  a  "  Dis- 
dar  Aga  "  (who  by  the  by  is  not  an  Aga),  the  most 
impolite  of  petty  officers,  the  greatest  patron  of 
larceny  Athens  ever  saw  (except  Lord  E.),  and  the 
unworthy  occupant  of  the  Acropolis,  on  a  hand- 
some annual  stipend  of  150  piastres  (eight  pounds 
sterling),  out  of  which  he  has  only  to  pay  his  garri- 
son, the  most  ill-regulated  corps  in  the  ill-regulated 
Ottoman  Empire.  I  speak  it  tenderly,  seeing  I  was 
once  the  cause  of  the  husband  of  "  Ida  of  Athens" 
nearly  suffering  the  bastinado;  and  because  the 
said  "  Disdar  "  is  a  turbulent  husband,  and  beats 
his  wife;  so  that  I  exhort  and  beseech  Miss  Owen- 
son  to  sue  for  a  separate  maintenance  in  behalf  of 
"  Ida."  Having  premised  thus  much,  on  a  matter 
of  such  import  to  the  readers  of  romances,  I  may 
now  leave  Ida,  to  mention  her  birthplace. 

Setting  aside  the  magic  of  the  name,  and  all 
those  associations  which  it  would  be  pedantic  and 
superfluous  to  recapitulate,  the  very  situation  of 
Athens  would  render  it  the  favorite  of  all  who  have 
eyes  for  art  or  nature.  The  climate,  to  me  at  least, 
appeared  a  perpetual  spring;  during  eight  months 
I  never  passed  a  day  without  being  as  many  hours 
on  horseback:  rain  is  extremely  rare,  snow  never 
lies  in  the  plains,  and  a  cloudy  day  is  an  agreeable 
rarity.  In  Spain,  Portugal,  and  every  part  of  the 
East  which  I  visited,  except  Ionia  and  Attica,  I 
perceived  no  such  superiority  of  climate  to  our  own; 
and  at  Constantinople,  where  I  passed  May,  June, 
and  part  of  July  (r8io),  you  might  "damn  the 
climate,  and  complain  of  spleen,"  five  days  out  of 
seven. 

The  air  of  the  Morea  is  heavy  and  unwholesome, 
but  the  moment  you  pass  the  isthmus  in  the  direc- 
tion of  Megara  the  change  is  strikingly  perceptible. 
But  I  fear  Hesiod  will  still  be  found  correct  in  his 
description  of  a  Bceotian  winter. 

We  found  at  Livadia  an  "  esprit  fort  "  in  a  Greek 
bishop,  of  all  freethinkers!  This  worthy  hypocrite 
rallied  his  own  religion  with  great  intrepidity  (but 
not  before  his  flock) ,  and  talked  of  a  mass  as  a 
"  coglioneria."  It  was  impossible  to  think  better  of 
him  for  this;  but,  for  a  Bceotian,  he  was  brisk  with 
all  his  absurdity.  This  phenomenon  (with  the  ex- 
ception indeed  of  Thebes,  the  remains  of  Chaeronea, 
the  plain  of  Platea,  Orchomenus,  Livadia,  and  its 
nominal  cave  of  Trophonius)  was  the  only  remark- 
able thing  we  saw  before  we  passed  Mount  Cith- 
aeron. 

The  fountain  of  Dirce  turns  a  mill:  at  least  my 
companion  (who,  resolving  to  be  at  once  cleanly 
and  classical,  bathed  in  it)  pronounced  it  to  be  the 
fountain  of  Dirce,  and  anybody  who  thinks  it  worth 
while  may  contradict  him.  At  Castri  we  drank  of 
half  a  dozen  streamlets,  some  not  of  the  purest, 
before  we  decided  to  our  satisfaction  which  was  the 
true  Castalian,  and  even  that  had  a  villanous  twang, 
probably  from  the  snow,  though  it  did  not  throw  us 
into  an  epic  fever,  like  poor  Dr.  Chandler. 

From  Fort  Phyle,  of  which  large  remains  still 
exist,  the  Plain  of  Athens,  Pentelicus,  Hymettus, 
the  ^Egean,  and  the  Acropolis,  burst  upon  the  eye 
at  once;  in  my  opinion,  a  more  glorious  prospect 
than  even  Cintra  or  Istambol      Not  the  view  from 


296 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


the  Troad,  with  Ida,  the  Hellespont,  and  the  more 
distant  Mount  Athos,  can  equal  it,  though  so  supe- 
rior in  extent. 

I  heard  much  of  the  beauty  of  Arcadia,  but 
excepting  the  view  from  the  monastery  of  Megas- 
pelion  i  which  is  inferior  to  Zitza  in  a  command  of 
country)  and  the  descent  from  the  mountains  on 
the  way  from  Tripolitza  to  Argos,  Arcadia  has 
little  to  recommend  it  beyond  the  name. 

"  Sternitur,  et  dulccs  moriens  reminiscitur  Argos." 

Virgil  could  have  put  this  into  the  mouth  of  none 
but  an  Argive,  and  (with  reverence  be  it  spoken)  it 
does  not  deserve  the  epithet.  And  if  the  Polynices 
of  Statius,  "  In  mediis  audit  duo  litora  campis,"  did 
actually  hear  both  shores  in  crossing  the  isthmus  of 
Corinth,  he  had  better  ears  than  have  ever  been 
worn  in  such  a  journey  since. 

"  Athens,"  says  a  celebrated  topographer, "  is  still 
the  most  polished  city  of  Greece."  Perhaps  it  may 
of  Greece,  but  not  of  the  Greeks  ;  for  Joannina  in 
Epirus  is  universally  allowed,  amongst  themselves, 
to  be  superior  in  the  wealth,  refinement,  learning, 
and  dialect  of  its  inhabitants.  The  Athenians  ate 
remarkable  for  their  cunning;  and  the  lower  orders 
are  not  improperly  characterized  in  that  proverb, 
which  classes  them  with  "the  Jews  of  Salonica, 
and  the  Turks  of  the  Negropont." 

Among  the  various  foreigners  resident  in  Athens, 
French,  Italians,  Germans,  Ragusans,  etc.,  there 
was  never  a  difference  of  opinion  in  their  estimate 
of  the  Greek  character,  though  on  all  other  topics 
they  disputed  with  great  acrimony. 

M.  Fauvel,  the  French  consul,  who  has  passed 
thirty  years  principally  at  Athens,  and  to  whose 
talents  as  an  artist,  and  manners  as  a  gentleman, 
none  who  have  known  him  can  refuse  their  testi- 
mony, has  frequently  declared  in  my  hearing,  that 
the  Greeks  do  not  deserve  to  be  emancipated;  rea- 
soning on  the  grounds  of  their  "  national  and  indi- 
vidual depravity!"  while  he  forgot  that  such  de- 
pravity is  to  be  attributed  to  causes  which  can  only 
be  removed  by  the  measure  he  reprobates. 

M.  Roque,  a  French  merchant  of  respectability 
long  settled  in  Athens,  asserted  with  the  most  amus- 
ing gravity,  "  Sir,  they  are  the  same  canaille  that 
existed  in  the  days  of  Themistocles!"  an  alarm- 
ing remark  to  the  "  Laudator  temporis  acti."  The 
ancients  banished  Themistocles;  the  moderns  cheat 
Monsieur  Roque:  thus  great  men  have  ever  been 
treated ! 

In  short,  all  the  Franks  who  are  fixtures,  and 
most  of  the  Englishmen,  Germans,  Danes,  etc.  of 
passage,  came  over  by  degrees  to  their  opinion,  on 
much  the  same  grounds  that  a  Turk  in  England 
would  condemn  the  nation  by  wholesale,  because 
he  was  wronged  by  his  lacquey,  and  overcharged 
by  his  washerwoman. 

Certainly  it  was  not  a  little  staggering  when  the 
Sieurs  Fauvel  and  Lusieri,  the  two  greatest  dema- 
gogues of  the  day,  who  divide  between  them  the 
power  of  Pericles  and  the  popularity  sf  Cleon,  and 
puzzle  the  poor  Waywode  with  perpetual  differ- 
ences, agreed  in  the  utter  condemnation,  "  nulla 
virtute  redemptum,"  of  the  Greeks  in  general,  and 
of  the  Athenians  in  particular. 

For  my  own  humble  opinion,  I  am  loth  to  hazard 
it,  knowing  as  I  do,  that  there  be  now  in  MS.  no 
less  than  five  tours  of  the  first  magnitude  and  of 
the  most  threatening  aspect,  all  in  typographical 
array,  by  persons  of  wit,  and  honor,  and  regular 


common-place  books:  but,  if  I  may  say  this  with- 
out offence,  it  seems  to  me  rather  hard  to  declare  so 
positively  and  pertinaciously,  as  almost  everybody 
has  declared,  that  the  Greeks,  because  they  are 
very  bad,  wili  never  be  better. 

Eton  and  Sonnini  have  led  us  astray  bv  theit 
panegyrics  and  projects;  but,  on  the  othei  hand, 
De  Pauw  and  Thornton  have  debased  the  Greeks 
beyond  their  demerits. 

The  Greeks  will  never  be  independent;  they  will 
never  be  sovereigns  as  heretofore,  and  God  forbid 
they  ever  should!  but  they  may  be  subjects  without 
being  slaves.  Our  colonies  are  not  independent, 
but  they  are  free  and  industrious,  and  such  may 
Greece  be  hereafter. 

At  present,  like  the  Catholics  of  Ireland  and  the 
Jews  throughout  the  world,  and  such  other  cud- 
gelled and  heterodox  people,  they  suffer  all  the 
moral  and  physical  ills  that  can  afflict  humanity. 
Their  life  is  a  struggle  against  truth;  they  are 
vicious  in  their  own  defence.  They  are  so  unused 
to  kindness,  that  when  they  occasionally  meet  with 
it  they  look  upon  it  with  suspicion,  as  a  dog  often 
beaten  snaps  at  your  fingers  if  you  attempt  to  caress 
him.  "  They  are  ungrateful,  notoriously,  abomi- 
nably ungrateful ! "  —  this  is  the  general  cry.  Now,  in 
the  name  of  Nemesis !  for  what  are  they  to  be  grate- 
ful? Where  is  the  human  being  that  ever  conferred 
a  benefit  on  Greek  or  Greeks?  They  are  to  be 
grateful  to  the  Turks  for  their  fetters,  and  to  the 
Franks  for  their  broken  promises  and  lying  coun- 
sels. They  are  to  be  grateful  to  the  artist  who 
engraves  their  ruins,  and  to  the  antiquary  who  car- 
ries them  away;  to  the  traveller  whose  janissary 
flogs  them,  and  to  the  scribbler  whose  journal 
abuses  them!  'This  is  the  amount  of  their  obliga- 
tions to  foreigners. 

II. 
Franciscan  Convent,  Athens,  j 
"January  23,  1811.       j 

Amongst  the  remnants  of  the  barbarous  policy  of 
the  earlier  ages,  are  the  traces  of  bondage  which 
yet  exist  in  different  countries;  whose  inhabitants, 
however  divided  in  religion  and  manners,  almost 
all  agree  in  oppression. 

The  English  have  at  last  compassionated  their 
negroes,  and  under  a  less  bigoted  government,  may 
probably  one  day  release  their  Catholic  brethren : 
but  the  interposition  of  foreigners  alone  can  emanci- 
pate the  Greeks,  who,  otherwise,  appear  to  have  as 
small  a  chance  of  redemption  from  the  Tntks,  a? 
the  Jews  have  from  mankind  in  general. 

Of  the  ancient  Greeks  we  know  more  than 
enough;  at  least  the  younger  men  of  Europe  de- 
vote much  of  their  time  to  the  study  of  the  Greek 
writers  and  history,  which  would  be  more  usefully 
spent  in  mastering  their  own.  Of  the  moderns,  we 
are  perhaps  more  neglectful  than  they  deserve;  and 
while  every  man  of  any  pretensions  to  learning  is 
tiring  out  his  youth,  and  often  his  age,  in  the  study 
of  the  language  and  of  the  harangues  of  the  Athe- 
nian demagogues  in  favor  of  freedom,  the  real  or 
supposed  descendants  of  these  sturdy  republicans 
are  left  to  the  actual  tyranny  of  their  masters,  al- 
though a  very  slight  effort  is  required  to  strike  ofl 
their  chains. 

To  talk,  as  the  Greeks  themselves  do,  of  their 
rising  again  to  their  pristine  superiority,  would  be 
ridiculous:  as  the  rest  of  the  world  must  resume  its 
barbarism,    after    reasserting    the     sovereignty    o' 


APPENDIX    TO    CANTO    THE   SECOND. 


297 


Greece:  but  there  seems  to  be  no  very  great  ob- 
stacle, except  in  the  apathy  of  the  Franks,  to  their 
becoming  an  useful  dependency,  or  even  a  free 
state  with  a  proper  guarantee;  —  under  correction, 
however,  be  it  spoken,  for  many  and  well-informed 
men  doubt  the  practicability  even  of  this. 

The  Greeks  have  never  lost  their  hope,  though 
they  are  now  more  divided  in  opinion  on  the  sub- 
ject of  their  probable  deliverers.  Religion  recom- 
mends the  Russians;  but  they  have  twice  been 
deceived  and  abandoned  by  that  power,  and  the 
dreadful  lesson  they  received  after  the'  Muscovite 
desertion  in  the  Morea  has  never  been  forgotten. 
The  French  they  dislike,  although  the  subjugation 
of  the  rest  of  Europe  will,  probably,  be  attended  by 
the  deliverance  of  continental  Greece.  The  island- 
ers look  to  the  English  for  succor,  as  they  have  very 
lately  possessed  themselves  of  the  Ionian  republic, 
Corfu  excepted.  But  whoever  appear  with  arms  in 
their  hands  will  be  welcome;  and  when  that  day 
arrives,  Heaven  have  mercy  on  the  Ottomans,  they 
cannot  expect  it  from  the  Giaours. 

But  instead  of  considering  what  they  have  been, 
and  speculating  on  what  they  may  be,  let  us  look 
at  them  as  they  are. 

And  here  it  is  impossible  to  reconcile  the  contra- 
riety of  opinions :  some,  particularly  the  merchants, 
decrying  the  Greeks  in  the  strongest  language; 
others,  generally  travellers,  turning  periods  in  their 
eulogy,  and  publishing  very  curious  speculations 
grafted  on  their  former  state,  which  can  have  no 
more  effect  on  their  present  lot,  than  the  existence 
of  the  Incas  on  the  future  fortunes  of  Peru. 

One  very  ingenious  person  terms  them  the  "  nat- 
ural allies  of  Englishmen;  "  another  no  less  ingen- 
ious, will  not  allow  them  to  be  the  allies  of  anybody, 
and  denies  their  very  descent  from  the  ancients;  a 
third,  more  ingenious  than  either,  builds  a  Greek 
empire  on  a  Russian  foundation,  and  realizes  (on 
paper)  all  the  chimeras  of  Catharine  II.  As  to  the 
question  of  their  descent,  what  can  it  import  whether 
the  Mainotes  are  the  lineal  Laconians  or  not?  or 
the  present  Athenians  as  indigenous  as  the  bees  of 
Hymettus,  or  as  the  grasshoppers,  to  which  they 
once  likened  themselves;  what  Englishman  cares  if 
he  be  of  a  Danish,  Saxon,  Norman,  or  Trojan 
blood?  or  who,  except  a  Welshman,  is  afflicted  with 
a  desire  of  being  descended  from  Caractacus? 

The  poor  Greeks  do  not  so  much  abound  in  the 
good  things  of  this  world,  as  to  render  even  their 
claims  to  antiquity  an  object  of  envy;  it  is  very 
cruel,  then,  in  Mr.  Thornton  to  disturb  them  in  the 
possession  of  all  that  time  has  left  them;  viz.  their 
pedigree,  of  which  they  are  the  more  tenacious,  as 
it  is  all  they  can  call  their  own.  It  would  be  worth 
while  to  publish  together,  and  compare,  the  works 
of  Messrs.  Thornton  and  De  Pauw,  Eton  and  Son- 
nini;  paradox  on  one  side,  and  prejudice  on  the 
other.  Mr.  Thornton  conceives  himself  to  have 
claims  to  public  confidence  from  a  fourteen  years' 
residence  at  Pera;  perhaps  he  may  on  the  subject 
of  the  Turks,  but  this  can  give  him  no  more  insight 
into  the  real  state  of  Greece  and  her  inhabitants, 
than  as  many  years  spent  in  Wapping  into  that  of 
the  Western  Highlands. 

The  Greeks  of  Constantinople  live  in  Fanal ;  and 
if  Mr.  Thornton  did  not  oftener  cross  the  Golden 
Horn  than  his  brother  merchants  are  accustomed  to 
do,  I  should  place  no  great  reliance  on  his  infor- 
mation. I  actually  heard  one  of  these  gentlemen 
.boast  of  their   little   general   intercourse  with   try 


city,  and  assert  of  himself,  with  an  air  of  triumph, 
that  he  had  been  but  four  times  at  Constantinople 
in  as  many  years. 

As  to  Mr.  Thornton's  voyages  in  the  Black  Sea 
with  Greek  vessels,  they  gave  him  the  same  idea  of 
Greece  as  a  cruise  to  Berwick  in  a  Scotch  smack 
would  of  Johnny  Groat's  house.  Upon  what  grounds 
then  does  he  arrogate  the  right  of  condemning  by 
wholesale  a  body  of  men,  of  whom  he  can  know 
little?  It  is  rather  a  curious  circumstance  that  Mr. 
Thornton,  who  so  lavishly  dispraises  Pouqueville 
on  every  occasion  of  mentioning  the  Turks,  has  yet 
recourse  to  him  as  authority  on  the  Greeks,  and 
terms  him  an  impartial  observer.  Now,  Dr.  Pouque- 
ville is  as  little  entitled  to  that  appellation,  as  Mr. 
Thornton  to  confer  it  on  him. 

The  fact  is,  we  are  deplorably  in  want  of  infor- 
mation on  the  subject  of  the  Greeks,  and  in  particu- 
lar their  literature;  nor  is  there  any  probability  of 
our  being  better  acquainted,  till  our  intercourse 
becomes  more  intimate,  or  their  independence  con- 
firmed :  the  relations  of  passing  travellers  are  as 
little  to  be  depended  on  as  the  invectives  of  angry 
factors;  but  till  something  more  can  be  attained, 
we  must  be  content  with  the  little  to  be  acquired 
from  similar  sources.1 

However  defective  these  may  be,  they  are  pref- 
erable to  the  paradoxes  of  men  who  have  read 
superficially  of  the  ancients,  and  seen  nothing  of 
the  moderns,  such  as  De  Pauw;  who,  when  he  as- 
serts that  the  British  breed  of  horses  is  ruined  by 
Newmarket,  and  that  the  Spartans  were  cowards  in 
the  field,  betrays   an  equal   knowledge  of  English 


1  A  word,  en  passant,  with  Mr.  Thornton  and 
Dr.  Pouqueville,  who  have  been  guilty  between 
them  of  sadly  clipping  the  Sultan's  Turkish. 

Dr.  Pouqueville  tells  a  long  story  of  a  Moslem 
who  swallowed  corrosive  sublimate  in  such  quanti- 
ties that  he  acquired  the  name  of  "  Suleyman 
Yeyen,"  i.e.  quoth  the  Doctor,  "  Suleyman,  the 
eater  of  corrosive  sublimate."  "  Aha,"  thinks 
Mr.  Thornton,  (angry  with  the  Doctor  for  the 
fiftieth  time,)  "  have  I  caught  you?"  —  Then,  in  a 
note  twice  the  thickness  of  the  Doctor's  anecdote, 
he  questions  the  Doctor's  proficiency  in  the  Turk- 
ish tongue,  and  his  veracity  in  his  own.  —  "  For," 
observes  Mr.  Thornton  (after  inflicting  on  us  the 
tough  participle  of  a  Turkish  verb),  "it  means 
nothing  more  than  Suleyman  the  eater"  and 
quite  cashiers  the  supplementary  "  sublimate." 
Now  both  are  right,  and  both  are  wrong.  If  Mr. 
Thornton,  when  he  next  resides  "  fourteen  years  in 
the  factory,"  will  consult  his  Turkish  dictionary, 
or  ask  any  of  his  Stamboline  acquaintance,  he  will 
discover  that  "  Srileyua'n  yeyen"  put  together 
discreetly,  mean  the  "  Sivalloiver  of  sublimate ," 
without  any  "Suleyman"  in  the  case:  "  Suley- 
tna  "  signifying  "  corrosive  sublimate,"  and  not 
being  a  proper  name  on  this  occasion,  although  it 
be  an  orthodox  name  enough  with  the  addition  of 
n.  After  Mr .  Thornton's  frequent  hints  of  pro- 
found Orientalism,  he  might  have  found  this  out 
before  he  sang  such  pseans  over  Dr.  Pouqueville. 

After  this,  I  think  "  Travellers  versus  Factors" 
shall  be  our  motto,  though  the  above  Mr.  Thornton 
has  condemned  "  hoc  genus  omne,"  for  mistake 
and  misrepresentation.  "  Ne  Sutor  ultra  crepi- 
dam,"  "  No  merchant  beyond  his  bales."  N.B. 
For  the  benefit  of  Mr.  Thornton,  "  Sutor  "  is  not  a 
proDer  name. 


298 


CHILDE   HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


horses  and  Spartan  men.  His  "  philosophical  ob- 
servations" have  a  much  better  claim  to  the  title 
of  "  poetical."  It  could  not  be  expected  that  he 
who  so  liberally  condemns  some  of  the  most  cele- 
brated institutions  of  the  ancient,  should  have  mercy 
on  the  modern  Greeks;  and  it  fortunately  happens, 
(hat  the  absurdity  of  his  hypothesis  on  their  fore- 
fathers refutes  his  sentence  on  themselves. 

Let  us  trust,  then,  that,  in  spite  of  the  prophe- 
cies of  De  Pauw,  and  the  doubts  of  Mr.  Thornton, 
there  is  a  reasonable  hope  of  the  redemption  of  a 
race  of  men,  who,  whatever  may  be  the  errors  of 
their  religion  and  policy,  have  been  amply  pun- 
ished by  three  centuries  and  a  half  of  captivity. 


Athens,  Franciscan  Convent,  i 
March  17,  1811.      j 

"  I  must  have  some  talk  with  this  learned  Theban." 

Some  time  after  my  return  from  Constantinople 
to  this  city,  I  received  the  thirty  first  number  of  the 
Edinburgh  Review  as  a  great  favor,  and  certainly 
1  at  this  distance  an  acceptable  one,  from  the  captain 
of  an  English  frigate  off  Salamis.  In  that  number, 
Art.  3,  containing  the  review  of  a  French  transla- 
tion of  Strabo,  there  are  introduced  some  remarks 
on  the  modern  Greeks  and  their  literature,  with  a 
short  account  of  Coray,  a  co-translator  in  the  French 
version.  On  those  remarks  I  mean  to  ground  a  few 
observations',  and  the  spot  where  I  now  write  will, 
I  hope,  be  sufficient  excuse  for  introducing  them  in 
a  work  in  some  degree  connected  with  the  subject. 
Coray,  the  most  celebrated  of  living  Greeks,  at 
least  among  the  Franks,  was  born  at  Scio  (in  the 
Review,  Smyrna  is  stated,  I  have  reason  to  think, 
incorrectly),  and  besides  the  translation  of  Beccaria 
and  other  works  mentioned  by  the  Reviewer,  has 
published  a  lexicon  in  Romaic  and  French,  if  I  may 
trust  the  assurance  of  some  Danish  travellers  lately 
arrived  from  Paris:  but  the  latest  we  have  seen 
here  in  French  and  Greek  is  that  of  Gregory  Zoli- 
kogloou.1  Coray  has  recently  been  involved  in  an 
unpleasant  controversy  with  M.  Gail,2  a  Parisian 
commentator  and  editor  of  some  translations  from 
the  Greek  poets,  in  consequence  of  the  Institute 
having  awarded  him  the  prize  for  his  version  of 
Hippocrates  "  Ilepl  vSdruiv,"  etc.  to  the  disparage- 
ment, and  consequently  displeasure,  of  the  said 
Gail.  To  his  exertions,  literary  and  patriotic,  great 
praise  is  undoubtedly  due,  but  a  part  of  that  praise 
ought  not  to  be  withheld  from  the  two  brothers 
Zosimado  (merchants  settled  in  Leghorn) ,  who  sent 
him  to  Paris,  and  maintained  him,  for  the  express 
purpose  of  elucidating  the  ancient,  and  adding  to 


1 1  have  in  my  possession  an  excellent  lexicon 
"  TpiyAnjcrcroi',"  which  I  received  in  exchange  from 
S.  G — ,  Esq.  for  a  small  gem:  my  antiquarian 
friends  have  never  forgotten  it,  or  forgiven  me. 

2  In  Gail's  pamphlet  against  Coray,  he  talks  of 
"  throwing  the  insolent  Hellenist  out  of  the  win- 
dows." On  this  a  French  critic  exclaims,  "Ah, 
my  God!  throw  an  Hellenist  out  of  the  window! 
what  sacrilege!"  It  certainly  would  be  a  serious 
business  for  those  authors  who  dwell  in  the  attics  : 
but  I  have  quoted  the  passage  merely  to  prove  the 
similarity  of  style  among  the  controversialists  of  all 
polished  countries:  London  or  Edinburgh  could 
hardly  parallel  this  Parisian  ebullition. 


the  modern,  researches  of  his  countrymen.  Coray, 
however,  is  not  considered  by  his  countrymen  equal 
to  some  who  lived  in  the  two  last  centuries;  more 
particularly  Dorotheus  of  Mitylene,  whose  Hellenic 
writings  are  so  much  esteemed  by  the  Greeks,  that 
Meletius  terms  him  "  Mcrd  Toy  QovKV&i&rjv  xai 
HeccxjKoi'Ta  apio-To?  'EAArjuoi/."  (P.  224.  Ecclesi- 
astical History,  vol.  iv.) 

Panagiotes  Kodrikas,  the  translator  of  Fontenelle, 
and  Kamarases,  who  translated  Ocellus  Lucanus 
on  the  Universe  into  French,  Christodoulus,  and 
more  particularly  Psalida,  whom  I  have  conversed 
with  in  Joannina,  are  also  in  high  repute  among 
their  literati.  The  last  mentioned  has  published  in 
Romaic  and  Latin  a  work  on  "True  Happiness," 
dedicated  to  Catherine  II.  But  Polyzois,  who  is 
stated  by  the  Reviewer  to  be  the  only  modern 
except  Coray  who  has  distinguished  himself  by  a 
knowledge  of  Hellenic,  if  he  be  the  Polyzois  Lam- 
panitziotes  of  Yanina,  who  has  published  a  number 
of  editions  in  Romaic,  was  neither  more  nor  less 
than  an  itinerant  vender  of  books;  with  the  con- 
tents of  which  he  had  no  concern  beyond  his  name 
on  the  title-page,  placed  there  to  secure  his  property 
in  the  publication;  and  he  was,  moreover,  a  man 
utterly  destitute  of  scholastic  acquirements.  As 
the  name,  however,  is  not  uncommon,  some  other 
Polyzois  may  have  edited  the  Epistles  of  Aristaenetus. 

It  is  to  be  regretted  that  the  system  of  conti- 
nental blockade  has  closed  the  few  channels  through 
which  the  Greeks  received  their  publications,  par- 
ticularly Venice  and  Trieste.  Even  the  common 
grammars  for  children  are  become  too  dear  for  the 
lower  orders.  Amongst  their  original  works  the 
Geography  of  Meletius,  Archbishop  of  Athens,  and 
a  multitude  of  theological  quartos  and  poetical 
pamphlets,  are  to  be  met  with;  their  grammars  and 
lexicons  of  two,  three,  and  four  languages  are  nu- 
merous and  excellent.  Their  poetry  is  in  rhyme. 
The  most  singular  piece  I  have  lately  seen  is  a  sat- 
ire in  dialogue  between  a  Russian,  English,  and 
French  traveller,  and  the  Waywode  of  Wallachia 
(or  Blackbey,  as  they  term  him),  an  archbishop,  a 
merchant,  and  Cogia  Bachi  (or  primate),  in  suc- 
cession; to  all  of  whom  under  the  Turks  the  writer 
attributes  their  present  degeneracy.  Their  songs 
are  sometimes  pretty  and  pathetic,  but  their  tunes 
generally  unpleasing  to  the  ear  of  a  Frank ;  the 
best  is  the  famous  "  Acute  7raiSe«  timv  'EAAjjvioi/," 
by  the  unfortunate  Riga.  But  from  a  catalogue  of 
more  than  sixty  authors,  now  before  me,  only  fifteen 
can  be  found  who  have  touched  on  any  theme  ex- 
cept theology. 

I  am  intrusted  with  a  commission  by  a  Greek  of 
Athens  named  Marmarotouri  to  make  arrange- 
ments, if  possible,  for  printing  in  London  a  transla- 
tion of  Barthelemi's  Anacharsis  in  Romaic,  as  he 
has  no  other  opportunity,  unless  he  despatches  the 
MS.  to  Vienna  by  the  Black  Sea  and  Danube. 

The  Reviewer  mentions  a  school  established  at 
Hecatonesi,  and  suppressed  at  the  instigation  of 
Sebastiani:  he  means  Cidonies,  or,  in  Turkish, 
Haivali;  a  town  on  the  continent,  where  that  insti- 
tution for  a  hundred  students  and  three  professors 
still  exists.  It  is  true  that  this  establishment  was 
disturbed  by  the  Porte,  under  the  ridiculous  pretext 
that  the  Greeks  were  constructing  a  fortress  instead 
of  a  college:  but  on  investigation,  and  the  payment 
of  some  purses  to  the  Divan,  it  has  been  permitted 
to  continue.  The  principal  professor,  named  Ueni- 
amin  (i.e.  Benjamin),  is  stated  to  be  a  man  of  tal- 


APPENDIX    TO    CANTO    THE   SECOND. 


299 


ent,  but  a  freethinker.  He  was  born  in  Lesbos, 
studied  in  Italy,  and  is  master  of  Hellenic,  Latin, 
and  some  Frank  languages;  besides  a  smattering  of 
the  sciences. 

Though  it  is  not  my  intention  to  enter  further  on 
this  topic  than  may  allude  to  the  article  in  question, 
I  cannot  but  observe  that  the  Reviewer's  lamenta- 
tion over  the  fall  of  the  Greeks  appears  singular, 
when  he  closes  it  with  these  words:  "  The  change 
is  to  be  attributed  to  their  misfortunes  rather 
than  to  any  'physical  degradation.'  "  It  may  be 
true  that  the  Greeks  are  not  physically  degenerated, 
and  that  Constantinople  contained  on  the  day  when 
it  changed  masters  as  many  men  of  six  feet  and  up- 
wards as  in  the  hour  of  prosperity;  but  ancient  his- 
tory and  modern  politics  instruct  us  that  something 
more  than  physical  perfection  is  necessary  to  pre- 
serve a  state  in  vigor  and  independence;  and  the 
Greeks,  in  particular,  are  a  melancholy  example  of 
the  near  connection  between  moral  degradation  and 
national  decay. 

The  Reviewer  mentions  a  plan  "  we  believe  "  by 
Potemkin  for  the  purification  of  the  Romaic;  and  I 
have  endeavored  in  vain  to  procure  any  tidings  or 
traces  of  its  existence.  There  was  an  academy  in 
St.  Petersburg  for  the  Greeks;  but  it  was  sup- 
pressed by  Paul,  and  has  not  been  revived  by  his 
successor. 

There  is  a  slip  of  the  pen,  and  it  can  only  be  a 
slip  of  the  pen,  in  p.  58,  No.  31,  of  the  Edinburgh 
Review,  where  these  words  occur:  —  "  We  are  told 
that  when  the  capital  of  the  East  yielded  to  Soly- 
tnan"  —  it  may  be  presumed  that  this  last  word 
will,  in  a  future  edition,  be  altered  to  Mahomet  II.1 
The  "  ladies  of  Constantinople,"  it  seems,  at  that 
period  spoke  a  dialect,  "  which  would  not  have  dis- 
graced the  lips  of  an  Athenian."  I  do  not  know 
how  that  might  be,  but  am  sorry  to  say  the  ladies  in 
general,  and  the  Athenians  in  particular,  are  much 
altered;  being  far  from  choice  either  in  their  dialect 
or  expressions,  as  the  whole  Attic  race  are  barba- 
rous to  a  proverb :  — 

(c,0  'A^T/ya,  TrpujTTj  \uipa, 
Ti  yai&dpov;  rpe^ei?  Tiupa." 


1  In  a  former  number  of  the  Edinburgh  Review, 
1808,  it  is  observed:  "  Lord  Byron  passed  some  of 
his  early  years  in  Scotland,  where  he  might  have 
learned  th3.t  pibroch  does  not  mean  a  bagpipe,  any 
more  than  duct  means  a  fiddle."  Query,  —  Was 
it  in  Scotland  that  the  young  gentlemen  of  the 
Edinburgh  Review  learned  that  Solyman  means 
Mahomet  II.  any  more  than  criticism  means 
infallibility?  —  but  thus  it  is, 

"  Casdimus  inque  vicem  praebemus  crura  sagittis." 

The  mistake  seemed  so  completely  a  lapse  of  the 
pen  (from  the  great  similarity  of  the  two  words, 
and  the  total  absence  of  error  from  the  former 
pages  of  the  literary  leviathan)  that  I  should  have 
passed  it  over  as  in  the  text,  had  I  not  perceived  in 
the  Edinburgh  Review  much  facetious  exultation 
on  all"  such  detections,  particularly  a  recent  one, 
where  words  and  syllables  are  subjects  of  disquisi- 
tion and  transposition;  and  the  above-mentioned 
parallel  passage  in  my  own  case  irresistibly  pro- 
pelled me  to  hint  how  much  easier  it  is  to  be  critical 
than  correct.  The  gentlemen,  having  enjoyed 
many  a  t-riu>nph  on  such  victories,  will  hardly 
begrudge  me  a  slight  ovation  for  the  present 


In  Gibbon,  vol.  x.  p.  161,  is  the  following  sentence : 
— "  The  vulgar  dialect  of  the  city  was  gross  and 
barbarous,  though  the  compositions  of  the  church 
and  palace  sometimes  affected  to  copy  the  purity  of 
the  Attic  models."  Whatever  may  be  asserted  on 
the  subject,  it  is  difficult  to  conceive  that  the 
"  ladies  of  Constantinople,"  in  the  reign  of  the  last 
Csesar,  spoke  a  purer  dialect  than  Anna  Comnena 
wrote  three  centuries  before  :  and  those  royal  pages 
are  not  esteemed  the  best  models  of  composition, 
although  the  princess  y\omaLV  «'xe>/  AKPIBflS 
' .KTTiKi^oxiaav.  In  the  Fanal,  and  in  Yanina,  the 
best  Greek  is  spoken  :  in  the  latter  there  is  a  flour- 
ishing school  under  the  direction  of  Psalida. 

There  is  now  in  Athens  a  pupil  of  Psalida's,  who 
is  making  a  tour  of  observation  through  Greece : 
he  is  intelligent,  and  better  educated  than  a  fellow- 
commoner  of  most  colleges.  I  mention  this  as  a 
proof  that  the  spirit  of  inquiry  is  not  dormant  among 
the  Greeks. 

The  Reviewer  mentions  Mr.  Wright,  the  author 
of  the  beautiful  poem  "  Horse  Ionicae,"  as  qualified 
to  give  details  of  these  nominal  Romans  and  degen- 
erate Greeks;  and  also  of  their  language:  but  Mr. 
Wright,  though  a  good  poet  and  an  able  man,  has 
made  a  mistake  where  he  states  the  Albanian  dia- 
lect of  the  Romaic  to  approximate  nearest  to  the 
Hellenic:  for  the  Albanians  speak  a  Romaic  as 
notoriously  corrupt  as  the  Scotch  of  Aberdeenshire, 
or  the  Italian  of  Naples.  Yanina,  (where,  next  to 
the  Fanal,  the  Greek  is  purest,)  although  the  capi- 
tal of  Ali  Pacha's  dominions,  is  not  in  Albania  but 
Epirus;  and  beyond  Delvinachi  in  Albania  Proper 
up  to  Argyrocastro  and  Tepaleen  (beyond  which 
I  did  not  advance)  they  speak  worse  Greek  than 
even  the  Athenians.  I  was  attended  for  a  year  and 
a  half  by  two  of  these  singular  mountaineers,  whose 
mother  tongue  is  Illyric,  and  I  never  heard  them 
or  their  countrymen  (whom  I  have  seen,  not  only 
at  home,  but  to  the  amount  of  twenty  thousand  in 
the  army  of  Veli  Pacha)  praised  for  their  Greek, 
but  often  laughed  at  for  their  provincial  barbarisms. 

I  have  in  my  possession  about  twenty-five  letters, 
amongst  which  some  from  the  Bey  of  Corinth, 
written  to  me  by  Notaras,  the  Cogia  Bachi,  and 
others  by  the  dragoman  of  the  Caimacam  of  the 
Morea  (which  last  governs  in  Vely  Pacha's  ab- 
sence) are  said  to  be  favorable  specimens  of  their 
epistolary  style.  I  also  received  some  at  Constan- 
tinople from  private  persons,  written  in  a  most 
hyperbolical  style,  but  in  the  true  antique  character. 

The  Reviewer  proceeds,  after  some  remarks  on 
the  tongue  in  its  past  and  present  state,  to  a  para- 
dox (page  59)  on  the  great  mischief  the  knowledge 
of  his  own  language  has  done  to  Coray,  who,  it 
seems,  is  less  likely  to  understand  the  ancient 
Greek,  because  he  is  perfect  master  of  the  modern! 
This  observation  follows  a  paragraph,  recommend- 
ing, in  explicit  terms,  the  study  of  the  Romaic,  as 
"a  powerful  auxiliary,"  not  only  to  the  traveller 
and  foreign  merchant,  but  also  to  the  classical 
scholar;  in  short,  to  everybody  except  the  only 
person  who  can  be  thoroughly  acquainted  with  its 
uses;  and  by  a  parity  of  reasoning,  our  old  lan- 
guage is  conjectured  to  be  probably  more  attainable 
by  "foreigners"  than  by  ourselves!  Now,  I  am 
inclined  to  think,  that  a  Dutch  Tyro  in  our  tongue 
(albeit  himself  of  Saxon  blood)  would  be  sadly  per- 
plexed with  "  Sir  Tristrem,"  or  any  other  given 
"  Auchinleck  MS."  with  or  without  a  grammar  or 
clossary;   and  to  most  apprehensions  it  seems  evi- 


300 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


dent,  that  none  but  a  native  can  acquire  a  compe- 
tent, far  less  complete,  knowledge  of  our  obsolete 
idioms.  We  may  give  the  critic  credit  for  his 
ingenuity,  but  no  more  believe  him  than  we  do 
Smollett's  Lismahago,  who  maintains  that  the  purest 
English  is  spoken  in  Edinburgh.  That  Coray  may 
err  is  very  possible;  but  if  he  does,  the  fault  is  in 
the  man  rather  than  in  his  mother  tongue,  which  is, 
as  it  ought  to  be,  of  the  greatest  aid  to  the  native 
student.  —  Here  the  Reviewer  proceeds  to  business 
on  Strabo's  translators,  and  here  I  close  my  remarks. 

Sir  W.  Drummond,  Mr.  Hamilton,  Lord  Aber- 
deen, Dr.  Clarke,  Captain  Leake,  Mr.  Gell,  Mr. 
Walpole,  and  many  others  now  in  England,  have 
all  the  requisites  to  furnish  details  of  this  fallen 
people.  The  few  observations  I  have  offered  I 
should  have  left  where  I  made  them,  had  not  the 
article  in  question,  and  above  all  the  spot  where  I 
read  it,  induced  me  to  advert  to  those  pages,  which 
the  advantage  of  my  present  situation  enabled  me 
te  clear,  or  at  least  to  make  the  attempt. 

I  have  endeavored  to  waive  the  personal  feelings 
which  rise  in  despite  of  me  in  touching  upon  any 
part  of  the  Edinburgh  Review  ;  not  from  a  wish  to 
conciliate  the  favor  of  its  writers,  or  to  cancel  the 
remembrance  of  a  syllable  I  have  formerly  pub- 
lished, but  simply  from  a  sense  of  the  impropriety 
of  mixing  up  private  resentments  with  a  disquisi- 
tion of  the  present  kind,  and  more  particularly  at 
this  distance  of  time  and  place. 

Amongst  an  enslaved  people,  obliged  to  have  re- 
course to  foreign  presses  even  for  their  books  of 
religion,  it  is  less  to  be  wondered  at  that  we  find  so 
few  publications  on  general  subjects  than  that  we 
find  any  at  all.  The  whole  number  of  the  Greeks, 
scattered  up  and  down  the  Turkish  empire  and 
elsewhere,  may  amount,  at  most,  to  three  millions; 
and  yet,  for  so  scanty  a  number,  it  is  impossible  to 
discover  any  nation  with  so  great  a  proportion  of 
books  and  their  authors  as  the  Greeks  of  the  pres- 
ent century.  "  Ay,  but,"  say  the  generous  advo- 
cates of  oppression,  who,  while  they  assert  the 
ignorance  of  the  Greeks,  wish  to  prevent  them  from 
dispelling  it,  "ay,  but  these  are  mostly,  if  not  all, 
ecclesiastical  tracts,  and  consequently  good  for 
nothing."  Well,  and  pray  what  else  can  they 
write  about?  It  is  pleasant  enough  to  hear  a  Frank, 
particularly  an  Englishman,  who  may  abuse  the 
government  of  his  own  country ;  or  a  Frenchman, 
who  may  abuse  every  government  except  his  own, 
and  who  may  range  at  will  over  every  philosophi- 
cal, religious,  scientific,  or  moral  subject,  sneering 
a*  the  Greek  legends.  A  Greek  must  not  write  on 
politics,  and  cannot  touch  on  science  for  want  of 
instruction ;  if  he  doubts  he  is  excommunicated  and 
damned;  therefore  his  countrymen  are  not  poisoned 
with  modern  philosophy;  and  as  to  morals,  thanks 
to  the  Turks !  there  are  no  such  things.  What 
then  is  left  him,  if  he  has  a  turn  for  scribbling? 
Religion  and  holy  biography;  and  it  is  natural 
enough  that  those  who  have  so  little  in  this  life 
should  look  to  the  next.  It  is  no  great  wonder, 
then,  that  in  a  catalogue  now  before  me  of  fifty-five 
Greek  writers,  many  of  whom  were  lately  living, 
not  above  fifteen  should  have  touched  on  any  thing 
but  religion.  The  catalogue  alluded  to  is  contained 
in  the  twenty-sixth  chapter  of  the  fourth  volume  of 
Meletius's  Ecclesiastical  History. 


Additional  Note,  on  the  Turks. 

The  difficulties  of  travelling  in  Turkey  have 
been  much  exaggerated,  or  rather  have  consider- 
ably diminished  of  late  years.  The  Mussulmans 
have  been  beaten  into  a  kind  of  sullen  civility,  very 
comfortable  to  voyagers. 

It  is  hazardous  to  say  much  on  the  subject  of 
Turks  and  Turkey;  since  it  is  possible  to  live 
amongst  them  twenty  years  without  acquiring  in- 
formation, at  least  from  themselves.  As  far  as  my 
own  slight  experience  carried  me,  I  have  no  com- 
plaint to  make;  but  am  indebted  for  many  civili- 
ties (I  might  almost  say  for  friendship),  and  much 
hospitality,  to  Ali  Pacha,  his  son  Veli  Pacha,  of  the 
Morea,  and  several  others  of  high  rank  in  the 
provinces.  Suleyman  Aga,  late  Governor  of 
Athens,  and  now  of  Thebes,  was  a  ion  vivant, 
and  as  social  a  being  as  ever  sat  cross-legged  at  a 
tray  or  a  table.  During  the  carnival,  when  our 
English  party  were  masquerading,  both  himself 
and  his  successor  were  more  happy  to  "  receive 
masks "  than  any   dowager   in   Grosvenor-square. 

On  one  occasion  of  his  supping  at  the  convent, 
his  friend  and  visitor,  the  Cadi  of  Thebes,  was  car- 
ried from  table  perfectly  qualified  for  any  club  in 
Christendom;  while  the  worthy  Waywode  himself 
triumphed  in  his  fall. 

In  all  money  transactions  with  the  Moslems,  I 
ever  found  the  strictest  honor,  the  highest  disinter- 
estedness. In  transacting  business  with  them, 
there  are  none  of  those  dirty  peculations,  under  the 
name  of  interest,  difference  of  exchange,  commis- 
sion, etc.  etc.  uniformly  found  in  applying  to  a 
Greek  consul  to  cash  bills,  even  on  the  first 
houses  in  Pera. 

With  regard  to  presents,  an  established  custom  in 
the  East,  you  will  rarely  find  yourself  a  loser;  as 
one  worth  acceptance  is  generally  returned  by 
another  of  similar  value  —  a  horse,  or  a  shawl. 

In  the  capital  and  at  court  the  citizens  and  court- 
iers are  formed  in  the  same  school  with  those  of 
Christianity;  but  there  does  not  exist  a  more  hon- 
orable, friendly,  and  high-spirited  character  than 
the  true  Turkish  provincial  Aga,  or  Moslem  coun- 
try gentleman.  It  is  not  meant  here  to  designate 
the  governors  of  towns,  but  those  Agas  who,  by  a 
kind  of  feudal  tenure,  possess  lands  and  houses,  ol 
more  or  less  extent,  in  Greece  and  Asia  Minor. 

The  lower  orders  are  in  as  tolerable  discipline  as 
the  rabble  in  countries  with  greater  pretensions  to 
civilization.  A  Moslem,  in  walking  the  streets  of 
our  country  towns,  would  be  more  incommoded  in 
England  than  a  Frank  in  a  similar  situation  in  Tur- 
key.    Regimentals  are  the  best  travelling  dress. 

The  best  accounts  of  the  religion  and  different 
sects  of  Islamism,  may  be  found  in  D'Ohsson's 
French;  of  their  manners,  etc.  perhaps  in  Thorn- 
ton's English.  The  Ottomans,  with  all  their  de- 
fects, are  not  a  people  to  be  despised.  Equal,  at 
least,  to  the  Spaniards,  they  are  superior  to  the 
Portuguese.  If  it  be  difficult  to  pronounce  what 
they  are,  we  can  at  least  say  what  they  are  not : 
they  are  ?iot  treacherous,  they  are  not  cowardly, 
they  do  not  burn  heretics,  they  are  not  assassins, 
nor  has  an  enemy  advanced  to  their  capital.  They 
are  faithful  to  their  sultan  till  he  becomes  unfit  to 
govern,  and  devout  to  their  God  without  an  inqui- 
sition. Were  they  driven  from  St.  Sophia  to-mor- 
row, and  the  French  or  Russians  enthroned  in  their 
stead,  it  would  become  a  question  whether  Europe 


CHILD E  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


301 


would  gain  Dy  the  exchange.  England  would  cer- 
tainly be  the  loser. 

With  regard  to  that  ignorance  of  which  they  are 
so  generally,  and  sometimes  justly  accused,  it  may 
be  doubted,  always  excepting  France  and  England, 
in  what  useful  points  of  knowledge  they  are  excelled 
by  other  nations.  Is  it  in  the  common  arts  of  life? 
In  their  manufactures?  Is  a  Turkish  sabre  inferior 
to  a  Toledo?  or  is  a  Turk  worse  clothed  or  lodged  or 
fed  and  taught  than  a  Spaniard?  Are  their  Pachas 
worse  educated  than  a  Grandee?  or  an  Effendi  than 
i  Knight  of  St.  Jago?     I  think  not. 

I  remember  Mahmout,  the  grandson  of  Ali  Pacha, 
asking  whether  my  fellow-traveller  and  myself  were 
in  the  upper  or  lower  House  of  Parliament.  Now, 
this  question  from  a  boy  of  ten  years  old  proved 
that  his  education  had  not  been  neglected.  It  may 
be  doubted  if  ai  English  boy  at  that  age  knows  the 
difference  of  the  Divan  from  a  College  of  Dervises; 
but  I  am  very  <  are  a  Spaniard  does  not.  How  little 
Mahmout,  sunounded,  as  he  had  been,  entirely  by 
his  Turkish  tutors,  had  learned  that  there  was  such 
a  thing  as  a  Parliament,  it  were  useless  to  conjec- 
ture, unless  we  suppose  that  his  instructors  did  not 
confine  his  studies  to  the  Koran. 

In  all  the  mosques  there  are  schools  established, 
which  are  very  regularly  attended;    and  the  poor 


are  taught  without  the  church  of  Turkey  being  put 
into  peril.  I  believe  the  system  is  not  yet  printed 
(though  there  is  such  a  thing  as  a  Turkish  press, 
and  books  printed  on  the  late  military  institution  of 
the  Nizam  Gedidd) ;  nor  have  I  heard  whether  the 
Mufti  and  the  Mollas  have  subscribed,  or  the  Cai- 
macam  and  the  Tefterdar  taken  the  alarm,  for  fear 
the  ingenuous  youth  of  the  turban  should  be  taught 
not  to  "  pray  to  God  their  way."  The  Greeks  also 
—  a  kind  of  Eastern  Irish  papists  —  have  a  college 
of  their  own  at  Maynooth  —  no,  at  Haivali;  where 
the  heterodox  receive  much  the  same  kind  of  coun- 
tenance from  the  Ottoman  as  the  Catholic  college 
from  the  English  legislature.  Who  shall  then  affirm, 
that  the  Turks  are  ignorant  bigots,  when  they  thus 
evince  the  exact  proportion  of  Christian  charity 
which  is  tolerated  in  the  most  prosperous  and  or- 
thodox of  all  possible  kingdoms?  But  though  they 
allow  all  this,  they  will  not  suffer  the  Greeks  to  par 
ticipate  in  their  privileges:  no,  let  them  fight  their 
battles,  and  pay  their  haratch  (taxes),  be  drubbed 
in  this  world,  and  damned  in  the  next.  And  shall 
we  then  emancipate  our  Irish  Helots?  Mahomet 
forbid  !  We  should  then  be  bad  Mussulmans,  and 
worse  Christians:  at  present  we  unite  the  best  of 
both — Jesuitical  faith,  and  something  not  much  in- 
ferior to  Turkish  toleration. 


CANTO  THE   THIRD. 

"Afin  que  cette  application  vous  format  de  pensera  autre  chose:   il  n'y  a  en  ve'rite'  de  remedeque  celui- 
la  et  le  temps."  —  Lettre  dn  Rot  de  Prusse  a  D'  Alembert,  September  7,  1776. 


Is  thy  face  like  thy  mother's,  my  fair  child ! 
Ada  ! 1  sole   daughter  of  my   house   and 

heart  ? 
When  last  I  saw  thy  young  blue  eyes  they 

smiled, 
And  then  we  parted,  —  not  as  now  we  part, 
But  with  a  hope. — 

Awaking  with  a  start, 

The  waters  heave  around  me  ;  and  on  high 

The  winds  lift  up  their  voices  :  I  depart, 

Whither  I  know  not ;  but  the  hour's  gone  by, 

vVhen  Albion's  lessening  shores  could  grieve 

or  glad  mine  eye.2 


Once  more  upon  the  waters  !  yet  once  more  ! 
And  the  waves  bound  beneath  me  as  a  steed 


1  [In  a  letter,  dated  Verona,  November  6,  1816, 
Byron  says —  "  By  the  way,  Ada's  name  (which  I 
found  in  our  pedigree,  under  king  John's  reign),  is 
the  same  with  that  of  the  sister  of  Charlemagne,  as 
1  redde,  the  other  day,  in  a  book  treating  of  the 
Rhine."] 

2  [Byron  quitted  England,  for  the  second  and 
last  time,  on  the  25th  of  April,  1816,  attended  by 
William  Fletcher  and  Robert  Rushton,  the  "yeo- 
man" and  "  page"  of  Canto  I.;  his  physician,  Dr. 
Polidoii;   and  a  Swiss  valet.] 


That  knows  his  rider.    Welcome,  to  their 

roar! 
Swift  be  their  guidance,  wheresoe'er  it  lead! 
Though  the  strained  mast  should  quiver  as 

a  reed, 
And  the  rent  canvas  fluttering  strew  the  gale, 
Still  must  I  on ;  for  I  am  as  a  weed, 
Flung  from  the  rock,  on  Ocean's  foam,  to  sail 
Where'er  the  surge  may  sweep,  the  tempest's 

breath  prevail. 

III. 

In  my  youth's  summer  I  did  sing  of  One, 
The  wandering  outlaw  of  his  own  darkmind ; 
Again  I  seize  the  theme,  then  but  begun, 
And  bear  it  with  me,  as  the  rushing  wind 
Bears  the  cloud  onwards  :  in  that  Tale  I  find 
The  furrows  of  long  thought,  and  dried-up 

tears, 
Which,  ebbing,  leave  a  sterile  track  behind, 
O'er  which  all  heavily  the  journeying  years 
Plod  the  last  sands  of  life,  —  where  not  a  flower 


appears. 


IV. 


Since  my  young  days  of  passion — 'joy,  or 

pain, 
Perchance  my  heart  and  harp  have  lost  3 

string, 


302 


CHILD E  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


And  both  may  jar  :  it  may  be,  that  in  vain 
I  would  essay  as  I  have  sung  to  sing. 
Yet,  though  a  dreary  strain,  to  this  I  cling  — 
So  that  it  wean  me  from  the  weary  dream 
Of  selfish  grief  or  gladness  —  so  it  fling 
Forgetfulness  around  me  —  it  shall  seem 
To  me,  though  to  none  else,  a  not  ungrateful 

theme. 

v. 
He,  who  grown  aged  in  this  world  of  woe 
In  deeds,  not  years,  piercing  the  depths  of 

life, 
So  that  no  wonder  waits  him  ;  nor  below 
Can  love,  or  sorrow,  fame,  ambition,  strife, 
Cut  to  his  heart  again  with  the  keen  knife 
Of  silent,  sharp  endurance  :  he  can  tell 
Why  thought  seeks  refuge  in  lone  caves,  yet 

rife 
With  airy  images,  and  shapes  which  dwell 
Still   unimpaired,  though   old,  in   the  soul's 

haunted  cell. 

VI. 

'Tis  to  create,  and  in  creating  live 
A  being  more  intense,  that  we  endow 
With  form  our  fancy,  gaining  as  we  give 
The  life  we  image,  even  as  I  do  now. 
What  am  I  ?  Nothing  :  but  not  so  art  thou, 
Soul  of  my  thought !  with  whom  I  traverse 

earth, 
Invisible  but  gazing,  as  I  glow 
Mixed  with  thy  spirit,  blended  with  thy  birth, 
And  feeling  still  with  thee  in  my  crushed  feel- 
ings dearth. 

VI  I. 
Yet  must   I   think    less    wildly :  —  I    have 

thought 
Too  long  and  darkly,  till  my  brain  became, 
In  its  own  eddy  boiling  and  o'erwrought, 
A  whirling  gulf  of  phantasy  and  flame  : 
And  thus,  untaught  in  youth  my  heart  to 

tame, 
Mv  springs  of  life  were  poisoned.     'Tis  too 

late! 
Yet  am  I  changed ;  though  still  enough  the 

same 
In  strength  to  bear  what  time  cannot  abate, 
A.nd  feed  on  bitter  fruits  without  accusing  Fate. 

VIII. 

Something  too  much  of  this:  —  but  now  'tis 

past, 
And  the  spell  closes  with  its  silent  seal. 
Long  absent  Harold  reappears  at  last ; 
He  of  the  breast  which  fain  no  more  would 

feel, 
Wrung  with  the  wounds  which  kill  not,  but 

ne'er  heal ; 
Yet  Time,  who  changes  all,  had  altered  him 
In  soul  and  aspect  as  in  age  : 1  years  steal 


1  [The  first  and  second  cantos  of :<  Childe  Harold's 


Fire  from  the  mind  as  vigor  from  the  limb ; 
And  life's  enchanted  cup  butsparkies  near  the 

brim. 

IX. 
His  had  been  quaffed  too  quickly,  and  he 

found 
The  dregs  were  wormwood ;  but  he  filled 

again, 
And  from  a  purer  fount,  on  holier  ground, 
And  deemed  its  spring  perpetual ;    but  in 

vain ! 
Still  round  him  clung  invisibly  a  chain 
Which  galled  for  ever,  fettering  though  un- 
seen, 
And  heavy  though  it  clanked  not ;  worn  with 

pain, 
Which  pined  although  it  spoke  not,  and  grew 

keen, 
Entering  with  every  step  he  took  through  many 

a  scene. 

X. 
Secure  in  guarded  coldness,  he  had  mixed 
Again  in  fancied  safety  with  his  kind, 
And  deemed  his  spirit  now  so  firmly  fixed 
And  sheathed  with  an  invulnerable  mind, 
That,  if  no  joy,  no  sorrow  lurked  behind  ; 

Pilgrimage  "  produced,  on  their  appearance  in  181-, 
an  effect  upon  the  public,  at  least  equal  to  any  work 
which  ha?  appeared  within  this  or  the  last  century, 
and  placed  at  once  upon  Lord  Byron's  head  the 
garland  for  whicb  other  men  of  genius  have  toiled 
long,  and  which  they  have  gained  late.  He  was 
placed  preeminent  among  the  literary  men  of  hi* 
country  by  general  acclimation.  It  was  amidst 
such  feelings  of  admiration  that  he  entered  the  pub- 
lic stage.  Every  thing  in  his  manner,  person,  and 
conversation,  tended  to  maintain  the  charm  which 
his  genius  had  flung  around  him;  and  those  ad- 
mitted to  his  conversation,  far  from  finding  that  the 
inspired  poet  sunk  into  ordinary  mortality,  felt 
themselves  attached  to  him,  not  only  by  many 
noble  qualities,  but  by  the  interest  of  a  mysterious, 
undefined,  and  almost  painful  curiosity.  A  counte- 
nance exquisitely  modelled  to  the  expression  of 
feeling  and  passion,  and  exhibiting  the  remarkable 
contrast  of  very  dark  hair  and  eyebrows,  with  light 
and  expressive  eyes,  presented  to  the  physiogno- 
mist the  most  interesting  subject  for  the  exercise  of 
his  art.  The  predominating  expression  was  that  of 
deep  and  habitual  thought,  which  gave  way  to  the 
most  rapid  play  of  features  when  he  engaged  in  in- 
teresting discussion:  so  that  a  brother  poet  com- 
pared them  to  the  sculpture  of  a  beautiful  alabaster 
vase,  only  seen  to  perfection  when  lighted  up  from 
within.  The  flashes  of  mirth,  gaiety,  indignation, 
or  satirical  dislike,  which  frequently  animated  Lord 
Byron's  countenance,  might,  during  an  evening's 
conversation,  be  mistaken,  by  a  stranger,  for  the 
habitual  expression,  so  easily  and  so  happily  was  k 
formed  for  them  all;  but  those  who  had  an  opportu- 
nity of  studying  his  features  for  a  length  of  trine, 
and  upon  various  occasions,  both  of  rest  and  emo- 
tion, will  agree  that  their  proper  language  was  that 
of  melancholy.  Sometimes  shades  of  this  gloom 
interrupted  even  his  gayest  and  most  happy  ino 
ments.  —  Sir  Walter  Scott.] 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


303 


And  he,  as  one,  might  'midst  the  many  stand 
Unheeded,  searching  through  the  crowd  to 

find 
Fit  speculation ;  such  as  in  strange  land 
Us  found  in  wonder-works  of  God  and  Na- 
ture's hand. 

XI. 

But  who  can  view  the  ripened  rose,  nor  seek 
To  wear  it  ?  who  can  curiously  behold 
The  smoothness  and  the  sheen  of  beauty's 

cheek, 
Nor  feel  the  heart  can  never  all  grow  old  ? 
Who  can  contemplate  Fame  through  clouds 

unfold 
The  star  which   rises  o'er  her  steep,  nor 

climb  ? 
Harold,  once  more  within  the  vortex,  rolled 
On  with  the  giddy  circle,  chasing  Time, 
Vet  with  a  nobler  aim  than  in  his  youth's  fond 

prime. 

XII. 

But  soon  he  knew  himself  the  most  unfit 
Of  men  to  herd  with  Man ;  with  whom  he 

held 
Little  in  common  ;  untaught  to  submit 
His  thoughts  to  others,  though  his  soul  was 

quelled 
In  youth  by  his  own  thoughts ;  still  uncom- 

pelled, 
He  would  not  yield  dominion  of  his  mind 
To  spirits  against  whom  his  own  rebelled  ; 
Proud  though  in  desolation ;  which  could 

find 
A  life  within  itself,  to  breathe  without  mankind. 

XIII. 

Where  rose  the  mountains,  there  to  him 

were  friends ; 
Where  rolled  the  ocean,  thereon  was  his 

home ; 
Where  a  blue  sky,  and  glowing  clime,  ex- 
tends, 
He  had  the  passion  and  the  power  to  roam  ; 
The  desert,  forest,  cavern,  breaker's  foam, 
Were  unto  him  companionship  ;  they  spake 
A  mutual  language,  clearer  than  the  tome 
Of  his  land's  tongue,  which  he  would  oft 
forsake 
For  Nature's  pages  glassed  by  sunbeams  on 
the  lake. 

XIV. 

Like   the   Chaldean,  he    could  watch    the 

stars, 
Till  he  had  peopled  them  with  beings  bright 
As  their  own  beams ;  and  earth,  and  earth- 
born  jars, 
And  human  frailties  were  forgotten  quite  : 
Could  he  have  kept  his  spirit  to  that  flight 
He  had  been  happy;  but  this  clay  will  sink 
Its  spark  immortal,  envying  it  the  light 


To  which  it  mounts,  as  if  to  break  the  link 
That  keeps  us  from  yon  heaven  which  woos 

us  to  its  brink. 

xv. 
But  in  Man's  dwellings ^ie  became  a  thing 
Restless  and  worn,  and  stern  and  wearisome, 
Drooped  as  a  wild-born  falcon  with  dipt 

wing, 
To  whom   the  boundless  air  alone  were 

home : 
Then  came  his  fit  again,  which  to  o'ercome, 
As  eagerly  the  barred-up  bird  will  beat 
His  breast  and  beak  against  his  wiry  dome 
Till  the  blood  tinge  his  plumage,  so  the  heat 
Of  his  impeded  soul  would  through  his  bosom 

eat. 

XVI. 
Self-exiled  Harold1  wanders  forth  again, 
With  nought  of  hope  left,  but  with  less  of 

gloom ; 
The  very  knowledge  that  he  lived  in  vain, 
That  all  was  over  on  this  side  the.  tomb, 
Had  made  Despair  a  smilingness  assume, 
Which,   though   'twere   wild,  —  as   on  the 

plundered  wreck 
When  mariners  would   madly  meet  their 

doom 
With  draughts  intemperate  on  the  sinking 

deck, — 
Did  yet  inspire  a  cheer,  which  he  forbore  to 

check.'2 

1  ["In  the  third  canto  of  Childe  Harold,"  says 
Sir  Egerton  Brydges,  "  there  is  much  inequality. 
The  thoughts  and  images  are  sometimes  labored; 
but  still  they  are  a  very  great  improvement  upon 
the  first  two  cantos.  Lord  Byron  here  speaks  in 
his  own  language  and  character,  not  in  the  tone  of 
others;  —  he  is  describing,  not  inventing;  therefore 
he  has  not,  and  cannot  have,  the  freedom  with  which 
fiction  is  composed.  Sometimes  he  has  a  concise- 
ness which  is  very  powerful,  but  almost  abrupt. 
From  trusting  himself  alone,  and  working  out  his 
own  deep-buried  thoughts,  he  now,  perhaps,  fell 
into  a  habit  of  laboring,  even  where  there  was  no 
occasion  to  labor.  In  the  first  sixteen  stanzas  there 
is  yet  a  mighty  but  groaning  burst  of  dark  and  ap- 
palling strength.  It  was  unquestionably  the  unex- 
aggerated  picture  of  a  most  tempestuous  and  som- 
bre, but  magnificent  soul!  "] 

2  [These  stanzas,  —  in  which  the  author,  adopting 
more  distinctly  the  character  of  Childe  Harold  than 
in  the  original  poem,  assigns  the  cause  why  he  has 
resumed  his  Pilgrim's  staff  when  it  was  hoped  he 
had  sat  down  for  life  a  denizen  of  his  native  country, 
—  abound  with  much  moral  interest  and  poetical 
beauty.  The  commentary  through  which  the 
meaning  of  this  melancholy  tale  is  rendered  obvi- 
ous, is  still  in  vivid  remembrance;  for  the  errors  of 
those  who  excel  their  fellows  in  gifts  and  accom- 
plishments are  not  soon  forgotten.  Those  scenes, 
ever  most  painful  to  the  bosom,  were  rendered  yet 
more  so  by  public  discussion ;  and  it  is  at  least  pos- 
sible that  amongst  those  who  exclaimed  most  loudly 
on  this  unhappy  occasion,  were  some  in  whose  eyes 
literary  superiority  exaggerated    Lord  Byron's  of- 


304 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


Stop! — for   thy  tread   is  on  an    Empire's 

dust! 
An  Earthquake's  spoil  is  sepulchred  below ! 
Is  the  spot  marked  with  no  colossal  bust  ? 
Nor  column  trophied  for  triumphal  show  ? 
None  ;  but  the  moral's  truth  tells  simpler  so, 
As  the  ground  was  before,  thus  let  it  be;  — 
How  that  red  rain  hath  made  the  harvest 

grow ! 
And  is  this  all  the  world  has  gained  by  thee, 
Hiou  first  and  last   of  fields !    king-making 

Victory  ? 

XVIII. 
And   Harold    stands    upon    this   place    of 

skulls, 
The  grave  of  France,  the  deadly  Waterloo  ; 
How   in   an   hour   the  power  which  gave 

annuls 
Its  gifts,  transferring  fame  as  fleeting  too! 
In  "  pride  of  place  " 1  here  last  the  eagle 

flew, 
Then  tore  with  bloody  talon  the  rent  plain,2 
Pierced   by   the   shaft   of    banded   nations 

through  ; 
Ambition's  life  and  labors  all  were  vain ; 
He  wears  the  shattered  links  of  the  world's 

broken  chain. 

XIX. 

Fit  retribution !  Gaul  may  champ  the  bit 
And  foam  in  fetters ;  —  but  is  Earth  more 

free  ? 
Did  nations  combat  to  make  One  submit ; 


fence.  The  scene  may  be  described  in  a  few  words: 
—  the  wise  condemned  —  the  good  regretted  —  the 
multitude,  idly  or  maliciously  inquisitive,  rushed 
from  place  to  place,  gathering  gossip,  which  they 
mangled  and  exaggerated  while  they  repeated  it; 
and  impudence,  ever  ready  to  hitch  itself  into  noto- 
riety, hooked  on,  as  Falstaff  enjoins  Bardolph, 
blustered,  bullied,  and  talked  of  "  pleading  a  cause," 
and  "  taking  a  side."  —  Sir  Walter  Scott.] 

1  "  Pride  of  place "  is  a  term  of  falconry,  and 
means  the  highest  pitch  of  flight.    See  Macbeth,  etc. 

"  A  falcon  towering  in  his  pride  of  place,"  etc. 

2  [In  the  original  draught  of  this  stanza  (which,  as 
well  as  the  preceding  one,  was  written  after  a  visit 
to  the  field  of  Waterloo),  the  lines  stood  — 

"  Here  his  last  flight  the  havighty  eagle  flew, 
Then  tore  with  bloody  beak  the  fatal  plain." 
On  seeing  these  lines,  Mr.  Reinagle  sketched  an 
eagle,  grasping  the  earth  with  his  talons.  The  cir- 
cumstance being  mentioned  to  Byron,  he  wrote  thus 
to  a  friend  at  Brussels,  —  "Reinagle  is  a  better 
poet  and  a  better  ornithologist  than  I  am  :  eagles, 
and  all  birds  of  prey,  attack  with  their  talons,  and 
not  with  their  beaks;  and  I  have  altered  the  line 
thus:  — 

'  Then  tore  with  bloody  talon  the  rent  plain.' 
This  is,  I  think,  a  better  !ine,  besides  its  poetical 
justice."! 


Or  league  to  teach  all  kings   true   sover- 
eignty ? 

What !  shall  reviving  Thraldom  again  be 

The  patched-up  idol  of  enlightened  days  ? 

Shall  we,  who  struck  the  Lion  down,  shall' 
we 

Pay  the  Wolf  homage  ?    proffering  lowly 
gaze 
And  servile  knees  to  thrones  ?     No ;  prove 
before  ye  praise ! 

XX. 

If  not,  o'er  one  fallen  despot  boast  no  more  ! 
In  vain  fair  cheeks  were  furrowed  with  hot 

tears 
For  Europe's  flowers  long  rooted  up  before 
The  tramplerof  her  vineyards  ;  in  vain  years 
Of  death,  depopulation,  bondage,  fears, 
Have  all  been  borne,  and  broken  by  the  ac- 
cord 
Of  roused-up  millions  :  all  that  most  endears 
Glory,  is  when  the  myrtle  wreathes  a  sword 
Such  as  Harmodius3  drew  on  Athens'  tyraitf 
lord. 

XXI. 
There  was  a  sound  of  revelry  by  night,4 
And  Belgium's  capital  had  gathered  then 
Her  Beauty  and  her  Chivalry,  and  bright 
The  lamps  shone  o'er  fair  women  and  brave- 
men  ; 
A  thousand, hearts  beat  happily;  and  whe$ 
Music  arose  with  its  voluptuous  swell, 
Soft  eyes  looked  love  to  eyes  which  spake 

again, 
And  all  went  merry  as  a  marriage-bell ;  5 
But  hush!  hark!  a  deep  sound  strikes  like  a 
rising  knell ! 


3  See  the  famous  song  on  Harmodius  and  Arista 
giton.  The  best  English  translation  is  in  Blacd'l 
Anthology,  by  Mr.  (since  Lord  Chief  Justice. 
Denman,  — 

"  With  myrtle  my  sword  will  I  wreathe,"  etc. 

4  There  can  be  no  more  remarkable  proof  of  the 
greatness  of  Lord  Byron's  genius,  than  the  spirit 
and  interest  he  has  contrived  to  communicate  to  his 
picture  of  the  often-drawn  and  difficult  scene  of  the 
breaking  up  from  Brussels  before  the  great  Battle. 
It  is  a  trite  remark,  that  poets  generally  fail  in  the 
representation  of  great  events,  where  the  interest  is 
recent,  and  the  particulars  are  consequently  clearly 
and  commonly  known.  It  required  some  courage 
to  venture  on  a  theme  beset  with  so  many  dangers, 
and  deformed  with  the  wrecks  of  so  many  former 
adventurers.  See,  however,  with  what  easy  strength 
he  enters  upon  it,  and  with  how  much  grace  he 
gradually  finds  his  way  back  to  his  own  peculiar 
vein  of  sentiment  and  diction !  —  Jeffrey.  ] 

6  On  the  night  previous  to  the  action,  it  is  said 
that  a  ball  was  given  at  Brussels. —  [It  is  commonly, 
but  erroneously  asserted  that  Wellington  was  sur- 
prised by  the  French  army  while  at  a  ball.  The 
Duke  had  received  intelligence  of  Napoleon's  de- 
cisive operations,  and  it  was  intended  to  out  off  the 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


30£ 


XXII. 

Did  ye  not  hear  it  ?  —  No ;  'twas  but  the 
wind, 

Or  the  car  rattling  o'er  the  stony  street ; 

On  with  the  dance!  let  joy  be  unconfined; 

No  sleep  till  morn,  when  Youth  and  Pleas- 
ure meet 

To  chase  the  glowing  Hours  with  flying 
feet  — 

But,  hark !  —  that  heavy  sound  breaks  in 
once  more 

As  if  the  clouds  its  echo  would  repeat ; 

And  nearer,  clearer,  deadlier  than  before  ! 
Arm!  Arm!  it  is  —  it  is  —  the  cannon's  open- 
ing roar ! 

XXIII. 
Within  a  windowed  niche  of  that  high  hall 
Sate    Brunswick's   fated  chieftain ;    he  did 

hear 
That  sound  the  first  amidst  the  festival, 
And  caught  its  tone  with  Death's  prophetic 

ear. 
And  when  they  smiled  because  he  deemed 

it  near, 
His  heart  more  truly  knew  that  peal  too  well 
Which    stretched   his   father  on   a  bloody 

bier,1 
And   roused   the  vengeance  blood    alone 
could  quell : 
He  rushed  into  the  field,  and,  foremost  fight- 
ing, fell.2 

XXIV. 

Ah  !  then  and  there  was  hurrying  to  and  fro, 

And  gathering  tears,  and  tremblings  of  dis- 
tress, 

And  cheeks  all  pale,  which  but  an  hour  ago 

Blushed  at  the  praise  of  their  own  loveli- 
ness; 

And  there  were  sudden  partings,  such  as 
press 

The  life  from  out  young  hearts,  and  choking 
sighs 

Which  ne'er  might  be  repeated ;  who  could 
guess 

If  ever  more  should  meet  those  mutual  eyes, 
Since  upon  night  so  sweet  such  awful  morn 
could  rise ! 


bill;  but,  on  reflection,  thinking  it  important  that 
the  people  of  Brussels  should  be  kept  in  ignorance, 
the  Duke  not  only  desired  that  the  ball  should  pro- 
ceed, but  the  general  officers  received  his  commands 
to  appear  at  it  —  each  taking  care  to  leave  as  quietly 
as  possible  at  ten  o'clock,  and  join  his  respective 
division.) 

1  [The  Duke  of  Brunswick  fell  at  Quatre  Bras. 
His  father  received  his  death-wound  at  Jena.] 

2  [This  stanza  is  very  grand,  even  from  its  total 
imadornment.  It  is  only  a  versification  of  the  com- 
mon narratives;  but  here  may  well  be  applied  a 
position  of  Johnson,  that  "where  truth  is  sufficient 
to  fill  the  mind,  fiction  is  worse  than  useless."  —  Sir 
E-  Brydges.\ 


XXV. 

And  there  was  mounting  in  hot  haste :  the 

steed, 
The  mustering  squadron,  and  the  clattering 

car, 
Went   pouring    forward    with    impetuous 

speed, 
And  swiftly  forming  in  the  ranks  of  war ; 
And  the  deep  thunder  peal  on  peal  afar; 
And  near,  the  beat  of  the  alarming  drum 
Roused  up  the  soldier  ere  the  morning  star 
While   thronged   the   citizens  with    terror 

dumb, 
Or  whispering,  with  white  lips  —  "The  foe! 

They  come  !  they  come !  " 

XXVI. 

And  wild  anu  high  the  "  Cameron's  gather- 
ing "  rose! 

The  war-note  of  Lochiel,  which  Albyn's  hills 

Have   heard,   and    heard,   too,   have    her 
Saxon  foes :  — 

How  in   the   noon   of  night   that  pibroch 
thrills, 

Savage   and   shrill!    But  with   the  breath 
which  fills 

Their   mountain-pipe,  so   fill    the    moun- 
taineers 

With  the  fierce  native  daring  which  instils 

The  stirring  memory  of  a  thousand  years, 
And  Evan's,  Donald's3  fame  rings   in   each 
clansman's  earsl 

XXVII. 

And    Ardennes4  waves   above  them    her 

green  leaves, 
Dewy  with  nature's  tear-drops,  as  they  pass, 
Grieving,  if  aught  inanimate  e'er  grieves, 
Over  the  unreturning  brave,  —  alas! 
Ere  evening  to  be  trodden  like  the  grass 
Which  now  beneath  them,  but  above  shall 

grow 
In  its  next  verdure,  when  this  fiery  mass 
Of  living  valor,  rolling  on  the  foe 
And  burning  with  high  hope,  shall  moulder 

cold  and  low. 

XXVIII. 
Last  noon  beheld  them  full  of  lusty  life, 
Last  eve  in  Beauty's  circle  proudly  gay, 


3  Sir  Evan  Cameron,  and  his  descendant  Donald, 
the  "  gentle  Lochiel  "  of  the  "  forty-five." 

4  The  wood  of  Soignies  is  supposed  to  be  a  rem- 
nant of  the  forest  of  Ardennes,  famous  in  Boiardo's 
Orlando,  and  immortal  in  Shakspeare's  "  As  you 
like  it."  It  is  also  celebrated  in  Tacitus  as  being 
the  spot  of  successful  defence  by  the  Germans 
against  the  Roman  encroachments.  I  have  ven- 
tured to  adopt  the  name  connected  w>'h  noblet 
associations  than  those  of  mere  slaughter.  —  [Shak- 
speare's Forest  of  A  r den  was  in  Warwickshire, 
Etigland.\ 


506 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


The  midnight  brought  the  signal-sound  of 

strife, 
The  morn  the  marshalling  in  arms,  —  the 

day 
Battle's  magnificently-stern  array! 
The   thunder-clouds   close    o'er  it,  which 

when  rent 
The  earth  is  covered  thick  with  other  clay, 
Which   her  own  clay  shall  cover,  heaped 

and  pent, 
Uider  and  horse,  —  friend,  foe,  —  in  one  red 

burial  blent !  i 

XXIX. 

Their  praise  is  hymned  by  loftier  harps  than 

mine ; 
Yet  one  I  would  select  from  that  proud 

throng, 
Partly  because  they  blend  me  with  his  line, 
And  partly  that  I  did  his  sire  some  wrong,3 
And  partly  that  bright  names  will  hallow 

song ; 
And  his  was  of  the  bravest,  and  when  show- 
ered 
The  death-bolts  deadliest  the  thinned  files 

along, 
Even  where  the  thickest  of  war's  tempest 

lowered, 
They  reach  no  nobler  breast  than  thine,  young 

gallant  Howard ! 

XXX. 

There  have  been  tears  and  breaking  hearts 
for  thee, 

And  mine  were  nothing,  had  I  such  to  give  ; 

But  when  I  stood  beneath  the  fresh  green 
tree, 

Which  living  waves  where  thou  didst  cease 
to  live, 

And  saw  around  me  the  wide  field  revive 

With  fruits  and   fertile   promise,  and   the 
Spring 

Come  forth  her  work  of  gladness  to  con- 
trive, 

With  all  her  reckless  birds  upon  the  wing, 
I  turned  from  all  she  brought  to  those   she 
could  not  bring.3 


1  [Childe  Harold,  though  he  shuns  to  celebrate 
the  victory  of  Waterloo,  gives  us  here  a  most  beau- 
tiful description  of  the  evening  which  preceded  the 
battle  of  Quatre  Bras,  the  alarm  which  called  out 
the  troops,  and  the  hurry  and  confusion  which  pre- 
ceded their  march.  I  am  not  sure  that  any  verses 
in  our  language  surpass,  in  vigor  and  in  feeling, 
this  most  beautiful  description. — Sir  Walter 
Scott.] 

-  [See  note  to  English  Bards  and  Scotch  Re- 
viewers, ante,  p.  139.] 

3  My  guide  from  Mont  St.  Jean  over  the  field 
seemed  intelligent  and  accurate.  The  place  where 
Major  Howard  fell  was  not  far  from  two  tall  and 
solitary  trees  (there  was  a  third  cut  down,  or  shiv- 
ered in  the  battle),  which  stand  a  few  yards  from 


XXXI. 

I  turned  to  thee,  to  thousands,  of  whom  each 
And  one  as  all  a  ghastly  gap  did  make 
In  his  own  kind  and  kindred,  whom  to  teach 
Forgetfulness  were  mercy  for  their  sake ; 
The  Archangel's  trump,  not  Glory's,  mui.' 

awake 
Those  whom  they  thirst  for;    though   the 

sound  of  Fame 
May  for  a  moment  soothe,  it  cannot  slake 
The  fever  of  vain  longing,  and  the  name 
So  honored  but  assumes  a  stronger,  bitterei 

claim. 

XXXII. 

They  mourn,  but  smile  at  length ;  and,  smil- 
ing, mourn : 

The  tree  will  wither  long  before  it  fall ; 

The  hull  drives  on,  though  mast  and  sail 
be  torn ; 

The  roof-tree  sinks,  but  moulders  on  the  hall 

In  massy  hoariness;  the  ruined  wall 

Stands  when  its  wind-worn  battlements  are 
gone; 

The  bars  survive  the  captive  they  enthrall ; 

The  day  drags  through  though  storms  keep 
out  the  sun ; 
And  thus  the  heart  will  break,  yet  brokenly 
live  on: 

XXXIII. 

Even  as  a  bqoken  mirror,  which  the  glass 
In  every  fragment  multiplies;  and  makes 
A  thousand  images  of  one  that  was, 
The  same,  and  still  the  more,  the  more  it 

breaks ; 
And  thus  the  heart  will  do  which  not  for- 
sakes, 
Living  in  shattered  guise,  and  still,  and  cold, 


each  other  at  a  pathway's  side.  Beneath  these  he 
died  and  was  buried.  The  body  has  since  been  re- 
moved to  England.  A  small  hollow  for  the  pres- 
ent marks  where  it  lay,  but  will  probably  soon  be 
effaced;  the  plough  has  been  upon  it,  and  the  grain 
is. — After  pointing  out  the  different  spots  where 
Picton  and  other  gallant  men  had  perished,  the 
guide  said,  "  Here  Major  Howard  lay:  I  was  near 
him  when  wounded."  I  told  him  my  relationship, 
and  he  seemed  then  still  more  anxious  to  point  out 
the  particular  spot  and  circumstances.  The  place 
is  one  of  the  most  marked  in  the  field,  from  the  pe- 
culiarity of  the  two  trees  above  mentioned.  I  went 
on  horseback  twice  over  the  field,  comparing  it  with 
my  recollection  of  similar  scenes.  As  a  plain,  Wa- 
terloo seems  marked  out  for  the  scene  of  some  great 
action,  though  this  may  be  mere  imagination:  1 
have  viewed  with  attention  those  of  Platea,  Troy, 
Mantinea,  Leuctra,  Chaeronea,  and  Marathon:  and 
the  field  around  Mont  St.  Jean  and  Hougoumont 
appears  to  want  little  but  a  better  cause,  and  that 
undefinable  but  impressive  halo  which  the  lapse  ol 
ages  throws  around  a  celebrated  spot,  to  vie  in  in« 
terest  with  any  or  all  of  these,  except,  perhaps,  iW 
last  mentioned. 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


307 


And  bloodless,  with    its   sleepless  sorrow 

aches, 
Yet  withers  on  till  all  without  is  cold, 
Showing  no  visible  sign,  for  such  things  are 
untold.1 

xxxiv. 

There  is  a  very  life  in  our  despair, 
Vitality  of  poison,  —  a  quick  root 
Which  feeds  these  deadly  branches ;  for  it 

were 
As  nothing  did  we  die ;  but  Life  will  suit 
Itself  to  Sorrow's  most  detested  fruit, 
Like  to  the  apples  2  on  the  Dead  Sea's  shore, 
All  ashes  to  the  taste :  Did  man  compute 
Existence  by  enjoyment,  and  count  o'er 
Such  hours  'gainst  years  of  life,  —  say,  would 

he  name  threescore  ? 

XXXV. 

The   Psalmist  numbered  out  the  years  of 
man : 

They  are  enough ;  and  if  thy  tale  be  true. 

Thou,  who  didst  grudge  him  even  that  fleet- 
ing span, 

More  than  enough,  thou  fatal  Waterloo  ! 

Millions  of  tongues  record  thee,  and  anew 

Their  children's  lips  shall  echo  them,  and 
say  — 

"  Here,  where  the  sword   united   nations 
drew, 

Our  countrymen  were  warring  on  that  day !  " 
And  this  is  much,  and  all  which  will  not  pass 
away. 

XXXVI. 

There  sunk  the  greatest,  nor  the  worst  of 

men, 
Whose  spirit  antithetically  mixt 
One  moment  of  the  mightiest,  and  again 
On  little  objects  with  like  firmness  fixt, 
Extreme  in  all  things  !  hadst  thou  been  be- 
twixt, 
Thy  throne  had  still  been  thine,  or  never 

been ; 
For  daring  made  thy  rise   as  fall :   thou 

seek'st 
Even  now  to  re-assume  the  imperial  mien, 
And  shake  again  the  world,  the  Thunderer  of 
the  scene ! 


1  ["  There  is  a  richness  and  energy  in  this  pas- 
sage, which  is  peculiar  to  Lord  Byron,  among 
all  modern  poets,  — a  throng  of  glowing  images, 
poured  forth  at  once,  with  a  facility  and  profusion 
which  must  appear  mere  wastefulness  to  more  eco- 
nomical writers,  and  a  certain  negligence  and  harsh- 
ness of  diction  which  can  belong  only  to  an  author 
who  is  oppressed  with  the  exuberance  and  rapidity 
of  his  conceptions." — Jeffrey.} 

2  The  (fabled)  apples  on  the  brink  of  the  lake 
Asphaltites  were  said  to  be  fair  without,  and,  within, 
ashes.     Vide  Tacitus,  Histor.  lib.  v.  7. 


XXXVII. 

Conqueror  and  captive  of  the  earth  art  thou  I 
She  trembles  at  thee  still,  and  thy  wild  name 
Was  ne'er  more  bruited   in   men's   minds 

than  now 
That  thou  art  nothing,  save  the  jest  of  Fame, 
Who  wooed  thee  once,  thy  vassal,  and  be- 
came 
The  flatterer  of  thy  fierceness,  till  thou  wert 
A  god  unto  thyself;  nor  less  the  same 
To  the  astounded  kingdoms  all  inert, 
Who  deemed  thee  for  a  time  whate'er  thou 
didst  assert. 

XXXVIII. 

Oh,  more  or  less  than  man  —  in  high  or  low, 
Battling  with  nations,  flying  from  the  field ; 
Now  making  monarchs'  necks  thy  footstool, 

now 
More  than  thy  meanest   soldier  taught  to 

yield: 
An  empire  thou  couldst  crush,  command, 

rebuild, 
But  govern  not  thy  pettiest  passion,  nor, 
However  deeply  in  men's  spirits  skilled, 
Look  through  thine  own,  nor  curb  the  lust 

of  war, 
Nor  learn  that  tempted  Fate  will  leave  the 

loftiest  star. 

XXXIX. 

Yet  well  thy  soul  hath  brooked  the  turning 

tide 
With  that  untaught  innate  philosophy, 
Which,   be  it  wisdom,  coldness,  or   deep 

pride, 
Is  gall  and  wormwood  to  an  enemy. 
When  the  whole  host  of  hatred  stood  hard 

by, 

To  watch  and  mock  thee  shrinking,  thou 

hast  smiled 
With  a  sedate  and  all-enduring  eye  ;  — 
When  Fortune  fled  her  spoiled  and  favorite 
child, 
He  stood  unbowed  beneath  the  ills  upon  him 
piled. 

XL. 

Sager  than  in  thy  fortunes;  for  in  them 
Ambition  steeled  thee  on  too  far  to  show 
That  just  habitual  scorn,  which  could  con- 
temn 
Men  and  their  thoughts ;  'twas  wise  to  feel, 

not  so 
To  wear  it  ever  on  thy  lip  and  brow, 
And  spurn  the  instruments  thou  wert  to  use 
Till  they  were  turned  unto  thine  overthrow; 
'Tis  but  a  worthless  world  to  win  or  lose ; 
So  hath  it  proved  to  thee,  and  all  such  lot  who 
choose. 

XLI. 

If,  like  a  tower  upon  a  headlong  rock, 
Thou  hadst  been  made  to  stand  or  fall  aJone, 


308 


CHILD E   HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


Such  scorn  of  man  had  helped  to  brave  the 

shock ; 
But  men's  thoughts  were  the  steps  which 

paved  thy  throne, 
Their  admiration  thy  best  weapon  shone ; 
The  part  of  Philip's  son  was  thine,  not  then 
(Unless  aside  thy  purple  had  been  thrown) 
Like  stern  Diogenes  to  mock  at  men ; 
For  sceptred  cynics  earth  were  far  too  wide  a 

den.1 

XLII. 

But  quiet  to  quick  bosoms  is  a  hell, 
And  there  hath  been  thy  bane  ;  there  is  a  fire 
And  motion  of  the  soul  which  will  not  dwell 
In  its  own  narrow  being,  but  aspire 
Beyond  the  fitting  medium  of  desire ; 
And,  but  once  kindled,  quenchless  evermore, 
Preys  upon  high  adventure,  nor  can  tire 
Of  aught  but  rest ;  a  fever  at  the  core. 
Fatal  to  him  who  bears,  to  all  who  ever  bore. 

XLIII. 

This  makes  the  madmen  who  have  made 

men  mad 
By  their  contagion ;  Conquerors  and  Kings, 
Founders  of  sects  and  systems,  to  whom  add 
Sophists,     Bards,    Statesmen,    all   unquiet 

things 
Which   stir  too   strongly  the  soul's  secret 

springs, 
And  are  themselves  the  fools  to  those  they 

fool; 
Envied,  yet  how  unenviable!  what  stings 
Are  theirs !   One  breast  laid  open  were  a 

school 
Which  would   unteach  mankind  the  lust  to 

shine  or  rule : 


1  The  great  error  of  Napoleon,  "  if  we  have  writ 
our  annals  true,"  was  a  continued  obtrusion  on 
mankind  of  his  want  of  all  community  of  feeling 
for  or  with  them;  perhaps  more  offensive  to  human 
vanity  than  the  active  cruelty  of  more  trembling 
and  suspicious  tyranny.  Such  were  his  speeches  to 
public  assemblies  as  well  as  individuals;  and  the 
single  expression  which  he  is  said  to  have  used  on 
returning  to  Paris  after  the  Russian  winter  had  de- 
stroyed his  army,  rubbing  his  hands  over  a  fire, 
"  This  is  pleasanter  than  Moscow,"  would  prob- 
ably alienate  more  favor  from  his  cause  than  the 
destruction  and  reverses  which  led  to  the  remark. 
[Far  from  being  deficient  in  that  necessary  branch 
of  the  politician's  art  which  soothes  the  passions 
and  conciliates  the  prejudices  of  those  whom  they 
wish  to  employ  as  instruments,  Bonaparte  pos- 
sessed it  in  exquisite  perfection.  He  seldom  missed 
finding  the  very  man  that  was  fittest  for  his  imme- 
diate purpose;  and  he  had,  in  a  peculiar  degree, 
the  art  of  moulding  him  to  it.  It  was  not,  then, 
because  he  despised  the  means  necessary  to  gain 
his  end,  that  he  finally  fell  short  of  attaining  it,  but 
because,  confiding  in  his  stars,  his  fortune,  and  his 
strength,  the  ends  which  he  proposed  were  unat- 
tainable even  by  the  gigantic  means  which  he  pos- 
sessed. —  Sir  Walter  Scott.] 


XLIV, 
Their  breath  is  agitation,  and  their  life 
A  storm  whereon  they  ride,  to  sink  at  last. 
And  yet  so  nursed  and  bigoted  to  strife, 
That  should  their  days,  surviving  perils  pas^ 
Melt  to  calm  twilight,  thev  feel  overcast 
With  sorrow  and  supineness,  and  so  die ; 
Even  as  a  flame  unfed,  which  runs  to  waste 
With  its  own  flickering,  or  a  sword  laid  by, 
Which  eats  into  itself,  and  rusts  ingloriously. 

XLV. 

He  who   ascends   to   mountain-tops,  shall 

find 
The  loftiest  peaks  most  wrapt  in  clouds  and 

snow ; 
He  who  surpasses  or  subdues  mankind, 
Must  look  down  on  the  hate  of  those  below. 
Though  high  above  the  sun  of  glory  glow. 
And  far  beneath  the  earth  and  ocean  spread, 
Round  him  are  icy  rocks,  and  loudly  blow 
Contending  tempests  on  his  naked  head, 
And  thus   reward  the   toils  which   to  those 

summits  led.2 

XLVI. 

Away  with   these !    true   Wisdom's  world 

will  be 
Within  its  own  creation,  or  in  thine, 
Maternal  Nature!  for  who  teems  like  thee, 
Thus  on  the  banks  of  thy  majestic  Rhine  ? 
There  Harold  gazes  on  a  work  divine, 
A  blending  of  all   beauties ;    streams   and 

dells, 
Fruit,  foliage,  crag,  wood,  cornfield,  moun- 
tain, vine, 
And  chiefless  castles  breathing  stern  fare- 
wells 
From  gray  but  leafy  walls,  where  Ruin  green- 
ly dwells. 

XLVII. 

And  there  they  stand,  as  stands  a  lofty  mind, 
Worn,  but  unstooping  to  the  baser  crowd, 
All  tenantless,  save  to  the  crannying  wind, 


2  [This  is  certainly  splendidly  written,  but  we 
trust  it  is  not  true.  From  Macedonia's  madman  to 
the  Swede  —  from  Nimrod  to  Bonaparte,  —  the 
hunters  of  men  have  pursued  their  sport  with  as 
much  gaiety,  and  as  little  remorse,  as  the  hunters 
of  other  animals;  and  have  lived  as  cheerily  in  their 
days  of  action,  and  as  comfortably  in  their  repose, 
as  the  followers  of  better  pursuits.  It  would  be 
strange,  therefore,  if  the  other  active,  but  more 
innocent  spirits,  whom  Lord  Byron  has  here  placed 
in  the  same  predicament,  and  who  share  all  their 
sources  of  enjoyment,  without  the  guilt  and  the 
hardness  which  they  cannot  fail  of  contracting, 
should  be  more  miserable  or  more  unfriended  than 
those  splendid  curses  of  their  kind;  and  it  would 
be  passing  strange,  and  pitiful,  if  the  most  precious 
gifts  of  Providence  should  produce  only  ttnhappi- 
ness,  and  mankind  regard  with  hostility  their  great* 
est  benefactors.  —  Jeffrey .} 


CMILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


30? 


Or  holding  dark  communion  with  the  cloud. 
There  was  a  day  when  they  were  young  and 

proud, 
Banners  on  high,  and  battles  passed  below  ; 
But  they  who  fought  are  in  a  bloody  shroud, 
And  those  which  waved  are  shredless  dust 

ere  now, 
And  the  bleak    battlements    shall    bear  no 

future  blow. 


Beneath    these    battlements,  within   those 

walls, 
Power    dwelt    amidst    her    passions ;     in 

proud  state 
Each  robber  chief  upheld  his  armed  halls, 
Doing  his  evil  will,  nor  less  elate 
Than  mightier  heroes  of  a  longer  date. 
What    want    these     outlaws1    conquerors 

should  have 
But  History's  purchased  page  to  call  them 

great  ? 
A  wider  space,  an  ornamented  grave  ? 
Their  hopes  were  not  less  warm,  their  souls 

were  full  as  brave. 


In  their  baronial  feuds  and  single  fields, 
What  deeds  of  prowess  unrecorded  died ! 
And   Love,  which   lent  a  blazon  to  their 

shields, 
With   emblems  well    devised  by  amorous 

pride, 
Through  all  the  mail  of  iron  hearts  would 

glide ; 
But  still  their  flame  was  fierceness,  and  drew 

on 
Keen  contest  and  destruction  near  allied, 
And  many  a  tower  for  some  fair  mischief 

won, 
Saw  the  discolored  Rhine  beneath  its  ruin  run. 


But  Thou,  exulting  and  abounding  river ! 
Making  their  waves  a  blessing  as  they  flow 
Through  banks  whose  beauty  would  endure 

for  ever 
Could  man  but  leave  thy  bright  creation  so, 
Nor  its  fair  promise  from  the  surface  mow 
With  the  sharp  scythe  of  conflict, —  then  to 

see 
Thy  valley  of  sweet  waters,  were  to  know 
Earth    paved   like    Heaven;    and   to  seem 

such  to  me, 
Even  now  what  wants  thy  stream  ?  —  that  it 

should  Lethe  be. 


1  "  What  wants  that  knave  that  a  king  should 
have? "  was  King  James's  question  on  meeting 
Johnny  Armstrong  and  his  followers  in  full  accou- 
trements.—  See  the  Ballad. 


LI. 

A    thousand    battles    have    assailed    thy 

banks, 
But  these  and  half  their  fame  have  passed 

away, 
And  Slaughter  heaped  on  high  his  welter- 
ing ranks; 
Their  very  graves  are  gone,  and  what  are 

they? 
Thy  tide  washed  down  the  blood  of  yester 

day, 
And   all  was   stainless,  and   on  thy   cleai 

stream 
Classed  with  its  dancing   light  the   sunny 

ray; 
But  o'er  the  blackened  memory's  blighting 

dream 
Thy  waves  would  vainly  roll,  all  sweeping  as 

they  seem. 

LII. 

Thus  Harold  inly  said,  and  passed  along, 
Yet  not  insensible  to  all  which  here 
Awoke  the  jocund  birds  to  early  song 
In  glens  which  might  have  made  even  exile 

dear: 
Though  on  his  brow  were  graven  lines  aus- 
tere. 
And  tranquil   sternness  which   had    ta'en 

the  place 
Of  feelings  fierier  far  but  less  severe, 
Joy  was  not  always  absent  from  his  face, 
But  o'er  it  in  such  scenes  would   steal  with 
transient  trace. 


Nor  was  all  love  shut  from  him,  though  his 
days 

Of  passion  had  consumed  themselves  to  dust. 

It  is  in  vain  that  we  would  coldly  gaze 

On  such  as  smile  upon  us ;  the  heart  must 

Leap  kindly  back  to  kindness,  though  dis- 
gust 

Hath  weaned  it  from  all  worldlings :  thus 
he  felt, 

For  there  was  soft  remembrance,  and  sweet 
trust 

In  one  fond  breast,  to  which  his  own  would 
melt, 
And  in  its  tenderer  hour  on  that  his  bosom 
dwelt. 

LIV. 

And  he  had  learned  to  love,  —  I  knew  not 

why, 
For  this  in  such  as  him  seems  strange  o 

mood, — 
The  helpless  looks  of  blooming  infancy, 
Even  in  its  earliest  nurture  ;  what  subdued, 
To  change  like  this,  a  mind  so  far  imbued 
With  scorn  of  man,  it  little  boots  to  know; 
But  thus  it  was ;  and  though  in  solitude 


310 


CHILD E  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


Small  power  the  nipped  affections  have  to 
grow, 
In   him   this  glowed  when  all    beside    had 
ceased  to  glow. 

LV. 

And  there  was  one  soft  breast,  as  hath  been 

said, 
Which  unto  his  was  bound  by  stronger  ties 
Than  the  church  links  withal ;  and,  though 

unwed, 
That  love  was  pure,  and,  far  above  disguise, 
Had  stood  the  test  of  mortal  enmities 
Still  undivided,  and  cemented  more 
By  peril,  dreaded  most  in  female  eyes ; 
But  this  was  firm,  and  from  a  foreign  shore 
Well  to   that  heart   might   his  these  absent 

greetings  pour! 

I. 

The  castled  crag  of  Drachenfels 1 
Frowns  o'er  the  wide  and  winding  Rhine, 
Whose  breast  of  waters  broadly  swells 
Between  the  banks  which  bear  the  vine, 
And  hills  all  rich  with  blossomed  trees, 
And  fields  which  promise  corn  and  wine. 
And  scattered  cities  crowning  these, 
Whose  far  white  walls  along  them  shine, 
Have  strewed  a  scene,  which  I  should  see 
With  double  joy  wert  thou  with  me. 


And  peasant  girls,  with  deep  blue  eyes, 
And  hands  which  offer  early  flowers, 
Walk  smiling  o'er  this  paradise; 
Above,  the  frequent  feudal  towers 
Through  green  leaves  lift  their  walls  of  gray, 
And  many  a  rock  which  steeply  lowers, 
And  noble  arch  in  proud  decay, 
Look  o'er  this  vale  of  vintage-bowers  ; 
But  one  thing  want  these  banks  of  Rhine, — 
Thy  gentle  hand  to  clasp  in  mine ! 


I  send  the  lilies  given  to  me; 

Though  long  before  thy  hand  they  touch, 

1  know  that  they  must  withered  be, 

But  yet  reject  them  not  as  such ; 

For  I  have  cherished  them  as  dear, 

Because  they  yet  may  meet  thine  eye, 


1  The  castle  of  Drachenfels  stands  on  the  highest 
summit  of  "  the  Seven  Mountains,"  over  the  Rhine 
banks:  it  is  in  ruins,  and  connected  with  some  sin- 
gular traditions:  it  is  the  first  in  view  on  the  road 
from  Bonn,  hut  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  river; 
on  this  bank,  nearly  facing  it,  are  the  remains  of 
another,  called  the  Jew's  Castle,  and  a  large  cross 
commemorative  of  the  murder  of  a  chief  by  his 
brother.  The  number  of  castles  and  cities  along 
the  course  of  the  Rhine  on  both  sides  is  very  great, 
and  their  situations  remarkably  beautiful.  [These 
verses  addressed  to  his  sister,  were  written  on  the 
banks  of  the  Rhine  in  May.] 


And  guide  thy  soul  to  mine  even  here, 
When  thou  behold'st  them  drooping  nigh, 
And  know'st  them  gathered  by  the  Rhine, 
And  offered  from  my  heart  to  thine ! 


The  river  nobly  foams  and  flows, 

The  charm  of  this  enchanted  ground, 

And  all  its  thousand  turns  dis< 

Some  fresher  beauty  varying  round  : 

The  haughtiest  breast  its  wish  might  bound 

Through  life  to  dwell  delighted  here; 

Nor  could  on  earth  a  spot  be  found 

To  nature  and  to  me  so  dear, 

Could  thy  dear  eyes  in  following  mine 

Still  sweeten  more  these  banks  of  Rhine  1 

LVI. 

By  Coblentz,  on  a  rise  of  gentle  ground, 
There  is  a  small  and  simple  pyramid, 
Crowning  the  summit  of  the  verdant  mound; 
Beneath  its  base  are  heroes'  ashes  hid, 
Our  enemy's  — but  let  not  that  forbid 
Honor  to  Marceau!  o'er  whose  early  tomb 
Tears,  big   tears,  gushed  from    the   rough 

soldier's  lid, 
Lamenting  and  yet  envying  such  a  doom, 
Falling  for  France,  whose  rights  he  battled  to 

resume. 

LVI  I. 

Brief,  brave^  and  glorious  was  his  young 

career,  — 
His  mourners  were  two  hosts,  his  friends 

and  foes ; 
And  fitly  may  the  stranger  lingering  here 
Pray  for  his  gallant  spirit's  bright  repose ; 
For  he  was   Freedom's  champion,  one  ol 

those, 
The  few  in  number,  who  had  not  o'erstept 
The  charter  to  chastise  which  she  bestows 
On  such  as  wield  her  weapons  ;  he  had  kept 
The  whiteness  of  his  soul,  and  thus  men  o'er 

him  wept.2 


2  The  monument  of  the  young  and  lamented  Gen- 
eral Marceau  (killed  by  a  rifle-ball  at  Alterkirchen, 
on  the  last  day  of  the  fourth  year  of  the  French 
republic)  stil!  remains  as  described.  The  inscrip 
tions  on  his  monument  are  rather  too  long,  and  not 
required:  his  name  was  enough;  France  adored, 
and  her  enemies  admired;  both  wept  o\<-i  him. 
His  funeral  was  attended  by  the  generals  and  de- 
tachments from  both  armies.  In  the  same  grave 
General  Hoche  is  interred,  a  gallant  man  also  in 
every  sense  of  the  .word;  but  though  he  distin- 
guished himself  greatly  in  battle,  he  had  not  the 
good  fortune  to  die  there:  his  death  was  attended 
by  suspicions  of  poison.  A  separate  monument 
(not  over  his  body,  which  is  buried  by  Marceau's) 
is  raised  for  him  near  Andernach,  opposite  to  which 
one  of  his  most  memorable  exploits  was  performed, 
in  throwing  a  bridge  to  an  island  on  the  Rhine. 
The  shape  and  style  are  different  from  'hat  of  Mar- 
ceau's, and  the  inscription  more  simple  and  pleas1 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


311 


LVIII. 
Here  Ehrenbreitstein,1  with   her  shattered 

wall 
Black  with  the  miner's  blast,  upon  her  height 
Yet  shows  of  what  she  was,  when  shell  and 

ball 
Rebounding  idly  on  her  strength  did  light : 
A  tower  of  victory!  from  whence  the  flight 
Of  baffled  foes  was  watched  along  the  plain  : 
But  Peace  destroyed  what  War  could  never 

blight, 
And  laid  those  proud  roofs  bare  to  Sum- 
mer's rain  — 
On  which   the  iron    shower  for  years  had 
poured  in  vain. 

LIX. 
Adieu  to  thee,  fair  Rhine !  How  long  de- 
lighted 
The  stranger  fain  would  linger  on  his  way  ! 
Thine  is  a  scene  alike  where  souls  united 
Or  lonely  Contemplation  thus  might  stray ; 
And  could  the  ceaseless  vultures  cease  to 

prey 
On  self-condemning  bosoms,  it  were  here, 
Where  Nature,  nor  too  sombre  nor  too  gay, 
Wild  but  not  rude,  awful  yet  not  austere, 
Is  to  the  mellow  Earth  as  Autumn  to  the  year. 

LX. 

Adieu  to  thee  again  !  a  vain  adieu  ! 
There  can  be  no  farewell  to  scene  like  thine  ; 
The  mind  is  colored  by  thy  every  hue ; 
And  if  reluctantly  the  eyes  resign 
Their   cherished    gaze    upon   thee,   lovely 
Rhine  !  2 

ing:  — "  The  Army  of  the  Sambre  and  Meuse  to  its 
Commander-in-Chief  Hoche."  This  is  all,  and  as 
it  should  be.  Hoche  was  esteemed  among  the  first 
of  France's  earlier  generals,  before  Bonaparte 
monopolized  her  triumphs.  He  was  the  destined 
commander  of  the  invading  army  of  Ireland. 

1  Ehrenbreitstein,  i.e.  "  the  broad  stone  of  honor," 
one  of  the  strongest  fortresses  in  Europe,  was  dis- 
mantled and  blown  up  by  the  French  at  the  truce 
of  Leoben.  It  had  been,  and  could  only  be,  reduced 
by  famine  or  treachery.  It  yielded  to  the  former, 
aided  by  surprise.  After  having  seen  the  fortifica- 
dons  of  Gibraltar  and  Malta,  it  did  not  much  strike 
by  comparison;  but  the  situation  is  commanding. 
General  Marceau  besieged  it  in  vain  for  some  time, 
and  I  slept  in  a  room  where  I  was  shown  a  window 
at  which  he  is  said  to  have  been  standing  observing 
the  progress  of  the  siege  by  moonlight,  when  a  ball 
struck  immediately  below  it. 

2  [On  taking  Hockheim,  the  Austrians,  in  one 
part  of  the  engagement,  got  to  the  brow  of  the  hill, 
whence  they  had  their  first  view  of  the  Rhine. 
They  instantly  halted  —  not  a  gun  was  fired  —  not 
a  voice  heard:  but  they  stood  gazing  on  the  river 
with  those  feelings  which  the  events  of  the  last  fif- 
teen years  at  once  called  up.  Prince  Schwartzen- 
berg  rode  up  to  know  the  cause  of  this  sudden  stop ; 
tlv:n  they  gave  three  cheers,  rushed  after  the  enemy, 
aj.  d  drove  them  into  the  water.] 


'Tis  with   the   thankful  glance   of   parting 

praise ; 
More  mighty  spots  may  rise  —  more  glar- 
ing shine, 
But  none  unite  in  one  attaching  maze 
The  brilliant,   fair,  and  soft,  —  the  glories  oi 
old  days, 

LXI. 
The  negligently  grand,  the  fruitful  bloom 
Of  coming  ripeness,  the  white  city's  sheen,. 
The  rolling  stream,  the  precipice's  gloom, 
The  forest's  growth,  and  Gothic  walls  be- 
tween, 
The  wild  rocks  shaped  as  they  had  turrets 

been 
In  mockery  of  man's  art;  and  these  withal 
A  race  of  faces  happy  as  the  scene, 
Whose  fertile  bounties  here  extend  to  all, 
Still   springing  o'er   thy  banks,  though  Em- 
pires near  them  fall. 

LXII. 

But  these  recede.     Above  me  are  the  Alps. 
The  palaces  of  Nature,  whose  vast  walls 
Have    pinnacled    in    clouds    their    snowy 

scalps, 
And  throned  Eternity  in  icy  halls 
Of  cold  sublimity,  where  forms  and  falls 
The  avalanche — the  thunderbolt  of  snow! 
All  that  expands  the  spirit,  yet  appalls, 
Gather  around  these  summits,  as  to  show 
How  Earth  may  pierce  to  Heaven,  yet  leave 

vain  man  below. 

LXIII. 
But  ere  these  matchless  heights  I  dare  to 

scan, 
There   is   a  spot  should  not  be  passed  ir. 

vain,  — 
Morat !  the  proud,  the  patriot  field  !  where 

man 
May  gaze  on  ghastly  trophies  of  the  slain, 
Nor  blush   for   those  who   conquered   on 

that  plain ; 
Here  Burgundy  bequeathed  his  tombless 

host, 
A  bony  heap,  through  ages  to  remain, 
Themselves  their  monument ;  —  the  Stygian 

coast 
Unsepulchred    they   roamed,   and    shrieked 

each  wandering;  srhost.3 


3  The  chapel  is  destroyed,  and  the  pyramid  oi 
bones  diminished  to  a  small  number  by  the  Burgun- 
dian  legion  in  the  service  of  France;  who  anxiously 
effaced  this  record  of  their  ancestors'  less  successful 
invasions.  A  few  stdl  remain,  notwithstanding  the 
pains  taken  by  the  Burgundians  for  ages  (all  who 
passed  that  way  removing  a  bone  to  their  own 
country),  and  the  less  justifiable  larcenies  of  the 
Swiss  postilions,  who  carried  them  off  to  sell  for 
knife-handles ;  a  purpose  for  which  the  whiteness 
imbibed  by  the  bleaching  of  years  had  rendered 


312 


CHILDF.    HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


LXIV. 

While  Waterloo  with  Cannae's  carnage  vies, 
Morat   and    Marathon  twin    names    shall 

stand ; 
They  were  true  Glory's  stainless  victories, 
Won  by  the  unambitious  heart  and  hand 
Of  a  proud,  brotherly,  and  civic  band, 
All   unbought   champions   in   no   princely 

cause 
Of  vice-entailed  Corruption  ;  they  no  land 
Doomed  to  bewail  the  blasphemy  of  laws 
Making  kings'  rights  divine,  by  some  Dra- 
conic clause. 

LXY. 

By  a  lone  wall  a  lonelier  column  rears 
A  gray  and  grief-worn  aspect  of  old  days  ; 
"lis  the  last  remnant  of  the  wreck  of  years, 
And  looks  as  with  the  wild-bewildered  gaze 
Of  one  to  stone  converted  by  amaze, 
Yet  still  with  consciousness ;   and  there  it 

stands 
Making  a  marvel  that  it  not  decays, 
When  the  coeval  pride  of  human  hands, 
Levelled  Aventicum,1  hath  strewed  her  sub- 
ject lands. 

LXVI. 
And  there — oh!  sweet  and  sacred  be  the 

name !  — 
Julia  —  the  daughter,  the  devoted — gave 
Her  youth  to  Heaven ;  her  heart,  beneath  a 

claim 
Nearest  to  Heaven's,  broke  o'er  a  father's 

grave. 
Justice  is  sworn  'gainst  tears,  and  hers  would 

crave 

The  life  she  lived  in ;  but  the  judge  was  just, 

And  then  she  died  on  him  she  could  not  save. 

Their  tomb  was  simple,  and  without  a  bust, 

And   held  within   their   urn   one   mind,  one 

heart,  one  dust.'2 


them  in  great  request.  Of  these  relics  I  ventured 
to  bring  away  as  much  as  may  have  made  a  quarter 
of  a  hero,  for  which  the  sole  excuse  is,  that  if  I  had 
not,  the  next  passer  by  might  have  perverted  them 
to  worse  uses  than  the  careful  preservation  which  I 
intend  for  them. 

1  Aventicum,  near  Morat,  was  the  Roman  capital 
of  Helvetia,  where  Avenches  now  stands. 

-  Julia  Alpinula,  a  young  Aventian  priestess, 
died  soon  after  a  vain  endeavor  to  save  her  father, 
condemned  to  death  as  a  traitor  by  Aulus  CEecina. 
Her  epitaph  was  discovered  many  years  ago;  —  it 
is  thus:  —  "  Julia  Alpinula:  Hie  jaceo.  lnfelicis 
patris  infelix  proles.  Deae  Aventian  Sacerdos.  Ex- 
orare  patris  necem  non  potui:  Male  mori  in  fatis 
illi  erat.  Vixi  annos  xxm."  —  I  know  of  no  human 
composition  so  affecting  as  this,  nor  a  history  of 
deeper  interest.  These  are  the  names  and  actions 
which  ought  not  to  perish,  and  to  which  we  turn 
with  a  true  and  healthy  tenderness,  from  the 
wretched  and  glittering  detail  of  a  confused  mass  of 
conquests  and  battles,  with  which  the  mind  is 
roused  for  a  time  to  a  false  and  feverish  sympathy, 


LXVI  I. 
But  these  are  deeds  which  should  not  pass 

away, 
And  names  that  must  not  wither,  though 

the  earth 
Forgets  her  empires  with  a  just  decay, 
The  enslavers  and  the  enslaved,  their  death 

and  birth ; 
The  high,  the  mountain-majesty  of  worth 
Should  be,  and  shall,  survivor  of  its  woe, 
And  from  its  immortality  look  forth 
In  the  sun's  face,  like  yonder  Alpine  snow,3 
Imperishably  pure  beyond  all  things  below. 

LXVI  II. 
Lake  Leman  woos  me  with  its  crystal  face, 
The  mirror  where  the  stars  and  mountains 

view 
The  stillness  of  their  aspect  in  each  trace 
Its  clear  depth  yields  of  their  far  height  and 

hue : 
There  is  too  much  of  man  here,  to  look 

through 
With  a  tit  mind  the  might  which  I  behold; 
But  soon  in  me  shall  Loneliness  renew 
Thoughts  hid,  but  not  less  cherished  than 

of  old, 
Ere  mingling  with  the  herd  had  penned  me 

in  their  fold. 

LXIX. 

To  fly  from,  need  not  be  to  hate,  mankind  : 
All  are  not  fit  with  them  to  stir  and  toil, 
Nor  is  it  discontent  to  keep  the  mind 
Deep  in  its  fountain,  lest  it  overboil 
In  the  hot  throng,  where  we  become  the 

spoil 
Of  our  infection,  till  too  late  and  long 
We  may  deplore  and  struggle  with  the  coil, 
In  wretched  interchange  of  wrong  for  wrong 
Midst   a    contentious  world,  striving  where 

none  are  strong. 

LXX. 

There,  in  a  moment,  we  may  plunge  our 

years 
In  fatal  penitence,  and  in  the  blight 
Of  our  own  soul  turn  all  our  blood  to  tears, 
And   color   things   to   come  with   hues  of 

Night; 
The  race  of  life  becomes  a  hopeless  flight 
To  those  that  walk  in  darkness  :  on  the  sea, 

from  whence  it  recurs  at  length  with  all  the  nausea 
consequent  on  such  intoxication.  [This  inscription 
is  a  forgery.     See  Quar.  Rev.  vol.  68,  p.  6i,  62.] 

3  This  is  written  in  the  eye  of  Mont  Blanc  (June 
3d,  1S16),  which  even  at  this  distance  dazzles  mine. 
—  (July  20th.)  I  this  day  observed  for  some  time 
the  distant  reflection  of  Mont  Blanc  and  Mont 
Argentiere  in  the  calm  of  the  lake,  which  I  was 
crossing  in  my  boat;  the  distance  of  these  moun- 
tains from  their  mirror  is  sixty  miles. 


CHILD E  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


313 


The  boldest  steer  but  where  their  ports  in- 
vite, 

But  there  are  wanderers  o'er  Eternity 
vVhose  bark  drives  on  and  on,  and  anchored 
ne'er  shall  be. 

LXXI. 

Is  it  not  better,  then,  to  be  alone, 
And  love  Earth  only  for  its  earthly  sake  ? 
By  the  blue  rushing  of  the  arrowy  Rhone,1 
Or  the  pure  bosom  of  its  nursing  lake, 
Which  feeds  it  as  a  mother  who  doth  make 
A  fair  but  froward  infant  her  own  care, 
Kissing  its  cries  away  as  these  awake  ;  — 
Is  it  not  better  thus  our  lives  to  wear, 
Than  join  the  crushing  crowd,  doomed  to  in- 
flict or  bear  ? 

LXXII. 
I  live  not  in  myself,  but  I  become 
Portion  of  that  around  me ;  and  to  me 
High  mountains  are  a  feeling,2  but  the  hum 
Of  human  cities  torture :  I  can  see 
Nothing  to  loathe  in  nature,  save  to  be 
A  link  reluctant  in  a  fleshly  chain, 
Classed  among  creatures,  when  the  soul  can 

flee, 
And  with  the  sky,  the  peak,  the  heaving 
plain 
Of  ocean,  or  the  stars,  mingle,  and  not  in  vain. 

LXXIII. 
And  thus  I  am  absorbed,  and  this  is  life ; 
I  look  upon  the  peopled  desert  past, 
As  on  a  place  of  agony  and  strife, 
Where,  for  some  sin,  to  sorrow  I  was  cast, 
To  act  and  suffer,  but  remount  at  last 
With  a  fresh  pinion  ;  which  I  feel  to  spring, 
Though  young,  yet  waxing  vigorous,  as  the 

blast 
Which  it  would   cope  with,  on  delighted 

wing, 
Spurning  the  clay-cold   bonds  which  round 

our  being  cling. 

LXXIV. 

And  when,  at  length,  the  mind  shall  be  all 

free 
From  what  it  hates  in  this  degraded  form, 
Reft  of  its  carnal  life,  save  what  shall  be 
Existent  happier  in  the  fly  and  worm, — 


1  The  color  of  the  Rhone  at  Geneva  is  blue,  to  a 
depth  of  tint  which  I  have  never  seen  equalled  in 
water,  salt  or  fresh,  except  in  ihe  Mediterranean 
and  Archipelago. 

2  ["  Mr.  Hobhouse  and  myself  are  just  returned 
from  a  journey  of  lakes  and  mountains.  We  have 
been  to  the  Grindelwald,  and  the  Jungfrau,  and 
stood  on  the  summit  of  the  Wengen  Alp;  and  seen 
torrents  of  900  feet  in  fall,  and  glaciers  of  all  dimen- 
sions; we  have  heard  shepherds'  pipes,  and  ava- 
lanches, and  looked  on  the  clouds  foaming  up  from 
the  valleys  below  us  like  the  spray  of  the  ocean  of 


When  elements  to  elements  conform, 
And  dust  is  as  it  should  be,  shall  I  not 
Feel  all  I  see,  less  dazzling,  but  more  warm  ? 
The  bodiless  thought  ?  the  Spirit  of  each 
spot  ? 
Of  which,  even  now,  I  share  at  times  the  im- 
mortal lot  ? 

LXXV. 

Are  not  the  mountains,  waves,  and  skies,  a 

part 
Of  me  and  of  my  soul,  as  I  of  them  ? 
Is  not  the  love  of  these  deep  in  my  heart 
With  a  pure  passion  ?  should  I  not  con- 
temn 
All  objects,  if  compared  with  these  ?  and 

stem 
A  tide  of  suffering,  rather  than  forego 
Such   feelings    for    the   hard   and   worldly 

phlegm 
Of  those  whose  eyes  are  only  turned  below, 
Gazing  upon  the  ground,  with  thoughts  which 
dare  not  glow  ? 

LXXVI. 
But  this  is  not  my  theme ;  and  I  return 
To  that  which  is  immediate,  and  require 
Those  who  find  contemplation  in  the  urn, 
To  look  on  One,  whose  dust  was  once  all  fire, 
A  native  of  the  land  where  I  respire 
The  clear  air  for  a  while  — -a  passing  guest, 
Where  he  became  a  being, — whose  desire 
Was  to  be  glorious :  'twas  a  foolish  quest, 
The  which  to  gain  and  keep,  he  sacrificed  all 
rest. 

LXXVII. 
Here  the  self-torturing  sophist,  wild  Rous- 
seau,3 
The  apostle  of  affliction,  he  who  threw 
Enchantment  over  passion,  and  from  woe 
Wrung  overwhelming  eloquence,  first  drew 
The  breath  which  made  him  wretched;  yet 

he  knew 
How  to  make  madness  beautiful,  and  cast 
O'er  erring  deeds  and  thoughts  a  heavenly 
hue4 

hell.  Chamouni,  and  that  which  it  inherits,  we 
saw  a  month  ago;  but,  though  Mont  Blanc  is 
higher,  it  is  not  equal  in  wildness  to  the  Jungfrau, 
the  Eighers,  the  Shreckhorn,  and  the  Rose  Glaciers. 
Besides  this,  I  have  been  over  all  the  Bernese  Alps 
and  their  lakes,  and  think  many  of  the  scenes 
(some  of  which  were  not  those  usually  frequented 
by  the  English)  finer  than  Chamouni.  I  have  been 
to  Clarens  again,  and  crossed  the  mountains  behind 
it." —  Byron's  Letters,  September,  1816.] 

3  ["  I  have  traversed  all  Rousseau's  ground  with 
the  'Heloise'  before  me,  and  am  struck  to  a 
degree  that  I  cannot  express  with  the  force  and 
accuracy  of  his  descriptions,  and  the  beauty  of 
their  reality.  Meillerie,  Clarens,  and  Vevay,  and 
the  Chateau  de  Chillon,  are  places  of  which  I  shall 
say  little;  because  all  I  could  say  must  fall  short  of 
the  impressions  they  stamp."  —  Byron's  Letters.] 

4  [  "  It  is  evident  that  the  impassioned  parts  01 


314 


CIIILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


Of  words,  like  sunbeams,  dazzling  as  they 

past 
The  eyes,  which  o'er  them  shed  tears  feelingly 

and  fast. 

LXXVIII. 
His  love  was  passion's  essence  —  as  a  tree 
On  fire  by  lightning ;  with  ethereal  flame 
Kindled  he  was,  and  blasted  ;  for  to  be 
Thus,   and    enamoured,  were  in   him  the 

same. 
But  his  was  not  the  love  of  living  dame, 
Nor  of  the  dead  who  rise  upon  our  dreams, 
But  of  ideal  beauty,  which  became 
In  him  existence,  and  o'erfiowing  teems 
Along  his  burning  page,  distempered  though 

it  seems. 

LXXIX. 
This  breathed  itself  to  life  in  Julie,  this 
Invested  her  with  all  that's  wild  and  sweet; 
This  hallowed,  too,  the  memorable  kiss  1 
Which  every  morn   his  fevered  lip  would 

greet, 
From   hers,   who   but   with   friendship  his 

would  meet ; 


Rousseau's  romance  had  made  a  deep  impression 
upon  the  feelings  of  the  noble  poet.  The  enthu- 
siasm expressed  by  Lord  Byron  is  no  small  tribute 
to  the  power  possessed  by  Jean  Jacques  over  the 
passions:  and,  to  say  truth,  we  needed  some  such 
evidence  ;  for,  though  almost  ashamed  to  avow  the 
truth,  —  still,  like  the  barber  of  Midas,  we  must 
speak  or  die,  —  we  have  never  been  able  to  feel  the 
interest  or  discover  the  merit  of  this  far-famed  per- 
formance. That  there  is  much  eloquence  in  the 
letters  we  readily  admit:  there  lay  Rousseau's 
strength.  But  his  lovers,  the  celebrated  St.  Preux 
and  Julie,  have  from  the  earliest  moment  we  have 
heard  the  tale  (which  we  well  remember),  down  to 
the  present  hour,  totally  failed  to  interest  us.  There 
might  be  some  constitutional  hardness  of  heart; 
but  like  Lance's  pebble-hearted  cur,  Crab,  we 
remained  dry-eyed  while  all  wept  around  us.  And 
still,  on  resuming  the  volume,  even  now,  we  can 
see  little  in  the  loves  of  these  two  tiresome  pedants 
to  interest  our  feelings  for  either  of  them.  To  state 
our  opinion  in  language  *  much  better  than  our  own, 
we  are  unfortunate  enough  to  regard  this  far-famed 
history  of  philosophical  gallantry  as  an  '  unfash- 
ioned,  indelicate,  sour,  gloomy,  ferocious  medley  of 
pedantr"  and  lewdness",  of  metaphysical  specula- 
tions, blended  with  the  coarsest  sensuality.'"  — 
Sir  Walter  Scott.] 

1  This  refers  to  the  account  in  his"  Confessions" 
of  passion  for  the  Comtesse  d'Houdetot  (the  mis- 
tress of  St.  Lambert),  and  his  long  walk  every 
morning,  for  the  sake  of  the  single  kiss  which  was 
the  common  salutation  of  French  acquaintance. 
Rousseau's  description  of  his  feelings  on  this  occa- 
sion may  be  considered  as  the  most  passionate,  yet 
not  impure,  description  and  expression  of  love  that 
ever  kindled  into  words;  which,  after  all,  must  be 
felt,  from  their  very  force,  to  be  inadequate  to  the 
delineation :  a  painting  can  give  no  sufficient  idea 
of  the  ocean. 


*  See  Burke's  Reflections. 


But  to  that  gentle  touch,  through  brain  and 

breast 
Flashed  the  thrilled  spirit's  love-devou.ing 

heat; 
In  that  absorbing  sigh  perchance  more  blest 
Than  vulgar  minds  may  be  with  all  they  seek 

possest.2 

LXXX. 

His  life  was  one  long  war  with  self-sought 

foes, 
Or  friends  by  him   self-banished;    for   his 

mind 
Had    grown    Suspicion's    sanctuary,    and 

chose 
For  its  own  cruel  sacrifice,  the  kind 
'Gainst  whom  he  raged  with  fury   strange 

and  blind. 
But    he    was   phrensied, —  wherefore,  who 

may  know  ? 
Since   cause   might  be  which   skill   could 

never  find ; 
But  he  was  phrensied  by  disease  or  woe. 
To    that   worst   pitch  of  all,  which  wears  a 

reasoning  show. 

LXXXI. 

For  then  he  was  inspired,  and   from   him 

came, 
As  from  the  Pythian's  mystic  cave  ot  yore, 
Those  oracles  which  set  the  world  in  flame. 
Nor  ceasecLto  burn  till  kingdoms  were  no 

more : 
Did  he  not  this  for  France?  which  lay  be- 
fore 
Bowed  to  the  inborn  tyranny  of  years  ? 
Broken  and  trembling  to  the  yoke  she  bore, 
Till  by  the  voice  of  him  and  his  compeers 
Roused  up  to  too  much  wrath,  which  follows 
o'ergrown  fears  ? 

LXXXII. 
They  made  themselves  a  fearful  monument ! 
The  wreck  of  old  opinions  —  things  which 

grew, 
Breathed  from  the  birth  of  time :  the  veil 

they  rent, 
And  what  behind  it  lay  all  earth  shall  view. 
But  good  with  ill  they  also  overthrew, 
Leaving  but  ruins,  wherewith  to  rebuild 


-  ["  Lord  Byron's  character  of  Rousseau  is  drawn 
with  great  force,  great  power  of  discrimination,  and 
great  eloquence.  I  know  not  that  lie  says  any  thing 
which  has  not  been  said  before,  —  but  what  he  says 
issues,  apparently,  from  the  recesses  of  his  own 
mind.  It  is  a  little  labored,  which,  possibly,  may 
be  caused  by  the  form  of  the  stanza  into  which  it 
was  necessary  to  throw  it;  but  it  cannot  be  doubted 
that  the  poet  felt  a  sympathy  for  the  enthusiastic 
tenderness  of  Rousseau's  genius,  which  he  could 
not  have  recognized  with  such  extreme  fervor,  ex- 
cept from  a  consciousness  of  having  at  least  occa- 
sionally experienced  similar  emotions."  —  Sir  & 
Brydges.] 


CHILD E  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


315 


Upon  the  same  foundation,  and  renew 
Dungeons  and  thrones,  which  the  same  hour 
refilled, 
&s    heretofore,  because  ambition  was    self- 
willed. 

Lxxxin. 
But  this  will  not  endure,  nor  be  endured ! 
Mankind  have  felt  their  strength,  and  made 

it  felt. 
They  might  have  used  it  better,  but,  allured 
By  their  new  vigor,  sternly  have  they  dealt 
On  one  another ;  pity  ceased  to  melt 
With  her  once  natural  charities.     But  they, 
Who  in  oppression's  darkness  caved  had 

dwelt, 
Theywere  not  eagles.nourished  with  the  day ; 
What  marvel  then,  at  times,  if  they  mistook 
their  prey  ? 

LXXXIV. 
What  deep  wounds  ever  closed  without  a 

scar  ? 
The  heart's  bleed  longest,  and  but  heal  to 

wear 
That  which  disfigures  it ;  and  they  who  war 
With  their  own  hopes,  and  have  been  van- 
quished, bear 
Silence,  but  not  submission :  in  his  lair 
Fixed  Passion  holds  his  breath,  until  the  hour 
Which  shall   atone   for  years ;  none   need 

despair : 
It  came,  it  cometh,  and  will   come,  —  the 
power 
f o  punish  or  forgive  —  in   one  we   shall   be 
slower. 

LXXXV. 

Clear,  placid  Leman  !  thy  contrasted,  lake, 
With  the  wild  world  I  dwelt  in,  is  a  thing 
Which  warns  me,  with  its  stillness,  to  forsake 
Earth's  troubled  waters  for  a  purer  spring. 
This  quiet  sail  is  as  a  noiseless  wing 
To  waft  me  from  distraction;  once  I  loved 
Torn  ocean's  roar,  but  thy  soft  murmuring 
Sounds  sweet  as  if  a  Sister's  voice  reproved, 
That  I  with  stern  delights  should  e'er  have 

been  so  moved. 

LXXXVI. 
It  is  the  hush  of  night,  and  all  between 
Thy  margin  and  the  mountains,  dusk,  yet 

clear, 
Mellowed  and  mingling,  yet  distinctly  seen, 
Save  darkened  Jura,   whose   capt  heights 

appear 
Precipitously  steep  ;  and  drawing  near, 
There  breathes  a  living  fragrance  from  the 

shore, 
Of  flowers  yet  fresh  with  childhood  ;  on  the 

ear 
Drops  the  light  drip  of  the  suspended  oar, 
Or   chirps   the  grasshopper  one  good-night 

carol  more ; 


LXXXVII. 
He  is  an  evening  reveller,  who  makes 
His  life  an  infancy,  and  sings  his  fill ; 
At  intervals,  some  bird  from  out  the  brakes 
Starts  into  voice  a  moment,  then  is  still. 
There  seems  a  floating  whisper  on  the  hill, 
But  that  is  fancy,  for  the  starlight  dews 
All  silently  their  tears  of  love  instil, 
Weeping  themselves  away,  till  they  infuse 
Deep  into    Nature's  breast  the  spirit  of  her 
hues.1 

LXXXVIII. 

Ye  stars  !  which  are  the  poetry  of  heaven, 
If  in  your  bright  leaves  we  would  read  the 

fate 
Of  men  and  empires,  —  'tis  to  be  forgiven, 
That  in  our  aspirations  to  be  great, 
Our  destinies  o'erleap  their  mortal  state, 
And  claim  a  kindred  with  you  ;  for  ye  are 
A  beauty  and  a  mystery,  and  create 
In  us  such  love  and  reverence  from  afar, 
That  fortune,  fame,  power,  life,  have  named 

themselves  a  star. 

LXXXIX. 

All  heaven  and  earth  are  still  —  though  not 
in  sleep, 

But   breathless,  as  we  grow  when   feeling 
most; 

And   silent,  as  we   stand   in   thoughts   too 
deep :  — 

All   heaven  and  earth  are  still :  From  the 
high  host 

Of  stars,  to  the  lulled  lake  and  mountain- 
coast, 

All  is  concentred  in  a  life  intense, 

Where  not  a  beam,  nor  air,  nor  leaf  is  lost, 

But  hath  a  part  of  being,  and  a  sense 
Of  that  which  is  of  all  Creator  and  defence. 

XC. 

Then  stirs  the  feeling  infinite,  so  felt 

In  solitude,  where  we  are  least  alone  ; 

A  truth,  which  through  our  being  then  doth 

melt 
And  purifies  from  self:  it  is  a  tone, 
The  soul  and  source  of  music,  which  makes 

known 
Eternal  harmony,  and  sheds  a  charm, 
Like  to  the  fabled  Cytherea's  zone, 
Binding  all   things  with  beauty  ;  —  'twould 

disarm 
The  spectre  Death,  had  he  substantial  power 

to  harm. 


1  [During  Byron's  stay  in  Switzerland,  he  took 
up  his  residence  at  the  Campagne-Diodati,  in  the 
village  of  Coligny.  It  stands  at  the  top  of  a  rapidly 
descending  vineyard;  the  windows  commanding, 
one  way,  a  noble  view  of  the  lake  and  of  Geneva: 
the  other,  up  the  lake.     Every  evening,  the  poet 


316 


CHILD E  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


xci. 

Not  vainly  did  the  early  Persian  make 
His  altar  the  high  places  and  the  peak 
Of  earth-o'ergazing    mountains,1  and  thus 

take 
A  fit  and  unwalled  temple,  there  to  seek 
The  Spirit  in  whose  honor  shrines  are  weak, 
Upreared   of   human   hands.     Come,  and 

compare 
Columns  and  idol-dwellings,  Goth  or  Greek, 
With  Nature's  realms  of  worship,  earth  and 

air, 
Nor  fix  on  fond  abodes  to  circumscribe  thy 

prayer ! 

XCII. 
The  sky  is  changed  !  — and  such  a  change  ! 

Oh  night, 
And  storm,  and  darkness,  ye  are  wondrous 

strong, 
Yet  lovely  in  your  strength,  as  is  the  light 
Of  a  dark  eye  in  woman  !     Far  along, 
From  peak  to  peak,  the  rattling  crags  among 
Leaps  the  live  thunder !     Not  from  one  lone 

cloud, 
But    every   mountain    now   hath   found   a 

tongue, 
And  Jura  answers,  through  her  misty  shroud, 
Back  to  the  joyous  Alps,  who  call  to  her  aloud  ! 


embarked  on  the  lake;  and  to  the  feelings  created 
by  these  excursions  we  owe  these  delightful  stanzas.] 
1  It  is  to  be  recollected,  that  the  most  beautiful 
and  impressive  doctrines  of  the  divine  Founder  of 
Christianity  were  delivered,  not  in  the  Temple, bui 
on  the  Mount.  To  waive  the  question  of  devotion, 
and  turn  to  human  eloquence,  — the  most  effectual 
and  splendid  specimens  were  not  pronounced  within 
walls.  Demosthenes  addressed  the  public  and  pop- 
ular assemblies.  Cicero  spoke  in  the  forum.  That 
this  added  to  their  effect  on  the  mind  of  both  orator 
and  hearers,  may  be  conceived  from  the  difference 
between  what  we  read  of  the  emotions  then  and 
there  produced,  and  those  we  ourselves  experience 
in  the  perusal  in  the  closet.  It  is  one  thing  to  read 
the  Iliad  at  Sigaeum  and  on  the  tumuli,  or  by  the 
springs  with  Mount  Ida,  above,  and  the  plain  and 
rivers  and  Archipelago  around  you,  and  another  to 
trim  your  taper  over  it  in  a  snug  library  —  this  I 
know.  Were  the  early  and  rapid  progress  of  what 
is  called  Methodism  to  be  attributed  to  any  cause 
beyond  the  enthusiasm  excited  by  its  vehement 
faith,  and  doctrines  (the  truth  or  error  of  which  I 
presume  neither  to  canvass  nor  to  question),  I 
should  venture  to  ascribe  it  to  the  practice  of 
preaching  in  the  fields,  and  the  unstudied  and  ex- 
temporaneous effusions  of  its  teachers.  The  Mus- 
sulmans, whose  erroneous  devotion  (at  least  in  the 
lower  orders)  is  most  sincere,  and  therefore  im- 
pressive, are  accustomed  to  repeat  their  prescribed 
orisons  and  prayers,  wherever  they  may  be,  at  the 
stated  hours  —  of  course,  frequently  in  the  open  air, 
kneeling  upon  a  light  mat  (which  they  carry  for 
the  purpose  of  a  bed  or  cushion  as  required) :  the 
ceremony  lasts  some  minutes,  during  which  they 
are  totally  absorbed,  and  only  living  in  their  sup- 
plication:  nothing  can  disturb  them.     On  me  the 


XCIII. 
And  this  is  in  the  night:  —  Most  glorious 

night ! 
Thou  wert  not  sent  for  slumber !  let  me  be 
A  sharer  in  thy  fierce  and  far  delight, — 
A  portion  of  the  tempest  and  of  thee  !  2 
How  the  lit  lake  shines,  a  phosphoric  sea, 
And  the  big  rain  comes  dancing  to  the  earth  i 
And  now  again  'tis  black,  —  and  now,  the 

glee 
Of  the  loud  hills  shakes  with  its  mountain- 
mirth, 
As  if  they  did   rejoice  o'er  a  young  earth- 
quake's birth.3 

xciv. 

Now,  where  the  swift  Rhone  cleaves  his  way 
between 

Heights  which  appear  as  lovers  who  have 
parted 

In  hate,  whose  mining  depths  so  intervene, 

That  they  can  meet  no  more,  though  broken- 
hearted ! 

Though  in  their  souls,  which  thus  each  other 
thwarted. 

Love  was  the  very  root  of  the  fond  rage 

Which  blighted  their  life's  bloom,  and  then 
departed ; 

Itself  expired,  but  leaving  them  an  age 
Of  years  all  winters,  —  war  within  themselves 
to  wage. 

'        xcv. 

Now,  where  the  quick  Rhone  thus  hath  cleft 

his  w:ay, 
The  mightiest  of  the  storms  hath  ta'en  his 

stand : 


simple  and  entire  sincerity  of  these  men,  and  the 
spirit  which  appeared  to  be  within  and  upon  them, 
made  a  far  greater  impression  than  any  general 
rite  which  was  ever  performed  in  places  of  worship, 
of  which  I  have  seen  those  of  almost  evi  ry  persua- 
sion under  the  sun:  including  most  of  our  own 
sectaries,  and  the  Greek,  the  Catholic,  the  Arme- 
nian, the  Lutheran,  the  Jewish,  and  the  Mahom- 
etan. Many  of  the  negroes,  of  whom  there  are 
numbers  in  the  Turkish  empire,  are  idolaters,  and 
have  free  exercise  of  their  belief  and  its  rites:  some 
of  these  I  had  a  distant  view  of  at  Patras;  and,  from 
what  I  could  make  out  of  them,  they  appeared  to 
be  of  a  truly  Pagan  description,  and  not  very  agree- 
able to  a  spectator. 

2  The  thunder-storm  to  which  these  lines  refer 
occurred  on  the  13th  of  June,  1816,  at  midnight.  I 
have  seen,  among  the  Acroceraunian  mountains  of 
Chimari,  several  more  terrible,  but  none  more  beau- 
tiful. 

8  ["  This  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  passages  of 
the  poem.  The  '  fierce  and  far  delight '  of  a  thun- 
der-storm is  here  described  in  verse  almost  as  vivid 
as  its  lightnings.  The  live  thunder  '  leaping  among 
the  rattling  crags'  —  the  voice  of  mountains,  as  if 
shouting  to  each  other  —  the  plashing  of  the  big 
rain  —  the  gleaming  of  the  wide  lake,  lighted  like  i 
phosphoric  sea  —  present  a  picture  of  sublime  terror, 


CHILD E   HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


317 


For  here,  not  one,  but  many,  make  their  play, 
And  fling  their  thunder-bolts  from  hand  to 

hand, 
Flashing  and  cast  around  :  of  all  the  band, 
The  brightest  through  these  parted  hills  hath 

forked 
His  lightnings,  —  as  if  he  did  understand, 
That  in  such  gaps  as  desolation  worked, 
There   the   hot   shaft   should  blast  whatever 

therein  lurked. 

XCVI. 
Sky,  mountains,    river,  winds,   lake,   light- 
nings !  ye ! 
With  night,  and  clouds,  and  thunder,  and 

a  soul 
To  make  these  felt  and  feeling,  well  may  be 
Things  that  have  made  me  watchful ;  the 

far  roll 
Of  your  departing  voices,  is  the  knoll 
Of  what  in  me  is  sleepless,  —  if  I  rest.1 
But  where  of  ye,  oh  tempests !  is  the  goal  ? 
Are  ye  like  those  within  the  human  breast  ? 
Or  do  ye  find,  at  length,  like  eagles,  some  high 
nest  ? 

XCVII. 

Could  I  embody  and  unbosom  now 

That  which  is  most  within  me,  —  could   I 

wreak 
My  thoughts   upon   expression,  and    thus 

throw 
Soul,  heart,  mind,  passions,  feelings,  strong 

or  weak, 
All  that  I  would  have  sought,  and  all  I  seek, 
Bear,  know,  feel,  and  yet  breathe  —  into  one 

word, 
And  that  one  word  were  Lightning,  I  would 

speak ; 
But  as  it  is,  I  live  and  die  unheard, 
With  a  most  voiceless  thought,  sheathing  it 

as  a  sword. 

yet  of  enjoyment,  often  attempted,  but  never  so  well, 
certainly  never  better  brought  out  in  poetry."  — 
Sir  Walter  Scott. ] 

1  [The  Journal  of  his  Swiss  tour,  which  Byron 
kept  for  his  sister,  closes  with  the  following  mourn- 
ful passage:  —  "  In  the  weather,  for  this  tour,  of  thir- 
teen days,  I  have  been  very  fortunate  —  fortunate 
in  a  companion  "  (Mr.  Hobhouse)  — "  fortunate  in 
our  prospects,  and  exempt  from  even  the  little  petty 
accidents  and  delays  which  often  render  journeys 
in  a  less  wild  country  disappointing.  I  was  dis- 
posed to  be  pleased.  I  am  a  lover  of  nature,  and 
an  admirer  of  beauty.  I  can  bear  fatigue,  and  wel- 
come privation,  and  have  seen  some  of  the  noblest 
views  in  the  world.  But  in  all  this,  —  the  recollec- 
tion of  bitterness,  and  more  especially  of  recent  and 
more  home  desolation,  which  must  accompany  me 
through  life,  has  preyed  upon  me  here;  and  neither 
the  music  of  the  shepherd,  the  crashing  of  the  ava- 
lanche, nor  the  torrent,  the  mountain,  the  glacier, 
the  forest,  nor  the  cloud,  have  for  one  moment 
lightened  the  weight  upon  my  heart,  nor  enabled 
me  to  lose  my  own  wretched  identity,  in  the  m>- 


XCVIII. 
The  morn  is  up  again,  the  dewy  morn, 
With  breath  all  incense,  and  with  cheek  all 

bloom, 
Laughing  the  clouds  away  with  playful  scorn, 
And  living  as  if  earth  contained  no  tomb,  — 
And  glowing  into  day  :  we  may  resume 
The  march  of  our  existence  :  and  thus  I, 
Still  on  thy  shores,  fair  Leman !  may  find 

room 
And  food  for  meditation,  nor  pass  by 
Much,  that  may  give  us  pause,  if  pondered 

fittingly. 

XCIX. 
Clarens  !  sweet  Clarens,'2  birthplace  of  deep 

Love, 
Thine  air  is  the  young  breath  of  passionate 

thought, 
Thy  trees  take  root  in  Love ;    the  snows 

above 
The  very  Glaciers  have  his  colors  caught, 
And     sunset    into     rose-hues    sees    them 

wrought 
By  rays  which  sleep   there    lovingly:  the 

rocks, 
The  permanent   crags,  tell   here  of  Love, 

who  sought 
In  them  a  refuge  from  the  worldly  shocks, 
Which  stir  and  sting  the  soul  with  hope  that 

woos,  then  mocks. 


Clarens!  by  heavenly  feet  thy  paths  are  trod, — 
Undying  Love's,  who  here  ascends  a  throne 
To  which  the  steps  are  mountains ;  where 

the  god 
Is  a  pervading  life  and  light,  —  so  shown 
Not  on  those  summits  solely,  nor  alone 
In  the  still  cave  and  forest ;  o'er  the  flower 


jesty,  and  the  power,  and  the  glory,  around,  above, 
and  beneath  me."] 

-  [Stanzas  xcix.  to  cxv.  are  exquisite.  They 
have  every  thing  which  makes  a  poetical  picture  of 
local  and  particular  scenery  perfect.  They  exhibit 
a  miraculous  brilliancy  and  force  of  fancy;  but  the 
very  fidelity  causes  a  little  constraint  and  labor  oi 
language.  The  poet  seems  to  have  been  so  en- 
grossed by  the  attention  to  give  vigor  and  fire  to 
the  imagery,  that  he  both  neglected  and  disdained 
to  render  himself  more  harmonious  by  diffuser 
words,  which,  while  they  might  have  improved  the 
effect  upon  the  ear,  might  have  weakened  the  im- 
pression upon  the  mind.  This  mastery  over  new 
matter  —  this  supply  of  powers  equal  not  only  to  an 
untouched  subject,  but  that  subject  one  of  peculiar 
and  unequalled  grandeur  and  beauty  —  was  suffi- 
cient to  occupy  the  strongest  poetical  faculties, 
young  as  the  author  was,  without  adding  to  it  all 
the  practical  skill  of  the  artist.  The  stanzas,  too, 
on  Voltaire  and  Gibbon  are  discriminative,  saga- 
cious, and  just.  They  are  among  the  proofs  of  that 
very  great  variety  of  talent  which  this  Canto  of 
Lord  Byron  exhibits.  —  Sir  E.  Brydges.\ 


318 


CHILD E  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


His  eye  is  sparkling,  and  his  breath  hath 

blown 
His  soft  and  summer  breath,  whose  tender 
power 
Passes  the  strength  of  storms  in  their  most 
desolate  hour.1 

CI. 

All  things  are  here  of  him;  from  the  black 

pines, 
Which  are  his  shade  on  high,  and  the  loud 

roar 
Of  torrents,  where  he  listeneth,  to  the  vines 
Which  slope  his  green  path  downward  to 

the  shore, 
Where  the   bowed  waters  meet  him,  and 

adore, 
Kissing  his   feet  with   murmurs;  and  the 

wood, 
The  covert  of  old  trees,  with  trunks  all  hoar, 
But  light  leaves,  young  as  joy,  stands  where 

it  stood, 
Offering  to  him,  and  his,  a  populous  solitude. 


1 "  Rousseau's  Heloise,  Lettre  17,  part.  4,  note. 
"  Ces  montagnes  sont  si  hautes  qu'une  demi-heure 
apres  le  soleil  couche,  leurs  sommets  sont  ^claires 
dc  ses  rayons;  dont  le  rouge  forme  sur  ces  cimes 
blanches  une  belle  conleur  de  rose,  qu'on  apper- 
coit  de  fort  loin."  —  This  applies  more  particularly 
to  the  heights  over  Meillerie.  — "  J'allai  a  Vevay  lo- 
ger  a  la  Clef,  et  pendant  deux  jours  que  j'y  restai  sans 
voir  personne,  je  pris  pour  cette  ville  un  amour  qui 
m'a  suividans  tousmes  voyages,  et  qui  m'yal'ait  £tab- 
lir  enfin  les  heros  de  mon  roman.  Jedirois  volontiers 
a  ceux  qui  ont  du  gout  et  qui  sont  sensibles:  Allez  a 
Vevay  —  visitez  le  pays,  examinez  les  sites,  prome- 
nez-vous  sur  le  lac,  et  dites  si  la  Nature  n'a  pas  fait  ce 
beau  pays  pour  une  Julie,  pour  une  Claire,  et  pour 
un  St.  Preux;  mais  ne  les  y  cherchez  pas."  —  Les 
Confessions,  Livre  iv.  p.  306.  Lyons,  ed.  1796. — 
In  July,  1816,  I  made  a  voyage  round  the  Lake  of 
Geneva;  and,  as  far  as  my  own  observations  have 
led  me  in  a  not  uninterested  nor  inattentive  survey 
of  all  the  scenes  most  celebrated  by  Rousseau  in  his 
"  Heloise,"  I  can  safely  say,  that  in  this  there  is  no 
exaggeration.  It  would  be  difficult  to  see  Clarens 
(with  the  scenes  around  it,  Vevay,  Chillon,  Bove- 
ret,  St.  Gingo,  Meillerie,  Eivan,  and  the  entrances 
of  the  Rhone)  without  being  forcibly  struck  with  its 
peculiar  adaptation  to  the  persons  and  events  with 
which  it  has  been  peopled.  But  this  is  not  all :  the 
feeling  with  which  all  around  Clarens,  and  the  oppo- 
site rocks  of  Meillerie,  is  invested,  is  of  a  still  higher 
and  more  comprehensive  order  than  the  mere  sym- 
pathy with  individual  passion ;  it  is  a  sense  of  the 
existence  of  love  in  its  most  extended  and  sublime 
capacity,  and  of  our  own  participation  of  its  good 
and  of  its  glory :  it  is  the  great  principle  of  the  uni- 
verse, which  is  there  more  condensed,  but  not  less 
manifested;  and  of  which,  though  knowing  our- 
selves a  part,  we  lose  our  individuality,  and  mingle 
in  the  beauty  of  the  whole.  —  If  Rousseau  had  never 
written,  nor  lived,  the  same  associations  would  not 
less  have  belonged  to  such  scenes.  He  has  added 
to  the  interest  of  his  works  by  their  adoption ;  he 
has  shown  his  sense  of  their  beauty  by  the  selection ; 
but  they  have  done  that  for  him  which  no  human 


A  populous  solitude  of  bees  and  birds, 
And  fairy-formed  and  many-colored  things 
Who  worship  him  with  notes  more  sweet 

than  words, 
And  innocently  open  their  glad  wings, 
Fearless  and  full  of  life  ;  the  gush  of  springs, 
And  fall  of  lofty  fountains,  and  the  bend 
Of  stirring  branches,  and   the   bud   which 

brings 
The  swiftest  thought  of  beauty,  here  extend, 
Mingling,   and    made    by    Love,   unto    one 

mighty  end. 

cm. 

He  who  hath  loved  not,  here  would  learn 

that  lore, 
And  make  his  heart  a  spirit ;  he  who  knows 
That  tender  mystery,  will  love  the  more, 
For  this  is  Love's  recess,  where  vain  men's 

woes. 
And  the  world's  waste,  have  driven  him  far 

from  those, 
For  'tis  his  nature  to  advance  or  die : 
He  stands  not  still,  but  or  decays,  or  grows 


being  could  do  for  them.  —  I  had  the  fortune  (good 
or  evil  as  it  might  be)  to  sail  from  Meillerie  (where 
we  landed  for  some  time)  to  St.  Gingo  during  a  lake 
storm,  which  added  to  the  magnificence  of  all 
around,  although  occasionally  accompanied  by  dan- 
ger to  the  boatf  which  was  small  and  overloaded. 
It  was  over  this  very  part  of  the  lake  that  Rousseau 
has  driven  the  boac  of  St.  Preux  and  Madame  Wol- 
mar  to  Meillerie  for  shelter  during  a  tempest.  On 
gaining  the  shore  at  St.  Gingo,  I  found  that  the 
wind  had  been  sufficiently  strong  to  blow  down 
some  fine  old  chestnut  trees  on  the  lower  part  of 
the  mountains.  On  the  opposite  height  of  Clarens 
is  a  chateau.  The  hills  are  covered  with  vineyards, 
and  interspersed  with  some  small  but  beautiful 
woods;  one  of  these  was  named  the  "  Bosquet  de 
Julie;  "  and  it  is  remarkable  that,  though  long  ago 
cut  down  by  the  brutal  selfishness  of  the  monks  of 
St.  Bernard  (to  whom  the  land  appertained),  that 
the  ground  might  be  inclosed  into  a  vineyard  for 
the  miserable  drones  of  an  execrable  superstition, 
the  inhabitants  of  Clarens  still  point  out  the  spot 
where  its  trees  stood,  calling  it  by  the  name  which 
consecrated  and  survived  them.  Rousseau  has  not 
been  particularly  fortunate  in  the  preservation  of 
the  "local  habitations"  he  has  given  to  "airy 
nothings."  The  Prior  of  Great  St.  Bernard  has  cut 
down  some  of  his  woods  for  the  sake  of  a  few  casks 
of  wine,  and  Bonaparte  has  levelled  part  of  the 
rocks  of  Meillerie  in  improving  the  road  to  the 
Simplon.  The  road  is  an  excellent  one,  but  I  can- 
not quite  agree  with  the  remark  which  I  heard 
made,  that  "  La  route  vaut  mieux  que  les  souve- 
nirs." [During  the  squall  off  Meillerie,  of  which 
Byron  here  makes  mention,  the  danger  of  the  party 
was  considerable.  At  Ouchy,  near  Lausanne,  he 
was  detained  two  days,  in  a  small  inn,  by  the 
weather:  and  here  it  was  that  he  wrote,  in  that 
short  interval,  the  "  Prisoner  of  Chillon;  "  "  add- 
ing," says  Moore,  "  one  more  deathless  association 
to  the  already  immortalized  localities  of  the  Lake."] 


CHILDE   HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


319 


Into  a  boundless  blessing,  which  may  vie 
With  the  immortal  lights,  in  its  eternity  ! 

Civ. 
'Twas  not  for  fiction  chose  Rousseau  this 

spot, 
Peopling  it  with  affections  ;  but  he  found 
It  was  the  scene  which  passion  must  allot 
To  the   mind's   purified  beings ;  'twas  the 

ground 
Where  early  Love   his  Psyche's   zone  un- 
bound. 
And  hallowed  it  with  loveliness  :  'tis  lone, 
And  wonderful,  and  deep,  and  hath  a  sound, 
And  sense,  and  sight  of  sweetness  ;  here  the 
Rhone 
Hath  spread  himself  a  couch,  the  Alps  have 
reared  a  throne. 

cv. 
Lausanne !  and  Ferney !  ye  have  been  the 

abodes 
Of  names  which   unto  you   bequeathed  a 

name ; 1 
Mortals,  who  sought  and  found,  by  danger- 
ous roads 
A  path  to  perpetuity  of  fame  : 
They  were  gigantic  minds,  and  their  steep 

aim 
Was,  Titan-like,  on  daring  doubts  to  pile 
Thoughts  which  should  call  down  thunder, 

and  the  flame 
Of  Heaven,  again  assailed,  if  Heaven  the 

while 
On  man  and  man's  research  could  deign  do 

more  than  smile. 

CVI. 
The  one  was  fire  and  fickleness,  a  child, 
Most  mutable  in  wishes,  but  in  mind, 
A   wit   as   various,  — gay,  grave,   sage,   or 

wild, — 
Historian,  bard,  philosopher,  combined; 
He  multiplied  himself  among  mankind, 
The  Proteus  of  their  talents  :  But  his  own 
Breathed  most  in  ridicule, — -which,  as  the 

wind, 
Blew  where  it  listed,  laying  all  things  prone, — 
Now  to  o'erthrow  a  fool,  and  now  to  shake  a 
throne. 

cvn. 

The    other,    deep    and    slow,    exhausting 

thought, 
And  hiving  wisdom  with  each  studious  year, 
In  meditation  dwelt,  with  learning  wrought, 
And  shaped  his  weapon  with  an  edge  severe, 
Sapping  a  solemn  creed  with  solemn  sneer  ; 
The  lord  of  irony, —  that  master-spell, 
Which  stung  his  foes  to  wrath,  which  grew 

from  fear. 


1  Voltaire  and  Gibbon. 


And  doomed  him  to  the  zealot's  ready  Hell, 
Which  answers  to  all  doubts  so  eloquently  well. 

CVIII. 

Yet,  peace  be  with  their  ashes,  —  for  by  them, 

If  merited,  the  penalty  is  paid  ; 

It  is  not  ours  to  judge,  —  far  less  condemn; 

The  hour  must  come  when  such  things  shall 
be  made 

Known  unto  all,  —  or  hope  and  dread  al- 
layed 

By  slumber,  on  one  pillow — ■  in  the  dust, 

Which,  thus  much  we  are  sure,  must  lie  de- 
cayed ; 

And  when  it  shall  revive,  as  is  our  trust, 
'Twill  be  to  be  forgiven,  or  suffer  what  is  just. 


But  let  me  quit  man's  works,  again  to  read 
His  Maker's,  spread  around  me,  and  sus- 
pend 
This  page,  which  from  my  reveries  I  feed, 
Until  it  seems  prolonging  without  end ; 
The  clouds  above  me  to  the  white  Alps  tend, 
And  I  must  pierce  them,  and  survey  whate'er 
May  be  permitted,  as  my  steps  I  bend 
To  their  most  great  and   growing   region, 
where 
The  earth  to  her  embrace  compels  the  powers 
of  air. 

ex. 

• 

Italia!  too,  Italia!  looking  on  thee, 
Full  flashes  on  the  soul  the  light  of  ages, 
Since  the  fierce  Carthaginian  almost  won 

thee, 
To  the  last  halo  of  the  chiefs  and  sages 
Who  glorify  thy  consecrated  pages  ; 
Thou  wert  the  throne  and  grave  of  empires ; 

still, 
The  fount  at  which   the  panting   mind    as- 
suages 
Her  thirst  of  knowledge,  quaffing  there  her 
fill, 
Flows  from  the  eternal  source  of  Rome's  im- 
perial hill. 

CXI. 
Thus  far  have  I  proceeded  in  a  theme 
Renewed  with  no  kind  auspices  :  —  to  feel 
We  are  not  what  we  have  been,  and  to  deem 
We  are  not  what  we  should  be,  —  and  to 

steel 
The  heart  against  itself;  and  to  conceal, 
With  a   proud   caution,   love,  or   hate,  01 

aught, — 
Passion  or  feeling,  purpose,  grief,  or  zeal.  — 
Which  is  the  tyrant  spirit  of  our  thought, 
Is  a  stern  task  of  soul:  —  No  matter, —  it  is 
taught.  » 

CXII. 
And  for  these  words,  thus  woven  into  song 
It  may  be  that  they  are  a  harmless  wile,— 


520 


CHILD E  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


The  coloring  of  the  scenes  which  fleet  along, 
Which  I  would  seize,  in  passing,  to  beguile 
My  breast,  or  that  of  others,  for  a  while. 
Fame  is  the  thirst  of  youth,  —  but  I  am  not 
So  voung  as  to  regard  men's  frown  or  smile, 
As  loss  or  guerdon  of  a  glorious  lot; 
I  stood  and  stand  alone,  —  remembered  or 
forgot. 

CX1II. 
j     I  have  not  loved  the  world,  nor  the  world  me  ; 
J     I  have  not   flattered    its    rank   breath,  nor 
!        bowed 
I     To  its  idolatries  a  patient  knee, — 

Nor  coined  my  cheek  to  smiles,  —  nor  cried 

aloud 
In  worship  of  an  echo;  in  the  crowd 
They  could  not  deem  me  one  of  such ;   I 

stood 
Among  them,  but  not  of  them  ;  in  a  shroud 
Of  thoughts  which  were  not  their  thoughts, 
and  still  could. 
Had  I  not  filed 1  my  mind,  which  thus  itself  sub- 
dued. 

CXIV. 

I  have  not  loved  the  world,  nor  the  world 

me,  — 
But  let  us  part  fair  foes ;  I  do  believe, 
Though  I  have  found  them  not,  that  there 

may  be 
Words  which  are  things,  —  hopes  which  will 

not  deceive, 
And  virtues  which  are  merciful,  nor  weave 
Snares  for  the  failing :  I  would  also  deem 
O'er    others'     griefs    that    some    sincerely 

grieve ;  - 
That  two, '  or  one,  are  almost  what    they 

seem, — 
That  goodness  is  no  name,  and  happiness  no 

dream.3 


i  "  If  it  be  thus, 

For  Eanquo's  issue  have  I  filed  my  mind." 
Macbeth. 

2  It  is  said  by  Rochefoucault,  that  "  there  is  al- 
ways something  in  the  misfortunes  of  men's  best 
friends  not  displeasing  to  them." 

3  ["  It  is  not  the  temper  and  talents  of  the  poet, 
but  the  use  to  which  he  puts  them,  on  which  his 
happiness  or  misery  is  grounded.  A  powerful  and 
unbridled  imagination  is  the  author  and  architect 
of  its  own  disappointments.  Its  fascinations,  its 
exaggerated  pictures  of  good  and  evil,  and  the 
mental  distress  to  which  they  give  rise,  are  the 
natural  and  necessary  evils  attending  on  that  quick 
susceptibility  of  feeling  and  fancy  incident  to  the 
poetical  temperament.  But  the  Giver  of  all  talents, 
while  he  has  qualified  them  each  with  its  separate 
and  peculiar  alloy,  has  endowed  the  owner  with  the 
power  of  purifying  and  refining  them.  But,  as  if  to 
moderate  the  arrogance  of  genius,  it  is  justly  and 
wisely  made  requisite,  that  he  must  regulate  and  tame 
the  fire  of  his  fancy,  and  descend  from  the  heights  to 
which  she  exalts  him,  in  order  to  obtain  ease  of 
mind  and  tranquillity.    The  materials  of  happiness, 


My  daughter!  with  thy  name  this  song  be< 

gun  — 
My  daughter !  with  thy  name  thus  much  shall 

end  — 
I  see  thee  not,  —  I  hear  thee  not,  —  but  none 
Can  be  so  wrapt  in  thee  ;  thou  art  the  friend 
To  whom  the  shadows  of  far  years  extend  : 
Albeit  my  brow  thou  never  should'st  behold, 
Mv  voice  shall  with  thy  future  visions  blend 
And  reach  into  thy  heart, — when  mine  is 

cold, — 
A  token  and  a  tone,  even  from  thy  father's 

mould. 

CXVI. 

To  aid  thy  mind's  development,  —  to  watch 
Thy  dawn  of  little  joys,  —  to  sit  and  see 
Almost  thy  very  growth,  —  to  view  thee  catch 
Knowledge  of    objects,  —  wonders  yet    to 

thee! 
To  hold  thee  lightly  on  a  gentle  knee, 
And  print  on  thy  soft  cheek  a  parent's  kiss,  — 
This,  it  should  seem,  was  not  reserved  for 

me ; 
Yet  this  was  in  my  nature  :  —  as  it  is, 
I  know  not  what  is  there,  yet  something  like  to 

this. 

CXVII. 
Yet,  though  dull  Hate  as  duty  should  be 

taught, 
I  know  that  thou  wilt  love  me;   thougl.  my 

name 
Should  be  shut  from  thee,  as  a  spell  still 

fraught 
With  desolation,  —  and  a  broken  claim  : 
Though  the  grave  closed    between   us,  — 

'twere  the  same, 
I  know  that  thou  wilt  love  me ;  though  to 

drain 
My  blood  from  out  thy  being  were  an  aifti, 
And  an  attainment,  —  all  would  be  in  vain,— 
Still  thou  would'st  love  me,  still  that  more  than 

life  retain. 

CXVIII. 
The  child  of  love,  —  though  born  in  bitter 

ness 
And  nurtured  iii  convulsion.     Of  thy  sire 
These  were  the  elements,  —  and  thine  ne 

less. 

thai  is,  of  such  degree  of  happiness  as  is  consistent 
with  our  present  state,  lie  around  us  in  profusion. 
But  the  man  of  talents  must  stoop  to  gather  them, 
otherwise  they  would  be  beyond  the  reach  of  tha 
mass  of  society,  for  whose  benefit,  as  well  as  for 
his,  Providence  has  created  them.  There  is  no 
royal  and  no  poetical  path  to  contentment  and 
heart's-ease:  that  by  which  they  are  attained  is 
open  to  all  classes  of  mankind,  and  lies  within  the 
most  limited  range  of  intellect.  To  narrow  our 
wishes  and  desires  within  the  scope  of  our  powers 
of  attainment;    to  consider  our  misfortunes,  how« 


CHILDE   HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


321 


As  yet  such  are  around  thee,  —  but  thy  fire 

Shall  be  more  tempered,  and  thy  hope  far 
higher. 

Sweet  be  thy  cradled  slumbers !     O'er  the 
sea, 

And  from  the  mountains  where  I  now  re- 
spire, 

Fain   would    I   waft    such    blessing    upon 
thee, 
As,  with  a  sigh,  I  deem  thou  might'st  have  been 
to  me ! 


ever  peculiar  in  their  character,  as  our  inevitable 
share  in  the  patrimony  of  Adam;  to  bridle  those 
irritable  feelings,  which  ungoverned  are  sure  to  be- 
come governors;  to  shun  that  intensity  of  galling 


and  self-wounding  reflection  which  our  poet  has  so 
forcibly  described  in  his  own  burning  language:  — 

'  I  have  thought 

Too  long  and  darkly,  till  my  brain  became, 
In  its  own  eddy,  boiling  and  o'erwrought, 

A  whirling  gulf  of  phantasy  and  flame  ' 

—  to  stoop,  in  short,  to  the  realities  of  life;  repent 
if  we  have  offended,  and  pardon  if  we  have  been 
trespassed  against;  to  look  on  the  world  less  as  out 
foe  than  as  a  doubtful  and  capricious  friend,  whose 
applause  we  ought  as  far  as  possible  to  deserve,  but 
neither  to  court  nor  contemn  —  such  seem  the  most 
obvious  and  certain  means  of  keeping  or  regaining 
mental  tranquillity. 

'  Semita  certe 

Tranquilly  per  virtutem  patet  unica  vitse.'"  ~ 
Sir  Walter  Scott,] 


CANTO  THE   FOURTH. 


Visto  ho  Toscana,  Lombardia,  Romagna, 
Quel  Monte  che  divide,  e  quel  che  serra 
Italia,  e  un  mare  e  1*  altro,  che  la  bagna. 

Ariosto,  Satira  iii. 


TO  JOHN  HOBHOUSE,  ESQ.  A.M.   F.R.S.   Etc.    Etc. 

Venice,  January  2,  1818. 

My  Dear  Hobhouse,  —  After  an  interval  of  eight  years  between  the  composition  of  the  first  and  last 
cantos  of  Childe  Harold,  the  conclusion  of  the  poem  is  about  to  be  submitted  to  the  public.  In  parting 
with  so  old  a  friend,  it  is  not  extraordinary  that  I  should  recur  to  one  still  older  and  better,  —  to  one  who 
has  beheld  the  birth  and  death  of  the  other,  and  to  whom  I  am  far  more  indebted  for  the  social  advantages 
bf  an  enlightened  friendship,  than  —  though  not  ungrateful — I  can,  or  could  be,  to  Childe  Harold,  for 
any  public  favor  reflected  through  the  poem  on  the  poet,  —  to  one,  .whom  I  have  known  long,  and  accom- 
panied far,  whom  I  have  found  wakeful  over  my  sickness  and  kind  in  my  sorrow,  glad  in  my  prosperity 
and  firm  in  my  adversity,  true  in  counsel  and  trusty  in  peril,  —  to  a  friend  often  tried  ant4  never  found 
wanting;  —  to  yourself. 

In  so  doing,  I  recur  from  fiction  to  truth;  and  in  dedicating  to  you  in  its  complete,  or  at  least  con- 
cluded state,  a  poetical  work  which  is  the  longest,  the  most  thoughtful  and  comprehensive  of  my  compo- 
sitions, I  wish  to  do  honor  to  myself  by  the  record  of  many  years'  intimacy  with  a  man  of  learning,  of 
talent,  of  steadiness,  and  of  honor.  It  is  not  for  minds  like  ours  to  give  or  to  receive  flattery;  yet  the 
praises  of  sincerity  have  ever  been  permitted  to  the  voice  of  friendship;  and  it  is  not  for  you,  nor  evei> 
for  others,  but  to  relieve  a  heart  which  has  not  elsewhere,  or  lately,  been  so  much  accustomed  to  the 
encounter  of  good-will  as  to  withstand  the  shock  firmly,  that  I  thus  attempt  to  commemorate  your  good 
qualities,  or  rather  the  advantages  which  I  have  derived  from  their  exertion.  Even  the  recurrence  of  the 
date  of  this  letter,  the  anniversary  of  the  most  unfortunate  day  of  my  past  existence,1  but  which  cannot 
poison  my  future  while  I  retain  the  resource  of  your  friendship,  and  of  my  own  faculties,  will  henceforth 
have  a  more  agreeable  recollection  for  both,  inasmuch  as  it  will  remind  us  of  this  my  attempt  to  thank 
you  for  an  indefatigable  regard,  such  as  few  men  have  experienced,  and  no  one  could  experience  without 
thinking  better  of  his  species  and  of  himself. 

It  has  been  our  fortune  to  traverse  together,  at  various  periods,  the  countries  of  chivalry,  history,  and 
jable — Spain,  Greece,  Asia  Minor,  and  Italy;  and  what  Athens  and  Constantinople  were  to  us  a  few 


1  His  marriage. 


322  CHILDE   HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 

years  ago,  Venice  and  Rome  have  been  more  recently.  The  poem  also,  or  the  pilgrim,  orbocvi,  have 
accompanied  me  from  first  to  last:  and  perhaps  it  may  be  a  pardonable  vanity  which  indur.es  me  to 
reflect  with  complacency  on  a  composition  which  in  some  degree  connects  me  with  the  spot  wnere  it  was, 
produced,  and  the  objects  it  would  fain  describe;  and  however  unworthy  it  may  be  deemed  of  those 
magical  and  memorable  abodes,  however  short  it  may  fall  of  our  distant  conceptions  and  immediate 
impressions,  yet  as  a  mark  of  respect  for  what  is  venerable,  and  of  feeling  for  what  is  g'.Crrlous,  it  has  been 
to  me  a  source  of  pleasure  in  the  production,  and  I  part  with  it  with  a  kind  of  regret,  which  I  hardly 
suspected  that  events  could  have  left  me  for  imaginary  objects. 

With  regard  to  the  conduct  of  the  last  canto,  there  will  be  found  less  of  the  pilgrim  than  in  any  of  the 
preceding,  and  that  little  slightly,  if  at  all,  separated  from  the  author  speaking  in  his  own  person.  The 
fact  is,  that  I  had  become  weary  of  drawing  a  line  which  every  one  seemed  determined  not  to  perceive : 
like  the  Chinese  in  Goldsmith's"  Citizen  of  the  World,"  whom  nobody  would  believe  to  be  a  Chinese,  it 
was  in  vain  that  I  asserted,  and  imagined  that  I  had  drawn,  a  distinction  between  the  author  and  the  pil- 
grim; and  the  very  anxiety  to  preserve  this  difference,  and  disappointment  at  finding  it  unavailing,  so  far 
crushed  my  efforts  in  the  composition,  that  I  determined  to  abandon  it  altogether — and  have  done  so. 
The  opinions  which  have  been,  or  may  be,  formed  on  that  subject,  are  noiv  a  matter  of  indifference;  the 
work  is  to  depend  on  itself  and  not  on  the  writer;  and  the  author,  who  has  no  resources  in  his  own  mind 
beyond  the  reputation,  transient  or  permanent,  which  is  to  arise  from  his  literary  efforts,  deserves  the 
fate  of  authors. 

In  the  course  of  the  following  canto  it  was  my  intention,  either  in  the  text  or  in  the  notes,  to  have 
touched  upon  the  present  state  of  Italian  literature,  and  perhaps  of  manners.  But  the  text,  within  the 
limits  I  proposed,  I  soon  found  hardly  sufficient  for  the  labyrinth  of  external  objects,  and  the  consequent 
reflections;  and  for  the  whole  of  the  notes,  excepting  a  few  of  the  shortest,  I  am  indebted  to  yourself,  and 
these  were  necessarily  limited  to  the  elucidation  of  the  text. 

It  is  also  a  delicate,  and  no  very  grateful  task,  to  dissert  upon  the  literature  and  manners  of  a  nation  so 
dissimilar;  and  requires  an  attention  and  impartiality  which  would  induce  us  —  though  perhaps  no  inat- 
tentive observers,  nor  ignorant  of  the  language  or  customs  of  the  people  amongst  whom  we  have  recently 
abode — to  distrust,  or  at  least  defer  our  judgment,  and  more  narrowly  examine  our  information.  The 
state  of  literary,  as  well  as  political  party,  appears  to  run,  or  to  have  run,  so  high,  that  for  a  stranger  to 
steer  impartially  between  them  is  next  to  impossible.  It  may  be  enough,  then,  at  least  for  my  purpose, 
to  quote  from  their  own  beautiful  language  —  "  Mi  pare  che  in  un  paese  tutto  poetico,  che  vante  la  lingua 
la  piu  nobile  ed  insieme  la  piu  dolce,  tutte  tutte  la  vie  diverse  si  possono  tentare,  e  che  sinche  la  patria  di 
Alfieri  e  di  Monti  non  ha  perduto  1'  antico  valore,  in  tutte  essa  dovrebbe  essere  la  prima."  Italy  has 
great  names  still  —  Canova,  Monti,  Ugo  Foscolo,  Pindemonte,  Visconti,  Morelli,  Cicognara,  Albrizzi, 
Mezzophanti,  Mai,  Mustoxidi,  Aglietti,  and  Vacca,  will  secure  to  the  present  generation  an  honorable 
place  in  most  of  the  departments  of  Art,  Science,  and  Belles  Lettres;  and  in  some  the  very  highest  — 
Europe  —  the  World  —  has  but  one  Canova. 

It  has  been  somewhere  said  by  Alfieri,  that  "  La  pianta  uomo  nasce  piu  robusta  in  Italia  che  in  qua- 
lunque  altra  terra  —  e  che  gii  stessi  atroci  delitti  che  vi  si  commettono  ne  sono  una  prova."  Without 
subscribing  to  the  latter  part  of  his  proposition,  a  dangerous  doctrine,  the  truth  of  which  may  be  disputed 
on  better  grounds,  namely  that  the  Italians  are  in  no  respect  more  ferocious  than  their  neighbors,  that 
man  must  be  wilfully  blind,  or  ignorantly  heedless,  who  is  not  struck  with  the  extraordinary  capacity  of 
this  people,  or,  if  such  a  word  be  admissible,  their  capabilities,  the  facility  of  their  acquisitions,  the 
rapidity  of  their  conceptions,  the  fire  of  their  genius,  their  sense  of  beauty,  and,  amidst  all  the  disadvan- 
tages of  repeated  revolutions,  the  desolation  of  battles,  and  the  despair  of  ages,  their  still  unquenched 
"longing  after  immortality,"  —  the  immortality  of  independence.  And  when  we  ourselves,  in  riding 
r.ound  the  walls  of  Rome,  heard  the  simple  lament  of  the  laborers' chorus,  "  Roma!  Roma!  Roma!  Roma 
non  e  piu  come  era  prima,"  it  was  difficult  not  to  contrast  this  melancholy  dirge  with  the  bacchanal  roar 
of  the  songs  of  exultation  still  yelled  from  the  London  taverns,  over  the  carnage  of  Mont  St.  Jean,  and 
the  betrayal  of  Genoa,  of  Italy,  of  France,  and  of  the  world,  by  men  whose  conduct  you  yourseli  have 
exposed  in  a  work  worthy  of  the  better  days  of  our  history.     For  me, — 

"  Non  movero  mai  corda 
Ove  la  turba  di  sue  ciance  assorda." 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


323 


What  Italy  has  gained  by  the  late  transfer  of  nations,  it  were  useless  for  Englishmen  to  inquire,  till 
it  becomes  ascertained  that  England  has  acquired  something  more  than  a  permanent  army  and  a  sus- 
pended Habeas  Corpus;  it  is  enough  for  them  to  look  at  home.  For  what  they  have  done  abroad,  and 
especially  in  the  South,  "  Verily  they  -will  have  their  reward,"  and  at  no  very  distant  period. 

Wishing  you,  my  dear  Hobhouse,  a  safe  and  agreeable  return  to  that  country  whose  real  welfare  can 
be  dearer  to  none  than  to  yourself.  I  dedicate  to  you  this  poem  in  its  completed  state;  and  repeat  once 

more  how  truly  I  am  ever. 

Your  obliged  and  affectionate  friend, 

Byron. 


I. 

I  STOOD  in  Venice,  on  the  Bridge  of  Sighs ;  * 
A  palace  and  a  prison  on  each  hand  : 
I  saw  from  out  the  wave  her  structures  rise 
As  from  the  stroke  of  the  enchanter's  wand  : 
A  thousand  years  their  cloudy  wings  expand 
Around  me,  and  a  dying  Glory  smiles 
O'er  the  far  times,  when  many  a  subject 

land 
Looked  to  the  winged  Lion's  marble  piles, 
Where  Venice  sate  in  state,  throned  on  her 

hundred  isles. 


She  looks  a  sea  Cybele,  fresh  from  ocean,2 
Rising  with  her  tiara  of  proud  towers 
At  airy  distance,  with  majestic  motion, 
A  ruler  of  the  waters  and  their  powers  : 
And   such  she  was ;  —  her  daughters  had 

their  dowers 
From  spoils  of  nations,  and  the  exhaustless 

East 
Poured  in  her  lap  all  gems   in  sparkling 

showers. 
In  purple  was  she  robed,  and  of  her  feast 
iVlonarchs  partook,  and  deemed  their  dignity 

increased. 


In  Venice  Tasso's  echoes  are  no  more,3 
And  silent  rows  the  songless  gondolier ; 
Her  palaces  are  crumbling  to  the  shore, 
And  music  meets  not  always  now  the  ear : 
Those  days  are  gone  —  but  Beauty  still  is 

here. 
States  fall,  arts  fade — but  Nature  doth  not 

die, 
Nor  yet  forget  how  Venice  once  was  dear, 
The  pleasant  place  of  all  festivity, 
The  revel  of  the  earth,  the  masque  of  Italy ! 


1  See  "  Historical  Notes,"  at  the  end  of  this 
Canto,  No.  I. 

2  Sabellicus,  describing  the  appearance  of  Venice, 
has  made  use  of  the  above  image,  which  would  not 
be  poetical  were  it  not  true.  —  "Quo  fit  ut  qui 
superne  urbem  contempletur,  turritam  telluris  imag- 
inem  medio  Oceano  figuratam  se  putet  inspicere." 

3  See  "  Historical  Notes,"  at  the  end  of  this 
Caato,  No.  II. 


IV. 

But  unto  us  she  hath  a  spell  beyond 

Her  name  in  story,  and  her  long  array 

Of    mighty    shadows,    whose    dim    forms 

despond 
Above  the  dogeless  city's  vanished  sway ; 
Ours  is  a  trophy  which  will  not  decay 
With  the  Rialto ;  Shylock  and  the  Moor, 
And  Pierre,  cannot  be  swept  or  worn  away  — 
The  keystones  of  the  arch  !  though  all  were 

o'er, 
For  us  repeopled  were  the  solitary  shore. 

V. 

The  beings  of  the  mind  are  not  of  clay; 

Essentially  immortal,  they  create 

And  multiply  in  us  a  brighter  ray 

And  more  beloved  existence :   that  which 

Fate 
Prohibits  to  dull  life,  in  this  our  state 
Of  mortal  bondage,  by  these   spirits  sup- 
plied, 
First  exiles,  then  replaces  what  we  hate ; 
Watering  the  heart  whose  early  flowers  have 
died, 
And  with  a  fresher  growth  replenishing  the 
void. 

VI. 

Such  is  the  refuge  of  our  youth  and  age, 
The  first  from  Hope,  the  last  from  Vacancy; 
And  this  worn  feeling  peoples  many  a  page, 
And,  may  be,  that  which  grows  beneath 

mine  eye. 
Yet  there  are  things  whose  strong  reality 
Outshines  our  fairy-land  ;  in  shape  and  hues 
More  beautiful  than  our  fantastic  sky, 
And   the  strange  constellations  which  the 

Muse 
O'er  her  wild  universe  is  skilful  to  diffuse: 

VII. 

I  saw  or  dreamed  of  such,  —  but  let  them 

go,— 
They  came  like  truth,  and  disappeared  liki- 

dreams ; 
And  whatsoe'er  they  were  —  are  now  but  so : 
I  could  replace  them  if  I  would ;  still  teems 


$24 


CHILD E   HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


My  mind  with  many  a  form   which   aptly 

seems 
Such  as  I  sought  for,  and  at  moments  found ; 
Let  these  too  go  —  for  waking  Reason  deems 
Such  overweening  phantasies  unsound, 
And  other  voices  speak,  and  other  sights  sur- 
round. 

VIII. 
I've  taught    me    other  tongues — and    in 

strange  eyes 
Have  made  me  not  a  stranger ;  to  the  mind 
Which  is  itself,  no  changes  bring  surprise; 
Nor  is  it  harsh  to  make,  nor  hard  to  find 
A  country  with  —  ay,  or  without  mankind  ; 
Yet  was  I  born  where  men  are  proud  to  be, 
Not  without  cause;  and  should  I  leave  be- 
hind 
The  inviolate  island  of  the  sage  and  free, 
And  seek  me  out  a  home  by  a  remoter  sea, 

IX. 

Perhaps  I  loved  it  well :  and  should  I  lay 
My  ashes  in  a  soil  which  is  not  mine, 
My  spirit  shall  resume  it  —  if  we  may 
Unbodied  choose  a  sanctuary.     I  twine 
My  hopes  of  being  remembered  in  my  line 
With  my  land's  language :  if  too  fond  and 

far 
These  aspirations  in  their  scope  incline, — 
If  my  fame  should  be,  as  my  fortunes  are, 
Of  hasty  growth  and  blight,  and  dull  Oblivion 

bar 

X. 
My  name  from  out  the  temple  where  the 

dead 
Are  honored  by  the  nations  —  let  it  be  — 
And  light  the  laurels  on  a  loftier  head ! 
And  be  the  Spartan's  epitaph  on  me  — 
"  Sparta   hath  many  a  worthier  son   than 

he."  i 
Meantime  I  seek  no  sympathies,  nor  need ; 
The  thorns  which  I  have  reaped  are  of  the 

tree 
I   planted,  —  they  have  torn  me,  —  and  I 

bleed : 
I  should  have  known  what  fruit  would  spring 

from  such  a  seed. 


The  spouseless  Adriatic  mourns  her  lord ; 
And,  annual   marriage   now  no   more   re- 
newed, 
The  Bucentaur  lies  rotting  unrestored, 
Neglected  garment  of  her  widowhood  ! 
St.  Mark  vet  sees  his  lion  where  he  stood2 
Stand,  but  in  mockery  of  his  withered  power, 


1  The  answer  of  the  mother  of  Brasidas,  the 
Lacedaemonian  general,  to  the  strangers  who 
Jraised  the  memory  of  hei  son. 

2  See  "  Historical  Notes,"  Nos.  III.,  IV.,  V. 


Over  the  proud  Place  where  an  Emperci 

sued, 
And  monarchs  gazed  and  envied  in  the  hour 
When  Venice  was  a  queen  with  an  unequalled 
dower. 

XII. 

The  Suabian  sued,  and  now  the  Austrian 
reigns  —  2 
.  An  Emperor  tramples  where  an  Emperoi 
knelt; 

Kingdoms  are  shrunk  to  provinces,  and 
chains 

Clank  over  sceptred  cities ;  nations  melt 

From  power's  high  pinnacle,  when  they 
have  felt 

The  sunshine  for  a  while,  and  downward  go 

Like  lauwine  loosened  from  the  mountain's 
belt; 

Oh  for  one  hour  of  blind  old  Dandolo  !  '- 
Th"  octogenarian  chief,  Byzantium's  conquer- 
ing foe. 

XIII. 

Before  St.  Mark  still  glow  his  steeds  of  brass. 
Their  gilded  collars  glittering  in  the  sun ; 
But  is  not  Doria's  menace  come  to  pass  ?3 
Are  they  not  bridled? — Venice,  lost  and 

won, 
Her  thirteen  hundred  years  of  freedom  done, 
Sinks,  like  a  sea-weed,  into  whence  she  rose ! 
Better  be  whelmed  beneath  the  waves,  and 

shun, 
Even  in  destruction's  depth,  her  foreign  foes, 
From  whom  submission  wrings  an  infamous 

repose. 

XIV. 

In  youth  she  was  all  glory, —  anew  Tyre, — 
Her  very  by-word  sprung  from  victory, 
The  "  Planter  of  the  Lion,"  4  which  through 

fire 
And  blood  she  bore  o'er  subject  e*.  -th  and 

sea; 
Though  making  many  slaves,  herseh    -til/ 

free, 
And  Europe's  bulwark  'gainst  nV  Ottomitev 
Witness  Troy's  rival,  Candia!  Vouch  it,  ye 
Immortal  waves  that  saw  Lepanto's  fight! 
For  ye  are  names  no  time  nor  tyranny  can 

blight. 

xv. 

Statues  of  glass — all  shivered — the  long 
file 

Of  her  dead  Doges  are  declined  to  dust ; 

But  where  they  dwelt,  the  vast  and  sumptu- 
ous pile 

Bespeaks  the  pageant  of  their  splend'd  trust  -, 


8  See  "  Historical  Notes,"  No.  VI. 

4  That  is,  the  Lion  of  St.  Mark,  the  standard  of 
the  republic,  which  is  the  origin  of  the  word  Panta- 
loon—  Piantaleone,  Pantaleon,  Pantaloon. 


CHIIDE   HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


321 


Their  sceptre  broken,  and  their  sword  in 

rust, 
Have  yielded  to  the  stranger :  empty  halls, 
Thin  streets,  and  foreign  aspects,  such  as 

must 
Too  oft  remind  her  who  and  what  enthralls,1 
Have  flung  a  desolate  cloud  o'er  Venice'  lovely 
walls. 

XVI. 

When  Athens'  armies  fell  at  Syracuse, 
And  fettered  thousands  bore  the  yoke  of  war, 
Redemption  rose  up  in  the  Attic  Muse,2 
Her  voice  their  only  ransom  from  afar : 
See  !  as  they  chant  the  tragic  hymn,  the  car 
Of  the  o'ermastered  victor  stops,  the  reins 
Fall  from  his  hands  —  his  idle  scimitar 
Starts  from  its  belt  —  he  rends  his  captive's 

chains, 
And  bids  him  thank  the  bard  for  freedom  and 

his  strains. 

XVII. 

Thus,  Venice,  if  no   stronger   claim  were 

thine, 
Were  all  thy  proud  historic  deeds  forgot, 
Thy  choral  memory  of  the  Bard  divine, 
Thv  love  of  Tasso,  should  have  cut  the  knot 
Which  ties  thee  to  thy  tyrants ;  and  thy  lot 
Is  shameful  to  the  nations,  —  most  of  all, 
Albion !  to  thee :  the  Ocean  queen  should 

not 
Abandon  Ocean's  children  ;  in  the  fall 
Of  Venice  think  of  thine,  despite  thy  watery 

wall. 

XVIII. 

I  loved  her  from  my  boyhood  —  she  to  me 
Was  as  a  fairy  city  of  the  heart, 
Rising  like  water-columns  from  the  sea, 
Of  joy  the  sojourn,  and  of  wealth  the  mart; 
And  Otway,  Radcliffe,  Schiller,  Shakspeare's 

art.3 
Had  stamped  her  image  in  me,  and  even  so, 
Although  I  found  her  thus,  we  did  not  part, 
Perchance  even  dearer  in  her  day  of  woe, 
Than  when  she  was  a  boast,  a  marvel,  and  a 

show. 

XIX. 

I  can  repeople  with  the  past  —  and  of 
The  present  there  is  still  for  eye  and  thought, 
And  meditation  chastened  down,  enough  ; 
And   more,  it   may  be,  than   I    hoped   or 

sought ; 
And  of  the  happiest  moments  which  were 

wrought 
Within  the  web  of  my  existence,  some 


1  See  "  Historical  Notes,"  at  the  end  of  this 
Canto,  No.  VII. 

2  The  story  is  told  in  Plutarch's  Life  of  Nicias. 

3  Venice  Preserved;  Mysteries  of  Udolpho;  the 
Ghost  Seer,  or  Armenian;  the  Merchant  of  Venice; 
Othello. 


From  thee,  fair  Venice!  have  their  colors 

caught  : 
There  are  some  feelings  Time  cannot  be> 

numb, 
Nor  Torture  shake,  or  mine  would  now  be 

cold  and  dumb. 

XX. 
But  from  their  nature  will  the  tannengrow4 
Loftiest  on  loftiest  and  least  sheltered  rocks, 
Rooted  in  barrenness,  where  nought  below 
Of  soil  supports  them    'gainst   the  Alpine 

shocks 
Of  eddying  storms ;  yet  springs  the  trunk, 

and  mocks 
The   howling  tempest,  till   its   height   and 

frame 
Are  worthy  of  the  mountains  from  whose 

blocks 
Of  bleak,  gray  granite,  into  life  it  came, 
And  grew  a  giant  tree  ;  —  the  mind  may  grow 

the  same. 

XXI. 

Existence  may  be  born,  and  the  deep  root 
Of  life  and  sufferance  make  its  firm  abode 
In  bare  and  desolated  bosoms  :  mute 
The  camel  labors  with  the  heaviest  load, 
And  the  wolf  dies  in  silence,  —  not  bestowed 
In  vain  should  such  example  be;  if  they, 
Things  of  ignoble  or  of  savage  mood, 
Endure  and  shrink  not,  we  of  nobler  clay 
May  temper  it  to  bear,  —  it  is  but  for  a  day. 

XXII. 
All  suffering  doth  destroy,  or  is  destroyed", 
Even  by  the  sufferer;  and,  in  each  event, 
Ends  :  —  Some,  with  hope  replenished  and 

rebuoyed, 
Return  to  whence  they  came—  with  like  in- 
tent, 
And  weave  their  web  again  ;  some,  bowed 

and  bent, 
Wax  gray  and  ghastly,  withering  ere  their 

time, 
And   perish  with  the  reed  on  which   they 

leant ; 
Some  seek  devotion,  toil,  war,  good  or  crime, 
According  as  their  souls  were  formed  to  sink 
or  climb : 

XXIII. 
But  ever  and  anon  of  griefs  subdued 
There  comes  a  token  like  a  scorpion's  sting, 
Scarce  seen,  but  with  fresh  bitterness  im- 
bued ; 
And  slight  withal  may  be  the  things  which 
bring 

4  Tanntn  is  the  plural  of  tanne,  a  species  of  fir 
peculiar  to  the  Alps,  which  only  thrives  in  very 
rocky  parts,  where  scarcely  soil  sufficient  for  its 
nourishment  can  be  found.  On  these  spots  it 
grows  to  a  greater  height  than  any  other  mountain 
tree. 


$26 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


Back  on  the  heart  the  weight  which  it  would 

flinS 
Aside  forever:  it  may  be  a  sound  — 

A    tone    o^"    music  —  summer's     eve  —  or 

spring  — 
A  flower — the  wind  —  the  ocean  —  which 

shall  wound, 
Striking  the  electric  chain  wherewith  we  are 

darkly  bound ; 

XXIV. 

And  how  and  why  we  know  not,  nor  can 

trace 
Home    to  its  cloud   this    lightning  of  the 

mind, 
But  feel  the  shock  renewed,  nor  can  efface 
The  blight  and  blackening  which  it  leaves 

behind, 
Which  out  of  things  familiar,  undesigned, 
When  least  we  deem  of  such,  calls  up  to 

view 
The  spectres  whom  no  exorcism  can  bind, 
The   cold  — the  changed  —  perchance   the 

dead —  anew, 
The  mourned,  the  loved,  the  lost  —  too  many  ! 

—  yet  how  few  ! 

XXV. 
But  my  soul  wanders ;  I  demand  it  back 
To  meditate  amongst  decay,  and  stand 
A  ruin  amidst  ruins;  there  to  track 
Fallen  states  and  buried  greatness,  o'er  a 

land 
Which  was  the  mightiest  in   its  old  com- 
mand, 
And  is  the  loveliest,  and  must  ever  be 
The   master-mould   of    Nature's   heavenly 

hand, 
Wherein  were  cast  the  heroic  and  the  free, 
The  beautiful,  the  brave  —  the  lords  of  earth 
and  sea. 

XXVI. 

The   commonwealth  of  kings,  the  men  of 

Rome ! 
And  even  since,  and  now,  fair  Italy ! 
Thou  art  the  garden  of  the  world,  the  home 
Of  all  Art  yields,  and  Nature  1  can  decree ; 
Even  in  thy  desert,  what  is  like  to  thee  ? 
Thy  very  weeds  are  beautiful,  thy  waste 


1  [The  whole  of  this  canto  is  rich  in,  description 
of  Nature.  The  love  of  Nature  now  appears  as  a 
distinct  passion  in  Byron's  mind.  It  is  a  love  that 
does  not  rest  in  beholding,  nor  is  satisfied  with  de- 
scribing, what  is  before  him.  It  has  a  power  and 
being,  blending  itself  with  the  poet's  very  life. 
Though  Byron  had,  with  his  real  eyes,  perhaps, 
seen  more  of  Nature  than  ever  was  before  per- 
mitted to  any  great  poet,  yet  he  never  before 
seemed  to  open  his  whole  heart  to  her  genial  im- 
pulses. But  in  this  he  is  changed:  and  in  this  and 
the  fourth  Cantos  of  Childe  Harold,  he  will  stand 
a  comparison  with  the  best  descriptive  poets,  in 
this  age  of  descriptive  poetry. — Professor  Wilson.] 


More  rich  than  other  climes'  fertility; 
Thy  wreck  of  glory,  and  thy  ruin  graced 
With  an  immaculate  charm  which  can  not  be 
defaced. 


The  moon  is  up,  and  yet  it  is  not  night  — 
Sunset  divides  the  sky  with  her  — a 
Of  glorv  streams  along  the  Alpiiu-  height 
Of  blue  Friuli's  mountains;   Heaven  is  free 
From  clouds,  but  of  all  colors  seems  to  be 
Melted  to  one  vast  Iris  of  the  West, 
Where  the  Day  joins  the  past  Eternity ; 
While,   on   the   other  hand,  meek    Dian's 

crest 
Floats  through  the  azure  air  —  an  island  of  the 

blest !  •! 

XXVHL 

A  single  star  is  at  her  side,  and  reigns 
With  her  o'er  half  the  lovely  heaven ;  but 

still 
Yon  sunnv  sea  heaves  brightly,  and  remains 
Rolled  o'er  the  peak  of  the  far  Rh.etian  hill, 
A-  1  ). iv  and  Night  contending  were,  until 
Nature  reclaimed  her  order  :  — gently  flows 
The  deep-dyed  Brenta,  where  their  hues 

instil 
The  odorous  purple  of  a  new-born  rose, 
Which    streams    upon    her    stream,    and 

glassed  within  it  glows, 


Filled  with  the  face  of  heaven,  which,  from 

afar 
Comes  down  upon  the  waters ;  all  its  hues, 
From  the  rich  sunset  to  the  rising  star, 
Their  magical  variety  diffuse  : 
And   now   they   change;    a  paler   shadow 

strews 
Its  mantle  o'er  the  mountains  ;  parting  day 
Dies  like   the   dolphin,  whom   each   pang 

imbues 
With  a  new  color  as  it  gasps  away, 
The  last  still    loveliest,  till  — 'tis  gone  — and 

all  is  gray. 

xxx. 

There  is  a  tomb  in  Arqua ;  —  reared  in  air, 
Pillared  in  their  sarcophagus,  repose 
The  bones  of  Laura's  lover  :  here  repair 
Many  familiar  with  his  well-sung  woes 
The  pilgrims  of  his  genius.     He  arose 
To  raise  a  language,  and  his  land  reclaim 
From  the  dull  yoke  of  her  barbaric  foes  : 


2  The  above  description  may  seem  fantastical  or 
exaggerated  to  those  who  have  never  seen  an 
Oriental  or  an  Italian  sky,  yet  it  is  but  a  literal  and 
hardly  sufficient  delineation  of  an  August  evening 
(the  eighteenth),  as  contemplated  in  one  of  many 
rides  along  the  banks  of  the  Brenta,  near  La  Mira. 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


327 


Watering  the  tree  which  bears  his  lady's 
name  1 
With  his  melodious  tears,  he  gave  himself  to 
fame. 

XXXI. 

They  keep   his   dust  in  Arqua,  where   he 

died ;  1 
The  mountain-village  where  his  latter  days 
Went  down  the  vale  of  years ;  and  'tis  their 

pride  — 
An  honest  pride  —  and  let  it  be  their  praise, 
To  offer  to  the  passing  stranger's  gaze 
His  mansion  and  his  sepulchre  ;  both  plain 
And  venerably  simple,  such  as  raise 
A  feeling  more  accordant  with  his  strain 
Than  if  a  pyramid  formed  his  monumental 

fane. 

XXXII. 

And  the  soft  quiet  hamlet  where  he  dwelt2 
Is  one  of  that  complexion  which  seems  made 
For  those  who  their  mortality  have  felt, 
And  sought  a  refuge  from  their  hopes  de- 
cayed 
In  the  deep  umbrage  of  a  green  hill's  shade, 
Which  shows  a  distant  prospect  far  away 
Of  busy  cities,  now  in  vain  displayed, 
For  they  can  lure  no  further ;  and  the  ray 
Of  a  bright  sun  can  make  sufficient  holiday, 

XXXIII. 

Developing    the    mountains,    leaves,    and 

flowers, 
And  shining  in  the  brawling  brook,  where-by, 
Clear  as  its   current,  glide   the  sauntering 

hours 
With  a  calm  languor,  which,  though  to  the  eye 
Idlesse  it  seem,  hath  its  morality. 
If  from  society  we  learn  to  live, 


1  See  "  Historical  Notes,"  Nos.  VIII.  and  IX. 

2  ["  Halfway  up 

He  built  his  house,  whence  as  by  stealth  he 
caught 

Among  the  hills,  a  glimpse  of  busy  life 

That  soothed,  not  stirred." 

"  I  have  built,  among  the  Euganean  hills,  a 
small  house,  decent  and  proper;  in  which  I  hope  to 
pass  the  rest  of  my  days,  thinking  always  of  my 
dead  or  absent  friends."  Among  those  still  living 
was  Boccaccio,  who  is  thus  mentioned  by  him  in  his 
will:  —  "To  Don  Giovanni  of  Certaldo,  for  a 
winter  gown  at  his  evening  studies,  I  leave  fifty 
golden  florins;  truly,  little  enough  for  so  great  a 
man."  When  the  Venetians  overran  the  country, 
Petrarch  prepared  for  flight.  "  Write  your  Name 
over  your  door,"  said  one  of  his  friends,  "  and  you 
will  be  safe."  "  I  am  not  sure  of  that,"  replied 
Petrarch,  and  fled  with  his  books  to  Padua.  His 
books  he  left  to  the  republic  of  Venice,  laying,  as  it 
were,  a  foundation  for  the  library  of  St.  Mark;  but 
they  exist  no  longer.  His  legacy  to  Francis 
Carrara,  a  Madonna  painted  by  Giotto,  is  still  pre- 
served in  the  Cathedral  of  Padua.  —  Rogers.] 


'Tis  solitude  should  teach  us  how  to  die ; 
It  hath  no  flatterers ;  vanity  can  give 
No  hollow  aid;   alone  —  man  with  his  God 
must  strive : 

XXXIV. 
Or,  it  may  be,  with  demons,  who  impair3 
The  strength  of  better  thoughts,  and  seek 

their  prey 
In  melancholy  bosoms,  such  as  were 
Of  moody  texture  from  their  earliest  day, 
And  loved  to  dwell  in  darkness  and  dismay 
Deeming  themselves  predestined  to  a  doom 
Which  is  not  of  the  pangs  that  pass  away ; 
Making  the  sun  like  blood,  the  earth  a  tomb, 
The  tomb  a  hell,  and  hell  itself  a  murkiei 

gloom. 

xxxv. 
Ferrara ! 4    in    thy  wide   and  grass-grown 

streets, 
Whose  symmetry  was  not  for  solitude, 
There  seems  as  'twere  a  curse  upon  the  seats 
Of  former  sovereigns,  and  the  antique  brood 
Of  Este,  which  for  many  an  age  made  good 
Its  strength  within  thy  walls,  and  was  of 

yore 
Patron  or  tyrant,  as  the  changing  mood 
Of  petty  power  impelled,  of  those  who  wore 
The  wreath  which   Dante's  brow  alone  had 

worn  before. 

XXXVI. 
And  Tasso  is  their  glory  and  their  shame. 
Hark  to  his  strain  !  and  then  survey  his  cell ! 
And  see  how  dearly  earned  Torquato'sfame, 
And  where  Alfonso  bade  his  poet  dwell : 
The  miserable  despot  could  not  quell 
The  insulted  mind  he  sought  to  quench,  and 

blend 
With  the  surrounding  maniacs,  in  the  hell 
Where  he  had  plunged  it.     Glory  without 

end 
Scattered  the  clouds  away  —  and  on  that  name 

attend 

XXXVII. 
The  tears  and  praises  of  all  time  ;  while  thine 
Would  rot  in  its  oblivion  —  in  the  sink 
Of  worthless  dust,  which  from  thy  boasted 

line 
Is  shaken  into  nothing;  but  the  link 
Thou  formest  in  his  fortunes  bids  us  think 
Of  thy  poor  malice,  naming  theewith  scorn — 
Alfonso  !  how  thy  ducal  pageants  shrink 

3  The  struggle  is  to  the  full  as  likely  to  be  with 
demons  as  with  our  better  thoughts.  Satan  chose 
the  wilderness  for  the  temptation  of  our  Saviour. 
And  our  unsullied  John  Locke  preferred  the  pres- 
ence of  a  child  to  complete  solitude. 

4  [In  April,  1817,  Eyron  visited  Ferrara,  went  over 
the  castle,  cell,  etc.,  and  wrote,  a  few  days  after,  the 
Lament  of  Tasso.] 


J28 


CHILD E  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


From  thee !  if  in  another  station  born, 
Scarce  fit  to  be  the  slave  of  hira  thou  mad'st 
to  mourn. 

XXXVIII. 

Thou!  formed  to  eat,  and  be  despised,  and 

die, 
Even  as  the  beasts  that  perish,  save  that  thou 
Hadst  a  more  splendid  trough  and  wider  sty  : 
He  !  with  a  glory  round  his  furrowed  brow, 
Which  emanated  then,  and  dazzles  now, 
In  face  of  all  his  foes,  the  Cruscan  quire, 
And  Boileau,  whose  rash  envy  could  allow  l 
No    strain    which    shamed    his    country's 

creaking  lyre, 
That  whetstone  of  the  teeth — monotony  in 

wire ! 

XXXIX. 

Peace  to  Torquato's  injured  shade !  'twas 

his 
In  life   and  death  to  be  the  mark  where 

Wrong 
Aimed  with   her  poisoned  arrows;  but  to 

miss. 
Oh,  victor  unsurpassed  in  modern  song  ! 
Each  year  brings  forth  its  millions  ;  but  how 

long 
The  tide  of  generations  shall  roll  on, 
And  not  the  whole  combined  and  countless 

throng 
Compose  a  mind  like  thine  ?  though  all  in 

one 
Condensed  their  scattered  rays,  they  would 

not  form  a  sun. 

XL. 

Great  as  thou  art,  yet  paralleled  by  those, 
Thy  countrymen,  before  thee  born  to  shine, 
The  Bards  of  Hell  and  Chivalry :  first  rose 
The  Tuscan  father's  comedy  divine ; 
Then,  not  unequal  to  the  Florentine, 
The  southern  Scott,-  the  minstrel  who  called 

forth 
A  new  creation  with  his  magic  line, 
And,  like  the  Ariosto  of  the  North, 
Sang     ladye-love     and    war,    romance     and 

knightly  worth. 


1  See  "  Historical  Notes,"  at  the  end  of  this 
Canto,  No.  X. 

2  ["  Scott,"  says  Byron,  in  his  MS.  Diary,  for 
1821,  "  is  certainly  the  most  wonderful  writer  of  the 
Aay.  His  novels  are  a  new  literature  in  them- 
selves, and  his  poetry  as  good  as  any  —  if  not  better 
(only  on  an  erroneous  system),  —  and  only  ceased 
to  be  so  popular,  because  the  vulgar  were  tired  of 
hearing  '  Aristides  called  the  Just,'  and  Scott  the 
best,  and  ostracized  him.  I  know  no  reading  to 
which  I  fall  with  such  alacrity  as  a  work  of  his.  I 
love  him,  too,  for  his  manliness  of  character,  for  the 
extreme  pleasantness  of  his  conversation,  and  his 
good  nature  towards  myself,  personally.  May  he 
pr&iper!  for  he  deserves  it."  In  a  letter,  written 
to  Sir  Walter,  from  Pisa,  in  1822,  he  says —  "  I  owe 
to  you  far  more  than  the  usual  obligation  for  the 


XLI. 
The  lightning  rent  from  Ariosto's  bust* 
The  iron  crown  of  laurel's  mimicked  leaves; 
Nor  was  the  ominous  element  unjust, 
For  the   true    laurel-wreath   which    Glory 

weaves 
Is  of  the  tree  no  bolt  of  thunder  cleaves,3 
And  the  false  semblance  but  disgraced  his 

brow ; 
Yet  still,  if  fondly  Superstition  grieves, 
Know,  that  the  lightning  sanctifies  below3 
Whate'er   it   strikes; — yon  head    is    doublj 

sacred  now. 

XLII. 
Italia!  oh  Italia!  thou  who  hast 
The  fatal  gift  of  beauty,  which  became 
A  funeral  dower  of  present  woes  and  past, 
On  thy  sweet  brow  is  sorrow  ploughed  by 

shame, 
And  annals  graved  in  characters  of  flame. 
Oh,  God !  that  thou  wert  in  thy  nakedness 
Less  lovely  or  more  powerful,  and  couldst 

claim 
Thy  right,  and  awe  the  robbers  back,  who 

press 
To  shed  thy  blood,  and  drink  the  tears  of  thy 

distress ; 

XLIII. 
Then  might'st  thou  more  appall;    or,  less 

desired, 
Be  homely  and  be  peaceful,  undeplored 
For  thy  destructive  charms ;  then,  still  un- 

tired, 
Would   not  be  seen  the    armed    torrents 

poured 
Down  the  deep  Alps  ;  nor  would  the  hostile 

horde 
Of  manv-nationed  spoilers  from  the  Po 
Quaff  blood  and  water;  nor  the  stranger's 

sword 
Be  thy  sad  weapon  of  defence,  and  so, 
Victor  or  vanquished,  thou  the  slave  of  friend 

or  foe.4 


courtesies  of  literature  and  common  friendship;  for 
you  went  out  of  your  way,  in  1817,  to  do  me  a  ser- 
vice, when  it  required  not  merely  kindness,  but 
courage,  to  do  so;  to  have  been  recorded  by  you  in 
such  a  manner,  would  have  been  a  preud  memorial 
at  any  time,  but  at  such  a  time,  when  '  All  the 
world  and  his  wife,'  as  the  proverb  goes,  were  try- 
ing to  trample  upon  me,  was  something  still  higher 
to  my  self-esteem.  Had  it  been  a  common  criti- 
cism, however  eloquent  or  panegyrical,  I  should 
have  felt  pleased  and  grateful,  but  not  to  the  extent 
which  the  extraordinary  good-heartedness  of  the 
whole  proceeding  must  induce  in  any  mind  capable 
of  such  sensations."! 

3  See  "  Historical  Notes,"  at  the  end  of  this  Canto, 
Nos.  XI.  XII.  XIII. 

4  The  two  stanzas  xlii.  and  xliii.  are,  with  the  ex- 
ception of  a  line  or  two,  a  translation  of  the  famous 
sonnet  of  Filicaja:  — "  Italia,  Italia,  O  tu  cui  fea  la 
sorte ! " 


CHI  IDE   HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


329 


XLIV. 

Wandering  in  youth,  I  traced  the  path  of 

him,1 
The  Roman  friend  of  Rome's  least-mortal 

mind, 
The  friend  of  Tully  :  as  my  bark  did  skim 
The  bright  blue  waters  with  a  fanning  wind, 
Came  Megara  before  me,  and  behind 
^Egina  lay,  Piraeus  on  the  right, 
And  Corinth  on  the  left ;   I  lay  reclined 
Along  the  prow,  and  saw  all  these  unite 
La  ruin,  even  as  he  had  seen  the  desolate  sight ; 

XLV. 

For  Time  hath  not  rebuilt  them,  but  up- 
reared 
Barbaric  dwellings  on  their  shattered  site, 
"Which  only  make  more  mourned  and  more 

endeared 
Tfce  few  last  rays  of  their  far-scattered  light, 
And   the  crushed  relics  of  their  vanished 

night. 
Tl  e  Roman  saw  these  tombs  in  his  own  age, 
Tl  ese  sepulchres  of  cities,  which  excite 
Sa  1  wonder,  and  his  yet  surviving  page 
The  Tioral  lesson  bears,  drawn  from  such  pil- 
grimage. 

xlvi. 

TJiat  page  is  now  before  me,  and  on  mine 
His  country's  ruin  added  to  the  mass 
Of  perished  states  he  mourned  in  their  de- 
cline, 
And  I  in  desolation  :  all  that  was 
Of  then  destruction  is;  and  now,  alas! 
Rome  — Rome  imperial,  bows  her  to  the 

storm, 
In  the  same  dust  and  blackness,  and  we  pass 
The  skeleton  of  her  Titanic  form,2 
Wrecks  of  another  world,  whose  ashes  still 
are  warm. 


1  The  celebrated  letter  of  Servius  Sulpicius  to 
Cioero,  on  the  death  of  his  daughter,  describes  as  it 
then  was,  and  now  is,  a  path  which  I  often  traced 
in  Greece,  both  by  sea  and  land,  in  different  jour- 
neys and  voyages.  "  On  ray  return  from  Asia,  as  I 
was  sailing  from  ..Egina  towards  Megara,  I  began 
to  contemplate  the  prospect  of  the  countries  around 
me:  /Egina  was  behind,  Megara  before  me;  Piraeus 
on  the  right,  Corinth  on  the  left:  all  which  towns, 
once  famous  and  flourishing,  now  lie  overturned 
and  buried  in  their  ruins.  Upon  this  sight,  I  could 
not  but  think  presently  within  myself,  Alas!  how 
do  we  poor  mortals  fret  and  vex  ourselves  if  any  of 
our  friends  happen  to  die  or  be  killed,  whose  life  is 
vet  so  short,  when  the  carcasses  of  so  many  noble 
cities  lie  here  exposed  before  me  in  one  view."  — 
See  Middle  ton's  Cicero,  vol.  ii.  p.  371. 

2  It  is  Poggio,  who,  looking  from  the  Capitoline 
hill  upon  ruined  Rome,  breaks  forth  into  the  excla- 
mation, "Ut  nunc  omni  decore  nudata,  prostrata 
jacet,  instar  gigantei  cadaveris  corrupti  atque  un- 
dique  exesi." 


XLVII. 

Yet,  Italy  !  through  every  other  land 

Thy  wrongs  should  ring,  and  shall,  from  side 

to  side ; 
Mother  of  Arts  !  as  once  of  arms  ;  thy  hand 
Was  then  our  guardian,  and   is  still  our 

guide ; 
Parent  of  our  Religion  !  whom  the  wide 
Nations  have  knelt  to  for  the  keys  of  heaven! 
Europe,  repentant  of  her  parricide, 
Shall  yet  redeem  thee,  and,  all  backward 

driven, 
Roll  the  barbarian  tide,  and  sue  to  be  forgiven. 

XLVIII. 

But  Arno  wins  us  to  the  fair  white  walls, 
Where   the    Etrurian   Athens   claims   and 

keeps 
A  softer  feeling  for  her  fairy  halls. 
Girt  by  her  theatre  of  hills,  she  reaps 
Her  corn,  and  wine,  and  oil,  and  Plenty  leaps 
To  laughing  life,  with  her  redundant  horn. 
Along  the  banks  where  smiling  Arno  sweeps 
Was  modern  Luxury  of  Commerce  born, 
And  buried  Learning  rose,  redeemed  to  a  new 

morn. 

XLIX. 

There,  too,  the  Goddess  loves  in  stone,  and 

fills  3 
The  air  around  with  beauty ;  we  inhale 
The  ambrosial  aspect,  which,  beheld,  instils 
Part  of  its  immortality  ;  the  veil 
Of  heaven  is  half  undrawn  ;  within  the  pale 
We  stand,  and  in  that  form  and  face  behold 
What  mind  can  make,  when  Nature's  self 

would  fail ; 
And  to  the  fond  idolaters  of  old 
Envy  the  innate  flash  which  such  a  soul  could 

mould : 


We  gaze  and  turn  away,  and  know  not  where, 
Dazzled  and  drunk  with  beauty,  till  the  heart  4 
Reels    with   its   fulness ;     there  —  for  ever 

there — 
Chained  to  the  chariot  of  triumphal  Art, 
We  stand  as  captives,  and  would  not  depart. 
Away !  —  there  need  no  words,  nor  terms 

precise, 
The  paltry  jargon  of  the  marble  mart, 


3  See  ' '  Historical  Notes,"  at  the  end  of  this  Canto. 
No.  XIV. 

4  [In  1817,  Byron  visited  Florence,  on  his  way  to 
Rome.  "  I  remained,"  he  says,  "  but  a  day:  how- 
ever, I  went  to  the  two  galleries,  from  which  one 
returns  drunk  with  beauty.  The  Venus  is  more 
for  admiration  than  love;  but  there  are  sculpture 
and  painting,  which,  for  the  first  time,  at  all  gave 
me  an  idea  of  what  people  mean  by  their  can! 
about  those  two  most  artificial  of  arts."] 


130 


CHILDR   HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


Where  Pedantry  gulls  Folly  —  we  have  eyes  : 
Blood  —  pulse  —  and  breast,  confirm  the  Dar- 
dan  Shepherd's  prize. 

Li. 

Appearedst  thou  not  to  Paris  in  this  guise  ? 
Or  to  more  deeply  blest  Anchises  ?  or, 
In  all  thy  perfect  goddess-ship,  when  lies 
Before  thee  thy  own  vanquished  Lord  of 

War? 
And  gazing  in  thy  face  as  toward  a  star, 
Laid  on  thy  lap,  his  eyes  to  thee  upturn, 
Feeding  on  thy  sweet  cheek  ! l  while  thy  lips 

are 
With  lava  kisses  melting  while  they  burn, 
Showered  on  his  eyelids,  brow,  and  mouth,  as 

from  an  urn  !  2 


Glowing,  and  circumfused  in  speechless  love, 
Their  full  divinity  inadequate 
That  feeling  to  express,  or  to  improve, 
The  gods  become  as  mortals,  and  man's 
fate 


1  'O$0aAjiovs  ecTTiai". 

"  Atque  oculos  pascat  uterque  suos." 

Ovid.  Amor.  lib.  ii. 

2  [The  delight  with  which  the  pilgrim  contem- 
plates the  ancient  Greek  statues  at  Florence,  and 
afterwards  at  Rome,  is  such  as  might  have  been 
expected  from  any  great  poet,  whose  youthful  mind 
had,  like  his,  been  imbued  with  those  classical  ideas 
and  associations  which  afford  so  many  sources  of 
pleasure  through  every  period  of  life.  He  has 
gazed  upon  these  masterpieces  of  art  with  a  more 
susceptible,  and,  in  spite  of  his  disavowal,  with  a 
more  learned  eye,  than  can  be  traced  in  the  effu- 
sions of  any  poet  who  had  previously  expressed,  in 
any  formal  manner,  his  admiration  of  their  beauty. 
It  may  appear  fanciful  to  say  so;  —  but  we  think 
the  genius  of  Byron  is,  more  than  that  of  any  other 
modern  poet,  akin  to  that  peculiar  genius  which 
seems  to  have  been  diffused  among  all  the  poets 
and  artists  of  ancient  Greece;  and  in  whose  spirit, 
above  all  its  other  wonders,  the  great  specimens  of 
sculpture  seem  to  have  been  conceived  and  execu- 
ted. His  creations,  whether  of  beauty  or  of  strength, 
are  all  single  creations.  He  requires  no  grouping 
to  give  effect  to  his  favorites,  or  to  tell  his  story. 
His  heroines  are  solitary  symbols  of  loveliness, 
which  require  no  foil;  his  heroes  stand  alone  as 
upon  marble  pedestals,  displaying  the  naked  power 
af  passion,  or  the  wrapped  up  and  reposing  energy 
of  grief.  The  artist  who  would  illustrate,  as  it  is 
called,  the  works  of  any  of  our  other  poets,  must 
borrow  the  mimic  splendors  of  the  pencil.  He  who 
would  transfer  into  another  vehicle  the  spirit  of 
Byron,  must  pour  the  liquid  metal,  or  hew  the  stub- 
born rock.  What  he  loses  in  ease,  he  will  gain  in 
power.  He  might  draw  from  Medora,  Gulnare, 
Lara,  or  Manfred,  subjects  for  relievos,  worthy  of 
enthusiasm  almost  as  great  as  Harold  has  himself 
displayed  on  the  contemplation  of  the  loveliest  and 
the  sternest  relics  of  the  inimitable  genius  of  the 
Greeks.  —  Professor  Wilson.] 


Has  moments  like  their  brightest ;  bm  the 

weight 
Of  earth  recoils  upon  us  ;  —  let  it  go  ! 
We  can  recall  such  visions,  and  create, 
From  what  has  been,  or  might  be,  things 

which  grow 
Into  thy  statue's  form,  and   look   like  gods 

below. 

LIU. 
I  leave  to  learned  fingers,  and  wise  hands, 
The  artist  and  his  ape,3  to  teach  and  tell 
How  well  his  connoisseurship  understands 
The    graceful    bend,  and    the    voluptuous 

swell : 
Let  these  describe  the  undescribable  : 
I  would  not  their  vile  breath  should  crisp 

the  stream 
Wherein  that  image  shall  for  ever  dwell ; 
The  unruffled  mirror  of  the  loveliest  dream 
That  ever  left  the  sky  on  the  deep  soul  to  beam. 


In  Santa  Croce's  holy  precincts  lie4 
Ashes  which  make  it  holier,  dust  which  is 
Even  in  itself  an  immortality, 
Though  there  were  nothing  save  the  past, 

and  this, 
The  particle  of  those  sublimities 
Which  have  relapsed  to  chaos  :  —  here  re- 
pose 
Angelo's,  Alfieri's  bones,  and  his,4 
The  starry  Galileo,  with  his  woes ; 
Here  Machiavelli's  earth  returned  to  whence 
it  rose.4 

LV. 

These  are  four  minds,  which,  like  the  ele- 
ments, 
Might  furnish  forth  creation  :  —  Italy ! 


3  [Only  a  week  before  the  poet  visited  the  Flor- 
ence gallery,  he  wrote  thus  to  a  friend:  — "I  know 
nothing  of  painting.  Depend  upon  it,  of  all  the 
arts,  it  is  the  most  artificial  and  unnatural,  and  that 
by  which  the  nonsense  of  mankind  is  most  imposed 
upon.  I  never  yet  saw  the  picture  or  the  statue 
which  came  a  league  within  my  conception  or  ex- 
pectation; but  I  have  seen  many  mountains,  and 
seas,  and  rivers,  and  views,  and  two  or  three  women, 
who  went  as  far  beyond  it."  —  Byron's  Lttters.~\ 

4  See  "  Historical  Notes,"  at  the  end  of  this  Canto, 
Nos.  XV.  XVI.  XVII.— ["The  church  of  Santa 
Croce  contains  much  illustrious  nothing.  The 
tombs  of  Machiavelli.  Michael  Angelo,  Galileo,  and 
Alfieri,  make  it  the  Westminster  Abbey  of  Italy.  I 
did  not  admire  any  of  these  tombs  —  beyond  their 
contents.  That  of  Alfieri  is  heavy ;  and  all  of  them 
seem  to  me  overloaded.  What  is  necessary  but  a 
bust  and  name?  and  perhaps  a  date?  the  last  for 
the  unchronological,  of  whom  I  am  one.  But  all 
your  allegory  and  eulogy  is  infernal,  and  worse 
than  the  long  wigs  of  English  numskulls  upon 
Roman  bodies,  in  the  statuary  of  the  reigns  of 
Charles  the  Second,  William,  and  Anne."  — Byron's 
Letters.  1817.] 


CHILDE   HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


331 


Time,  which  hath  wronged  thee  with  ten 

thousand  rents 
Of  thine  imperial  garment,  shall  deny, 
And  hath  denied,  to  every  other  sky, 
Spirits  which  soar  from  ruin  :  —  thy  decay 
Is  still  impregnate  with  divinity, 
Which  gilds  it  with  revivifying  ray; 
Such  as  the  great  of  yore,  Canova  is  to-day. 

LVI. 
But  where  repose  the  all  Etruscan  three  — 
Dante,  and  Petrarch,  and,  scarce  less  than 

they, 
The  Bard  of  Prose,  creative  spirit !  he 
Of  the  Hundred  Tales  of  love — where  did 

they  lay 
Their  bones,  distinguished  from  our  com- 
mon clay 
In  death  as  life  ?    Are  they  resolved  to  dust, 
And  have  their  country's  marbles  nought  to 

say? 
Could  not  her  quarries  furnish  forth  one 
bust  ? 
Did  they  not  to  her  breast  their  filial  earth 
intrust  ? 

LVII. 
Ungrateful  Florence  !  Dante  sleeps  afar,1 
Like    Scipio,    buried    by    the    upbraiding 

shore ;  * 
Thy  factions,  in  their  worse  than  civil  war, 
Proscribed  the  bard  whose  name  for  ever- 
more 
Their   children's    children   would   in   vain 

adore 
With  the  remorse  of  ages  ;  and  the  crown 1 
Which  Petrarch's  laureate  brow  supremely 

wore, 
Upon  a  far  and  foreign  soil  had  grown, 
His  life,  his  fame,  his  grave,  though  rifled  — 
not  thine  own. 

LVIII. 

Boccaccio  to  his  parent  earth  bequeathed  l 
His  dust,  —  and  lies  it  not  her  Great  among, 
With  many  a  sweet  and  solemn  requiem 

breathed 
O'er  him  who  formed  the  Tuscan's  siren 

tongue  ? 
That  music  in  itself,  whose  sounds  are  song, 
The  poetry   of  speech?     No; — even   his 

tomb 
Uptorn,  must  bear  the  hyaena  bigot's  wrong, 
No  more  amidst  the  meaner  dead  find  room, 
Nor  claim  a  passing  sigh,  because  it  told  for 

whom  ! 

LIX. 
And  Santa  Croce  wants  their  mighty  dust ; 
Yet  for  this  want  more  noted,  as  of  yore 


1  See  "  Historical  Notes,"  at  the  end  of  his  Canto, 
Nos.  XVIII.  XIX.  XX.  and  XXI. 


The  Caesar's  pageant,  shorn  of  Brutus"  bust 
Did  but  of  Rome's  best  Son  remind  her 

more : 
Happier  Ravenna!  on  thy  hoary  shore, 
Fortress  of  falling  empire  !  honored  sleeps 
The  immortal  exile  ;  — Arqua,  too,  her  store 
Of  tuneful  relics  proudly  claims  and  keeps, 
While  Florence  vainly  begs  her  banished 
dead  and  weeps. 

LX. 

What  is  her  pyramid  of  precious  stones  ?  2 
Of  porphyry,  jasper,  agate,  and  all  hues 
Of  gem  and  marble,  to  incrust  the  bones 
Of  merchant-dukes  ?  the  momentary  dews 
Which,  sparkling  to  the  twilight  stars,  in- 
fuse 
Freshness  in  the  green  turf  that  wraps  the 

dead. 
Whose  names  are  mausoleums  of  the  Muse, 
Are  gently  prest  with  far  more  reverent  tread 
Than  ever  paced  the  slab  which  paves  the 
princely  head. 

LXI. 

There  be  more  things  to  greet  the  heart 

and  eyes 
In  Arno's   dome   of  Art's    most  princely 

shrine, 
Where  Sculpture  with  her  rainbow  sister 

vies; 
There  be  more  marvels  yet  —  but  not  for 

mine; 
For  I  have  been  accustomed  to  entwine 
My  thoughts  with  Nature  rather  in  the  fields, 
Than  Art  in  galleries  :  though  a  work  divine 
Calls  for  my  spirit's  homage,  yet  it  yields 
Less  than  it  feels,  because  the  weapon  which 

it  wields 

LXII. 
Is  of  another  temper,  and  I  roam 
By  Thrasimene's  lake,  in  the  defiles 
Fatal  to  Roman  rashness,  more  at  home ; 
For  there  the  Carthaginian's  warlike  wiles 
Come  back  before  me,  as  his  skill  beguiles 
The  host  between  the  mountains  and  the 

shore, 
Where  Courage  falls  in  her  despairing  files, 
And  torrents,  swollen  to  rivers  with  their 

gore, 
Reek  through  the  sultry  plain,  with   legions 

scattered  o'er, 

LXIII. 

Like  to  a  forest  felled  by  mountain  winds ; 
And  such  the  storm  of  battle  on  this  day, 
And    such   the    frenzy,  whose    convulsion 

blinds 
To  all  save  carnage,  that,  beneath  the  fray, 
An  earthquake  reeled  unheededly  away  !  3 


2  See   "Historical   Notes,"   at    the  end   of  this 
Canto,  No.  XXII. 

3  See   "  Historical   Notes,"  at  the  end  of  this 


532 


CHILD E   HAROLD'S  PLLGR IMAGE. 


None  felt  stern  Nature  rocking  at  his  feet, 
And  yawning  forth  a  grave  for  those  who 

lay 
Upon  their  bucklers  for  a  winding-sheet ; 
Such  is  the  absorbing  hate  when  warring  na- 
tions meet! 

LXIV. 

The  Earth  to  them  was  as  a  rolling  bark 
Which  bore  them  to  Eternity;  they  saw 
The  Ocean  round,  but  had  no  time  to  mark 
The  motions  of  their  vessel ;  Nature's  law, 
In  them  suspended,  recked  not  of  the  awe 
Which  reigns  when  mountains  tremble,  and 

the  birds 
Plunge  in  the  clouds  for  refuge  and  with- 
draw 
From  their  down-toppling  nests;  and  bel- 
lowing herds 
Stumble  o'er  heaving  plains,  and  man's  dread 
hath  no  words. 

LXV. 

Far  other  scene  is  Thrasimene  now; 
Her  lake  a  sheet  of  silver,  and  her  plain 
Rent  by  no  ravage  save  the  gentle  plough  ; 
Her  aged  trees  rise  thick  as  once  the  slain 
Lay  where  their  roots  are  ;  but  a  brook  hath 

ta'en  — 
A  little  rill  of  scanty  stream  and  bed  — 
A  name  of  blood  from  that  day's  sanguine 

rain ; 
And  Sanguinetto  tells  ye  where  the  dead 
Made  the  earth  wet,  and  turned  the  unwilling 

waters  red. 

LXVI. 
But  thou,  Clitumnus  !  in  thy  sweetest  wave  * 
Of  the  most  living  crystal  that  was  e'er 
The  haunt  of  river  nymph,  to  gaze  and  lave 
Her  limbs  where  nothing  hid   them,  thou 

dost  rear 
Thy  grassy  banks  whereon  the  milk-white 

steer 
Grazes  ;  the  purest  God  of  gentle  waters  ! 
And  most  serene  of  aspect,  and  most  clear; 
Surely    that    stream    was    unprofaned    by 

slaughters  — 
A  mirror  and  a  bath  for  Beauty's  youngest 

daughters ! 

LXVI  I. 

And  on  thy  happy  shore  a  Temple  still, 
Of  small  and  delicate  proportion,  keeps, 

Canto,  No.  XXIII. —  [An  earthquake  which  shook 
all  Italy  occurred  during  the  battle,  and  was  unfelt 
by  any  of  the  combatants.] 

1  No  book  of  travels  has  omitted  to  expatiate  on 
the  temple  of  the  Clitumnus,  between  Foligno  and 
Spoleto;  and  no  site,  or  scenery,  even  in  Italy,  is 
(nore  worthy  a  description.  For  an  account  of  the 
dilapidation  of  this  temple,  the  reader  is  referred  to 
"  Historical  Illustrations  of  the  Fourth  Canto  of 
Childe  Harold,"  p-  35. 


Upon  a  mild  declivity  of  hill, 
Its  memory  of  thee  ;  beneath  it  sweeps 
Thy  current's  calmness  ;  oft  from  out  it  leaps 
The  finny  darter  with  the  glittering  scales, 
Who  dwells  and  revels  in  thy  glassy  deeps ; 
While,   chance,  some   scattered  water-lily 

sails 
Down  where  the  shallower  wave  still  tells  its 

bubbling  tales. 

LXVIII. 

Pass  not  unblest  the  Genius  of  the  place! 
If  through  the  air  a  zephyr  more  serene 
Win  to  the  brow,  'tis  his;  and  if  ye  trace 
Along  his  margin  a  more  eloquent  green, 
If  on  the  heart  the  freshness  of  the  scene 
Sprinkle  its  coolness,  and  from  the  dry  dusl 
Of  weary  life  a  moment  lave  it  clean 
With    Nature's  baptism,  —  'tis  to   him   ye 
must 
Pay  orisons  for  this  suspension  of  disgust.2 

LXIX. 
The  roar  of  waters!  —  from  the  headlong 

height 
Velino  cleaves  the  wave-worn  precipice  , 
The  fall  of  waters  !  rapid  as  the  light 
The  flashing  mass  foams  shaking  the  abyss  ; 
The  hell  of  waters !  where  they  howl  and  hiss, 
And  boil  in  endless  torture  ;  while  the  sweat 
Of  their  great  agony,  wrung  out  from  this 
Their  Phlegethon,  curls  round  the  rocks  ot 

jet 
That  gird  the'gulf  around,  in  pitiless  horror  set, 

LXX. 
And  mounts  in  spray  the  skies,  and  thence 

again 
Returns   in   an   unceasing    shower,  which 

round, 
With  its  unemptied  cloud  of  gentle  rain, 
Is  an  eternal  April  to  the  ground, 


2  ["  Perhaps  there  are  no  verses  in  our  language 
of  happier  descriptive  power  than  the  two  stanzas 
which  characterize  the  Clitumnus.  In  general  poets 
find  it  so  difficult  to  leave  an  interesting  subject, 
that  they  injure  the  distinctness  of  the  description 
by  loading  it  so  as  to  embarrass,  rather  than  excite, 
the  fancy  of  the  reader;  or  else,  to  avoid  that  fault, 
they  confine  themselves  to  cold  and  abstract  gener- 
alities. Byron  has,  in  these  stanzas,  admirably 
steered  his  course  betwixt  these  extremes:  while 
they  present  the  outlines  of  a  picture  as  pure  and 
as  brilliant  as  those  of  Claude  Lorraine,  the  task  of 
filling  up  the  more  minute  particulars  is  judiciously 
left  to  the  imagination  of  the  reader;  and  it  must 
be  dull  indeed  if  it  does  not  supply  what  the  poet 
has  left  unsaid,  or  but  generally  and  briefly  inti- 
mated. While  the  eye  glances  over  the  line?;,  we 
seem  to  feel  the  refreshing  coolness  of  the  scene  — 
we  hear  the  bubbling  tale  of  the  more  rapid  streams, 
and  see  the  slender  proportions  of  the  rural  temple 
reflected  in  the  crystal  depth  of  the  calm  pool.  -" 
Sir  li  'alter  Scott. 


CHILD E  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


333 


Making  it  all  one  emerald  :  —  how  profound 
The  gulf!  and  how  the  giant  element 
From    rock  to   rock   leaps  with   delirious 

bound, 
Crushing  the  cliffs,  which,  downward  worn 

and  rent 
With  his  fierce  footsteps,  yield  in  chasms  a 

fearful  vent 

LXXI. 

To  the  broad  column  which  rolls  on,  and 

shows 
More  like  the  fountain  of  an  infant  sea 
Torn  from  the  womb  of  mountains  by  the 

throes 
Of  a  new  world,  than  only  thus  to  be 
Parent  of  rivers,  which  flow  gushingly, 
With  many  windings,  through  the  vale  :  — 

Look  back ! 
Lo !  where  it  comes  like  an  eternity, 
As  if  to  sweep  down  all  things  in  its  track, 
Charming  the  eye  with  dread,  —  a  matchless 

cataract,1 

LXXII. 

Horribly  beautiful !  but  on  the  verge, 
From  side  to  side,  beneath   the  glittering 

morn, 
An  Iris  sits,  amidst  the  infernal  surge,2 
Like  Hope  upon  a  death-bed,  and,  unworn 
Its  steady  dyes,  while  all  around  is  torn 
By  the  distracted  waters,  bears  serene 
Its  brilliant  hues  with  all  their  beams  un- 
shorn : 


*I  saw  the  "  Cascata  del  marmore"  of  Terni 
twice,  at  different  periods;  once  from  the  summit 
of  the  precipice,  and  again  from  the  valley  below. 
The  lower  view  is  far  to  be  preferred,  if  the  traveller 
has  time  for  one  only;  but  in  any  point  of  view, 
either  from  above  or  below,  it  is  worth  all  the  cas- 
cades and  torrents  of  Switzerland  put  together:  the 
Staubach,  Reichenbach,  Pisse  Vache,  fall  of  Ar- 
penaz,  etc.  are  rills  in  comparative  appearance. 
Of  the  fall  of  Schaffhausen  I  cannot  speak,  not  yet 
having  seen  it. 

-  Of  the  time,  place,  and  qualities  of  this  kind  of 
iris,  the  reader  will  see  a  short  account,  in  a  note 
to  Manfred.  The  fall  looks  so  much  like  "the 
hell  of  waters,"  that  Addison  thought  the  descent 
alluded  to  by  the  gulf  in  which  Alecto  plunged  into 
the  infernal  regions.  It  is  singular  enough,  that 
two  of  the  finest  cascades  in  Europe  should  be  arti- 
ficial—  this  of  the  Velino,  and  the  one  at  Tivoli. 
The  traveller  is  strongly  recommended  to  trace  the 
Velino,  at  least  as  high  as  the  little  lake,  called  Pie' 
di  Lup.  The  Realine  territory  was  the  Italian 
Tempe,*  and  the  ancient  naturalist,  amongst  other 
beautiful  varieties,  remarked  the  daily  rainbows  of 
the  lake  Velinus.f  A  scholar  of  great  name  has 
devoted  a  treatise  to  this  district  alone. £ 


Resembling,  'mid  the  torture  of  the  scene, 
Love    watching     Madness   with    unalterable 
mien. 

LXXIII. 
Once  more  upon  the  woody  Apennine, 
The  infant  Alps,  which  —  had  I  not  before 
Gazed  on  their  mightier  parents,  where  the 

pine 
Sits  on  more  shaggy  summits,  and  where 

roar8 
The  thundering  lauwine — might  be  wor- 
shipped more ; 
But  I  have  seen  the  soaring  Jungfrau  rear 
Her  never-trodden  snow,  and  seen  the  hoar 
Glaciers  of  bleak  Mont  Blanc  both  far  and 
near. 
And  in  Chimari  heard  the  thunder-hills  of  fear, 

LXXIV. 

Th'  Acroceraunian  mountains  of  old  name ; 
And  on  Parnassus  seen  the  eagles  fly 
Like  spirits  of  the  spot,  as  'twere  for  fame, 
For  stil!  they  soared  unutterably  high  : 
I've  looked  on  Ida  with  a  Trojan's  eye; 
Athos,  Olympus,  .Etna,  Atlas,  made 
These  hills  seem  things  of  lesser  dignity, 
All,  save  the  lone  Soracte's  height,  displayed 
Not  now  in  snow,  which  asks  the  lyric  Roman's 
aid 

LXXV. 

For  our  remembrance,  and  from  out   the 

plain 
Heaves   like  a  long-swept  wave  about  to 

break, 
And  on  the  curl  hangs  pausing :  not  in  vain 
May  he,  who  will,  his  recollections  rake 
And  quote  in  classic  raptures,  and  awake 
The  hills  with  Latian  echoes ;  I  abhorred 
Too  much,  to  conquer  for  the  poet's  sake, 
The  drilled  dull  lesson,  forced  down  word 

by  word  4 
I  n  my  repugnant  youth ,  with  pleasure  to  record 


*  Cicer.  Epist.  ad  Attic,  xv.  lib.  iv. 
f  Plin.  Hist.  Nat.  lib.  ii.  cap.  lxii. 
\  Aid.   Manut.  de   Reatina   Urbe  Agroque,  ap. 
>;allengre,  Thesaur.  torn.  i.  p.  773. 


3  In  the  greater  part  of  Switzerland,  the  ava- 
lanches are  known  by  the  name  of  lauwine[n]. 

*  These  stanzas  may  probably  remind  the  reader 
of  Ensign  Northerton's  remarks:  "D — n  Homo," 
etc.;  but  the  reasons  for  our  dislike  are  not  exactly 
the  same.  I  wish  to  express,  that  we  become  tired 
of  the  task  before  we  can  comprehend  the  beauty ; 
that  we  learn  by  rote  before  we  can  get  by  heart ; 
that  the  freshness  is  worn  away,  and  the  future 
pleasure  and  advantage  deadened  and  destroyed, 
by  the  didactic  anticipation,  at  an  age  when  we  can 
neither  feel  nor  understand  the  power  of  composi- 
tions which  it  requires  an  acquaintance  with  life,  as 
well  as  Latin  and  Greek,  to  relish,  or  to  reason 
upon.  For  the  same  reason,  we  never  can  be  aware 
of  the  fulness  of  some  of  the  finest  passages  of 
Shakspeare  ("To  be,  or  not  to  be,"  for  instance;, 
from  the  habit  of  having  them  hammered  into  us  at 
eight  years  old,  as  an  exercise,  not  of  mind,  but_  of 
memory :  so  that  when  we  are  old  enough  to  enjoy 
them,  the  taste  is  gone,  and   the  appetite  palled 


$34 


CHILD E  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


Aught   that   recalls   the   daily  drug  which 

turned 
My  sickening  memory;  and,  though  Time 

hath  taught 
My  mind  to  meditate  what  then  it  learned, 
Yet  such  the  fixed  inveteracy  wrought 
By  the  impatience  of  my  early   thought, 
That,  with  the  freshness  wearing  out  before 
My  mind  could  relish  what  it  might  have 

sought, 
If  free  to  choose,  I  cannot  now  restore 
Its  health  ;  but  what  it  then  detested,  still  abhor. 


Then  farewell,  Horace ;  whom  I  hated  so, 
Not  for  thy  faults,  but  mine ;   it  is  a  curse 
To  understand,  not  feel  thy  lyric  flow, 
To  comprehend,  but  never  love  thy  verse; 
Although  no  deeper  Moralist  rehearse 
Our  little  life,  nor  Bard  prescribe  his  art, 
Nor  livelier  Satirist  the  conscience  pierce, 
Awakening  without  wounding  the  touched 

heart, 
Vet  fare  thee  well  —  upon  Soracte's  ridge  we 

part. 

LXXVIII. 

Oh  Rome  !  my  country  !  city  of  the  soul ! 
The   orphans   of  the   heart   must   turn    to 

thee, 
Lone  mother  of  dead  empires !  and  control 
In  their  shut  breasts  their  petty  misery. 
What  are  our  woes  and  sufferance  ?     Come 

and  see 
The  cypress,  hear  the  owl,  and  plod  your 

way 
O'er  steps  of  broken  thrones  and  temples, 

Ye! 
Whose  agonies  are  evils  of  a  day  — 
A  world  is  at  our  feet  as  fragile  as  our  clay. 


In  some  parts  of  the  continent,  young  persons  are 
taught  from  more  common  authors,  and  do  not  read 
the  best  classics  till  their  maturity.  I  certainly  do 
not  speak  on  this  point  from  any  pique  or  aversion 
towards  the  place  of  my  education.  I  was  not  a 
slow,  though  an  idle  boy;  and  I  believe  no  one 
could,  or  can  be,  more  attached  to  Harrow  than  I 
have  always  been,  and  with  reason;  — a  part  of  the 
time  passed  there  was  the  happiest  of  my  life;  and 
my  preceptor,  the  Rev.  Dr.  Joseph  Drury,  was  the 
best  and  worthiest  friend  I  ever  possessed,  whose 
warnings  I  have  remembered  but  too  well,  though 
too  late,  when  I  have  erred, — -and  whose  counsels 
I  have  but  followed  when  I  have  done  well  or  wisely. 
If  ever  this  imperfect  record  of  my  feelings  towards 
him  should  reach  his  eyes,  let  it  remind  him  of  one 
who  never  thinks  of  him  but  with  gratitude  and 
feneration  —  of  one  who  would  more  gladly  boast 
»f  having  been  his  pupil,  if,  by  more  closely  follow- 
ing his  injunctions  he  could  reflect  any  honor  upon 
lis  instructor. 


LXXIX. 
The  Niobe  of  nations!  there  she  stands,1 
Childless  and   crownless,  in   her  voiceless 

woe; 
An  empty  urn  within  her  withered  hands, 
Whose  holy  dust  was  scattered  long  ago ; 
The  Scipios'  tomb  contains  no  ashes  now ;  s 
The  very  sepulchres  lie  tenantless 
Of  their  heroic  dwellers :  dost  thou  flow, 
Old  Tiber!  through  a  marble  wilderness  ? 
Rise,  with  thy  yellow  waves,  and  mantle  het 

distress. 

LXXX. 

The  Goth,  the  Christian,  Time,  War,  Flood. 

and  Fire, 
Have   dealt   upon    the    seven-hilled    city's 

pride ; 
She  saw  her  glories  star  by  star  expire, 
And  up  the  steep  barbarian  monarchs  ride, 
Where  the  car  climbed  the  capitol ;  far  and 

wide 
Temple  and  tower  went  down,  nor  left  a 

site :  — 
Chaos  of  ruins  !  who  shall  trace  the  void, 
O'er  the  dim  fragments  cast  a  lunar  light, 
And    say,   "  here  was,   or   is,"   where  all   is 

doubly  night  ? 

LXXXI. 

The  double  night  of  ages,  and  of  her, 
Night's    daughter,   Ignorance,   hath   wrapt 

and  wrap 
All  round  us ;  we  but  feel  our  way  to  err : 
The  ocean  hath  his  chart,  the  stars  their  map, 
And  Knowledge  spreads  them  on  her  ample 

lap; 
But  Rome  is  as  the  desert,  where  we  steer 
Stumbling  o'er  recollections ;  now  we  clap 
Our  hands,  and  cry  "  Eureka !  "  it  is  clear  — 
When  but  some  false  mirage  of  ruin  rises  near. 

LXXX  II. 
Alas !  the  lofty  city !  and  alas ! 
The  trebly  hundred  triumphs  !  3  and  the  day 


1  ["  I  have  been  some  days  in  Rome  the  Wonder- 
ful. I  am  delighted  with  Rome.  As  a  whole  — 
ancient  and  modern,  —  it  beats  Greece,  Constanti- 
nople, every  thing  —  at  least  that  I  have  ever  seen. 
But  I  can't  describe,  because  my  first  impressions 
are  always  strong  and  confused,  and  my  memory 
selects  and  reduces  them  to  order,  like  distance  in 
the  landscape,  and  blends  them  better,  although 
they  may  be  less  distinct.  I  have  been  on  horse- 
back most  of  the  day,  all  days  since  my  arrival.  I 
have  been  to  Albano,  its  lakes,  and  to  the  top  of 
the  Alban  Mount,  and  to  Frescati,  Aricia,  etc.  As 
for  the  Coliseum,  Pantheon,  St.  Peter's,  the  Vati 
can.  Palatine,  etc.  etc.  —  they  are  quite  inconceiv- 
able, and  must  be  seen."  —  Byron's  Letters,  May 

i8i7-l 

2  For  a  comment  on  this  and  the  two  following 
stanzas,  the  reader  may  consult  "  Historical  Illus- 
trations," p.  46. 

3  Qroiius  gives  320  for  the  number  of  triumphs. 


CHILDE   HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


335 


When     Brutus    made    the     dagger's    edge    sur- 
pass 

The  conqueror's  sword  in  bearing  fame  away  ! 

Alas,  for  Tully's  voice,  and  Virgil's  lay, 

And  Livy's  pictured    page  I — but    these    shall 
be 

Her  resurrection;  all  bes'de —  decay. 

Alas,  for  Earth,  for  never  shall  we  see 
That  brightness  in  her  eye  she  bore  when  Rome 
was  free! 

LXXX1II. 

Oh    thou,   whose    chariot    rolled    on    Fortune's 

wheel, 
Triumphant  Sylla !     Thou,  who  didst  subdue 
Thy  country's  foes   ere  thou  wouldst  pause   to 

feel 
The  wrath  of  thy  own  wrongs,  or  reap  the  due 
Of  hoarded  vengeance  till  thine  eagles  flew 
O'er     prostrate    Asia; — thou,    who    with    thy 

frown 
Annihilated  senates — Roman,  too, 
With  all  thy  vices,  for  thou  didst  lay  down 
With    an    atoning    smile     a    more    than    earthly 

crown  — 

LXXXIV. 

The  dictatorial  wreath,1  — couldst  thou  divine 
To  what   would  one   day   dwindle    that    which 

made 
Thee  more  than  mortal  ?  and  that  so  supine 
By  aught  than   Romans  Rome   should  thus  be 

laid? 
She  who  was  named  Eternal,  and  arrayed 
Her  warriors  but  to  conquer  —  she  who  veiled 
Earth  with  her  haughty  shadow,  and  displayed, 
Until  the  o'er-canopied  horizon  failed, 
Her  rushing  wings — Oh!  she   who  was  Almighty 

hailed ! 

LXXXV. 

Sylla  was  first  of  victors;  but  our  own 
The  sagest  of  usurpers,  Cromwell;  he 
Too    swept    off    senates    while    he    hewed    the 

throne 
Down  to  a  block  —  immortal  rebel !  See 


He  is  followed  by  Panvinius;    and  Panvinius  by 
Mr.  Gibbon  and  the  modern  writers. 

1  Certainly,  were  it  not  for  these  two  traits  in  the 
fife  of  Sylla,  alluded  to  in  this  stanza,  we  should 
regard  him  as  a  monster  unredeemed  by  any  admir- 
able quality.  The  atonement  of  his  voluntary  res- 
ignation of  empire  may  perhaps  be  accepted  by 
us,  as  it  seems  to  have  satisfied  the  Romans,  who 
if  they  had  not  respected  must  have  destroyed  him. 
There  could  be  no  mean,  no  division  of  opinion; 
they  must  have  all  thought,  like  Eucrates,  that 
what  had  appeared  ambition  was  a  love  of  glory, 
and  that  what  had  been  mistaken  for  pride  was  a 
real  grandeur  of  soul. 


What  crimes  it  cost  to  be  a  moment  free 
And  famous  through  all  ages!  but  beneath 
His  fate  the  moral  lurks  of  destiny; 
His  day  of  double  victory  and  death 
Beheld  him  win  two   realms,  and,  happier,   yieW 
his  breath.2 

LXXXVI. 

The   third    of   the    same    moon    whose    form«r 

course 
Had    all    but    crowned    him,    on    the    selfcame 

day 
Deposed  him  gently  from  his  throne  of  force, 
And  laid  him  with  the  earth's  preceding  clay. 
And  showed  not   Fortune   thus  how  fame   and 

sway, 
And  all  we  deem  delightful,  and  consume 
Our  souls  to    compass    through  each    arduous 

way, 
Are  in  her  eyes  less  happy  than  the  tomb  ? 
Were  they  but  so  in  man's,  how  different  were  his 

doom! 

LXXXVI  I. 

And  thou,  dread  statue!  yet  existent  in3 
The  austerest  form  of  naked  majesty, 
Thou  who  beheldest,  'mid  the  assassins'  din, 
At  thy  bathed  base  the  bloody  Caesar  lie, 
Folding  his  robe  in  dying  dignity, 
An  offering  to  thine  altar  from  the  queen 
Of  gods  and  men,  great  Nemesis!  did  he  die, 
And  thou,  too,  perish,  Pompey  ?  have  ye  been 
Victors  of  countless  kings,  or  puppets  of  a  scene  ? 

LXXXVIII. 

And  thou,  the  thunder-stricken  nurse  of  Rome,3 
She-wolf !  whose  brazen-imaged  dugs  impart 
The  milk  of  conquest  yet  within  the  dome 
Where,  as  a  monument  of  antique  art, 
Thou  standest :  —  Mother  of  the  mighty  heart, 
Which  the  great  founder  sucked  from  thy  wild 

teat, 
Scorched  by  the  Roman  Jove's  ethereal  dart, 
And  thy  limbs  black  with  lightning  —  dost  thou 

yet 
Guard  thine   immortal  cubs,  nor  thy  fond  charge 

forget  ? 

LXXXIX. 

Thou  dost;  — but  all  thy  foster-babes  are  dead  — 
The  men  of  iron;  and  the  world  hath  reared 
Cities  from  out  their  sepulchres:  men  bled 


2  On  the  jd  of  September  Cromwell  gained  the 
victory  of  Dunbar:  a  year  afterwards  he  obtained 
"his  crowning  mercy"  of  Worcester;  and  a  few 
years  after,  on  the  same  day,  which  he  had  ever  es 
teemed  the  most  fortunate  for  him,  died. 

8  See  "  Historical  Notes,"  Nos.  XXIV,  XXV. 


536 


CHILDE   HAROLD'S  riLGRIMAGE. 


In  imitation  of  the  things  they  feared, 
And  fought  and  conquered,  and  the  same 

course  steered, 
At  apish  distance ;  but  as  yet  none  have, 
Nor  could,  the  same  supremacy  have  neared, 
Save  one  vain  man,  who  is  not  in  the  grave, 
But,  vanquished  by  himself,  to  his  own  slaves 
a  slave  — 

XC. 

The  fool  of  false  dominion  —  and  a  kind 
Of  bastard  Caesar,  following  him  of  old 
With  steps  unequal ;  for  the  Roman's  mind 
Was  modelled  in  a  less  terrestial  mould,1 
With  passions  fiercer,  yet  a  judgment  cold, 
And  an  immortal  instinct  which  redeemed 
The  frailties  of  a  heart  so  soft,  yet  bold, 
Alcides  with  the  distaff  now  he  seemed 
A.t   Cleopatra's   feet,  —  and  now  himself  he 
beamed, 

XCI. 

And   came  —  and    saw  —  and   conquered! 

But  the  man 
Who  would  have  tamed  his  eagles  down  to 

flee, 
Like  a  trained  falcon,  in  the  Gallic  van, 
Which  he,  in  sooth,  long  led  to  victory, 
Willi  a  cleaf  heart  which  never  seemed  to  be 
A  listener  to  itself  was  strangely  framed; 
With  but  one  weakest  weakness — vanity, 
Coquettish  in  ambition  —  still  he  aimed  — 
rVt  what  ?  can  he  avouch  —  or  answer  what  he 

claimed, 


And  would  be  all  or  nothing — nor  could 

wait 
For  the  sure  grave  to  level  him  ;  few  years 
Had  fixed  him  with  the  Caesars  in  his  fate, 
On  whom  we  tread  :  ¥  ox  this  the  conqueror 

rears 
The  arch  of  triumph  !  and  for  this  the  tears 
And  blood  of  earth  flow  on  as  they  have 

flowed, 
An  universal  deluge,  which  appears 
Without  an  ark  for  wretched  man's  abode, 
And  ebbs  but  to  reflow  !  —  Renew  thy  rainbow, 

God! 

XCIII. 

What  from  this  barren  rjeing  do  we  reap  ? 
Our  senses  narrow,  and  our  reason  frail, 
Life  short,  and  truth  a  gem  which  loves  the 

deep, 
And  all  things   weighed   in   custom's  falsest 

scale ; 
Opinion  an  omnipotence,  —  whose  veil 
Mantles  the  earth  with  darkness,  until  right 
,     And  wrong  are  accidents,  and  men  grow 

pale 


1  See   "  Historical   Notes,"   at   the   end   of  this 
tanto,  No.  XXVI. 


Lest  their  own  judgments  should  become 
too  bright, 
And  their  free  thoughts  be  crimes,  and  earth 
have  too  much  light. 

XCIV. 

And  thus  they  plod  in  sluggish  misery, 
Rotting  from  sire  to  son,  and  age  to  age, 
Proud  of  their  trampled  nature,  and  so  die, 
Bequeathing  their  hereditary  rage 
To  the  new  race  of  inborn  slaves,  who  wag« 
War  for  their  chains,  and  rather  than  be  free, 
Bleed  gladiator-like,  and  still  engage 
Within  the  same  anna  where  they  see 
Their  fellows  fall  before,  like  leaves  of  the 
same  tree. 

xcv. 

I   speak  not  of  men's  creeds  —  they  rest 

between 
Man  and  his  Maker  —  but  of  things  allowed, 
Averred,  and   known,  —  and  daily,  hourly 

seen  — 
The  yoke  that  is  upon  us  doubly  bowed, 
And  the  intent  of  tyranny  avowed, 
The  edict  of  Earth's  rulers,  who  are  grown 
The  apes  of  him   who  humbled  once  the 

proud, 
And   shook   them  from  their  slumbers  on 

the  throne ; 
Too  glorious,  were  this  all  his  mighty  arm  had 

done. 

XCVI. 

Can  tyrants  but  by  tyrants  conquered  be, 
And  freedom  find  no  champion  and  no  child 
Such  as  Columbia  saw  arise  when  she 
Sprung  forth  a  Pallas,  armed  and  undefiled  ? 
Or  must  such  minds  be  nourished  in  the 

wild, 
Deep   in   the   unpruned   forest,  'midst  the 

roar 
Of  cataracts,  where  nursing  Nature  smiled 
On  infant   Washington  ?      Has    Earth   no 

more 
Such  seeds  within  her  breast,  or  Europe  nc 

such  shore  ? 

XCVI  I. 

But  France  got  drunk  with  blood  to  vomit 

crime, 
And  fatal  have  her  Saturnalia  been 
To   Freedom's    cause,    in    ever}'    age   and 

clime; 
Because  the  deadly  days  which   we  have 

seen, 
And  vile  Ambition,  that  built  up  between 
Man  and  his  hopes  an  adamantine  wall, 
And  the  base  pageant  last  upon  the  scene, 
Are  grown  the  pretext  for  the  eternal  thr?"' 
Which    nips   life's   tree,   and    dooms    mai>'« 

worst  —  his  second  fall. 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


33? 


XCVIII. 
Yet,  Freedom !   yet   thy  banner,  torn,  but 

flying, 
Streams  like  the  thunder-storm  against  the 

wind ; 
Thy  trumpet  voice,  though  broken  now  and 

dying, 
The  loudest  still  the  tempest  leaves  behind  ; 
Thy  tree  hath  lost  its  blossoms,  and  the  rind, 
Chopped  by  the  axe,  looks  rough  and  little 

worth, 
But  the  sap  lasts,  and  still  the  seed  we  find 
Sown  deep,  even  in  the  bosom  of  the  North  ; 
So  shall  a  better  spring  less  bitter  fruit  bring 

forth. 

XC1X. 
There  is  a  stern  round  tower  of  other  days,1 
Firm  as  a  fortress,  with  its  fence  of  stone, 
Such  as  an  army's  baffled  strength  delays, 
Standing  with  half  its  battlements  alone, 
And  with  two  thousand  years  of  ivy  grown, 
The  garland  of  eternity,  where  wave 
The   green   leaves   over  all   by  time   o'er- 

thrown ;  — 
What  was  this  tower  of  strength  ?   within 

its  cave 
What  treasure   lay  so   locked,  so   hid? — A 

woman's  grave. 

c. 
But  who  was  she,  the  lady  of  the  dead, 
Tombed  in  a  palace  ?    Was  she  chaste  and 

fair? 
Worthy  a  king's  —  or  more  —  a   Roman's 

bed? 
What  race  of  chiefs  and  heroes   did   she 

bear  ? 
What   daughter   of  her  beauties   was  the 

heir  ? 
How  lived  —  how  loved  —  how  died  she? 

Was  she  not 
So  honored  —  and  conspicuously  there, 
Where  meaner  relics  must  not  dare  to  rot, 
Placed  to  commemorate  a  more  than  mortal 

lot? 

CI. 
Was  she  as  those  who  love  their  lords,  or 

they 
Wholove  the  lords  of  others  ?  such  have 

been 
Even  in  the  olden  time,  Rome's  annals  say. 
Was  she  a  matron  of  Cornelia's  mien, 
Or  the  light  air  of  Egypt's  graceful  queen, 
Profuse  of  joy — or  'gainst  it  did  she  war, 
Inveterate  in  virtue  ?     Did  she  lean 
To  the  soft  side  of  the  heart,  or  wisely  bar 
Love  from  amongst  her  griefs  ?  —  for  such  the 

affections  are. 


1  Alluding  to  the  tomb  of  Cecilia  Metella,  called 
Capo  di  Bove.     See  "  Historical  Illustrations,"  p. 

ZOG. 


Perchance  she  died  in  youth :  it  may  be, 

bowed 
With  woes  far  heavier  than  the  ponderous 

tomb 
That  weighed  upon  her  gentle  dust,  a  cloud 
Might  gather  o'er  her  beauty,  and  a  gloom 
In  her  dark  eye,  prophetic  of  the  doom 
Heaven   gives  its   favorites  —  early  death- 

yet  shed 
A  sunset  charm  around  her,  and  illume 
With  hectic  light,  the  Hesperus  of  the  dead 
Of  her  consuming  cheek  the  autumnal  leaf- 
like  red. 

cm. 

Perchance  she  died  in  age  —  surviving  all, 
Charms,  kindred,  children  —  with  the  silver 

gray 
On  her  long  tresses,  which  might  yet  recall, 

It  may  be,  still  a  something  of  the  day 
When  they  were  braided,  and   her  proud 

array 
And  lovely  form  were  envied,  praised,  and 

eyed 
By  Rome  —  but  whither  would  Conjecture 

stray  ? 
Thus  much  alone  we  know  —  Metella  died, 
The  wealthiest   Roman's  wife:    Behold   his 

love  or  pride  1 

Civ. 

I  know  not  why — but  standing  thus  by  thee 
It  seems  as  if  I  had  thine  inmate  known, 
Thou  tomb !  and  other  days  come  back  on 

me 
With  recollected  music,  though  the  tone 
Is   changed  and  solemn,  like  the   cloudy 

groan 
Of  dying  thunder  on  the  distant  wind ; 
Yet  could  I  seat  me  by  this  ivied  stone 
Till  I  had  bodied  forth  the  heated  mind 
Forms  from  the  floating  wreck  which  Ruin 

leaves  behind ; 

CV. 

And  from  the  planks,  far  shattered  o'er  the 

rocks, 
Built  me  a  little  bark  of  hope,  once  more 
To  battle  with  the  ocean  and  the  shocks 
Of  the  loud  breakers,  and  the  ceaseless  roar 
Which  rushes  on  the  solitary  shore 
Where  all  lies  foundered  that  was  ever  dear: 
But  cpuld  I  gather  from  the  wave-worn  store 
Enough  for  my  rude  boat,  where  should  I 

steer  ? 
There  woos  no  home,  nor  hope,  nor  life,  sava 

what  is  here. 

CVI. 
Then  let  the  winds  howl  on  !  their  harmony 
Shall  henceforth  be  my  music,  and  the  night 
The  sound  shall  temper  with  the  owlet's  cry, 
As  I  now  hear  them,  in  the  fading  light 


33S 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


Dim  o'er  the  bird  of  darkness'  native  site, 
Answering  each  other  on  the  Palatine, 
With    their   large  eyes,  all   glistening  gray 

and  bright, 
And  sailing  pinions.  —  Upon  such  a  shrine 
What  are  our  petty  griefs  ?  —  let  me  not  num- 
ber mine. 

CVII, 
Cypress  and  ivy,  weed  and  wallflower  grown 
Matted    and    massed    together,     hillocks 

heaped 
On  what  were   chambers,   arch    crushed, 

column  strown 
In  fragments,  choked  up  vaults,  and  frescos 

steeped 
In   subterranean    damps,   where    the    owl 

peeped, 
Deeming  it  midnight:  —  Temples,  baths,  or 

halls  ? 
Pronounce  who  can ;  for  all  that  Learning 

reaped 
From  her  research  hath  been,  that  these  are 

walls  — 
Behold    the    Imperial   Mount!    'tis   thus   the 

mighty  falls.1 

CVIII. 
There  is  the  moral  of  all  human  tales;2 
'Tis  but  the  same  rehearsal  of  the  past. 


1  The  Palatine  is  one  mass  of  ruins,  particularly 
on  the  side  towards  the  Circus  Maximus.  The  very 
soil  s  formed  ot  crumbled  brickwork.  Nothing 
has  been  told,  nothing  can  be  told,  to  satisfy  the  be- 
lief of  any  but  a  Roman  antiquar  .  See  "  Histori- 
cal Illustrations,"  p.  206.  —  [The  voice  of  Marius 
could  not  sound  more  deep  and  solemn  amid  the 
ruined  arches  of  Carthage  than  the  strains  of  the 
pilgrim  amid  the  broken  shrines  and  fallen  statues 
of  her  subduer." — Heber.\ 

2  The  author  of  the  Life  of  Cicero,  speaking  f  the 
opinion  entertained  of  Britain  by  that  orator  and  h 
contemporary  Romans  has  the  fo  owing  loquent 
passage:  —  "From  their  rai' eries  f  this  kind,  o 
the  barbarity  and  misery  of  our  island,  one  cannot 
help  reflecting  on  the  surprising  fate  and  revolutions 
of  kingdoms;  how  Rome,  once  the  mistress  of  t. 
world,  the  seat  of  arts,  empire,  and  glory,  no-  lies 
sunk  in  sloth,  ignorance,  and  poverty,  enslaved  to 
the  most  cruel  as  well  as  to  the  most  contemptible 
of  tyrants,  superstition  and  religious  imposture: 
while  this  remote  country,  anciently  the  jest  and 
contempt  of  the  polite  Romans,  is  become  the  happy 
seat  of  liberty,  plenty,  and  letters;  flourishing  in  all 
the  arts  and  refinements  of  civil  life;  yet  running 
perhaps  the  same  course  which  Rome  itself  had  run 
before  it,  from  virtuous  industry  to  wealth;  from 
wealth  to  luxury;  from  luxury  to  an  impatience  of 
discipline,  and  corruption  f  morals:  till,  by  a  total 
degeneracy  and  loss  of  virtue,  being  grown  ripe  for 
destruction,  it  fall  a  prey  at  las.  to  some  hardy  op- 
pressor, and,  with  the  loss  of  liberty,  losing  every 
thing  that  is  valuable,  sinks  gradually  again  into  its 
original  barbarism."* 


*  See  History  of  the  Life  of  M.  Tullius  Cicero, 
sect.  vi.  vol.  ii.  p.  102. 


First  Freedom  and  then  Glory  —  when  tha' 

fails, 
Wealth,   vice,   corruption,  —  barbarisra    a* 

last. 
And  History,  with  all  her  volumes  vast, 
Hath  but  one  page,  —  'tis  better  written  here. 
Where  gorgeous  Tyranny  hath  thus  amassed 
All  treasures,  all  delights,  that  eve  or  ear, 
Heart,  soul  could   seek,  tongue  ask  —  Awav 

with  words !  draw  near, 

Cix. 
Admire,  exult  —  despise  —  laugh,  weep,-- 

for  here 
There  is  such  matter  for  all  feeling  :  —  Man  ! 
Thou  pendulum  betwixt  a  smile  and  tear, 
Ages  and  realms  are  crowded  in  this  span, 
This  mountain,  whose  obliterated  plan 
The  pyramid  of  empires  pinnacled, 
Of  Glory's  gewgaws  shining  in  the  van 
Till  the  sun's  rays  with  added  flame  were 

rilled! 
Where  are  its  golden  roofs !  where  those  who 

dared  to  build  ? 

ex. 

Tully  was  not  so  eloquent  as  thou, 

Thou   nameless  column  with   the    buried 

base! 
What  are  the  laurels  of  the  Cresars'  brow? 
Crown  me  with  ivy  from  his  dwelling-place. 
Whose  arch  or  pillar  meets  me  in  the  face, 
Titus  or  Trajan's?  No  —  'tis  that  of  Time: 
Triumph,  arch,  pillar,  all  he  doth  displace 
Scoffing;  and  apostolic  statues  elimb 
To  crush  the  imperial  urn,  whose  ashes  slept 

sublime,8 

CXI. 
Buried  in  air,  the  deep  blue  sky  of  Rome, 
And   looking  to  the  stars:    they  had  con- 
tained 
A   spirit  which  with    these  would   find  a 

home, 
The  last  of  those  who  o'er  the  whole  earth 

r  igned, 
The  Roman  globe,  for  after  none  sustained, 
But  yielded  back  his  conquests  :  —  he  was 

more 
Than  a  mere  Alexander,  and,  unstained 
With  household  blood  and  wine,  serenelj 

wore 
His  sovereign  virtues  —  still  we  Trajan's  name 

adore.4 

3  The  column  of  Trajan  is  surmounted  by  St 
Peter;  that  of  Aurelius  by  St.  Paul.  See  "  Histori 
cal   Illustrations,"  p.  214. 

4  Trajan  was  proverbially  the  best  of  the  Roman 
princes;  and  it  would  be  easier  to  find  a  sovereign 
uniting  exactly  the  opposite  characteristics,  than 
one  possessed  of  all  the  happy  qualities  ascribed  to 
this  emperor.  "  When  he  mounted  the  throne," 
says  the  historian  Dion,  "  he  was  strong  in  body< 


CHILD E   HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


339 


Where  is  the  rock  of  Triumph,  the  high 

place 
Where  Rome  embraced  her  heroes  ?  where 

the  steep 
Tarpeian  ?  fittest  goal  of  Treason's  race, 
The  promontory  whence  the  Traitor's  Leap 
Cured  all  ambition.     Did   the  conquerors 

heap 
Their  spoils  here?  Yes;  and   in  yon  field 

below, 
A  thousand  years  of  silenced  factions  sleep  — 
The  Fcrum,  where  the  immortal  accents 

glow, 
And  still   the  eloquent   air   breathes — burns 

with  Cicero ! 

CXIII. 
The   field   of  freedom,  faction,   fame,  and 

blood : 
Here  a  proud  people's  passions  were  ex- 
haled, 
From  the  first  hour  of  empire  in  the  bud 
To  that  when   further  worlds   to   conquer 

failed ; 
But  long  before  had  Freedon's  face  been 

veiled, 
And  Anarchy  assumed  her  attributes ; 
Till  every  lawless  soldier  who  assailed 
Trod  on  the  trembling  senate's  slavish  mutes, 
Or  raised  the  venal  voice  of  baser  prostitutes. 

CXIV. 
Then  turn  we  to  her  latest  tribune's  name, 
From  her  ten  thousand  tyrants  turn  to  thee, 
Redeemer  of  dark  centuries  of  shame  — 
The  friend  of  Petrarch  —  hope  of  Italy  — 
Rienzi !  last  of  Romans  !  x     while  the  tree 
Of  freedom's  withered  trunk  puts   forth  a 

leaf, 
Even  for  thy  tomb  a  garland  let  it  be  — 
The  forum's  champion,   and  the  people's 
chief— 
Her  new-born  Numa  thou  —  with  reign,  alas  ! 
too  brief. 

cxv. 

Egeria!  sweet  creation  of  some  heart2 
Which  found  no  mortal  resting-place  so  fair 


he  was  vigorous  in  mind;  age  had  impaired  none 
of  his  faculties;  he  was  altogether  free  from  envy 
and  from  detraction  ;  he  honored  all  the  good  and  he 
advanced  them;  and  on  this  account  they  could 
not  be  the  objects  of  his  fear,  or  of  his  hate;  he 
never  listened  to  informers;  he  gave  not  way  to  his 
anger;  he  abstained  equally  from  unfair  exactions 
and  unjust  punishments;  he  had  rather  be  loved  as 
a  man  than  honored  as  a  sovereign ;  he  was  affable 
with  his  people,  respectful  to  the  senate,  and  uni- 
versally beloved  by  both;  he  inspired  none  with 
dread  but  the  enemies  of  his  country." 

!  See  "  Historical  Illustrations,"  p.  248. 

2  See  "  Historical  Notes,"  at  the  end  of  this  Can- 
;o.  No.  XXVII. 


As  thine  ideal  breast ;  whate'er  thou  art 
Or  wert,  — a  young  Aurora  of  the  air, 
The  nympholepsy  of  some  fond  despair; 
Or,  it  mi  ht  be,  a  beauty  of  the  earth, 
Who  found  a  more  than  common  votary 

there 
Too  much  adoring ;  whatsoe'er  thy  birth, 
Thou  wert  a  beautiful   thought,   and   softly 

bodied  forth. 

cxvi. 
The  mosses  of  thy  fountain  still  are  sprin- 
kled 
With  thine  Elysian  water-drops ;  the  face 
Of  thy  cave-guarded  spring,  with  years  un- 

wrinkled, 
Reflects  the  meek-eyed  genius  of  the  place, 
Whose  green,  wild  margin  now  no  more 

erase 
Art's  works ;  nor  must  the  delicate  waters 

sleep, 
Prisoned  in  marble,  bubbling  from  the  base 
Of  the  cleft  statue,  with  a  gentle  leap 
The  rill  runs  o'er,  and  round,  fern,  flowers, 

and  ivy,  creep, 

cxvil. 
Fantastically  tangled  ;  the  green  hills 
Are  clothed  with  early  blossoms,  through 

the  grass 
The  quick-eyed  lizard  rustles,  and  the  bills 
Of  summer-birds  sing  welcome  as  ye  pass  ; 
Flowers  fresh  in   hue,  and  many  in  their 

class, 
Implore   the  pausing  step,  and  with  their 

dyes 
Dance  in  the  soft  breeze  in  a  fairy  mass ; 
The  sweetness  of  the  violet's  deep  blue  eyes, 
Kissed  by  the  breath  of  heaven  seems  colored 

by  its  skies. 

CXVIII. 

Here  didst  thou   dwell,  in  this  enchanted 

cover, 
Egeria  !  thy  all  heavenly  bosom  beating 
For  the  far  footsteps  of  thy  mortal  lover ; 
The   purple   Midni  ht   veiled    that   mystic 

meeting 
With  her  most  starry  canopy,  and  seating 
Thyself  by  thine  adorer,  what  befell  ? 
This  cave  was   surely  shaped  out  for  the 

greeting 
Of  an  enamoured  Goddess,  and  the  cell 
Haunted  by  holy  Love  —  the  earliest  oracle! 

CXIX. 

And  didst  thou  not,  thy  breast  to  his  reply- 
ing, 

Blend  a  celestial  with  a  human  heart  • 

And  Love,  which  dies  as  it  was  born,  in 
sighing, 

Share  with  immortal  transports  ?  could  thine 
art 


340 


CHILDE  HAROLl    S  PILGRIMAGE. 


Make  them  indeed  immortal,  and  imparl 
The  purity  of  heaven  to  earthly  joys, 
Expel  the  venom  and  not  blunt  the  dart  — 
The  dull  satiety  which  all  destroys  — 
And  root  from  out  the  soul  the  deadly  weed 
which  cloys  ? 

cxx. 

Alas !  our  young  affections  run  to  waste, 
.     Or  water  but  the  desert ;  whence  arise 
But  weeds  of  dark  luxuriance,  tares  of  haste. 
Rank  at  the  core,  though  tempting  to  the 

eyes, 
Flowers    whose  wild    odors    breathe    but 

agonies, 
And  trees  whose  gums  are  poison  ;  such  the 

plants 
Which  spring  beneath  her  steps  as  Passion 

flies 
O'er  the  world's  wilderness,  and  vainly  pants 
For  some  celestial  fruit  forbidden  to  our  wants. 

CXXI. 

Oh  Love  !  no  habitant  of  earth  thou  art  — 
An  unseen  seraph,  we  believe  in  thee, 
A  faith  whose  martyrs  are  the  broken  heart, 
But  never  yet  hath  seen,  nor  e'er  shall  see 
The  naked  eye,  thy  form,  as  it  should  be ; 
The  mind  hath  made  thee,  as  it  peopled 

heaven, 
Even  with  its  own  desiring  phantasy, 
And  to  a  thought  such   shape  and  image 

given, 
As  haunts  the  unquenched  soul  — parched  — 

wearied  —  wrung — and  riven. 

cxx  1 1. 

Of  its  own  beauty  is  the  mind  diseased, 
And  fevers  into  false  creation  :  — where, 
Where   are  the   forms  the   sculptor's   soul 

hath  seized  ? 
In  him  alone.     Can  Nature  show  so  fair  ? 
Where  are  the  charms  and  virtues  which  we 

dare 
Conceive  in  boyhood  and  pursue  as  men, 
The  unreached  Paradise  of  our  despair, 
Which  o'er-informs  the  pencil  and  the  pen, 
And   overpowers  the   page  where    it  would 

bloom  again  ? 

CXXIII. 

Who  loves,  raves  —  'tis  youth's  frenzy  —  but 

the  cure 
Is  bitterer  still ;  as  charm  by  charm  unwinds 
Which  robed  our  idols,  and  we  see  too  sure 
Nor  worth  nor  beauty  dwells  from  out  the 

mind's 
Ideal  shape  of  such;  yet  still  it  binds 
The  fatal  spell,  and  still  it  draws  us  on, 
Reaping  the  whirlwind  from   the  oft-sown 

winds ; 


The  stubborn  heart,  its  alchemy  begun, 
5eems  ever  near  the  prize  —  wealthiest  when 
most  undone. 


We  wither  from  our  youth,  we  gasp  away  — 
Sick  —  sick  ;  unfound  the  boon  —  unslaked 

the  thirst, 
Though  to  the  last,  in  verge  of  our  decay, 
Some  phantom  lures,  such  as  we  sought  at 

first  — 
But  all  too  late,  —  so  are  we  doubly  curst. 
Love,    fame,    ambition,   avarice  —  'tis    the 

same, 
Each   idle — and    all    ill  —  and    none    the 

worst  — 
For  all  are  meteors  with  a  different  name, 
\nd  Death  the  sable  smoke  where  vanishes 

the  flame. 

cxxv. 

Few  —  none  —  find  what  they  love  or  could 

have  loved, 
Though   accident,  blind  contact,  and   the 

strong 
Necessity  of  loving,  hart's  1'eiroved 
Antipathies  —  but  to  recur,  ere  long, 
F.uvonomed  with  irrevocable  wrong; 
Aid  Chcumstance,  that  unspiritual  god 
And  miscreator,  makes  and  helps  along 
Oai  coming  evils  with  a  crutch-like  rod, 
Vh">t'e  '.ouch  Jurns  Hope  to  dust,  —  the  dur< 

vt  all  have  trod. 

CXXVI. 

Our  L'fe  b  a  false  nature  —  'tis  not  in 

The  harmony  of  things, —  this  hard  decree, 

This  uneradicable  taint  of  sin, 

This  boundless  upas,  this  all-blasting  tree, 

Whose   root   is   earth,  whose   leaves    and 

branches  be 
The  skies  which  rain  their  plagues  on  meJ 

like  dew  — 
Disease,  death,  bondage — all  the  woes  wf 

see  — 
And  worse,  the  woes  we  see  not  —  whicl 

throb  through 
The  immedicable  soul,  with  heart-aches  evef 

new. 

CXXVI  I. 

Yet  let  us  ponder  boldly  —  'tis  a  base  * 

Abandonment  of  reason  to  resign 

Our  right  of  thought  —  our  last  and  onlf 

place 
Of  refuge  ;  this,  at  least,  shall  still  be  mine; 

1  "  At  all  events,"  says  the  author  of  the  Aca- 
demical Questions,  "  I  trust,  whatever  may  be  th« 
fate  of  my  own  speculations,  that  philosophy  wiB 
regain  that  estimation  which  it  ought  to  possess. 
The  free  and  philosophic  spirit  of  our  nation  has 
been  the  theme  of  admiration  to  the  wer'd.  This 
was  the  proud  distinction  of  Englishmen,  and  the 


CHILD E  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


341 


Though  from  our  birth  the  faculty  divine 
\z  chained  and  tortured —  cabined,  cribbed, 

confined, 
And  bred  in  darkness,  lest  the  truth  should 

shine 
Too  brightly  on  the  unprepared  mind, 
The  beam  pours  in,  for  time  and  skill  will 

couc'i  the  blind. 

CXXVIII. 

Arches  on  arches  !  as  it  were  that  Rome, 
Collecting  the  chief  trophies  of  her  line, 
Would  build  up  all  her  triumphs  in  one 

dome, 
Her  Coliseum  stands  ;  the  moonbeams  shine 
As  'twere  its  natural  torches,  for  divine 
Should  be  the  light  which  streams  here,  to 

illume 
This  long-explored  but  still  exhaustless  mine 
Of  contemplation  ;  and  the  azure  gloom 
Of  an    Italian   night,   where   the  deep   skies 

assume 

CXXIX. 
Hues  which  have  words,  and  speak  to  ye 

of  heaven, 
Floats  o'er  this  vast  and  wondrous  monu- 
ment, 
And  shadows  forth  its  glory.  There  is  given 
Unto  the  things  of  earth,  which  Time  hath 

bent, 
A  spirit's  feeling,  and  where  he  hath  leant 
His  hand,  but  broke  his  scythe,  there  is  a 

power 
And  magic  in  the  ruined  battlement, 
For  which  the  palace  of  the  present  hour 
Must  yield  its  pomp,  and  wait  till  ages  are  its 

dower. 

cxxx. 
Oh  Time  !  the  beautifier  of  the  dead, 
Adorner  of  the  ruin,  comforter 
And  only  healer  when  the  heart  hath  bled  — 
Time !  the  corrector  where  our  judgments 

err, 
The  test  of  truth,  love,  —  sole  philosopher, 
For  all  beside  are  sophists,  from  thy  thrift, 
Which  never  loses  though  it  doth  defer  — 
Time,  the  avenger!  unto  thee  I  lift 
My  hands,  and  eyes,  and  heart,  and  crave  of 

thee  a  gift : 


luminous  source  of  all  their  glory.  Shall  we  then 
forget  the  manly  and  dignified  sentiments  of  our 
ancestors,  to  prate  in  the  language  of  the  mother  or 
the  nurse  about  our  good  old  prejudices?  This  is 
not  the  way  to  defend  the  cause  of  truth.  It  was 
not  thus  that  our  fathers  maintained  it  in  the  bril- 
liant periods  of  our  history.  Prejudice  may  be 
trusted  to  guard  the  outworks  for  a  short  space  of 
time,  while  reason  slumbers  in  the  citadel;  but  if 
the  latter  sink  into  a  lethargy,  the  former  will 
quickly  erect  a  standard  for  herself.  Philosophy, 
wisdom,  and  liberty  support  each  other:  he  who 
will  not  reason  is  a  bigot;  he  who  cannot,  is  a 
fool;   and  he  who  dares  not,  is  a  slave." 


CXXXI. 

Amidst  this  wreck,  where  thou  hast  made  a 
*  shrine 

And  temple  more  divinely  desolate, 
Among  thy  mightier  offerings  here  are  mine, 
Ruins   of  years  —  though   few,   yet  full   of 

fate :  — 
If  thou  hast  ever  seen  me  too  elate, 
Hear  me  not ;  but  if  calmly  I  have  borne 
Good,  and  reserved  my  pride  against  the 

hate 
Which  shall  not  whelm  me,  let  me  not  have 

worn 
This  iron  in  my  soul  in  vain  —  shall  they  not 

mourn  ? 

CXXXII. 
And  thou,  who  never  yet  of  human  wrong 
Left  the  unbalanced  scale,  great  Nemesis  !  1 
Here,  where  the  ancient  paid  thee  homage 

long— 
Thou,  who  didst  call  the  Furies  from  the 

abyss, 
And  round  Orestes  bade  them  howl  and  hiss 
For  that  unnatural  retribution — just, 
Had  it  but  been  from  hands  less  near  —  in 

this 
Thy  former  realm,  I  call  thee  from  the  dust ! 
Dost  thou  not  hear  my  heart  ?  — Awake  !  thou 

shalt,  and  must. 

CXXXIII. 

It  is  not  that  I  may  not  have  incurred 
For  my  ancestral  faults  or  mine  the  wouno" 
I  bleed  withal,  and,  had  it  been  conferred 
With  a  just  weapon,  it  had  flowed  unbound  ; 
But  now  my  blood  shall  not  sink  in  the 

ground ; 
To  thee  I  do  devote  it  — thou  shalt  take 
The  vengeance,  which  shall  yet  be  sought 

and  found, 

Which  if /have  not  taken  for  the  sake 

But  let  that  pass  —  I  sleep,  but  thou  shalt  yet 

awake. 

CXXXIV. 

And  if  my  voice  break  forth,  'tis  not  that  now 
I  shrink  from  what  is  suffered  ;  let  him  speak 
Who  hath  beheld  decline  upon  my  brow, 
Or  seen  my  mind's  convulsion  leave  it  weak , 
But  in  this  page  a  record  will  I  seek. 
Not  in  the  air  shall  these  my  words  disperse. 
Though  I  be  ashes  ;  a  far  hour  shall  wreak 
The  deep  prophetic  fulness  of  this  verse, 
And  pile  on  human  heads  the  mountain  of  my 

curse ! 

cxxxv. 
That  curse  shall  be  Forgiveness.  —  Have  I 

not  — 
Hear  me,   my   mother  Earth !    behold   it, 

Heaven !  — 


1  See   "Historical   Notes"   at  the   end   of    this 
Canto,  No.  XXVIII. 


3^ 


CHILD E  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


Have  I  not  had  to  wrestle  with  my  lot ! 
Have  I  not  suffered  things  to  be  forgiven  ? 
Have  I  not  had  my  brain  seared,  my  heart 

riven, 
Hopes  sapped,  name  blighted,   Lite's   life 

lied  away  ? 
And  only  not  to  desperation  driven, 
Because  not  altogether  of  such  clay 
As  rots  into  the  souls  of  those  whom  I  survey. 

CXXXVI. 

From  mighty  wrongs  to  petty  perfidy 
Have  I  not  seen  what  human  things  could 

do? 
From  the  loud  roar  of  foaming  calumny 
To  the  small  whisper  of  the  as  paltry  few, 
And  subtler  venom  of  the  reptile  crew, 
The  Janus  glance  of  whose  significant  eye, 
Learning  to  lie  with  silence,  would  seem  true, 
And  without  utterance,  save  the  shrug  or 
sigh, 
Deal  round  to  happy  fools  its  speechless  oblo- 
quy.* 

CXXXVII. 

But  I  have  lived,  and  have  not  lived  in  vain  : 
My  mind  may  lose  its  force,  my  blood  its 

fire, 
And  my  flame  perish  even  in  conquering 

pain  ; 
But  there  is  that  within  me  which  shall  tire 
Torture  and  Time,  and  breathe  when  1  ex- 
pire; 
Something  unearthly,  which  they  deem  not 

of, 
Like  the  remembered  tone  of  a  mute  lyre, 
Shall   on   their   softened  spirits  sink,    and 
move 
In  hearts  all  rocky  now  the  late  remorse  of  love. 

CXXXVIII. 

The  seal  is  set. —  Now  welcome,  thou  dread 

power ! 
Nameless,  yet  thus  omnipotent,  which  here 
Walk'st  in  the  shadow  of  the  midnight  hour 
With  a  deep  awe,  yet  all  distinct  from  fear ; 
Thy  haunts  are  ever  where  the  dead  walls 

rear 
Their  ivy  mantles,  and  the  solemn  scene 
Derives  from  thee  a  sense  so  deep  and  clear 


1  [Between  stanzas  cxx.xv.  and  exxxvi.  we  find  in 
the  original  MS.  the  following:  — 
*'  If  to  forgive  be  heaping  coals  of  fire  — 
As  God  hath  spoken  —  on  the  heads  of  foes, 
Mine  should  be  a  volcano,  and  rise  higher 
Than,  o'er  the  Titans  crushed,  Olympus  rose, 
Or  Athos  soars,  or  blazing  Etna  glows:  — 
True  they  who  stung  were  creeping  things;  but 

what 
Than  serpents'  teeth  inflicts  with  deadlier  throes? 
The  Lion  may  be  goaded  by  the  Gnat.  — 
Who  sucks  the  slumberer's  blood?  —  The  Eagle?  — 
No:  the  Bat."] 


That  we  become  a  part  of  what  has  been, 
And  grow  unto  the  spot,  all-seeing  but  unseen, 

CXXXIX. 

And  here  the  buzz  of  eager  nations  ran, 
In  murmured  pity,  or  loud-roared  applause, 
As  man  was  slaughtered  by  his  fellow  man. 
And  wherefore  slaughtered  ?  wherefore,  but 

because 
Such  were  the  bloody  Circus'  genial  laws, 
And   the   imperial    pleasure.  —  Wherefore 

not? 
What  matters  where  we  fall  to  fill  the  maws 
Of  worms  —  on  battle-plains  or  listed  spot? 
Both  are  but  theatres  where  the  chief  actors  rot. 


I  see  before  me  the  Gladiator  lie  : 
He  leans  upon  his  hand  —  his  manly  brow 
Consents  to  death,  but  conquers  agony, 
And  his  drooped  head  sinks  gradually  low 
And  through  his  side  the  last  drops,  ebbing 

slow 

From  the  red  gash,  fall  heavy,  one  by  one 

Like  the  first  of  a  thunder-shower  ;  and  nov. 

The  arena  swims  around  him  —  he  is  gone 

Ere  ceased  the  inhuman  shout  which  hailed 

the  wretch  who  won. 

CXLI. 

He  heard  it,  but  he  heeded  not  —  his  eyes 
Were  with  h^  heart,  and  that  was  far  away  :  ' 
He  recked  not  of  the  life  he  lost  nor  prize, 
But  where  his  rude  hut  by, the  Danube  lav, 
There  were  his  young  barbarians  all  at  play, 
There  was  their  Dacian  mother — he,  their 

sire, 
Butchered  to  make  a  Roman  holiday — 3 

-  Whether  the  wonderful  statue  which  suggested 
this  image  be  a  laquearian  gladiator,  which,  in  spite 
of  Winkelmann's  criticism,  has  been  stoutly  main- 
tained; or  whether  it  be  a  Greek  herald,  as  that 
great  antiquary  positively  asserted;  *  or  whether  it 
is  to  be  thought  a  Spartan  or  barbarian  shield- 
bearer,  according  to  the  opinion  of  his  Italian 
editor;  it  must  assuredly  seem  a  copy  of  that  mas- 
terpiece of  Ctesilaus  which  represented  "  a  wounded 
man  dying,  who  perfectly  expressed  what  there  re- 
mained of  life  in  him."  Montfaucon  and  Maflei 
thought  it  the  identical  statue;  but  that  statue  was 
of  bronze.  The  gladiator  was  once  in  the  Villa 
Ludovizi,  and  was  bought  by  Clement  XII.  The 
right  arm  is  an  entire  restoration  of  Michael  Angelo. 

3  See  ' '  H  istorical  Notes  "  at  the  end  of  this  Canto 
Nos.  XXIX.  XXX. 


*  Either  Polifontes,  herald  of  Laius,  killed  by 
GEdipus;  or  Cepreas,  herald  of  Euritheus,  killed 
by  the  Athenians  when  he  endeavored  to  drag  the 
Heraclidse  from  the  altar  of  mercy,  and  in  whose 
honor  they  instituted  annual  games,  continued  to 
the  time  of  Hadrian;  or  Anthemocritus,  the  Athe- 
nian herald,  killed  by  the  Megarenses,  who  never 
recovered  the  impiety.  See  Storia  delle  Arti,  etc. 
torn.  ii.  pag.  203,  204,  205,  206,  207,  lib.  ix.  cap.  ii. 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


343 


All  this  rushed  with  his  blood  —  Shall  he 
expire 
And  unavenged  ?  —  Arise !  ye  Goths,  and  glut 
your  ire ! 

CXLII. 

But  here,  where  Murder  breathed  her  bloody 

steam, 
And  here,  where  buzzing  nations  choked  the 

ways, 
And  roared  or  murmured  like  a  mountain 

stream 
Dashing  or  winding  as  its  torrent  strays  ; 
Here,  where  the  Roman  millions'  blame  or 

praise 
Was   death    or   life,   the   playthings    of   a 

crowd,1 
My  voice  sounds  much  —  and  fall  the  stars' 

faint  rays 
On  the  arena  void  —  seats  crushed  —  walls 

bowed — 
&nd  galleries,  where  my  steps  seem  echoes 

strangely  loud. 

CXLIII. 

A  ruin  —  yet  what  ruin  !  from  its  mass 
Walls,  palaces,  half-cities,  have  been  reared  ; 
Yet  oft  the  enormous  skeleton  ye  pass, 
And   marvel  where  the   spoil   could   have 

appeared. 
Hath   it  indeed  been   plundered,   or    but 

cleared  ? 
Alas  !  developed,  opens  the  decay, 
When  the  colossal  fabric's  form  is  neared  : 
It  will  not  bear  the  brightness  of  the  day, 
Which  streams  too  much  on  all  years,  man, 

have  reft  away. 


But  when  the  rising  moon  begins  to  climb 
Its  topmost  arch,  and  gently  pauses  there ; 
When  the  stars  twinkle  through  the  loops 

of  time, 
And  the  low  night-breeze  waves  along  the  air 
The  garland  forest,  which  the   gray  walls 

wear, 
Like  laurels  on  the  bald  first  Caesar's  hea    ;  2 
When  the  light  shines  serene  but  doth  not 

glare, 
Then  in  this  magic  circle  raise  the  dead : 
Heroes  have  trod  this  spot —  'tis  on  their  dust 

ye  tread. 


1  See  "  Historical  Notes  "  at  the  end  of  this  Canto, 
Nos.  XXIX.  XXX. 

2  Suetonius  informs  us  that  Julius  Caesar  was 
particularly  gratified  by  that  decree  of  the  senate 
which  enabled  him  to  wear  a  wreath  of  laurel  on  all 
occasions.  He  was  anxious,  not  to  show  that  he 
was  the  conqueror  of  the  world,  but  to  hide  that  he 
was  bald.  A  stranger  at  Rome  would  hardly  have 
guessed  at  the  motive,  nor  should  wf,  without  the 
help  of  the  historian. 


CXLV. 
"While  stands  the  Coliseum,  Rome  shall 

stand ;  3 
"  When  falls  the  Coliseum,  Rome  shall  fall ; 
"And    when    Rome    falls  —  the    World." 

From  our  own  land 
Thus  spake  the  pilgrims  o'er  this   mighty 

wall 
In  Saxon  times,  which  we  are  wont  to  call 
Ancient;  and  these  three  mortal  things  are 

still 
On  their  foundations,  and  unaltered  all ; 
Rome  and  her  Ruin  past  Redemption's  skill, 
The  World,  the  same  wide  den  —  of  thieves, 

or  what  ye  will. 

CXLVI. 

Simple,  erect,  severe,  austere,  sublime  — 
Shrine  of  all  saints  and  temple  of  all  gods, 
From  Jove  to  Jesus  —  spared  and  blest  by 

time ; * 
Looking  tranquillity,  while  falls  or  nods 
Arch,  empire,  each  thing  round  thee,  ancj 

man  plods 
His  way  through  thorns  to  ashes  —  glorious 

dome ! 
Shalt  thou  not   last  ?     Time's   scythe  and 

tyrant's  rods 
Shiver  upon  thee  —  sanctuary  and  home 
Of  art  and  piety — Pantheon  !  — pride  of  Rome ! 


Relic  of  nobler  days,  and  noblest  arts ! 
Despoiled  yet  perfect,  with  thy  circle  spreads 
A  holiness  appealing  to  all  hearts  — 
To  art  a  model ;  and  to  him  who  treads 
Rome  for  the  sake  of  ages,  Glory  sheds 
Her  light  through  thy  sole  aperture  ;  to  those 
Who  worship,  here   are    altars    for   their 

beads ; 
And  they  who  feel  for  genius  may  repose 
Their  eyes  on  honored   forms,  whose   busts 

around  them  close.  5 


3  This  is  quoted  in  the  "  Decline  and  Fall  of  the 
Roman  Empire,"  as  a  proof  that  the  Coliseum  was 
entire,  when  seen  by  the  Anglo-Saxon  pilgrims  at 
the  end  of  the  seventh,  or  the  beginning  of  the 
eighth,  century.  A  notice  on  the  Coliseum  may  be 
seen  in  the  "  Historical  Illustrations,"  p.  263. 

4  "  Though  plundered  of  all  its  brass,  except  the 
ring  which  was  necessary  to  preserve  the  aperture 
above;  though  exposed  to  repeated  fires;  though 
sometimes  flooded  by  the  river  and  always  open  to 
the  rain,  no  monument  of  equal  antiquity  is  so  well 
preserved  as  this  rotundo.  It  passed  with  little 
alteration  from  the  Pagan  into  the  present  worship: 
and  so  convenient  were  its  niches  for  the  Christian 
altar,  that  Michael  Angelo,  ever  studious  of  ancient 
beauty,  introduced  their  design  as  a  model  in  the 
Catholic  church."  —  Forsyth' 's  Italy,  p.  137. 

5  The  Pantheon  has  been  made  a  receptacle  for 
the  busts  of  modern  great,  or,  at  least,  distin- 
guished, men.     The  flood  of  light  which  once  feU 


344 


CHILD E  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


CXLVIII. 

There  is  a  dungeon,  in  whose  dim   drear 

light  i 
What  do  I  gaze  on  ?  Nothing  :  Look  again  ! 
Two  forms   are   slowly  shadowed   on    my 

sight  — 
Two  insulated  phantoms  of  the  brain  : 
It  is  not  so;   I  see  them  full  and  plain  — 
An  old  man,  and  a  female  young  and  fair, 
Fresh  as  a  nursing  mother,  in  whose  vein 
The  blood  is  nectar :  —  but  what  doth  she 

there, 
With  her  unmantled  neck,  and  bosom  white 

and  bare  ? 

CXLIX. 
Full  swells  the  deep  pure  fountain  of  young 

life, 
Where  on  the  heart  and  from  the  heart  we 

took 
Our  first  and  sweetest  nurture,  when  the  wife, 
Blest  into  mother,  in  the  innocent  look. 
Or  even  the  piping  cry  of  lips  that  brook 
No  pain  and  small  suspense,  a  joy  perceives 
Man  knows  not,  when  from  out  its  cradled 

nook 
She  sees  her  little  bud  put  forth  its  leaves  — 
What  may  the  fruit  be  yet?  —  I  know  not  — 

Cain  was  Eve's. 


But  here  youth  offers  to  old  age  the  food, 
The  milk  of  his  own  gift:  —  it  is  her  sire 
To  whom  she  renders  back  the  debt  of  blood 
Born  with  her  birth.     No  ;  he  shall  not  ex- 
pire 
While  in  those  warm  and  lovely  veins  the 

fire 
Of  health  and  holy  feeling  can  provide 
Great   Nature's    Nile,  whose  deep   stream 

rises  higher 
Than  Egypt's  river  : — from  that  gentle  side 
Drink,  drink  and   live,  old    man !    Heaven's 
realm  holds  no  such  tide. 

CLI. 
The  starry  fable  of  the  milky  way 
Has  not  thy  story's  purity  ;  it  is 

through  the  large  orb  above  on  the  whole  ci  of 
divinities,  now  shines  on  a  numerous  a  semblage  of 
mortals,  some  one  or  two  of  whom  have  been  al- 
most deified  by  the  veneration  of  their  countrymen. 
For  a  notice  of  the  Pantheon,  see  "  Historical  Illus- 
trations," p.  287. 

1 "  There  is  a  dungeon,  in  whose  dim  drear  light 
What  do  I  gaze  on  ?  "  etc. 
This  and  the  three  next  stanzas  allude  to  the  story 
of  the  Roman  daughter,  which  is  recalled  to  the 
traveller  by  the  site,  or  pretended  site,  of  that  ad- 
venture, now  shown  at  the  church  of  St.  Nicholas 
in  Carcere.  The  difficulties  attending  the  full  be- 
lief of  the  tale  are  stated  in  "  Historical  Illustra- 
tions," p.  295. 


A  constellation  of  a  sweeter  ray, 
And  sacred  Nature  triumphs  more  in  this 
Reverse  of  her  decree,  than  in  the  abyss 
Where  sparkle  distant  worlds  :  —  Oh,  ho- 
liest nurse ! 
No  drop  of  that  clear  stream  its  way  shall 

miss 
To  thy  sire's  heart,  replenishing  its  source 
With  life,  as  our  freed  souls  rejoin  the  universe. 

CUI. 

Turn  to  the  Mole  which  Hadrian  reared  on 

high,- 
Imperial  mimic  of  old  Egypt's  piles, 
Colossal  copyist  of  deformity, 
Whose  travelled  phantasy  from  the  far  Nile's 
Enormous  model,  doomed  the  artist's  toils 
To  build  for  giants,  and  for  his  vain  earth, 
His  shrunken  ashes,  raise  this  dome  :  How 

smiles 
The  gazer's  eye  with  philosophic  mirth, 
To  view  the  huge  design  which  sprung  from 

such  a  birth ! 

CLIII. 
But  lo  !  the  dome  —  the  vast  and  wondrous 

dome,3 
To  which  Diana's  marvel  was  a  cell  — 
Christ's  mighty  shrine  above  his  martyr's 

tomb ! 
I  have  beheld  the  Ephesian's  miracle  — 
Its  columns  strew  the  wilderness,  and  dwell 
The  hyasna  find  the  jackal  in  their  shade  ; 
I  have  beheld  Sophia's  bright  roofs  swell 
Their  glittering  mass  i'  the  sun,  and  have 

surveyed 
Its  sanctuary  the  while  the  usurping  Moslem 

prayed ; 

CLIV. 
But  thou,  of  temples  old,  or  altars  new, 
Standest  alone  —  with  nothing  like  to  thee  — 
Worthiest  of  God,  the  holy  and  the  true. 
Since  Zion's  desolation,  when  that  He 
Forsook  his  former  city,  what  could  be, 
Of  earthly  structures,  in  his  honor  piled, 
Of  a  sublimer  aspect  ?     Majesty, 
Power,  Glory,  Strength,  and  Beauty,  all  are 

aisled 
In  this  eternal  ark  of  worship  undefiled. 

CLV. 

Enter :  its  grandeur  overwhelms  thee  not ; 
And  why  ?  it  is  not  lessened  ;  but  thy  mind, 
Expanded  by  the  genius  of  the  spot, 
Has  grown  colossal,  and  can  only  find 
A  fit  abode  wherein  appear  enshrined 
Thy  hopes  of  immortality  ;  and  thou 
Shalt  one  day,  if  found  worthy,  so  defined. 
See  thy  God  face  to  face,  as  thou  dost  now 
His  Holy  of  Holies,  nor  be  blasted  by  his  brow. 


2  The  castle  of  St.  Angelo. 

3  The  church  of  St.  Peter's. 


CHILDE   HAROLD'  S  PILGRIMAGE. 


345 


CLVI.  ' 

Thou  movest — but  increasing  with  the  ad- 
vance, 

Like  climbing  some  great  Alp,  which  still 
doth  rise, 

Deceived  by  it£  gigantic  elegance ; 

Vastness  which  grows  —  but  grows  to  har- 
monize— 

All  musical  in  its  immensities; 

Rich    marbles  —  richer    painting  —  shrines 
where  flame 

The  lamps  of  gold  —  and  haughty  dome 
which  vies 

In  air  with  Earth's  chief  structures,  though 
their  frame 
Sits  on   the  firm-set    ground  —  and  this  the 
clouds  must  claim. 

CLVII. 

Thou  seest  not  all ;  but  piecemeal  thou  must 

break, 
To  separate  contemplation,  the  great  whole  ; 
And  as  the  ocean  many  bays  will  make, 
That  ask  th  e  eye  —  so  here  condense  thy  soul 
To  more  immediate  objects,  and  control 
Thy  thoughts  until  thy  mind  hath  got  by 

heart 
Its  eloquent  proportions,  and  unroll 
In  mighty  graduations,  part  by  part, 
The  glory  which  at  once  upon  thee  did  not 

dart, 

CLVIII. 

Not  by  its  fault  —  but  thine:  Our  outward 

sense 
Is  but  of  gradual  grasp  —  and  as  it  is 
That  what  we  have  of  feeling  most  intense 
Outstrips  our  laint  expression  ;  even  so  this 
Outshining  and  o'erwhelming  edifice 
Fools  our  fond  gaze,  and  greatest  of  the 

great 
Defies  at  first  our  Nature's  littleness, 
Till,  growing  with  its  growth,  we  thus  dilate 
Our  spirits  to  the  size  of  that  they  contemplate. 

CLIX. 

Then  pause,  and  be  enlightened ;  there  is 

more 
In  such  a  survey  than  the  sating  gaze 
Of  wonder  pleased,  or  awe  which  would 

adore 
The  worship  of  the  place,  or  the  mere  praise 
Of  art  and  its  great  masters,  who  could  raise 
What  former  time,  nor  skill,  nor  thought 

could  plan ; 
The  fountain  of  sublimity  displays 
Its  depth,  and  thence  may  draw  the  mind  of 
man 
Its  golden  sands,  and  learn  what  great  con- 
ceptions can. 


CLX. 

Or,  turning  to  the  Vatican,  go  see 

Laocoon's  torture  dignifying  pain  — 

(V  father's  love  and  mortal's  agony 

With  an  immortal's  patience  blending  :  — 

Vain 
The  struggle  ;  vain,  against  the  coiling  strain 
And  gripe,  and  deepening  of  the  dragon's 

grasp, 
The  old  man's  clench;  the  long  envenomed 

chain 
Rivets  the  living  links,  —  the  enormous  asp 
Enforces  pang  on   pang,  and  stifles  gasp  on 

gasp. 

CLX  I. 

Or  view  the  Lord  of  the  unerring  bow, 
The  God  of  life,  and  poesy,  and  light  — 
The  Sun  in  human  limbs  arrayed,  and  brow 
All  radiant  from  his  triumph  in  the  fight ; 
The  shaft  hath  just  been  shot  —  the  arrow 

bright 
With  an  immortal's  vengeance;  in  his  eye 
And  nostril  beautiful  disdain,  and  might 
And  majesty,  flash  their  full  lightnings  by, 
Developing  in  that  one  glance  the  Deity. 

CLXU. 

But  in  his  delicate  form  —  a  dream  of  Love, 
Shaped    by  some    solitary  nymph,   whose 

breast 
Longed  for  a  deathless  lover  from  above, 
And  maddened  in  that  vision  — are  exprest 
All  that  ideal  beauty  ever  blessed 
The  mind  with  in  its  most  unearthly  mood, 
When  each   conception  was    a    heavenly 

guest  — 
A  ray  of  ifnmortality — and  stood, 
Starlike,  around,  until  they  gathered  to  a  god  ! 

CLXIII. 

And  if  it  be  Prometheus  stole  from  Heaven 
The  fire  which  we  endure,  it  was  repaid 
By  him  to  whom  the  energy  was  given 
Which  this  poetic  marble  hath  arrayed 
With  an  eternal  glory  —  which,  if  made 
By  human  hands,  is  not  of  human  thought; 
And  Time  himself  hath  hallowed  it,  nor  laid 
One  ringlet  in  the  dust —  nor  hath  it  caught 
A  tinge  of  years,  but  breathes  the  flame  with 
which  'twas  wrought. 

CLXIV. 

But  where  is  he,  the  Pilgrim  of  my  song, 
The  being  who  upheld  it  through  the  past  ? 
Methinks  he  cometh  late  and  tarries  long. 
He  is  no  more  —  these  breathings  are  his 

last; 
His  wanderings  done,  his  visions  ebbing  fast, 
And  he  himself  as  nothing:  —  if  he  was 
Aught  but  a  phantasy,  and  could  be  classed 


346 


CHILD E   HAROLD'S  PILGRLMAGE. 


With  forms  which  live  and  suffer —  let  that 
pass  — 
His    shadow  fades  away  into    Destruction's 
mass, 

CLXV. 

Which  gathers  shadow,  substance,  life,  and 

all 
That  we  inherit  in  its  mortal  shroud, 
And  spreads  the  dim  and  universal  pall 
Through  which  all  things  grow  phantoms  ; 

and  the  cloud 
Between  us  sinks  and  all  which  ever  glowed, 
Till  Glory's  self  is  twilight,  and  displays 
A  melancholy  halo  scarce  allowed 
To  hover  on  the  verge  of  darkness ;  rays 
Sadder  than  saddest  night,  for  they  distract 

the  gaze, 

CLXVI. 

And  send  us  prying  into  the  abyss. 
To  gather  what  we  shall  be  when  the  frame 
Shall  be  resolved  to  something  less  than  this 
Its  wretched  essence ;  and  to  dream  of  fame, 
And  wipe  the  dust  from  off  the  idle  name 
We  never    more    shall    hear,  —  but   never 

more, 
Oh,  happier  thought!  can  we  be  made  the 

same: 
It  is  enough  in  sooth  that  once  we  bore 
These  fardels  of  the  heart  —  the  heart  whose 

sweat  was  gore. 

CLXVII. 

Hark !  forth    from   the  abyss  a  voice  pro- 
ceeds, 
A  long  low  distant  murmur  of  dread  sound, 
Such  as  arises  when  a  nation  bleeds 
With  some  deep  and  immedicable  wound  ; 
Through   storm  and   darkness   yawns   the 

rending  ground, 
The  gulf  is  thick  with  phantoms,  but  the  chief 
Seems  royal  still,  though  with  her  head  dis- 
crowned, 
And  pale,  but  lovely,  with  maternal  grief 
She  clasps  a  babe,  to  whom  her  breast  yields 
no  relief. 

CLXVIII. 

Scion  of  chiefs  and   monarchs,  where  art 

thou? 
Fond  hope  of  many  nations,  art  thou  dead  ? 
Could  not  the  grave  forget  thee,  and  lay  low 
Some  less  majestic,  less  beloved  head? 
In  the  sad  midnight,  while  thy  heart   still 

bled, 
The  mother  of  a  moment,  o'er  thy  boy, 
Death  hushed  that  pan^  for  ever :  with  thee 

fled  V     ° 

The  present  happiness  and  promised  joy 
Which  filled  the  imperial  isles  so  full  it  seemed 

to  cloy. 


CLXIX. 

Peasants  bring  forth  in  safety.  —  Can  it  be, 
Oh  thou  that  wert  so  happy,  so  adored ! 
Those  who  weep  not  for  kings  shall  weep 

for  thee, 
And  Freedom's  heart,  grown  heavy,  cease 

to  hoard 
Her  many  griefs  for  ONE  ;  for  she  had  poured 
Her  orisons  for  thee,  and  o'er  thy  head 
Beheld  her  Iris.  —  Thou,  too,  lonely  lord, 
And    desolate   consort  —  vainly  wert    thou 

wed! 
The  husband  of  a  year !  the  father  of  the  dead ! 

CLXX. 

Of   sackcloth  was    thy  wedding    garment 

made ; 
Thy  bridal's  fruit  is  ashes :  in  the  dust 
The  fair-haired  Daughter  of  the  Isles  is  laid, 
The  love  of  millions !     How  we  did  intrust 
Futurity  to  her!  and,  though  it  must 
Darken  above  our  bones,  yet  fondly  deemed 
Our  children  should   obey  her  child,  and 

blessed 
Her  and  her  hoped-for  seed,  whose  prom- 
ise seemed 
Like  stars  to  shepherds'  eyes :  —  'twas  but  a 
meteor  beamed. 


Woe  unto  usfnot  her ;  1  for  she  sleeps  well : 
The  fickle  reek  of  popular  breath,  the  tongue 
Of  hollow  counsel,  the  false  oracle, 
Which  from   the   birth  of  monarchy  hath 

rung 
Its  knell  in  princely  ears,  'till  the  o'erstung 
Nations  have  armed  in  madness,  the  strange 

fate  2 
Which  tumbles  mightiest  sovereigns,  and 

hath  flung 
Against  their  blind  omnipotence  a  weight 
Within  the  opposing  scale,  which  crushes  soon 

or  late,  — 

CLXXII. 

These  might  have  been  her  destiny ;  but  no, 
Our  hearts  deny  it :  and  so  young,  so  fair, 
Good  without  effort,  great  without  a  foe ; 
But   now  a   bride  and   mother  —  and  now 
there  I 


1  ["  The  death  of  the  Princess  Charlotte  has 
been  a  shock  even  here  (Venice),  and  must  have 
been  an  earthquake  at  home.  The  fate  of  this  pool 
girl  is  melancholy  in  every  respect;  dying  at  twenty 
or  so,  in  childbed  —  of  a  boy  too,  a  present  princess 
and  future  queen,  and  just  as  she  began  to  be 
happy,  and  to  enjoy  herself,  and  the  hopes  which 
she  inspired.  I  feel  sorry  in  every  respect."  —  By- 
rot's  Letters.] 

-  Mary  died  on  the  scaffold;  Elizabeth  of  a  broken 
heart;  Charles  V.  a  hermit;  Louis  XIV.  a  bank" 
rupt  in   means   and   glory;    Cromwell  of  anxiety 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


347 


How  many  ties  did  that  stern  moment  tear! 
From  thy  Sire's  to  his  humblest  subject's 

breast 
Is  linked  the  electric  chain  of  that  despair, 
Whose  shock  was  as  an  earthquake's  and 

opprest 
The  land  which  loved  thee  so  that  none  could 

love  thee  best. 


Lo,  Nemi ! 1  navelled  in  the  woody  hills 
So  far,  that  the  uprooting  wind  which  tears 
The  oak  from  his  foundation,  and  which 

spills 
The  ocean  o'er  its  boundary,  and  bears 
Its  foam  against  the  skies,  reluctant  spares 
The  oval  mirror  of  thy  glassy  lake  ; 
And,  calm   as  cherished  hate,  its  surface 

wears 
A  deep  cold  settled  aspect  naught  can  shake, 
All  coiled  into  itself  and  round,  as  sleeps  the 

snake. 

CLXXIV. 

And  near  Albano's  scarce  divided  waves 
Shine  from  a  sister  valley ;  — and  afar 
The  Tiber  winds,  and  the  broad  ocean  laves 
The  Latian  coast  where  sprang  the  Epic  war, 
"  Arms  and  the  Man,"  whose  re-ascending 

star 
Rose  o'er   an  empire: — but  beneath   thy 

right 
Tully  reposed   from    Rome;  —  and  where 

yon  bar 
Of  girdling  mountains  intercepts  the  sight 
The  Sabine  farm  was  tilled,  the  weary  bard's 

delight.2 

CLXXV. 

But  I  forget.  —  My  Pilgrim's  shrine  is  won, 
And  he  and  I  must  part,  —  so  let  it  be, — 
His  task  and  mine  alike  are  nearly  done; 
Yet  once  more  let  us  look  upon  the  sea ; 
The  midland  ocean  breaks  on  him  and  me, 


and,  "  the  greatest  is  behind,"  Napoleon  lives  a 
prisoner.  To  these  sovereigns  a  long  but  super- 
fluous list  might  be  added  of  names  equally  illus- 
trious and  unhappy. 

1  The  village  of  Nemi  was  near  the  Arician  re- 
treat of  Egeria,  and,  from  the  shades  which 
flmbosomed  the  temple  of  Diana,  has  preserved  to 
this  day  its  distinctive  appellation  of  The  Grove. 
Nemi  is  but  an  evening's  ride  from  the  comfortable 
inn  of  Albano. 

2  The  whole  declivity  of  the  Alban  hill  is  of 
unrivalled  beauty,  and  from  the  convent  on  the 
highest  point,  which  has  succeeded  to  the  temple 
of  the  Latian  Jupiter,  the  prospect  embraces  all  the 
objects  alluded  to  in  this  stanza;  the  Mediter- 
ranean; the  whole  scene  of  the  latter  half  of  the 
/Eneid,  and  the  coast  from  beyond  the  mouth  of 
the  Tiber  to  the  headland  of  Circaeum  and  the  Cape 
of  Terracina. — See  "Historical  Notes,"  at  the 
end  of  this  Canto,  No.  XXXI. 


And  from  the  Alban  Mount  we  now  behold 
Our  friend  of  youth,  that  ocean,  which  when 

we 
Beheld  it  last  by  Calpe's  rock  unfold 
Those  waves,  we   followed  on   till   the   dark 
Euxine  rolled 

CLXXVI. 

Upon  the  blue  Symplegades  :  long  years  — 
Long,  though  not   very  many,  since   have 

done 
Their  work  on   both ;  some  suffering  and 

some  tears 
Have  left  us  nearly  where  we  had  begun  : 
Yet  not  in  vain  our  mortal  race  hath  run, 
We  have  had  our  reward  —  and  it  is  here ; 
That  we  can  yet  feel  gladdened  by  the  sun, 
And  reap  from  earth,  sea,  joy  almost  as  dear 
As  if  there  were  no  man  to  trouble  what  is 

clear. 

CLXXVII. 
Oh !  that  the  Desert  were  my  dwelling-place, 
With  one  fair  Spirit  for  my  minister, 
That  I  might  all  forget  the  human  race, 
And,  hating  no  one,  love  but  only  her! 
Ye  Elements  !  —  in  whose  ennobling  stir 
I  feel  myself  exalted  —  Can  ye  not 
Accord  me  such  a  being  ?     Do  I  err 
In  deeming  such  inhabit  many  a  spot  ? 
Though  with  them  to  converse  can  rarely  be 

our  lot. 

CLXXVIII. 

There  is  a  pleasure  in  the  pathless  woods, 
There  is  a  rapture  on  the  lonely  shore, 
There  is  society,  where  none  intrudes, 
By  the  deep  Sea,  and  music  in  its  roar: 
I  love  not  Man  the  less,  but  Nature  more, 
From  these  our  interviews,  in  which  I  steal 
From  all  I  may  be,  or  have  been  before, 
To  mingle  with  the  Universe,  and  feel 
What  I  can  ne'er  express,  yet  cannot  all  con- 
ceal. 

CLXXIX. 

Roll  on,  thou  deep  and  dark  blue  Ocean  — 

roll! 
Ten  thousand  fleets  sweep  over  thee  in  vain  ; 
Man  marks  the  earth  with  ruin  —  his  control 
Stops  with   the  shore;  —  upon  the  watery 

plain 
The  wrecks   are   all   thy   deed,   nor   doth 

remain 
A  shadow  of  man's  ravage,  save  his  own, 
When,  for  a  moment,  like  a  drop  of  rain, 
He  sinks   into   thy  depths  with  bubbling 

groan, 
Without  a  grave,  unknelled,  uncofnned,  and 

unknown. 

CLXXX. 

His  steps  are  not  upon   thy  paths,  —  thy 

fields 
Are  not  a  spoil  for  him,  —  thou  dost  arise 


348 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


And  shake  him  from  thee ;  the  vile  strength 

he  wields 
For  earth's  destruction  thou  dost  all  despise, 
Spurning  him  from  thy  bosom  to  the  skies, 
And   send'st  him,  shivering  in  thy  playful 

spray 
And  howling,  to  his  Gods,  where  haply  lies 
His  petty  hope  in  some  near  port  or  bay, 
And  dashest  him  again  to  earth  : — there  let 

him  lay. 

CLXXXI. 

The   armaments  which    thunderstrike    the 

walls 
Of  rock-built  cities,  bidding  nations  quake 
And  monarchs  tremble  in  their  capitals. 
The  oak  leviathans,  whose  huge  ribs  make 
Their  clay  creator  the  vain  title  take 
Of  lord  of  thee,  and  arbiter  of  war  ; 
These  are  thy  toys,  and,  as  the  snowy  flake, 
They  melt  into  thy  yeast  of  waves,  which 
mar 
Alike  the  Armada's  pride,  or  spoils  of  Trafal- 
gar. 

CLXXXII. 

Thy  shores  are  empires,  changed  in  all  save 

thee  — 
Assyria,  Greece,  Rome,  Carthage,  what  are 

they  ?  i 
Thy  waters  washed  them  power  while  they 

were  free,- 
And  many  a  tyrant  since ;  their  shores  obey 
The  stranger,  slave,  or  savage ;  their  decay 
Has  dried  up  realms  to  deserts  :  —  not  so 

thou, 
Unchangeable  save  to  thy  wild  waves'  play  — 
Time   writes    no   wrinkle   on   thine    azure 

brow  — 
Such  as  creation's  dawn  beheld,  thou  rollest 

now. 

CLXXXIII. 

Thou  glorious  mirror,  where  the  Almighty's 

form 
Glasses  itself  in  tempests ;  in  all  time, 
Calm  or  convulsed  —  in  breeze,  or  gale,  or 

storm, 
Icing  tl.a  pole,  or  in  the  torrid  clime 


1  ["  A  man,"  said  Johnson,  "who  has  not  been 
m  Italy,  is  always  conscious  of  an  inferiority,  from 
his  not  having  seen  what  it  is  expected  a  man  should 
see.  The  grand  object  of  all  travelling  is  to  see  the 
shores  of  the  Mediterranean.  On  those  shores 
were  the  four  great  empires  of  the  world;  the 
Assyrian,  the  Persian,  the  Grecian,  and  the  Ro- 
man. Ail  our  religion,  almost  all  our  law,  almost 
all  our  arts,  almost  all  that  sets  us  above  savages, 
has  come  to  us  from  the  shores  of  the  Mediterra- 
nean."—  BoswelTs  Johnson.~\ 

2  [This  line  reads  thus  in  Byron's  MS.  In  all  edi- 
tions before  that  of  London,  1853,  it  was  printed  — 

Thy  waters  wasted  them  while  they  were  free.] 


Dark-heaving ;  —  boundless,    endless,   and 

sublime  — 
The  image  of  Eternity  —  the  throne 
Of  the  Invisible;  even  from  out  thy  slime 
The  monsters  of  the  deep  are  made ;  each 
zone 
Obeys  thee;  thou  goest  forth,  dread,  fathom- 
less, alone. 

CLXXXIV. 

And  I  have  loved  thee,  Ocean  !3  and  my  joy 
Of  youthful  sports  was  on  thy  breast  to  be 
Borne,  like  thy  bubbles,  onward  :  from  a  boy 
I  wantoned  with  thy  breakers  —  they  to  me 
Were  a  delight ;  and  if  the  freshening  sea 
Made  them  a  terror —  'twas  a  pleasing  fear, 
For  I  was  as  it  were  a  child  of  thee, 
And  trusted  to  thy  biilows  far  and  near, 
And  laid  my  hand  upon  thy  mane  —  as  I  do 
here. 

CLXXXV. 

My  task  is  done4 — my  song  hath  ceased 

—  my  theme 
Has  died  into  an  echo ;  it  is  fit 

3  [This  passage  would,  perhaps,  be  read  without 
emotion,  if  we  did  not  know  that  Lord  Byron  was 
here  describing  his  actual  feelings  and  habits,  and 
that  this  was  an  unaffected  picture  of  his  propensi- 
ties and  amusement  even  from  childhood,  —  when 
he  listened  to  the  roar,  and  watched  the  bursts  of 
the  northern  ocean  on  the  tempestuous  shores  of 
Aberdeenshire,  ^t  was  a  fearful  and  violent  change 
at  the  age  of  ten  years  to  be  separated  from  this 
congenial  solitude,  —  this  independence  so  suited 
to  his  haughty  and  contemplative  spirit,  —  this 
rude  grandeur  of  nature,  —  and  thrown  among  the 
mere  worldly-minded  and  selfish  ferocity,  the  af- 
fected polish  and  repelling  coxcombry,  of  a  great 
public  school.  How  many  thousand  times  did  the 
moody,  sullen,  and  indignant  boy  wish  himself 
back  to  the  keen  air  and  boisterous  billows  that 
broke  lonely  upon  the  simple  and  soul-invigorating 
haunts  of  his  childhood.  How  did  he  prefer  some 
ghost-story;  some  tale  of  second-sight;  some  rela- 
tion of  Robin  Hood's  feats;  some  harrowing  narra- 
tive of  buccaneer-exploits,  to  all  of  Horace,  and 
Virgil,  and  Homer,  that  was  dinned  into  his  repul- 
sive spirit!  To  the  shock  of  this  change  is,  I  sus- 
pect, to  be  traced  much  of  the  eccentricity  of  Lord 
Byron's  future  life.  This  fourth  Canto  is  the  fruit 
of  a  mind  which  had  stored  itself  with  great  care 
and  toil,  and  had  digested  with  profound  reflection 
and  intense  vigor  what  it  had  learned:  the  senti- 
ments are  not  such  as  lie  on  the  surface,  but  could 
only  be  awakened  by  long  meditation.  Whoever 
reads  it,  and  is  not  impressed  with  the  many  grand 
virtues  as  well  as  gigantic  powers  of  the  mind  that 
wrote  it,  seems  to  me  to  afford  a  proof  both  of  in- 
sensibility of  heart,  and  great  stupidity  of  intellect." 
—  Sir  E.  Brydges.} 

4  [It  was  a  thought  worthy  of  the  great  spirit  ok' 
Byron,  after  exhibiting  to  us  his  Pilgrim  amidst  all 
the  most  striking  scenes  of  earthly  grandeur  and 
earthly  decay,  —  after  teaching  us,  like  him,  to 
sicken  over  the  mutability,  and  vanity,  and  empti- 
ness of  human  greatness,  to  conduct  him  and  us  at 


HISTORICAL  NOTES    TO    CANTO    THE  FOURTH. 


349 


The  spell  should  break  of  this  protracted 
dream. 


last  to  the  borders  of  "  the  Great  Deep."  It  is  there 
that  we  may  perceive  an  image  of  the  awful  and  un- 
changeable abyss  of  eternity,  into  whose  bosom  so 
much  has  sunk,  and  all  shall  one  day  sink,  —  of  that 
eternity  wherein  the  scorn  and  the  contempt  of  man, 
and  the  melancholy  of  great,  and  the  fretting  of 
little  minds,  shall  be  at  rest  for  ever.  No  one,  but 
a  true  poet  of  man  and  of  nature,  would  have  dared 
to  frame  such  a  termination  for  such  a  Pilgrimage. 
The  image  of  the  wanderer  may  well  be  associated, 
for  a  time,  with  the  rock  of  Calpe,  the  shattered 
temples  of  Athens,  or  the  gigantic  fragments  of 
Rome;  but  when  we  wish  to  think  of  this  dark  per- 
sonification as  of  a  thing  which  is,  where  can  we  so 
well  imagine  him  to  have  his  daily  haunt  as  by  the 
roaring  of  the  waves?  It  was  thus  that  Homer 
represented  Achilles  in  his  moments  of  ungovern- 
able and  inconsolable  grief  for  the  loss  of  Patroclus. 
It  was  thus  he  chose  to  depict  the  paternal  despair 
cf  Chriseus  — 

11  Br)  S'  axiwi'  Trapa.  Oiva.  Tro\v(f)\oi.<Tfioio  SaAacrcrijs." 
'—Professor  IVi/so*.] 


The  torch  shall  be  extinguished  which  hath 

lit 
My  midnight  lamp  —  and  what  is  writ,  is 

writ,  — 
Would  it  were  worthier !  but  I  am  not  now 
That  which  I  have  been  —  and  my  visions  flit 
Less  palpably  before  me  —  and  the  glow 
Which  in  my  spirit  dwelt  is  fluttering,  faint, 

and  low. 

CLXXXVI. 

Farewell !   a  word  that  must  be,  and  hath 

been  — 
A  sound  which   makes  us  linger;  —  yet — ■ 

farewell ! 
Ye  !  who  have  traced  the  Pilgrim  to  the  scene 
Which  is  his  last,  if  in  your  memories  dwell 
A  thought  which,  once  was  his,  if  on  ye  swell 
A  single  recollection,  not  in  vain 
He  wore  his  sandal-shoon,  and  scallop-shell ; 
Farewell !  with  him  alone  may  rest  the  pain, 
If  such  there  were  —  with  you,  the  moral  of 

his  strain ! 


HISTORICAL  NOTES  TO   CANTO  THE   FOURTH. 


I.    STATE   DUNGEONS  OF  VENICE. 

"  I  stood  in  Venice  on  the  Bridge  of  Sighs; 
A  palace  and  a  prison  on  each  hand." 

Stanza  i.  lines  i  and  2. 

The  communication  between  the  ducal  palace 
and  the  prisons  of  Venice  is  by  a  gloomy  bridge,  or 
covered  gallery,  high  above  the  water,  and  divided 
by  a  stone  wall  into  a  passage  and  a  cell.  The 
State  dungeons,  called  "  pozzi,"  or  wells,  were 
sunk  in  the  thick  walls  of  the  palace;  and  the  pris- 
oner when  taken  out  to  die  was  conducted  across 
the  gallery  to  the  other  side,  and  being  then  led 
back  into  the  other  compartment,  or  cell,  upon 
the  bridge,  was  there  strangled.  The  low  portal 
through  which  the  criminal  was  taken  into  this  cell 
is  now  walled  up;  but  the  passage  is  still  open,  and 
is  still  known  by  the  name  of  the  Bridge  of  Sighs. 
The  pozzi  are  under  the  flooring  of  the  chamber  at 
the  foot  of  the  bridge.  They  were  formerly  twelve, 
but  on  the  first  arrival  of  the  French,  the  Venetians 
hastily  blocked  or  broke  up  the  deeper  of  these 
dungeons.  You  may  still,  however,  descend  by  a 
trap-door,  and  crawl  down  through  holes,  half- 
choked  by  rubbish,  to  the  depth  of  two  stories 
below  the  first  range.  If  you  are  in  want  of  conso- 
lation for  the  extinction  of  patrician  power,  perhaps 
you  may  find  it  there ;  scarcely  a  ray  of  light  glim- 
mers into  the  narrow  gallery  which  leads  to  the 
cells,  and  the  places  of  confinement  themselves  are 
totally  dark.  A  small  hole  in  the  wall  admitted  the 
damp  air  of  the  passages,  and  served  for  the  intro- 
duction of  the  prisoner's  food.  A  wooden  pallet 
raised  a  foot  from  the  ground,  was  the  only  furni- 


ture. The  conductors  tell  you  that  a  light  was  not 
allowed.  The  cells  are  about  five  paces  in  length, 
two  and  a  half  in  width,  and  seven  feet  in  height. 
They  are  directly  beneath  one  another,  and  respira- 
tion is  somewhat  difficult  in  the  lower  holes.  Only 
one  prisoner  was  found  when  the  republicans  de- 
scended into  these  hideous  recesses,  and  he  is  said 
to  have  been  confined  sixteen  years.  But  the  in- 
mates of  the  dungeons  beneath  had  left  traces  of 
their  repentance,  or  of  their  despair,  which  are  still 
visible,  and  may,  perhaps,  owe  something  to  recent 
ingenuity.  Some  of  the  detained  appear  to  have 
offended  against,  and  others  to  have  belonged  to, 
the  sacred  body,  not  only  from  their  signatures,  but 
from  the  churches  and  belfries  which  they  have 
scratched  upon  the  walls.  The  reader  may  not  ob- 
ject to  see  a  specimen  of  the  records  prompted  by 
so  terrific  a  solitude.  As  nearly  as  they  could  be 
copied  by  more  than  one  pencil,  three  of  them  are 
as  follows :  — 

1.  NON  TI    FIDAR   AD   ALCUNO   PENSA   e  TACI 
SE   FUGIR   VUOI    DE   SPIONI    INSIDIE   C   LACCI 
IL   PENTIRTI    PENTIRTI    NULLA   GIOVA 

MA    BEN   DI   VALOR  TUO   LA    VERA    PROVA 

1607.      ADI    2.   GENARO.    FUI   RE- 
TENTO   P'  LA   BESTIEMMA    P'  AVER    DATO 
DA   MANZAR   A   UN    MORTO 

IACOMO  .  GR1TTI  .  SCRJSSE. 

2.  UN   PARLAR   POCHO   et 
NEGARE    PRONTO   et 

IIN    PENSAR   AL  FINE   PUO   DARE   LA   VITA 
A   NOl    ALTRI   MESCHINI 

1605. 
EGO   IOHN   BAPT1STE   AD 

ECCLESIAM    CORTELLAR1US. 


350 


CHILD E  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


3.   DE   CHI    MI    FIDO   GUARDAMI    DIO 

DE   CHI    NON    MI   FIDO    MI   GUARDARO  IO 
A  TA         H         A         NA 

V  .  LA  S        .  C      .K      .   R      . 

The  copyist  has  followed,  not  corrected,  the  sole- 
cisms; some  of  which  are,  however,  not  quite  so 
decided,  since  the  letters  were  evidently  scratched 
in  the  dark.  It  only  need  be  observed,  that  bestetn- 
mia  and  mangiar  may  be  read  in  the  first  inscrip- 
tion, which  was  probably  written  by  a  prisoner  con- 
fined for  some  act  of  impiety  committed  at  a  fune- 
ral; that  Cortellariiis  is  the  name  of  a  parish  on 
terra  firma,  near  the  sea;  and  that  the  last  initials 
evidently  are  put  for  Viva  la  santa  Chiesa  Katto- 
lica  Romana. 


II.   SONGS  OF  THE  GONDOLIERS. 

"  In  Venice  Tasso's  echoes  are  no  more." 
Stanza  lii.  line  1. 

The  well-known  song  of  the  gondoliers,  of  alter- 
nate stanzas  from  Tasso's  Jerusalem,  has  died  with 
the  independence  of  Venice.  Editions  of  the  poem, 
with  the  original  in  one  column,  and  the  Venetian 
variations  on  the  other,  as  sung  by  the  boatmen, 
were  once  common,  and  are  still  to  be  found.  The 
following  extract  will  serve  to  show  the  difference 
between  the  Tuscan  epic  and  the  "  Canta  alia  Bar- 
carola." 


Canto  1'  arme  pietose,  e  '1  capitano 
Che  '1  gran  Sepolcro  liberd  di  Cristo. 

Molto  egli  opr6  col  senno,  o  con  la  mano; 
Molto  soffri  nel  glorioso  acquisto; 

E  in  van  1'  Inferno  a  lui  s'  oppose,  o  in  vano 
S'  armb  d'  Asia,  e  di  Libia  il  popol  misto 

Che  il  Ciel  gli  die  favore,  e  sotto  ai  santi 

Segni  ridusse  i  suoi  compagni  erranti. 

VENETIAN. 

L'  arme  pietose  de  cantar  gho  vogia, 
E  de  Goffredo  la  immortal  braura, 

Che  al  fin  1'  ha  libera  co  strassia,  e  dogia 
Del  nostro  buon  Gesu  la  Sepoltura. 

De  mezo  mondo  unito,  e  de  quel  Bogia 
Missier  Pluton  non  1'  ha  bu  mai  paura: 

Dio  1'  ha  agiuta,  e  i  compagni  sparpagnai 

Tutti  '1  gh'  i  ha  messi  insieme  i  di  del  Dai. 

Some  of  the  elder  gondoliers  will,  however,  take  up 
and  continue  a  stanza  of  their  once  familiar  bard. 

On  the  7th  of  last  January,  the  author  of  Childe 
Harold,  and  another  Englishman,  the  writer  of  this 
notice,  rowed  to  th^  Lido  with  two  singers,  one  of 
whom  was  a  carpenter,  and  the  other  a  gondolier. 
The  former  placed  himself  at  the  prow,  the  latter  at 
the  stern  of  the  boat.  A  little  after  leaving  the  quay 
of  the  Piazzetta,  they  began  to  sing,  and  continued 
their  exercise  until  we  arrived  at  the  island.  They 
gave  us,  amongst  other  essays,  the  death  of  Clo- 
rinda,  and  the  palace  of  Armida;  and  did  not  sing 
the  Venetian,  but  the  Tuscan  verses.  The  carpen- 
ter, however,  who  was  the  cleverer  of  the  two,  and 
was  frequently  obliged  to  prompt  his  companion, 
told  us  that  he  could  translate  the  original.     He 


added,  that  he  could  sing  almost  three  hundred 
stanzas,  but  had  not  spirits  (morbin  was  the  word 
he  used)  to  learn  any  more,  or  to  sing  what  he  al- 
ready knew:  a  man  must  have  idle  time  on  his 
hands  to  acquire,  or  to  repeat,  and,  said  the  poor 
fellow,  "  look  at  my  clothes  and  at  me;  I  am  starv- 
ing." This  speech  was  more  affecting  than  hit 
performance,  which  habit  alone  can  make  attractive. 
The  recitative  was  shrill,  screaming,  and  monoto- 
nous; and  the  gondolier  behind  assisted  his  voice 
by  holding  his  hand  to  one  side  of  his  mouth.  The 
carpenter  used  a  quiet  action,  which  he  evidently 
endeavored  to  restrain ;  but  was  too  much  interested 
in  his  subject  altogether  to  repress.  From  these 
men  we  learnt  that  singing  is  not  confined  to  the  gon- 
doliers, and  that,  although  the  chant  is  seldom,  if 
ever,  voluntary,  there  are  still  several  amongst  the 
lower  classes  who  are  acquainted  with  a  few  stanzas. 

It  does  not  appear  that  it  is  usual  for  the  por- 
formers  to  row  and  sing  at  the  same  time.  Al- 
though the  verses  of  the  Jerusalem  are  no  longer 
casually  heard,  there  is  yet  much  music  upon 
the  Venetian  canals;  and  upon  holydays,  those 
strangers  who  are  not  near  or  informed  enough  to 
distinguish  the  words,  may  fancy  that  many  of  the 
gondolas  still  resound  with  the  strains  of  Tasso. 
The  writer  of  some  remarks  which  appeared  in  the 
"  Curiosities  of  Literature  "  must  excuse  his  being 
twice  quoted;  for,  with  the  exception  of  some 
phrases  a  little  too  ambitious  and  extravagant,  he 
has  furnished  a  very  exact,  as  well  as  agreeable, 
description :  — 

"  In  Venice  the  gondoliers  know  by  heart  long 
passages  from  Ariosto  and  Tasso,  and  often  chant 
them  with  a  peculiar  melody.  But  this  talent 
seems  at  present  on  the  decline: — at  least,  after 
taking  some  paiifs,  I  could  find  no  more  than  two 
persons  who  delivered  to  me  in  this  way  a  passage 
from  Tasso.  I  must  add,  that  the  late  Mr.  Barry 
once  chanted  to  me  a  passage  in  Tasso  in  the 
manner,  as  he  assured  me,  of  the  gondoliers. 

"  There  are  always  two  concerned,  who  alter- 
nately sing  the  strophes.  We  know  the  melody 
eventually  by  Rousseau,  to  whose  songs  it  is  printed ; 
it  has  properly  no  melodious  movement,  and  is  a 
sort  of  medium  between  the  canto  fermo  and  the 
canto  figurato;  it  approaches  to  the  former  by 
recitativical  declamation,  and  to  the  latter  by  pas- 
sages and  course,  by  which  one  syllable  is  detained 
and  embellished. 

"  I  entered  a  gondola  by  moonlight;  one  singer 
placed  himself  forwards  and  the  other  aft,  and  thus 
proceeded  to  St.  Georgio.  One  began  the  song: 
when  he  had  ended  his  strophe,  the  other  took  up 
the  lay,  and  so  continued  the  song  alternately. 
Throughout  the  whole  of  it,  the  same  notes  invari- 
ably returned,  but,  according  to  the  subject-matter 
of  the  strophe,  they  laid  a  greater  or  a  smaller 
stress,  sometimes  on  one,  and  sometimes  on  another 
note,  and  indeed  changed  the  enunciation  of  the 
whole  strophe  as  the  object  of  the  poem  altered. 

"  On  the  whole,  however,  the  sounds  were  hoarse 
and  screaming:  they  seemed,  in  the  manner  of  all 
rude  uncivilized  men,  to  make  the  excellency  of 
their  singing  in  the  force  of  their  voice:  one  seemed 
desirous  of  conquering  the  other  by  the  strength  of 
his  lungs;  and  so  far  from  receiving  delight  from 
this  scene  (shut  up  as  I  was  in  the  box  of  the  gon- 
dola), I  found  myself  in  a  very  unpJeasant  situa. 
tion. 

"  My  companion,  to  whom  I  communicated  this 


HISTORICAL  NOTES    TO    CANTO    THE  FOURTH. 


351 


circumstance,  being  very  desirous  to  keep  up  the 
credit  of  his  countrymen,  assured  me  that  this  sing- 
ing was  very  delightful  when  heard  at  a  distance. 
Accordingly  we  got  out  upon  the  shore,  leaving  one 
of  the  singers  in  the  gondola,  while  the  other  went 
to  the  distance  of  some  hundred  paces.  They  now 
began  to  sing  against  one  another,  and  I  kept  walk- 
ing up  and  down  between  them  both,  so  as  always 
to  leave  him  who  was  to  begin  his  part.  I  fre- 
quently stood  still  and  hearkened  to  the  one  and  to 
trie  other. 

"  Here  the  scene  was  properly  introduced.  The 
strong  declamatory,  and,  as  it  were,  shrieking 
sound,  met  the  ear  from  far,  and  called  forth  the 
attention;  the  quickly  succeeding  transitions,  which 
necessarily  required  to  be  sung  in  a  lower  tone, 
seemed  like  plaintive  strains  succeeding  the  vocifer- 
ations of  emotion  or  of  pain.  The  other,  who  lis- 
tened attentively,  immediately  began  where  the 
former  left  off,  answering  him  in  milder  or  more 
vehement  notes,  according  as  the  purport  of  the 
strophe  required.  The  sleepy  canals,  the  lofty 
buildings,  the  splendor  of  the  moon,  the  deep 
shadows  of  the  few  gondolas  that  moved  like  spirits 
hither  and  thither,  increased  the  striking  peculiarity 
of  the  scene;  and,  amidst  all  these  circumstances, 
it  was  easy  to  confess  the  character  of  this  wonder- 
ful harmony. 

"  It  suits  perfectly  well  with  an  idle,  solitary 
mariner,  lying  at  length  in  his  vessel  at  rest  on  one 
of  these  canals,  waiting  for  his  company,  or  for  a 
fare,  the  tiresomeness  of  which  situation  is  some- 
what alleviated  by  the  songs  and  poetical  stories  he 
has  in  memory.  He  often  raises  his  voice  as  loud 
as  he  can,  which  extends  itself  to  a  vast  distance 
over  the  tranquil  mirror,  and  as  all  is  still  around, 
he  is,  as  it  were,  in  a  solitude  in  the  midst  of  a 
large  and  populous  town.  Here  is  no  rattling  of 
carriages,  no  noise  of  foot-passengers;  a  silent 
gondola  glides  now  and  then  by  him,  of  which 
the  splashings  of  the  oars  are  scarcely  to  be 
heard. 

"  At  a  distance  he  hears  another,  perhaps  utterly 
unknown  to  him.  Melody  and  verse  immediately 
attach  the  two  strangers;  he  becomes  the  respon- 
sive echo  to  the  former,  and  exerts  himself  to  be 
heard  as  he  had  heard  the  other.  By  a  tacit  con- 
vention they  alternate  verse  for  verse  :  though  the 
song  should  last  the  whole  night  through,  they 
entertain  themselves  without  fatigue:  the  hearers, 
who  are  passing  between  the  two,  take  part  in  the 
amusement. 

"  This  vocal  performance  sounds  best  at  a  great 
distance,  and  is  then  inexpressibly  charming,  as  it 
only  fulfils  its  design  in  the  sentiment  of  remote- 
ness. It  is  plaintive,  but  not  dismal  in  its  sound, 
and  at  times  it  is  scarcely  possible  to  refrain  from 
tears.  My  companion,  who  otherwise  was  not  a 
very  delicately  organized  person,  said  quite  unex- 
pectedly: E  singolare  come  quel  canto  intenerisce. 
e  molto  piu  quando  lo  cantano  meglio. 

"  I  was  told  that  the  women  of  Libo,  the  long 
row  of  islands  that  divides  the  Adriatic  from  the 
Lagoons,1  particularly  the  women  of  the  extreme 
districts  of  Malamocco  and  Pelestrina,  sing  in  like 
manner  the  works  of  Tasso  to  these  and  similar 
tunes. 

"  They  have  the  custom,  when  their  husbands 


are  fishing  out  at  sea,  to  sit  along  the  shore  in  the 
evenings  and  vociferate  these  songs,  and  continue 
to  do  so  with  great  violence,  till  each  of  them  can 
distinguish  the  responses  of  her  own  husband  at  a 
distance."  2 

The  love  of  music  and  of  poetry  distinguishes  all 
classes  of  Venetians,  even  amongst  the  tuneful  sons 
of  Italy.  The  city  itself  can  occasionally  furnish 
respectable  audiences  for  two  and  even  three  opera 
houses  at  a  time;  and  there  are  few  events  in 
private  life  that  do  not  call  forth  a  printed  and  cir- 
culated sonnet.  Does  a  physician  or  a  lawyer  take 
his  degree,  or  a  clergyman  preach  his  maiden  ser- 
mon, has  a  surgeon  performed  an  operation,  would 
a  harlequin  announce  his  departure  or  his  benefit, 
are  you  to  be  congratulated  on  a  marriage,  or  a 
birth,  or  a  lawsuit,  the  Muses  are  invoked  to  fur- 
nish the  same  number  of  syllables,  and  the  indi- 
vidual triumphs  blaze  abroad  in  virgin  white  or 
party-colored  placards  on  half  the  corners  of  the 
capital.  The  last  curtsy  of  a  favorite  "  prima 
donna "  brings  down  a  shower  of  these  poetical 
tributes  from  those  upper  regions,  from  which,  in 
our  theatres,  nothing  but  cupids  and  snow-storms 
are  accustomed  to  descend.  There  is  a  poetry  in 
the  very  life  of  a  Venetian,  which,  in  its  common 
course,  is  varied  with  those  surprises  and  changes 
so  recommendable  in  fiction,  but  so  different  from 
the  sober  monotony  of  northern  existence;  amuse- 
ments are  raised  into  duties,  duties  are  softened  into 
amusements,  and  every  object  being  considered  as 
equally  making  a  part  of  the  business  of  life,  is 
announced  and  performed  with  the  same  earnest 
indifference  and  gay  assiduity.  The  Venetian  ga- 
zette constantly  closes  its  columns  with  the  follow- 
ing triple  advertisement :  — 

Charade. 


Exposition  of  the  most  Holy  Sacrament  in  the 
church  of  St. . 


St.  Moses,  opera. 

St.  Benedict,  a  comedy  of  characters. 

St.  Luke,  repose. 

When  it  is  recollected  what  the  Catholics  believe 
their  consecrated  wafer  to  be,  we  may  perhaps  think 
it  worthy  of  a  more  respectable  niche  than  between 
poetry  and  the  play-house. 


III.     THE  LION   AND   HORSES  OF   ST 
.  MARK'S. 

"  St.  Mark  yet  sees  /it's  lion  where  he  stood 
Stand" Stanza  xi.  line  5. 

The  Lion  has  lost  nothing  by  his  journey  to  the 
Invalides  but  the  gospel  which  supported  the  paw 
that  is  now  on  a  level  with  the  other  foot.  The 
Horses  also  are  returned  to  the  ill-chosen  spot 
whence  they  set  out,  and  are,  as  before,  half  hidden 


'The  writer  meant  Lido,  which  is  not  a  long         2  Curiosities  of  Literature,  vol.  ii.  p.   156,  edit. 
saw  of  islands,  but  a  long  island  :  littus,  the  shore.     1807;  and  Appendix  xxix.  to  Black's  Life  of  Tass* 


352 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


under  the  porch  window  of  St.  Mark's  church. 
Their  history,  after  a  desperate  struggle,  has  been 
satisfactorily  explored.  The  decisions  and  doubts 
of  Erizzo  and  Zanetti,  and  lastly,  of  the  Count 
Leopold  Cicognara,  would  have  given  them  a 
Roman  extraction,  and  a  pedigree  not  more  ancient 
than  the  reign  of  Nero.  But  M.  de  Schlegel  stepped 
in  to  teach  the  Venetians  the  value  of  their  own 
treasures,  and  a  Greek  vindicated,  at  last  and  for- 
ever, the  pretension  of  his  countrymen  to  this  noble 
production.1  M.  Mustoxidi  has  not  been  left  with- 
out a  reply;  but,  as  yet,  he  has  received  no  answer. 
.It  should  stem  that  the  horses  are  irrevocably  Chirn, 
and  were  transferred  to  Constantinople  by  Theodo- 
"sius.  Lapidary  writing  is  a  favorite  play  of  the 
Italians,  and  has  conferred  reputation  on  more  than 
one  of  their  literary  characters.  One  of  the  best 
specimens  of  Bodoni's  typography  is  a  respectable 
volume  of  inscriptions,  all  written  by  his  friend 
Pacciaudi.  Several  were  prepared  for  the  recovered 
horses.  It  is  to  be  hoped  the  best  was  not  selected, 
when  the  following  words  were  ranged  in  gold  let- 
ters above  the  cathedral  porch:  — 

QUATUOR  '  EQL'ORUM  "  SIGNA  "  A  '  VENETIS  "  BY- 
ZANTIO  '  CAPTA  '  AD  '  TEMP  "  D  ■  MAR  '  A  •  R  -  S  - 
MCCIV  •  POSITA  "  QV&  -  HOST1LIS  '  CUP1DITAS  ■  A  - 
MDCCIIIC  '  ABSTULERAT  '  FRANC  '  I  "  IMP  ■  PACIS  ■ 
ORB1  "  DATvE  *  TROPH^UM  "  A  '  MDCCCXV  '  VICTOR  " 
REDUX1T. 

Nothing  shall  be  said  of  the  Latin,  but  it  may  be 
permitted  to  observe,  that  the  injustice  of  the  Vene- 
tians in  transporting  the  horses  from  Constantinople 
was  at  least  equal  to  that  of  the  French  in  carrying 
them  to  Paris,  and  that  it  would  have  been  more 
prudent  to  have  avoided  all  allusions  to  either  rob- 
bery. An  apostolic  prince  should,  perhaps,  have 
objected  to  affixing  over  the  principal  entrance  of  a 
metropolitan  church  an  inscription  having  a  refer- 
ence to  any  other  triumphs  than  those  of  religion. 
Nothing  less  than  the  pacification  of  the  world  can 
excuse  such  a  solecism. 


IV.      SUBMISSION    OF    BARBAROSSA    TO 
POPE  ALEXANDER   III. 

"  The    Suabian   sued,   and  now  the  Austrian 
reigns  — 
An   Emperor  tramples   where  an  Emperor 
*"e"-  Stanza  xii.  lines  i  and  2. 

After  many  vain  efforts  on  the  part  of  the  Italians 
entirely  to  throw  off  the  yoke  of  Frederic  Barbarossa, 
and  as  fruitless  attempts  of  the  Emperor  to  make 
himself  absolute  master  throughout  the  whole  of  his 
Cisalpine  dominions,  the  bloody  struggles  of  four 
and  twenty  years  were  happily  brought  to  a  close  in 
the  city  of  Venice.  The  articles  of  a  treaty  had  been 
previously  agreed  upon  between  Pope  Alexander 
III.  and  Barbarossa:  and  the  former  having  re- 
ceived a  safe-conduct,  had  already  arrived  at  Venice 
from  Ferrara,  in  company  with  the  ambassadors  of 
the  King  of  Sicily  and  the  consuls  of  the  Lombard 


league.  There  still  remained,  however,  many  point" 
to  adjust,  and  for  several  days  the  peace  was  be- 
lieved to  be  impracticable.  At  this  juncture  it  was 
suddenly  reported  that  the  Emperor  had  arrived  at 
Chioza,  a  town  fifteen  miles  from  the  capital.  The 
Venetians  rose  tumultously,  and  insisted  upor 
immediately  conducting  him  to  the  city.  The  Lom- 
bards took  the  alarm,  and  departed  towards  Treviso. 
The  Pope  himself  was  apprehensive  of  some  disaster 
if  Frederic  should  suddenly  advance  upon  him,  but 
was  reassured  by  the  prudence  and  address  of  Se- 
bastian Ziani,  the  Doge.  Several  embassies  passed 
between  Chioza  and  the  capital,  until,  at  last,  the 
Emperor,  relaxing  somewhat  of  his  pretensions, 
"  laid  aside  his  leonine  ferocity,  and  put  on  the  mild- 
ness of  the  lamb."  - 

On  Saturday,  the  23d  of  July,  in  the  year  1177, 
six  Venetian  galleys  transferred  Frederic,  in  great 
pomp,  from  Chioza  to  the  island  of  Lido,  a  mile 
from  Venice.  Early  the  next  morning  the  Pope, 
accompanied  by  the  Sicilian  ambassadors,  and  by 
the  envoys  of  I.ombardy,  whom  he  had  recalled 
from  the  main  land,  together  with  a  great  concourse 
of  people,  repaired  from  the  patriarchal  palace  to 
St.  Mark's  church,  and  solemnly  absolved  the  Em- 
peror and  his  partisans  from  the  excommunication 
pronounced  against  him.  The  Chancellor  of  the 
Empire,  on  the  part  of  his  master,  renounced  the 
anti-popes  and  their  schismatic  adherents.  Imme- 
diately the  Doge,  with  a  great  suite  both  of  the 
clergy  and  laity,  got  on  board  the  galleys,  and  wait' 
ing  on  Frederic,  rowed  him  in  mighty  state  from  the 
Lido  to  the  capital.  The  Emperor  descended  from 
the  galley  at  the  quay  of  the  Piazzetta.  The  Doge, 
the  patriarch,  his  bishops  and  clergy,  and  the  people 
of  Venice  withftheir  crosses  and  their  standards, 
marched  in  solemn  procession  before  him  to  the 
Church  of  St.  Mark.  Alexander  was  seated  before 
the  vestibule  of  the  basilica,  attended  by  his  bishops 
and  cardinals,  by  the  patriarch  of  Aquileja,  by  the 
archbishops  and  bishops  of  Lombardy,  all  of  them 
in  state,  and  clothed  in  their  church  robes.  Frederic 
approached  —  "  moved  by  the  Holy  Spirit,  venerat- 
ing the  Almighty  in  the  person  of  Alexander,  laying 
aside  his  imperial  dignity,  and  throwing  off  his  man- 
tle, he  prostrated  himself  at  full  length  at  the  feet  of 
the  Pope.  Alexander,  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  raised 
him  benignantly  from  the  ground,  kissed  him,  blessed 
him;  and  immediately  the  Germans  of  the  train 
sang,  with  a  loud  voice,  '  We  praise  thee,  O  Lord.' 
The  Emperor  then  taking  the  Pope  by  the  right 
hand,  led  him  to  the  church,  and  having  received 
his  benediction,  returned  to  the  ducal  palace."  •'  The 
ceremony  of  humiliation  was  repeated  the  next  day. 
The  Pope  himself,  at  the  request  of  Frederic,  said 
mass  at  St.  Mark's.  The  Emperor  again  laid  aside 
his  imperial  mantle,  and  taking  a  wand  in  his  hand, 
officiated  as  verger,  driving  the  laity  from  the 
choir,  and  preceding  the  pontiff  to  the  altar.  Alex- 
ander, after  reciting  the  gospel,  preached  to  the 
people.  The  Emperor  put  himself  close  to  the 
pulpit  in  the  attitude  of  listening;  and  the  pontiff", 
touched  by  this  mark  of  his  attention   (for  he  knew 


1  Su  i  quattro  cavalli  della  Basilica  di  S.  Marco 
in  Venezia.  Lettera  di  Andrea  Mustoxidi  Corcirese. 
Padua,  per  Bettoni  e  compag.  .  ,  .  1816 


2"Quibus  auditis,  imperator,  operante  eo,  qui 
corda  principum  sicut  vult  et  quando  vult  humiliter 
inclinat,  leonina  feritate  deposita,  ovinam  mansuetu- 
dinem  induit."  —  Romualdi  Salernitani  Chronicon, 
apud  Script.  Rer.  Ital.  torn.  vii.  p.  229. 

3  Romualdi  Salernitani  Chronicon,  apud  Script 
Rer.  Ital.  torn.  vii.  p.  231. 


HISTORICAL   NOTES    TO    CANTO    THE   FOURTH. 


353 


that  Frederic  did  not  understand  a  word  he  said), 
commanded  the  patriarch  of  Aquileja  to  translate 
the  Latin  discourse  into  the  German  tongue.  The 
creed  was  then  chanted.  Frederic  made  his  obla- 
tion, and  kissed  the  Pope's  feet,  and,  mass  being 
over,  led  him  by  the  hand  to  his  white  horse.  He 
held  the  stirrup,  and  would  have  led  the  horse's 
rein  to  the  water  side,  had  not  the  Pope  accepted  of 
the  inclination  for  the  performance,  and  affection- 
ately dismissed  him  with  his  benediction.  Such  is 
the  substance  of  the  account  left  by  the  archbishop 
of  Salerno,  who  was  present  at  the  ceremony,  and 
whose  story  is  confirmed  by  every  subsequent  nar- 
ration. It  would  not  be  worth  so  minute  a  record, 
were  it  not  the  triumph  of  liberty  as  well  as  of  su- 
perstition. The  states  of  Lombardy  owed  to  it  the 
confirmation  of  their  privileges;  and  Alexander 
had  reason  to  thank  the  Almighty,  who  had  enabled 
an  infirm,  unarmed  old  man  to  subdue  a  terrible 
and  potent  sovereign.1 


V.     HENRY   DANDOLO. 

''  Oh,  for  one  hour  of  blind  old  Dandolo  I 
Tk'  octogenarian    chief,    Byzantium's   conquer- 
ing foe.  Stanza  xii.  lines  8  and  9. 

The  reader  will  recollect  the  exclamation  of  the 
Highlander,  Oh  for  one  hour  of  Dundee  !  Henry 
Dandolo,  when  elected  Doge,  in  1192,  was  eighty- 
five  years  of  age.  When  he  commanded  the  Vene- 
tians at  the  taking  of  Constantinople,  he  was  conse- 
quently ninety-seven  years  old.  At  this  age  he 
annexed  the  fourth  and  a  half  of  the  whole  empire 
of  Romania,2  for  so  the  Roman  empire  was  then 
called,  to  the  title  and  to  the  territories  of  the  Ven- 
etian Doge.  The  three  eighths  of  this  empire  were 
preserved  in  the  diplomas  u.itil  the  dukedom  of 
Giovanni  Dolfino,  who  made  use  of  the  above  des- 
ignation in  the  year  1357.3 

Dandolo  led  the  attack  on  Constantinople  in  per- 
son: two  ships,  the  Paradise  and  the  Pilgrim,  were 


1  See  the  above-cited  Romuald  of  Salerno.  In  a 
second  sermon  which  Alexander  preached,  on  the 
first  day  of  August,  before  the  Emperor,  he  com- 
pared Frederic  to  the  prodigal  son,  and  himself  to 
the  forgiving  father. 

2  Mr.  Gibbon  has  omitted  the  important  «■,  and 
has  written  Romani  instead  of  Romanise.  Decline 
and  Fall,  chap.  Ixi.  note  8.  But  the  title  acquired 
by  Dandolo  runs  thus  in  the  chronicle  of  his  name- 
sake, the  Doge  Andrew  Dandolo.  "  Ducali  titulo 
addrdit,  '  Quartse  partis  et  dimidiae  totius  imperii 
Romanise.' "  And.  Dand.  Chronicon,  cap.  iii.  pars 
xxxvii.  ap.  Script.  Rer.  Ital.  torn.  xii.  page  331. 
And  the  Romania;  is  observed  in  the  subsequent 
acts  of  the  Doge's.  Indeed,  the  continental  pos- 
sessions of  the  Greek  empire  in  Europe  were  then 
generally  known  by  the  name  of  Romania,  and  that 
appellation  is  still  seen  in  the  maps  of  Turkey  as 
applied  to  Thrace. 

3  See  the  continuation  of  Dandolo's  Chronicle, 
ibid,  page  498.  Mr.  Gibbon  appears  not  to  include 
Dolfino,  following  Sanudo,  who  says,  "  il  qual  titolo 
si  us6  fin  al  Doge  Giovanni  Dolfino."  See  Vite  de' 
Duchi  di  Venezi3;  ap.  Script.  Rer.  Ital.  torn.  xxii. 
530,  641 . 


tied  together,  and  a  drawbridge  or  ladder  let  down 
from  their  higher  yards  to  the  walls.  The  Doge 
was  one  of  the  first  to  rush  into  the  city.  Then 
was  completed,  said  the  Venetians,  the  prophecy  of 
the  Erythraean  sibyl: — "A  gathering  together  of 
the  powerful  shall  be  made  amidst  the  waves  of  the 
Adriatic,  under  a  blind  leader;  they  shall  beset 
the  goat  —  they  shall  profane  Byzantium  —  they 
shall  blacken  her  buildings  —  her  spoils  shall  be 
dispersed;  a  new  goat  shall  bleat  until  they  have 
measured  out  and  run  over  fifty-four  feet,  nine 
inches,  and  a  half."4 

Dandolo  died  on  the  first  day  of  June,  1205. 
having  reigned  thirteen  years,  six  months,  and  five 
days,  and  was  buried  in  the  church  of  St.  Sophia, 
at  Constantinople.  Strangely  enough  it  must  sound, 
that  the  name  of  the  rebel  apothecary  who  received 
the  Doge's  sword,  and  annihilated  the  ancient  gov* 
ernment,  in  1796-7,  was  Dandolo. 


VI.    THE  WAR  OF   CHIOZA. 

"  But  is  not  Dorza's  menace  come  to  pass; 
Are  they  not  bridled?  " 

Stanza  xiii.  lines  3  and  4. 

After  the  loss  of  the  battle  of  Pola,  and  the  tak- 
ing of  Chioza  on  the  16th  of  August,  1379,  by  the 
united  armament  of  the  Genoese  and  Francesco  da 
Carrara,  Signor  of  Padua,  the  Venetians  were  re- 
duced to  the  utmost  despair.  An  embassy  was 
sent  to  the  conquerors  with  a  blank  sheet  of  paper, 
praying  them  to  prescribe  what  terms  they  pleased, 
and  leave  to  Venice  only  her  independence.  The 
prince  of  Padua  was  inclined  to  listen  to  these  pro- 
posals, but  the  Genoese,  who,  after  the  victory  at 
Pola,  had  shouted,  "  To  Venice,  to  Venice,  and 
long  live  St.  George!  "  determined  to  annihilate 
their  rival;  and  Peter  Doria,  their  commander-in- 
chief,  returned  this  answer  to  the  suppliants:  "On 
God's  faith,  gentlemen  of  Venice,  ye  shall  have  no 
peace  from  the  Signor  of  Padua,  nor  from  our  com- 
mune of  Genoa,  until  we  have  first  put  a  rein  upon 
those  unbridled  horses  of  yours,  that  are  upon  the 
porch  of  your  evangelist  St.  Mark.  When  we  have 
bridled  them,  we  shall  keep  you  quiet.  And  this 
is  the  pleasure  of  us  and  of  our  commune.  As  for 
these  my  brothers  of  Genoa,  that  you  have  brought 
with  you  to  give  up  to  us,  I  will  not  have  them: 
take  them  back;  for,  in  a  few  days  hence,  I  shall 
come  and  let  them  out  of  prison  myself,  both  these 
and  all  the  others."  In  fact,  the  Genoese  did  ad- 
vance as  far  as  Malamocco,  within  five  miles  of  the 
capital;  but  their  own  danger  and  the  pride  of  their 
enemies  gave  courage  to  the  Venetians,  who  made 
prodigious  efforts  and  many  individual  sacrifices, 
all  of  them  carefully  recorded  by  their  historians. 
Vettor  Pisani  was  put  at  the  head  of  thirty-four 
galleys.  The  Genoese  broke  up  from  Malamocco, 
and  retired  to  Chioza  in  October;  but  they  again 
threatened  Venice,  which  was  reduced  to  extremi- 


4  "  Fiet  potentium  in  aquis  Adriaticis  congrega- 
tio,  ca;co  prseduce  Hircnm  ambigent,  Byzantium 
profanabunt,  aedificia  denigrabunt;  spolia  disper- 
gentur,  Hircus  novus  balabit  usque  dum  nv  pedes 
et  IX  pollices,et  semis  praemensurati  discurrant."-»» 
Chronicon,  Ibid,  pars  xxxiv. 


354 


CHILD E  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


ties.  At  this  time,  the  first  of  January,  1380,  arrived 
Carlo  Zeno,  who  had  been  cruising  on  the  Genoese 
coast  with  fourteen  galleys.  The  Venetians  were 
now  strong  enough  to  besiege  the  Genoese.  Doria 
was  killed  on  the  11A  of  January  by  a  stone  bullet 
195  pounds  weight,  discharged  from  a  bombard 
called  the  Trevisan.  Chioza  was  then  closely  in- 
vested :  5,000  auxiliaries,  amongst  whom  were  some 
English  condottieri,  commanded  by  one  Captain 
Ceccho,  joined  the  Venetians.  The  Genoese,  in 
their  turn,  prayed  for  conditions,  but  none  were 
granted,  until,  at  last,  they  surrendered  at  discre- 
tion; and,  on  the  24th  of  June,  1380,  the  Doge 
Contarini  made  his  triumphal  entry  into  Chioza. 
Four  thousand  prisoners,  nineteen  galleys,  many 
smaller  vessels  and  barks,  with  all  the  ammunition 
and  arms,  and  outfit  of  the  expedition,  fell  into  the 
hands  of  the  conquerors,  who,  had  it  not  been  for 
the  inexorable  answer  of  Doria,  would  have  gladly 
reduced  their  dominion  to  the  city  of  Venice.  An 
account  of  these  transactions  is  found  in  a  work 
called  the  War  of  Chioza,  written  by  Daniel  Chi- 
nazzo,  who  was  in  Venice  at  the  time.1 


VII. 


VENICE    UNDER    THE    GOVERN- 
MENT OF  AUSTRIA. 


"  Thin  streets,  and  foreign  aspects,  such  as  must 
Too  oft  remind  her  who  and  what  enthralls." 
Stanza  xv.  lines  7  and  8. 

The  population  of  Venice  at  the  end  of  the  seven- 
teenth century  amounted  to  nearly  two  hundred 
thousand  souls.  At  the  last  census,  taken  two 
years  ago,  it  was  no  more  than  about  one  hundred 
and  three  thousand;  and  it  diminishes  daily.  The 
commerce  and  the  official  employments,  which 
were  to  be  the  unexhausted  source  of  Venetian 
grandeur,  have  both  expired.2  Most  of  the  patri- 
cian mansions  are  deserted,  and  would  gradually 
disappear,  had  not  the  government,  alarmed  by  the 
demolition  of  seventy-two,  during  the  last  two 
years,  expressly  forbidden  this  sad  resource  of 
poverty.  Many  remnants  of  the  Venetian  nobility 
are  now  scattered,  and  confounded  with  the  wealth- 
ier Jews  upon  the  banks  of  the  Brenta,  whose 
Palladian  palaces  have  sunk,  or  are  sinking,  in  the 
general  decay.  Of  the  "  gentiluomo  Veneto,"  the 
name  is  still  known,  and  that  is  all.  He  is  but  the 
shadow  of  his  former  self,  but  he  is  polite  and  kind. 
It  surely  may  be  pardoned  to  him  if  he  is  querulous. 
Whatever  may  have  been  the  vices  of  the  republic, 
and  although  the  natural  term  of  its  existence  may 
be  thought  by  foreigners  to  have  arrived  in  the  due 
course  of  mortality,  only  one  sentiment  can  be  ex- 
pected from  the  Venetians  themselves.  At  no  time 
were  the  subjects  of  the  republic  so  unanimous  in 
their  resolution  to  rally  round  the  standard  of  St. 
Mark,  as  when  it  was  for  the  last  time  unfurled; 


1  "  Chronica  dellaGuerra  di  Chioza,"  etc.  Script. 
Rer.  Italic,  torn.  xv.  p.  699  to  804. 

2  "  Nonnullorum  e  nobilitate  immensae  sunt  opes, 
adeo  ut  vix  aestimari  possint :  id  quod  tribus  e 
rebus  oritur,  parsimonia,  commercio,  atque  iis 
emohtmentis,  quae  e  repub.  percipiunt,  quae  hanc 
ob  causam  diuturna  fore  creditur."  See  De  Princi- 
palibus  Italias,  Tractatus,  edit.  1631. 


and  the  cowardice  and  the  treachery  of  trw  fe\* 
patricians  who  recommended  the  fatal  neut'ality 
were  confined  to  the  persons  of  the  traitors  them- 
selves. The  present  race  cannot  be  though-:  to  re- 
gret the  loss  of  their  aristocratical  forms,  and  too 
despotic  government;  they  think  only  on  their 
vanished  independence.  They  pine  away  at  the 
remembrance,  and  on  this  subject  suspend  for  a 
moment  their  gay  good  humor.  Venice  may  be 
said,  in  the  words  of  the  Scripture,  "  to  die  daily;  " 
and  so  general  and  so  apparent  is  the  decline,  as  to 
become  painful  to  a  stranger,  not  reconciled  to  the 
sight  of  a  whole  nation  expiring  as  it  were  before 
his  eyes.  So  artificial  a  creation,  having  lost  that 
principle  which  called  it  into  life  and  supported  its 
existence,  must  fall  to  pieces  at  once,  and  sink- 
more  rapidly  than  it  rose.  The  abhorrence  ol 
slavery  which  drove  the  Venetians  to  the  sea,  has, 
since  their  disaster,  forced  them  to  the  land,  whert 
they  may  be  at  least  overlooked  amongst  the  crowd, 
of  dependents,  and  not  present  the  humiliating 
spectacle  of  a  whole  nation  loaded  with  recent 
chains.  Their  liveliness,  their  affability,  and  thai 
happy  indifference  which  constitution  alone  can 
give  (for  philosophy  aspires  to  it  in  vain),  have  not 
sunk  under  circumstances;  but  many  peculiarities 
of  costume  and  manner  have  by  degrees  been  lost, 
and  the  nobles,  with  a  pride  common  to  all  Italians 
who  have  been  masters,  have  not  been  persuaded 
to  parade  their  insignificance.  That  splendor  which 
was  a  proof  and  a  portion  of  their  power,  they 
would  not  degrade  into  the  trappings  of  their  sub- 
jection. They  retired  from  the  space  which  they 
had  occupied  in  the  eyes  of  their  fellow-citizens; 
their  continuance  in  which  would  have  been  a 
symptom  of  acquiescence,  and  an  insult  to  those 
who  suffered  by  the  common  misfortune.  Those 
who  remained  in  the  degraded  capital  might  be 
said  rather  to  haunt  the  scenes  of  their  departed 
power,  than  to  live  in  them.  The  reflection,  "  who 
and  what  enthralls,"  will  hardly  bear  a  comment 
from  one  who  is,  nationally,  the  friend  and  the  ally 
of  the  conqueror.  It  may,  however,  be  allowed  to 
say  thus  much,  that  to  those  who  wish  to  recover 
their  independence,  any  masters  must  be  an  object 
of  detestation ;  and  it  may  be  safely  foretold  that 
this  unprofitable  aversion  will  not  have  been  cor- 
rected before  Venice  shall  have  sunk  into  the  slime 
of  her  choked  canals. 


VIII.     LAURA. 

"  Watering  the  tree  which  bears  his  lady's  name 
With  his  melodious  tears,  he  gave  himself  te 
Jame-  Stanza  xxx.  lines  8  and  o. 

Thanks  to  the  critical  acumen  of  a  Scotchman. 
we  now  know  as  little  of  Laurc  as  ever.3  The  dis- 
coveries of  the  Abbe   de  Sade,  his   triumphs,  his 


3  See  An  Historical  and  Critical  Essay  on  the 
Life  and  Character  of  Petrarch;  and  a  Dissertation 
on  an  Historical  Hypothesis  of  the  Abbe  de  Sade: 
the  first  appeared  about  the  year  1784;  the  other  is 
inserted  in  the  fourth  volume  of  the  Transaction! 
of  the  Royal  Society  of  Edinburgh,  and  both  have 
been  incorporated  into  a  work,  published,  under  thr' 
first  title,  by  Ballantyne,  in  1810. 


HISTORICAL  NOTES   TO    CANTO    THE  FOURTH. 


355 


sneers,  can  no  longer  instruct  or  amuse.1  We  must 
not,  however,  think  that  these  memoirs  are  as  much 
a  romance  as  Belisarius  or  the  Incas,  although  we 
are  told  so  by  Dr.  Beattie,  a  great  name,  but  a  little 
authority.2  His  "  labor "  has  not  been  in  vain, 
notwithstanding  his  "love"  has,  like  most  other 
passions,  made  him  ridiculous.3  The  hypothesis 
which  overpowered  the  struggling  Italians,  and 
carried  along  less  interested  critics  in  its  current,  is 
run  out.  We  have  another  proof  that  we  can  be 
never  sure  that  the  paradox,  the  most  singular,  and 
therefore  having  the  most  agreeable  and  authentic 
air,  will  not  give  place  to  the  reestablished  ancient 
Wejudice. 

It  seems,  then,  first,  that  Laura  was  born,  lived, 
died,  and  was  buried  not  in  Avignon,  but  in  the 
country.  The  fountains  of  the  Sorga,  the  thickets 
of  Cabrieres,  may  resume  their  pretensions,  and  the 
exploded  de  la  Bastie  again  be  heard  with  compla- 
cency. The  hypothesis  of  the  Abbe  had  no  stronger 
props  than  the  parchment  sonnet  and  medal  found 
on  the  skeleton  of  the  wife  of  Hugo  de  Sade,  and 
the  manuscript  note  to  the  Virgil  of  Petrarch,  now 
in  the  Ambrosian  library.  If  these  proofs  were 
both  incontestable,  the  poetry  was  written,  the 
medal  composed,  cast,  and  deposited  within  the 
space  of  twelve  hours:  and  these  deliberate  duties 
were  performed  round  the  carcass  of  one  who  died 
of  the  plague,  and  was  hurried  to  the  grave  on  the 
day  of  her  death.  These  documents,  therefore,  are 
too  decisive:  they  prove  not  the  fact,  but  the  forg- 
ery. Either  the  sonnet  or  the  Virgilian  note  must 
be  a  falsification.  The  Abbe  cites  both  as  incon- 
testably  true;  the  consequent  deduction  is  inevi- 
table—  they  are  both  evidently  false.4 

Secondly,  Laura  was  never  married,  and  was  a 
haughty  virgin  rather  than  that  tender  and  pru- 
dent wife  who  honored  Avignon  by  making  that 
town  the  theatre  of  an  honest  French  passion,  and 
played  off  for  one  and  twenty  years  her  little  ma- 
chinery of  alternate  favors  and  refusals5  upon  the 
first  poet  of  the  age.  It  was,  indeed,  rather  too 
unfair  that  a  female  should  be  made  responsible  for 
eleven  children  upon  the  faith  of  a  misinterpreted 
abbreviation,  and  the  decision  of  a  librarian.6    It  is, 


1  Memoires  pour  la  Vie  de  Petrarque. 

2  Life  of  Beattie,  by  Sir  W.  Forbes,  vol.  ii.  p.  106. 

3  Mr.  Gibbon  called  his  Memoirs  "a  labor  of 
5ove "  (see  Decline  and  Fall,  chap.  lxx.  note  i), 
and  followed  him  with  confidence  and  delight.  The 
compiler  of  a  very  voluminous  work  must  take  much 
criticism  upon  trust.  Mr.  Gibbon  has  done  so, 
though  not  as  readily  as  some  other  authors. 

*  The  sonnet  had  before  awakened  the  suspicions 
of  Mr.  Horace  Walpole.  See  his  letter  to  Warton 
in  1763. 

5  "  Par  ce  petit  manege,  cette  alternative  de 
faveurs  et  de  rigueurs  bien  menagee,  une  femme 
tendre  et  sage  amuse,  pendant  vingt  et  un  ans,  le 
plus  grand  poete  de  son  siecle,  sans  faire  la  moindre 
breche  a  son  honneur."  Mem.  pour  la  Vie  de 
Petrarque,  Preface  aux  Francois.  The  Italian 
editor  of  the  London  edition  of  Petrarch,  who  has 
translated  Lord  Woodhouselee,  renders  the  "  femme 
tendre  et  sage,"  "  raffinata  civetta."  Riflessioni 
intorno  a  Madonna  Laura,  p.  234,  vol.  iii.  ed.  181 1. 

6  In  a  dialogue  with  St.  Augustin,  Petrarch  has 
described  Laura  as  having  a  body  exhausted  with 
repeated  ptubs.     The  old  editors  read  and  printed 


however,  satisfactory  to  think  that  the  love  c4 
Petrarch  was  not  platonic.  The  happiness  which 
he  prayed  to  possess  but  once  and  for  a  moment 
was  surely  not  of  the  mind,7  and  something  so  very 
real  as  a  marriage  project,  with  one  who  has  been 
idly  called  a  shadowy  nymph,  may  be,  perhaps, 
detected  in  at  least  six  places  of  his  own  sonnets.8 
The  love  of  Petrarch  was  neither  platonic  nor  poet- 
ical :  and  if  in  one  passage  of  his  works  he  calls  it 
"  amore  veementeissimo  ma  unico  ed  onesto,"  he 
confesses,  in  a  letter  to  a  friend,  that  it  was  guilty 
and  perverse,  that  it  absorbed  him  quite,  and  mas- 
tered his  heart.9 

In  this  case,  however,  he  was  perhaps  alarmed 
for  the  culpability  of  his  wishes ;  for  the  Abbe  de 
Sade  himself,  who  certainly  would  not  have  been 
scrupulously  delicate  if  he  could  have  proved  his 
descent  from  Petrarch  as  well  as  Laura,  is  forced  in- 
to a  stout  defence  of  his  virtuous  grandmother  Ar 
far  as  relates  to  the  poet,  we  have  no  security  foi 
the  innocence,  except  perhaps  in  the  constancy  01 
his  pursuit.  He  assures  us  in  his  epistle  to  poster 
ity,  that,  when  arrived  at  his  fortieth  year,  he  not 
only  had  in  horror,  but  had  lost  all  recollection  and 
image  of  any  "irregularity."10  But  the  birth  of 
his  natural  daughter  cannot  be  assigned  earlier  than 
his  thirty-ninth  year;  and  either  the  memory  01 
the  morality  of  the  poet  must  have  failed  him,  when 
he  forgot  or  was  guilty  of  this  slip.11  The  weakest 
argument  for  the  purity  of  this  love  has  been  drawn 
from  the  permanence  of  its  effects,  which  survived 
the  object  of  his  passion.  The  reflection  of  M.  de  la 
Bastie,  that  virtue  alone  is  capable  of  making  impres- 
sions which  death  cannot  efface,  is  one  of  those 
which  everybody  applauds,  and  everybody  finds  not 
to  be  true,  the  moment  he  examines  his  own  breast 
or  the  records  of  human  feeling.12  Such  apoph- 
thegms can  do  nothing  for  Petrarch  or  for  the  cause 
of  morality,  except  with  the  very  weak  and  the  very 
young.  He  that  has  made  even  a  little  progress 
beyond  ignorance  and  pupilage  cannot  be  edified 


periurbationibus  ;    but    M.  Capperonier,    libra- 
rian   to   the  French   king   in   1762,   who   saw   the 
MS.  in  the  Paris  library,  made  an  attestation  that 
"  on  lit  et  qu'on  doit  lire,  partubus  exhaustum." 
De   Sade  joined  the  names  of  Messrs.  Boudot  and 
Bejot  with  M.  Capperonier,  and  in   the  whole  dis- 
cussion on  this  ptubs,  showed  himself  a  downright 
literary  rogue.    See  Riflessioni,  etc.  p.  267.    Thomas 
Aquinas  is  called  in  to  settle   whether  Petrarch's 
mistress  was  a  chaste  maid  or  a  continent  wife. 
7  "  Pigmalion,  quanto  lodar  ti  dei 
Dell'  immagine  tua,  se  mille  volte 
N'  avesti  quel  ch'  i'  sol  una  vorrei." 
Sonetto  58,  Quando  giunse  a  Simon  I' alto  concetto 
Le  Rune,  etc.  par.  i.  p.  189,  edit.  Ven.  1756. 

8  See  Riflessioni,  etc.  p.  291. 

9  "  Quella  rea  e  perversa  passione  che  solo  tutto 
mi  occupava  e  mi  regnava  nel  cuore." 

10  "  Azion  dishonesta  "  are  his  words. 

11  "  A  questa  confessione  cosi  sincera  diede  forsc 
occasione  una  nuova  caduta  ch'  ei  fece."  Tirabos- 
chi,  Storia,  etc.  torn.  v.  lib.  iv.  par.  ii.  p.  492. 

12  "  II  n'y  a  que  la  vertu  seule  qui  soit  capable  de 
faire  des  impressions  que  la  mort  n'efface  pas."  M. 
de  Bimard,  Baron  de  la  Bastie,  in  the  Memoires  d« 
TAcademie  des  Inscriptions  et  Belles  Lettses  for 
1740  and  1751.     See  also  Riflessioni,  etc.  p.  29J. 


356 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


with  any  thing  but  truth.  What  is  called  vindicat- 
ing the  honor  of  an  individual  or  a  nation,  is  the 
most  futile,  tedious,  and  uninstruciive  of  all  writ- 
ing; although  it  will  always  meet  with  more  ap- 
plause than  that  sober  criticism,  which  is  attributed 
to  the  malicious  desire  of  reducing  a  great  man  to 
the  common  standard  of  humanity.  It  is,  after  all, 
not  unlikely  that  our  historian  was  right  in  retain- 
ing his  favorite  hypothetic  salvo,  which  secures  the 
author,  although  it  scarcely  saves  the  honor  of  the 
still  unknown  mistress  of  Petrarch.1 


IX.     PETRARCH. 

"  They  keep  his  dust  in  Arqua,  where  he  died." 
Stanza  xxxi.  line  i. 

Petrarch  retired  to  Arqua  immediately  on  his 
return  from  the  unsuccessful  attempt  to  visit  Urban 
V.  at  Rome,  in  the  year  1370,  and,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  his  celebrated  visit  to  Venice  in  company 
with  Francesco  Novello  de  Carrara,  he  appears  to 
have  passed  the  four  last  years  of  his  life  between 
that  charming  solitude  and  Padua.  For  four 
months  previous  to  his  death  he  was  in  a  state  of 
continual  languor,  and  in  the  morning  of  July  the 
19th,  in  the  year  1374,  was  found  dead  in  his 
library  chair  with  his  head  resting  upon  a  book. 
The  chair  is  still  shown  amongst  the  precious  relics 
of  Arqua,  which,  from  the  uninterrupted  veneration 
that  has  been  attached  to  every  thing  relative  to  this 
great  man  from  the  moment  of  his  death  to  the  pres- 
ent hour,  have,  it  may  be  hoped,  a  better  chance  of 
authenticity  than  the  Shakspearian  memorials  of 
Stratford-upon-Avon. 

Arqua  (for  the  last  syllable  is  accented  in  pro- 
nunciation, although  the  analogy  of  the  English 
language  has  been  observed  in  the  verse)  is  twelve 
miles  from  Padua,  and  about  three  miles  on  the 
right  of  the  high  road  to  Rovigo,  in  the  bosom  of 
the  Euganean  hills.  After  a  walk  of  twenty  min- 
utes across  a  flat  well-wooded  meadow,  you  come 
to  a  little  blue  lake,  clear  but  fathomless,  and  to  the 
foot  of  a  succession  of  acclivities  and  hills,  clothed 
with  vineyards  and  orchards,  rich  with  fir  and  pome- 
granate trees,  and  every  sunny  fruit  shrub.  From 
the  banks  of  the  lake  the  road  winds  into  the  hills, 
and  the  church  of  Arqua  is  soon  seen  between  a 
cleft  where  two  ridges  slope  towards  each  other,  and 
nearly  enclose  the  village.  The  houses  are  scattered 
at  intervals  on  the  steep  sides  of  these  summits: 
and  that  of  the  poet  is  on  the  edge  of  a  little  knoll 
overlooking  two  descents,  and  commanding  a  view, 
not  only  of  the  glowing  gardens  in  the  dales  imme- 
diately beneath,  but  of  the  wide  plains,  above  whose 
low  woods  of  mulberry  and  willow,  thickened  into 
a  dark  mass  by  festoons  of  vines,  tall  single  cy- 
presses, and  the  spires  of  towns,  are  seen  in  the 
distance,  which  stretches  to  the  mouths  of  the  Po 
and  the  shores  of  the  Adriatic.  The  climate  of 
these  volcanic  hills  is  warmer,  and  the  vintage 
begins  a  week  sooner  than  in  the  plains  of  Padua. 
Petrarch  is  laid,  for  he  cannot  be  said  to  be  buried, 


1  "  And  if  the  virtue  or  prudence  of  Laura  was 
inexorable,  he  enjoyed,  and  might  boast  of  enjoying, 
the  nymph  of  poetry."  Decline  and  Fall,  chap. 
lxx.  p.  327,  vol.  xii.  8vo.  Perhaps  the  if  is  here 
meant  for  although. 


in  a  sarcophagus  of  red  marble,  raised  on  four  pilas- 
ters on  an  elevated  base,  and  preserved  from  an 
association  with  meaner  tombs.  It  stands  conspicu- 
ously alone,  but  will  be  soon  overshadowed  by  four 
lately  planted  laurels.  Petrarch's  Fountain,  for 
here  every  thing  is  Petrarch's,  springs  and  expands 
itself  beneath  an  artificial  arch,  a  little  below  the 
church,  and  abounds  plentifully,  in  the  dryest  sea- 
son, with  that  soft  water  which  was  the  ancient 
wealth  of  the  Euganean  hills.  It  would  be  more 
attractive,  were  it  not,  in  some  seasons,  beset  with 
hornets  and  wasps.  No  other  coincidence  could 
assimilate  the  tombs  of  Petrarch  and  Archilochus. 
The  revolutions  of  centuries  have  spared  these 
sequestered  valleys,  and  the  only  violence  which 
has  been  offered  to  the  ashes  of  Petrarch  was 
prompted,  not  by  hate,  but  veneration.  An  attempt 
was  made  to  rob  the  sarcophagus  of  its  treasure, 
and  one  of  the  arms  was  stolen  by  a  Florentine 
through  a  rent  which  is  still  visible.  The  injury  is 
not  forgotten,  but  has  served  to  identify  the  poet 
with  the  country  where  he  was  born,  but  where  he 
would  not  live.  A  peasant  boy  of  Arqua  being 
asked  who  Petrarch  was,  replied,  "  that  the  people 
of  the  parsonage  knew  all  about  him,  but  that  he 
only  knew  that  he  was  a  Florentine." 

Mr.  Forsyth-  was  not  quite  correct  in  saying 
that  Petrarch  never  returned  to  Tuscany  after  he 
had  once  quitted  it  when  a  boy.  It  appears  he  did 
pass  through  Florence  on  his  way  from  Parma  to 
Rome,  and  on  his  return  in  the  year  1350,  and 
remained  there  long  enough  to  form  some  acquaint- 
ance with  its  most  distinguished  inhabitants.  A 
Florentine  gentleman,  ashamed  of  the  aversion  of 
the  poet  for  his  native  country,  was  eager  to  point 
out  this  trivial  e|>ror  in  our  accomplished  traveller, 
whom  he  knew  and  respected  for  an  extraordinary 
capacity,  extensive  erudition,  and  refined  taste, 
joined  to  that  engaging  simplicity  of  manners  which 
has  been  so  frequently  recognized  as  the  surest, 
though  it  is  certainly  not  an  indispensable,  trait  of 
superior  genius. 

Every  footstep  of  Laura's  lover  has  been  anx- 
iously traced  and  recorded.  The  house  in  which 
he  lodged  is  shown  in  Venice.  The  inhabitants  of 
Arezzo,  in  order  to  decide  the  ancient  controversy 
between  their  city  and  the  neighboring  Ancisa, 
where  Petrarch  was  carried  when  seven  months  old, 
and  remained  until  his  seventh  year,  have  desig- 
nated by  a  long  inscription  the  spot  where  their 
great  fellow-citizen  was  born.  A  tablet  has  been 
raised  to  him  at  Parma,  in  the  chapel  of  St.  Agatha, 
at  the  cathedral,  because  he  was  archdeacon  of  that 
society,  and  was  only  snatched  from  his  intended 
sepulture  in  their  church  by  ^foreign  death.  An- 
other tablet,  with  a  bust,  has  been  erected  to  him 
at  Pavia,  on  account  of  his  having  passed  the 
autumn  of  1368  in  that  city,  with  his  son-in-law 
Brossano.  The  political  condition  which  has  for 
ages  precluded  the  Italians  from  the  criticism  of 
the  living,  has  concentrated  their  attention  to  the 
illustration  of  the  dead. 


X.    TASSO. 

"  In  face  of  all  his  foes,  the  Cruscan  quire; 
And  Boileau,  whose  rash  envy"  etc. 

Stanza  xxxviii.  lines  6  and  7. 

s  Remarks,  etc.  on  Italy,  p.  95,  note,  2d  edit. 


HISTORICAL   NOTES    TO   CANTO    THE  FOURTH. 


35? 


Perhaos  the  couplet  in  which  Boileau  depreci- 
ates Tasso  may  serve  as  well  as  any  other  speci- 
men to  justify  the  opinion  given  of  the  harmony  of 
French  verse :  — 

A  Malherbe,  a  Racan,  preftre  Theophile, 
Et  le  clinquant  du  Tasse  a  tout  l'or  de  Virgile. 
Sat.  ix.  vers.  176. 

The  biographer  Serassi,1  out  of  tenderness  to  the 
reputation  either  of  the  Italian  or  the  French  poet, 
is  eager  to  observe  that  the  satirist  recanted  or  ex- 
plained away  this  censure,  and  subsequently  al- 
lowed the  author  of  the  Jerusalem  to  be  a  "  genius, 
sublime,  vast,  and  happily  born  for  the  higher 
flights  of  poetry."  To  this  we  will  add,  that  the 
recantation  is  far  from  satisfactory,  when  we  exam- 
ine the  whole  anecdote  as  reported  by  Olivet.2  The 
sentence  pronounced  against  him  by  Bohours3  is 
recorded  only  to  the  confusion  of  the  critic,  whose 
palinodia  the  Italian  makes  no  effort  to  discover, 
and  would  not,  perhaps,  accept.  As  to  the  opposi- 
tion which  the  Jerusalem  encountered  from  the 
Cruscan  academy,  who  degraded  Tasso  from  all 
competition  with  Ariosto,  below  Bojardo  and  Pulci, 
the  disgrace  of  such  opposition  must  also  in  some 
measure  be  laid  to  the  charge  of  Alfonso,  and  the 
court  of  Ferrara.  For  Leonard  Salviati,  the  prin- 
cipal and  nearly  the  sole  origin  of  this  attack,  was, 
there  can  be  no  doubt,4  influenced  by  a  hope  to 
acquire  the  favor  of  the  House  of  Este:  an  object 
which  he  thought  attainable  by  exalting  the  reputa- 
tion of  a  native  poet  at  the  expense  of  a  rival,  then 
a  prisoner  of  state.  The  hopes  and  efforts  of 
Salviati  must  serve  to  show  the  contemporary 
opinion  as  to  the  nature  of  the  poet's  imprisonment; 
and  will  fill  up  the  measure  of  our  indignation  at 
the  tyrant  jailer.5  In  fact,  the  antagonist  of  Tasso 
was  not  disappointed  in  the  reception  given  to  his 
criticism;  he  was  called  to  the  court  of  Ferrara, 
where,  having  endeavored  to  heighten  his  claims  to 
favor,  by  panegyrics  on  the  family  of  his  sovereign," 
he  was  in  turn  abandoned,  and  expired  in  neglected 


poverty.  The  opposition  of  the  Cruscans  was 
Drought  to  a  close  in  six  years  after  the  commence- 
ment of  the  controversy;  and  if  the  academy  owed 
its  first  renown  to  having  almost  opened  with  such 
a  paradox,"  it  is  probable  that,  on  the  other  hand, 
the  care  of  his  reputation  alleviated  rather  than 
aggravated  the  imprisonment  of  the  injured  poet. 
The  defence  of  his  father  and  of  himself,  for  both 
were  involved  in  the  censure  of  Salviati,  found  em- 
ployment for  many  of  his  solitary  hours,  and  the 
captive  could  have  been  but  little  embarrassed  to  re- 
ply to  accusations,  where,  amongst  other  delinquen- 
cies, he  was  charged  with  invidiously  omitting,  ir 
his  comparison  between  France  and  Italy,  to  make 
any  mention  of  the  cupola  of  St.  Maria  del  Fiore 
at  Florence.8  The  late  biographer  of  Ariosto  seems 
as  if  willing  to  renew  the  controversy  by  doubting 
the  interpretation  of  Tasso's  self-estimation0  related 
in  Serassi's  life  of  the  poet.  But  Tiraboschi  had  be- 
fore laid  that  rivalry  at  rest,"1"  by  showing,  that  be- 
tween Ariosto  and  Tasso  it  is  not  a  question  o: 
comparison,  but  of  preference. 


1  La  Vita  del  Tasso,  lib.  iii.  p.  284,  torn.  ii.  edit. 
Bergamo,  1790. 

2  Histoire  de  l'Academie  Francoise  depuis  1652 
jusqu'a  1700,  par  l'Abbe  d'Olivet,  p.  181,  edit. 
Amsterdam,  1730.  "  Mais,  ensuite,  venant  a  l'usage 
qu'il  a  fait  de  ses  talens,  j'aurais  montre  que  le  bon 
sens  n'est  pas  toujours  ce  qui  domine  chez  lui,"  p. 
182.  Boileau  said,  he  had  not  changed  his  opinion. 
"  J'en  ai  si  peu  change,  dit-il,"  etc.  p.  181. 

3  La  Maniere  de  bien  Penser  dans  les  Ouvrages 
de  1'Esprit,  sec.  dial.  p.  39,  edit.  r692.  Philanthes 
is  for  Tasso,  and  says  in  the  outset,  "  de  tous  les 
beaux  esprits  que  l'ltalie  a  portes,  le  Tasse  est 
peut-etre  celui  qui  pense  le  plus  noblement."  But 
Bohours  seems  to  speak  in  Eudoxus,  who  closes 
with  the  absurd  comparison:  "  Faites  valoii  le 
Tasse  tant  qu'il  vous  plaira,  je  m'en  tiens  pour  moi  a 
Virgile,"  etc.     Ibid.  p.  102. 

4  La  Vita,  etc.  lib.  iii.  p.  90,  torn.  ii.  The  Eng- 
lish reader  may  see  an  account  of  the  opposition  of 
the  Crusca  to  Tasso,  in  Dr.  Black,  Life,  etc.  chap, 
xvii.  vol.  ii. 

5  For  further,  and,  it  is  hoped,  decisive  proof, 
that  Tasso  was  neither  more  nor  less  than  a  prisoner 
of  state,  the  reader  is  referred  to  "  Historical  Illus- 
trations of  the  IVth  Canto  of  Chiide  Harold,"  p. 
5,  and  following. 

6  Orazioni  funebri  .  .   .  delle  lod'  di  Don  Luigi 


XL    ARIOSTO. 

"  The  lightning  rent  from  Ariosto' s  bust, 
The  iron  crown  of  laurel 's  mimicked  leaves." 
Stanza  xli.  lines  1  and  2. 

Before  the  remains  of  Ariosto  were  removed 
from  the  Benedictine  church  to  the  library  of  Fer- 
rara, his  bust,  which  surmounted  the  tomb,  was 
struck  by  lightning,  and  a  crown  of  iron  laurels 
melted  away.  The  event  has  been  recorded  by  a 
writer  of  the  last  century.11  The  transfer  of  these 
sacred  ashes,  on  the  6th  of  June,  1801,  was  one  of 
the  most  brilliant  spectacles  of  the  short-lived  Italian 
Republic;  and  to  consecrate  the  memory  of  the 
ceremony,  the  once  famous  fallen  Intrepidi  were 
revived  and  re-formed  into  the  Ariostean  academy. 
The  large  public  place  through  which  the  pro- 
cession paraded  was  then  for  the  first  time  called 
Ariosto  Square.  The  author  of  the  Orlando  is  jeal- 
ously claimed  as  the  Homer,  not  of  Italy,  but  Fer- 
rara.12    The  mother  of  Ariosto  was  of  Reggio,  and 


Cardinal  d'Este  .  .  .  delle  lodi  di  Donno  Alfonso 
d'Este.     See  La  Vita,  lib.  iii.  p.  117. 

7  It  was  founded  in  1582,  and  the  Cruscan  answer 
to  Pellegrino,  Caraffa,  or  Epica  poesia,  was  pub- 
lished in  1584. 

8  "  Cotanto  pote  sempre  in  lui  il  veleno  della  sua 
pessima  volonta  contro  alia  nazion  Fiorentina." 
La  Vita,  lib.  iii.  pp.  96,  98,  torn.  ii. 

0  La  Vita  di  M.  L.  Ariosto,  scritta  dalP  Abate 
Girolamo  Baruffaldi  Giuniore,  etc.  Ferrara,  1807, 
lib.  iii.  p.  262.  See  "  Historical  Illustrations," 
etc.  p.  26. 

10  Storia  della  Lett.  etc.  lib.  iii.  torn.  vii.  par.  iii. 
p.  1220,  sect.  4. 

11  "  Mi  raccontarono  que'  monaci,  ch'  essendo  ca- 
dutoun  fulminenella  loro  chiesa  schiant6  esso  daile 
tempie  la  corona  di  lauro  a  quell'  immortale  poeta." 
Op.  di  Bianconi,  vol.  iii.  p.  176,  ed.  Milano,  1802; 
lettera  al  Signor  Guido  Savini  Arcifisiocritico,  sull' 
indole  di  un  fulmine  caduto  in  Dresda  l'anno  1759- 

12  "Appassionatoammiratore  ed  invittn  npologista 
dell'  Omero  Ferrarese."   The  title  was  first  given 


353 


CHILD E   HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


the  house  in  which  he  was  horn  is  carefully  distin- 
guished by  a  tablet  with  these  words:  "  Qui  nacque 
Ludovico  Ariosto,  il  giorno  8.  di  Settembre  dell' 
anno  1474."  But  the  Ferrarese  make  light  of  the 
accident  by  which  their  poet  was  bom  abroad,  and 
claim  him  exclusively  for  their  own.  They  possess 
his  bones,  they  show  his  arm-chair,  and  his  ink- 
stand, and  his  autographs. 

" Hie  illius  arma, 

Hie  currus  fuit " 

The  house  where  he  lived,  the  room  where  he  died, 
are  designated  by  his  own  replaced  memorial,1  and 
by  a  recent  inscription.  The  Ferrarese  are  more  jeal- 
ous of  their  claims  since  the  animosity  of  Denina, 
arising  from  a  cause  which  their  apologists  myste- 
riously hint  is  not  unknown  to  them,  ventured  to 
degrade  their  soil  and  climate  to  a  Boeotian  incapac- 
ity for  all  spiritual  productions.  A  quarto  volume 
has  been  called  forth  by  the  detraction,  and  this 
supplement  to  Barotti's  Memoirs  of  the  illustrious 
Ferrarese  has  been  considered  a  triumphant  reply 
to  the  "  Quadro  Storico  Statistico  dell'  Alta  Italia." 


XII. 


ANCIENT    SUPERSTITIONS 
SPECTING  LIGHTNING. 


RE- 


"  For  the  trite   laurel  -  wreath  which    Glory 
•weaves 
Is  of  the  tree  no  bolt  of  thunder  cleaves." 
Stanza  xli.  lines  4  and  5. 

The  eagle,  the  sea  calf,  the  laurel,2  and  the  white 
vine,3  were  amongst  the  most  approved  preserva- 
tives against  lightning.  Jupiter  chose  the  first, 
Augustus  Caesar  the  second,4  and  Tiberius  never 
failed"  to  wear  a  wreath  of  the  third  when  the  sky 
threatened  a  thunder-storm. r>  These  superstitions 
may  be  received  without  a  sneer  in  a  country  where 
the  ma5ical  properties  of  the  hazel  twig  have  not 
lost  all  their  credit;  and  perhaps  the  reader  may 
not  be  much  surprised  to  find  that  a  commentator 
on  Suetonius  has  taken  upon  himself  gravely  to 
disprove  the  imputed  virtues  of  the  crown  of  Tibe- 
rius, by  mentioning  that  a  few  years  before  he 
wrote,  a  laurel  was  actually  struck  by  lightning  at 
Rome.6 


XIII. 


"  Know  that  the  lightning  sanctifies  below." 
Stanza  xli.  line  8. 

The  Curtian  lake  and  the  Ruminal  fig-tree  in  the 
Forum,  having  been  touched  by  lightning,  were  held 
sacred,  and  the  memory  of  the  accident  was  pre- 


by  Tasso,  and  is  quoted  to  the  confusion  of  the 
Tassisti,  lib.  iii.  pp.  262,  265.  La  Vita  di  M.  L. 
Ariosto,  etc. 

1  "  Parva  sed  apta  mihi,  sed  nulli  obnoxia,  sed  non 
Sordida,  parta  meo  sed  tamen  aere  domus." 

*  Aquila,  vitulus  marinus,  et  laurus,  fulmine  non 
■eriuntur.     Plin.  Nat.  Hist.  lib.  ii.  cap.  56. 

3  Columella,  lib.  x. 

4  Sueton.  in  Vit.  August,  cap.  xc. 

'  Sueton.  in  Vit.  Tiberii,  cap.  lxix. 
a  Note  2,  p.  409,  edit.  Lugd.  Bat.  1667. 


served  by  a  puteal,  or  altar  resembling  the  mouth 
of  a  well,  with  a  little  chapel  covering  the  cavity 
supposed  to  be  made  by  the  thunderbolt.  Bodie* 
scathed  and  persons  struck  dead  were  thought  to  be 
incorruptible;7  and  a  stroke  not  fatal  conferred  per- 
petual dignity  upon  the  man  so  distinguished  by 
heaven.8 

Those  killed  by  lightning  were  wrapped  in  a  white 
garment,  and  buried  where  they  fell.  The  supersti- 
tion was  not  confined  to  the  worshippers  of  Jupiter  : 
the  Lombards  believed  in  the  omens  furnished  by 
lightning;  and  a  Christian  priest  confesses  that,  by 
a  diabolical  skill  in  interpreting  thunder,  a  seer  fore- 
told to  Agilulf,  duke  of  Turin,  an  event  which  came 
to  pass,  and  gave  him  a  queen  and  a  crown.0  There 
was,  however,  something  equivocal  in  this  sign, 
which  the  ancient  inhabitants  of  Rome  did  not 
always  consider  propitious;  and  as  the  fears  are 
likely  to  last  longer  than  the  consolations  of  super- 
stition, it  is  not  strange  that  the  Romans  of  the  age 
of  Leo  X.  should  have  been  so  much  terrified  at 
some  misinterpreted  storms  as  to  require  the  exhor- 
tations of  a  scholar,  who  arrayed  all  the  learning  on 
thunder  and  lightning  to  prove  the  omen  favorable; 
beginning  with  the  flash  which  struck  the  walls  of 
Velitrae,  and  including  that  which  played  upon  a 
gate  at  Florence,  and  foretold  the  pontificate  of  one 
of  its  citizens.10 


XIV.     THE  VENUS   OF  MEDICIS. 

"  There,  too,  the  Goddess  loves  in  stone" 
Stanza  xlix.  line  1. 

The  view  of  the  Venus  of  Medicis  instantly  sug- 
gests the  lines  in  the  Seasons,  and  the  comparison 
of  the  object  with  the  description  proves,  nut  only 
the  correctness  of  the  portrait,  but  the  peculiar  turn 
of  thought,  and,  if  the  term  may  be  used,  the  sex- 
ual imagination  of  the  descriptive  poet.  The  same 
conclusion  may  be  deduced  from  another  hint  in  the 
same  episode  of  Musidora;  for  Thomson's  notion 
of  the  privileges  of  favored  love  must  have  been 
either  very  primitive,  or  rather  deficient  in  delicacy, 
when  he  made  his  grateful  nymph  inform  her  dis- 
creet Damon  that  in  some  happier  moment  he  might 
perhaps  be  the  companion  of  her  bath:  — 

"  The  time  may  come  you  need  not  fly." 

The  reader  will  recollect  the  anecdote  told  in  the 
Life  of  Dr.  Johnson  We  will  not  leave  the  Floren- 
tine gallery  without  a  word  on  the  Wlictter.  It 
seems  strange  that  the  character  of  that  disputed 
statue  should  not  be  entirely  decided,  at  least  in  the 
mind  of  any  one  who  has  seen  a  sarcophagus  in  the 
vestibule  of  the  Basilica  of  St.  Paul  without  the  walls, 
at  Rome,  where  the  whole  group  of  the  fable  of  Mar- 
syas  is  seen  in  tolerable  preservation :  and  the  Scy- 


7  Vid.  J.  C.  Bullenger,  de  Terra:  Motu  et  Fulmi- 
nib.  lib.  v.  cap.  xi. 

8  OuSeis  Kcpav>a)0ci«  arijiids  ecrn,  69ev  k<u  cis 
0eb?  Tifj.a.Ta.1.  Plut.  Sympos.  vid.  J.  C.  Bulleng. 
ut  sup. 

9  Pauli  Diaconi  de  Gestis  Langobard.  lib.  iii.  cap. 
xiv.  fo.  15,  edit.  Taurin.  1527. 

10  I.  P.  Valeriani  de  fulminum  significationibus 
declamatio,  ap.  Graev.  Antiq.  Rom.  torn.  v.  p.  593. 
The  declamation  is  addressed  to  Julian  of  Medicis 


HISTORICAL  NOTES    TO    CANTO    THE  FOURTH. 


359 


thian  slave  whetting  the  knife  is  represented  exactly 
in  the  same  position  as  this  celebrated  masterpiece. 
The  slave  is  not  naked;  but  it  is  easier  to  get  rid  oi 
this  difficulty  than  to  suppose  the  knife  in  the  hand 
of  the  Florentine  statue  an  instrument  for  shaving, 
which  it  must  be,  if,  as  Lanzi  supposes,  the  man  is 
no  other  than  the  barber  of  Julius  Csesar.  Winkel- 
mann,  illustrating  a  bas-relief  of  the  same  subject, 
follows  the  opinion  of  Leonard  Agostini,  and  his 
authority  might  have  been  thought  conclusive,  even 
if  the  resemblance  did  not  strike  the  most  careless 
observer.1  Amongst  the  bronzes  of  the  same  princely 
collection  is  still  to  be  seen  the  inscribed  tablet  cop- 
ied and  commented  upon  by  Mr.  Gibbon.2  Our  his- 
torian found  some  difficulties,  but  did  not  desist  from 
his  illustration:  he  might  be  vexed  to  hear  that  his 
criticism  has  been  thrown  away  on  an  inscription 
low  generally  recognized  to  be  a  forgery. 


XV.     MADAME   DE   STAEL. 

"In  Santa  Croce's  holy  precincts  lie." 

Stanza  liv.  line  i. 

This  name  will  recall  the  memory,  not  only  of 
those  whose  tombs  have  raised  the  Santa  Croce  into 
the  centre  of  pilgrimage,  the  Mecca  of  Italy,  but  of 
her  whose  eloquence  was  poured  over  the  illustri- 
ous ashes,  and  whose  voice  is  now  as  mute  as  those 
she  sung.  Corinna  is  no  more;  and  with  her 
should  expire  the  fear,  the  flattery,  and  the  envy, 
which  threw  too  dazzling  or  too  dark  a  cloud  round 
the  march  of  genius,  and  forbade  the  steady  gaze 
of  disinterested  criticism.  We  have  her  picture 
embellished  or  distorted,  as  friendship  or  detraction 
has  held  the  pencil :  the  impartial  portrait  was 
hardly  to  be  expected  from  a  contemporary.  The 
immediate  voice  of  her  survivors  will,  it  is  probable, 
be  far  from  affording  a  just  estimate  of  her  singular 
capacity.  The  gallantry,  the  love  of  wonder,  and 
the  hope  of  associated  fame,  which  blunted  the 
edge  of  censure,  must  cease  to  exist.  —  The  dead 
have  no  sex ;  they  can  surprise  by  no  new  mira- 
cles ;  they  can  confer  no  privilege  :  Corinna  has 
ceased  to  be  a  woman  —  she  is  only  an  author  : 
and  it  may  be  foreseen  that  many  will  repay  them- 
selves for  former  complaisance,  by  a  severity  to 
which  the  extravagance  of  previous  praises  may 
perhaps  give  the  color  of  truth.  The  latest  poster- 
ity, for  to  the  latest  posterity  they  will  assuredly 
descend,  will  have  to  pronounce  upon  her  various 
productions ;  and  the  longer  the  vista  through 
which  they  are  seen,  the  more  accurately  minute 
will  be  the  object,  the  more  certain  the  justice,  of 
the  decision.  She  will  enter  into  that  existence  in 
which  the  great  writers  of  all  ages  and  nations  are, 
as  it  were,  associated  in  a  world  of  their  own,  and, 
from  that  superior  sphere,  shed  their  eternal  influ- 
ence for  the  control  and  consolation  of  mankind. 
But  the  individual  will  gradually  disappear  as  the 
author  is  more  distinctly  seen  :  some  one,  there- 
fore, of  all  those  whom  the  charms  of  involuntary 

1  See  Monim.  Ant.  Ined.  par.  i.  cap.  xvii.  n.  xlii. 
p.  50  .  and  Storia  telli  Arti,  etc.  lib.  xi.  cap.  i. 
torn.  ii.  p.  314,  note  B. 

2  Nomina  gentesque  Antiquse  Italiae,  p.  204,  edit. 
oct. 


wit,  and  of  easy  hospitality,  attracted  within  the 
friendly  circles  of  Coppet,  should  rescue  from  ob- 
livion those  virtues  which,  although  they  are  said 
to  love  the  shade,  are,  in  fact,  more  frequently 
chilled  than  excited  by  the  domestic  cares  of  private 
life.  Some  one  should  be  found  to  portray  the  un- 
affected graces  with  which  she  adorned  those  dearer 
relationships,  the  performance  of  whose  duties  is 
rather  discovered  amongst  the  interior  secrets,  than 
seen  in  the  outward  management,  of  family  inter- 
course ;  and  which,  indeed,  it  requires  the  delicacy 
of  genuine  affection  to  qualify  for  the  eye  of  an  in- 
different spectator.  Some  one  should  be  found,  not 
to  celebrate,  but  to  describe,  the  amiable  mistress  01 
an  open  mansion,  the  centre  of  a  society,  ever  va- 
ried, and  always  pleased,  the  creator  of  which,  di- 
vested of  the  ambition  and  the  arts  oi  public  rivalry, 
shone  forth  only  to  give  fresh  animation  to  those 
around  her.  The  mother  tenderly  affectionate  and 
tenderly  beloved,  the  friend  unboundedly  generous, 
but  still  esteemed,  the  charitable  patroness  of  all 
distress,  cannot  be  forgotten  by  those  whom  she 
cherished,  and  protected,  and  fed.  Her  loss  will  be 
mourned  the  most  where  she  was  known  the  best  ; 
and,  to  the  sorrows  of  very  many  friends,  and  more 
dependents,  may  be  offered  the  disinterested  regret 
uf  a  stranger,  who,  amidst  the  sublimer  scenes  of  the 
Leman  lake,  received  his  chief  satisfaction  from 
contemplating  the  engaging  qualities  of  the  incom- 
parable Corinna. 


XVI.     ALFIERI. 

"  Here  repose 
Angela's,  Alfieri's  bones." 

Stanza  liv.  lines  6  and  7. 

Alfieri  is  the  great  name  of  this  age.  The  Ital- 
ians, without  waiting  for  the  hundred  years,  con- 
sider him  as  "  a  poet  good  in  law."  —  His  memory 
is  the  more  dear  to  them  because  he  is  the  bard  of 
freedom;  and  because,  as  such,  his  tragedies  can 
receive  no  countenance  from  any  of  their  sover- 
eigns. They  are  but  very  seldom,  and  but  very 
few  of  them,  allowed  to  be  acted.  It  was  observed 
by  Cicero,  that  nowhere  were  the  true  opinions  and 
feelings  of  the  Romans  so  clearly  shown  as  at  the 
theatre.3  In  the  autumn  of  1816,  a  celebrated  im- 
provisatore  exhibited  his  talents  at  the  Opera-house 
of  Milan.  The  reading  of  the  theses  handed  in  for 
the  subjects  of  his  poetry  was  received  by  a  very 


3  The  free  expression  of  their  honest  sentiments 
survived  their  liberties.  Titius,  the  friend  of  An- 
tony, presented  them  with  games  in  the  theatre  of 
Pompey.  They  did  not  suffer  the  brilliancy  of  the 
spectacle  to  efface  from  their  memory  that  the  man 
who  furnished  them  with  the  entertainment  had 
murdered  the  son  of  Pompey:  they  drove  him 
from  the  theatre  with  curses.  The  moral  sense  of 
a  populace,  spontaneously  expressed,  is  never 
wrong.  Even  the  soldiers  of  the  triumvirs  joined 
in  the  execration  of  the  citizens,  by  shouting  round 
the  chariots  of  Lepidus  and  Plancus,  who  had  pro- 
scribed their  brothers,  De  Germanis  non  de 
Gallis  duo  triumphant  Consules;  a  saying  worth 
a  record,  were  it  nothing  but  a  good  pun.  [C.  Veil. 
Paterculi  Hist.  lib.  ii.  cap.  lxxix.  p.  78,  edit- 
Eizevir.  1639.     Ibid.  lib.  ii.  cap.  lxxvii.] 


360 


CHILDE   HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


numerous  audience,  for  the  most  part  in  silence,  or 
with  laughter;  but  when  the  assistant,  unfolding 
one  of  the  papers  exclaimed,  The  apotheosis  of 
Victor  Aifieri,  the  whole  theatre  burst  into  a 
shout,  and  the  applause  was  continued  for  some 
moments.  The  lot  did  not  fall  on  Aifieri:  and  the 
Signor  Sgricci  had  to  pour  forth  his  extemporary 
common-places  on  the  bombardment  of  Algiers. 
The  choice,  indeed,  is  not  left  to  accident  quite  so 
much  as  might  be  thought  from  a  first  view  of  the 
ceremony;  and  the  police  not  only  takes  care  to 
look  at  the  papers  beforehand,  but,  in  case  of  any 
prudential  after-thought,  steps  in  to  correct  the 
blindness  of  chance.  The  proposal  for  deifying  Ai- 
fieri was  received  with  immediate  enthusiasm,  the 
rather  because  it  was  conjectured  there  would  be  no 
opportunity  of  carrying  it  into  effect. 


XVII.     MACHIAVELLI. 

"  Here  Machiavelli's  earth  returned  to  whence 
it  rose.  Stanza  liv.  line  9. 

The  affectation  of  simplicity  in  sepulchral  in- 
scriptions, which  so  often  leaves  us  uncertain 
whether  the  structure  before  us  is  an  actual  deposi- 
tory, or  a  cenotaph,  or  a  simple  memorial  not  of 
death  but  life,  has  given  to  the  tomb  of  Machiavelli 
no  information  as  to  the  place  or  time  of  the  birth 
or  death,  the  age  or  parentage,  of  the  historian. 

TANTO    NOMINI    NVLLVM    PAR   ELOGIVM 
NICCOLAVS  MACHIAVELLI. 

There  seems  at  least  no  reason  why  the  name 
should  not  have  been  put  above  the  sentence  which 
alludes  to  it. 

It  will  readily  be  imagined  that  the  prejudices 
which  have  passed  the  name  of  Machiavelli  into  an 
epithet  proverbial  of  iniquity  exist  no  longer  at 
Florence.  His  memory  was  persecuted  as  his  life 
had  been  for  an  attachment  to  liberty  incompatible 
with  the  new  system  of  despotism,  which  succeeded 
the  fall  of  the  free  governments  of  Italy.  He  was 
put  to  the  torture  for  being  a  "  libertine,"  that  is, 
for  wishing  to  restore  the  republic  of  Florence; 
and  such  are  the  undying  efforts  of  those  who  are 
interested  in  the  perversion  not  only  of  the  nature 
of  actions,  but  the  meaning  of  words,  that  what 
was  once  patriotism,  has  by  degrees  come  to 
signify  debauch.  We  have  ourselves  outlived  the 
old  meaning  of  "liberality,"  which  is  now  another 
word  for  treason  in  one  country  and  for  infatuation 
in  all.  It  seems  to  have  been  a  strange  mistake  to 
accuse  the  author  of  "  The  Prince,"  as  being  a 
pander  to  tyranny;  and  to  think  that  the  Inquisi- 
tion would  condemn  his  work  for  such  a  delin- 
quency. The  fact  is,  that  Machiavelli,  as  is  usual 
with  those  against  whom  no  crime  can  be  proved, 
was  suspected  of  and  charged  with  atheism;  and 
the  first  and  last  most  violent  opposers  of  "  The 
Prince  "  were  both  Jesuits,  one  of  whom  persuaded 
the  Inquisition  "  benche  fosse  tardo,"  to  prohibit 
the  treatise,  and  the  other  qualified  the  secretary  of 
the  Florentine  republic  as  no  better  than  a  fool. 
The  father  Possevin  was  proved  never  to  have  read 
the  book,  and  the  father  Lucchesini  not  to  have  un- 
derstood it.  It  is  clear,  however,  that  such  critics 
roust  have  objected  not  to  the  slavery  of  the  Hoc 


trines,  but  to  the  supposed  tendency  of  a  lesson 
which  shows  how  distinct  are  the  interests  of  a 
monarch  from  the  happiness  of  mankind.  The 
Jesuits  are  reestablished  in  Italy,  and  the  last 
chapter  of  "The  Prince"  may  again  call  forth  a 
particular  refutation  from  those  who  are  employed 
once  more  in  moulding  the  minds  of  the  rising 
generation,  so  as  to  receive  the  impressions  of 
despotism.  The  chapter  bears  for  title,  "  Esorta- 
zione  a  liberare  la  Italia  dai  Barbari,"  and  con- 
cludes with  a  libertine  excitement  to  the  future 
redemption  of  Italy.  "  Non  si  deve  adunque  lasciar 
passare  questa  occasione,  acciocche  la  Italia  vegga 
dopo  tanto  tempo  apparire  un  suo  redentore.  Ne 
posso  esprimere  con  qual  amore  ei  fusse  ricevuto 
in  tutte  quelle  provincie,  che  hanno  patito  per 
queste  illuvioni  esterne,  con  qual  sete  di  vendetta, 
con  che  ostinata  fede,  con  che  lacrime.  Quali 
porte  se  gli  serrerebbono?  Quali  popoli  gli  neg- 
herebbono  la  obbedienza?  Quale  Italiano  gli  neg- 
herebbe  l'ossequio?  ad  ognuno  puzza  questo  bar- 

BARO   DOMINIO."1 


XVIII.    DANTE. 

"  Ungrateful  Florence!  Dante  sleeps  afar" 
Stanza  lvii.  line  1. 

Dante  was  born  in  Florence,  in  the  year  1261. 
He  fought  in  two  battles,  was  fourteen  times  am- 
bassador, and  once  prior  of  the  republic.  When 
the  party  of  Charles  of  Anjou  triumphed  over  the 
Eianchi,  he  was  absent  on  an  embassy  to  Pope 
Boniface  VIII.,  and  was  condemned  to  two  years' 
banishment,  ana  to  a  fine  of  8,000  lire;  on  the  non- 
payment of  which  he  was  further  punished  by  the 
sequestration  of  all  his  property.  The  republic, 
however,  was  not  content  with  this  satisfaction,  for 
in  1772  was  discovered  in  the  archives  at  Florence 
a  sentence  in  which  Dante  is  the  eleventh  of  a  list 
of  fifteen  condemned  in  1302  to  be  burnt  alive; 
Talis  perveniens  igne  comburatur  sic  quod 
ttioriatur.  The  pretext  for  this  judgment  was  a 
proof  of  unfair  barter,  extortions,  and  illicit  gains. 
Baractcriarum  iniguarum  extorsionion,  el 
illicitoruin  lucrorum,-  and  with  such  an  accusa- 
tion it  is  not  strange  that  Dante  should  have  always 
protested  his  innocence,  and  the  injustice  of  his 
fellow-citizens.  His  appeal  to  Florence  was  accom- 
panied by  another  to  the  Emperor  Henry;  and  the 
death  of  that  sovereign  in  1313  was  the  signal  for  a 
sentence  of  irrevocable  banishment.  He  had  before 
lingered  near  Tuscany  with  hopes  of  recall;  then 
travelled  into  the  north  of  Italy,  where  Verona  had 
to  boast  of  his  longest  residence;  and  he  finally 
settled  at  Ravenna,  which  was  his  ordinary  but  not 
constant  abode  untii  his  death.  The  refusal  of  the 
Venetians  to  grant  him  a  public  audience,  on  the 
part  of  Guido  Novello  da  Polenta,  his  protector,  is 
said  to  have  been  the  principal  cause  of  this  event, 
which   happened   in    1321.     He   was   buried    ("in 


1  II  Principe  di  Niccol6  Machiavelli,  etc.  con  la 
prefazione  e  le  note  istoriche  e  politiche  di  M. 
Amelot  de  la  Houssaye  e  1'  esame  e  confutazione 
dell'  opera.  .  .  .  Cosmopoli,  1769. 

2  Storia  della  Lett.  Ital.  torn.  v.  lib.  iii.  par.  2.  p. 
448.  Tiraboschi  is  incorrect:  the  dates  of  the  three 
decrees  against  Dante  are  a.d.  1302,  1314,  and  1316. 


HISTORICAL  NOTES    TO    CANTO    THE  FOURTH. 


361 


sacra  minorum  aede  "  )  at  Ravenna,  in  a  handsome 
tomb,  which  was  erected  by  Guido,  restored  by 
Bernardo  Bembo  in  1483,  praetor  for  that  republic 
which  had  refused  to  hear  him,  again  restored  by 
Cardinal  Corsi,  in  1692,  and  replaced  by  a  more 
magnificent  sepulchre,  constructed  in  1780  at  the 
expense  of  the  Cardinal  Luigi  Valenti  Gonzaga. 
The  offence  or  misfortune  of  Dante  was  an  attach- 
ment to  a  defeated  party,  and,  as  his  least  favorable 
biographers  allege  against  him,  too  great  a  freedom 
of  speech  and  haughtiness  of  manner.  But  the 
next  age  paid  honors  almost  divine  to  the  exile. 
The  Florentines,  having  in  vain  and  frequently 
attempted  to  recover  his  body,  crowned  his  image 
in  a  church,1  and  his  picture  is  still  one  of  the  idols 
of  their  cathedral.  They  struck  medals,  they  raised 
statues  to  him.  The  cities  of  Italy,  not  being  able 
to  dispute  about  his  own  birth,  contended  for  that 
of  his  great  poem,  and  the  Florentines  thought  it 
for  their  honor  to  prove  that  he  had  finished  the 
seventh  Canto  before  they  drove  him  from  his  native 
city.  Fifty-one  years  after  his  death,  they  endowed 
a  professorial  chair  for  the  expounding  of  his  verses, 
and  Boccaccio  was  appointed  to  this  patriotic  em- 
ployment. The  example  was  imitated  by  Bologna 
and  Pisa,  and  the  commentators,  if  they  performed 
but  little  service  to  literature,  augmented  the  ven- 
eration which  beheld  a  sacred  or  moral  allegory  in 
all  the  images  of  his  mystic  muse.  His  birth  and 
his  infancy  were  discovered  to  have  been  distin- 
guished above  those  of  ordinary  men :  the  author 
of  the  Decameron,  his  earliest  biographer,  relates 
that  his  mother  was  warned  in  a  dream  of  the  im- 
portance of  her  pregnancy:  and  it  was  found,  by 
others,  that  at  ten  years  of  age  he  had  manifested 
his  precocious  passion  for  that  wisdom  or  theology, 
which,  under  the  name  of  Beatrice,  had  been  mis- 
taken for  a  substantial  mistress.  When  the  Divine 
Comedy  had  been  recognized  as  a  mere  mortal  pro- 
duction, and  at  the  distance  of  two  centuries,  when 
criticism  and  competition  had  sobered  the  judgment 
of  the  Italians,  Dante  was  seriously  declared  supe- 
rior to  Homer;2  and  though  the  preference  appeared 
to  some  casuists  "  an  heretical  blasphemy  worthy 
of  the  flames,"  the  contest  was  vigorously  main- 
tained for  nearly  fifty  years.  In  later  times  it  was 
made  a  question  which  of  the  Lords  of  Verona 
could  boast  of  having  patronized  him,3  and  the 
jealous  scep*;cism  of  one  writer  would  not  allow 
Ravenna  the  undoubted  possession  of  his  bones. 
Even  the  critical  Tiraboschi  was  inclined  to  believe 
that  the  poet  had  foreseen  and  foretold  one  of  the 
discoveries  of  Galileo.  —  Like  the  great  originals  of 
other  nations,  his  popularity  has  not  always  main- 
tained the  same  level.  The  last  age  seemed  in- 
clined to  undervalue  him  as  a  model  and  a  study; 
and  Bettinelli  one  day  rebuked  his  pupil  Monti,  for 
poring  over  the  harsh  and  obsolete  extravagances 
of  the  Commedia.  The  present  generation  having 
recovered  from  the  Gallic  idolatries  of  Cesarotti, 
has  returned  to  the  ancient  worship,  and  the  Dan- 
teggiare  of  the  northern  Italians  is  thought  even 
indiscreet  by  the  more  moderate  Tuscans. 

There  is  still  much  curious  information  relative 

1  So  relates  Ficino,but  some  think  his  coronation 
only  an  allegory.     See  Storia,  etc.  ut  sup.  p.  453. 

2  By  Varchi,  in  his  Ercolano.  The  controversy 
continued  from  1570  to  1616.  See  Storia,  etc.  torn, 
vii.  lib.  iii.  par.  iii.  p.  1280. 

3  Gio.  Jacopo  Dionisi  Canonico  di  Verona.    Serie 


to  the  life  and  writings  of  this  great  poet,  which  has 
not  as  yet  been  collected  even  by  the  Italians;  but 
the  celebrated  Ugo  Foscolo  meditates  to  supply 
this  defect,  and  it  is  not  to  be  regretted  that  this 
national  work  has  been  reserved  for  one  so  devoted 
to  his  country  and  the  cause  of  truth. 


XIX.    TOMB   OF   THE   SCIPIOS. 

"Like  Scipio,  buried  by  the  upbraiding  shere, 
Thy  factions,  in  their  worse  than  civil  war. 
Proscribed"  etc. 

Stanza  lvii.  lines  2,  3,  and  4. 

The  elder  Scipio  Africanus  had  a  tomb  if  he  was 
not  buried  at  Liternum,  whither  he  had  retired  to 
voluntary  banishment.  This  tomb  was  near  the 
sea-shore,  and  the  story  of  an  inscription  upon  it, 
Ingrata  Patria,  having  given  a  name  to  a  modern 
tower,  is,  if  not  true,  an  agreeable  fiction.  If  he 
was  not  buried  he  certainly  lived  there.4 

In  cost  angusta  e  solitaria  villa 

Era  '1  grand'  uomo  che  d'  Africa  s'  appella 

Perche  prima  col  ferro  al  vivo  aprilla.6 

Ingratitude  is  generally  supposed  the  vice  pecu- 
liar to  republics;  and  it  seems  to  be  forgotten  that 
for  one  instance  of  popular  inconstancy,  we  have  a 
hundred  examples  of  the  fall  of  courtly  favorites. 
Besides,  a  people  have  often  repented  —  a  monarch 
seldom  or  never.  Leaving  apart  many  familiar 
proofs  of  this  fact,  a  short  story  may  show  the 
difference  between  even  an  aristocracy  and  the 
multitude. 

Vettor  Pisani,  having  been  defeated  in  1354  at 
Portolongo,  and  many  years  afterwards  in  the  more 
decisive  action  of  Pola,  by  the  Genoese,  was  recalled 
by  the  Venetian  government,  and  thrown  into 
chains.  The  Avvogadori  proposed  to  behead  him, 
but  the  supreme  tribunal  was  content  with  the  sen- 
tence of  imprisonment.  Whilst  Pisani  was  suffer- 
ing this  unmerited  disgrace,  Chioza,  in  the  vicinity 
of  the  capital,"  was  by  the  assistance  of  the  Signer 
of  Padua,  delivered  into  the  hands  of  Pietro  Doria. 
At  the  intelligence  of  that  disaster,  the  great  bell  of 
St.  Mark's  tower  tolled  to  arms,  and  the  people  and 
the  soldiery  of  the  galleys  were  summoned  to  the 
repulse  of  the  approaching  enemy;  but  they  pro- 
tested they  would  not  move  a  step,  unless  Pisani 
were  liberated  and  placed  at  their  head.  The  great 
council  was  instantly  assembled:  the  prisoner  was 
called  before  them,  and  the  Doge,  Andrea  Contarini, 
informed  him  of  the  demands  of  the  people,  and 
the  necessities  of  the  State,  whose  only  hope  of 
safety  was  reposed  on  his  efforts,  and  who  implored 
him  to  forget  the  indignities  he  had  endured  in  her 
service.  "  I  have  submitted,"  replied  the  mag- 
nanimous republican,  "  I  have  submitted  to  your 
deliberations  without  complaint;   I  have  supported 


di  Aneddoti,  n.  2.     See  Storia,  etc.  torn.  v.  lib.  i 
par.  i.  p.  24. 

4  Vitam  Literni  egit  sine  desiderio  urbis.  See  T. 
Liv.  Hist.  lib.  xxxviii.  Livy  reports  that  some 
said  he  was  buried  at  Liternum,  others  at  Rome. 
Ibid.  cap.  hi. 

5  Trionfo  della  Castita. 
0  See  Note  VI.,  p.  319. 


362 


CHILD E   HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


patiently  the  pains  of  imprisonment,  for  they  were 
inflicted  at  your  command:  this  is  no  time  to  inquire 
whether  I  deserved  them  —  the  good  of  the  republic 
may  have  seemed  to  require  it,  and  that  which  the 
republic  resolves  is  always  resolved  wisely.  Behold 
ir»e  ready  to  lay  down  my  life  for  the  preservation 
of  my  country."  Pisani  was  appointed  generalis- 
simo, and  by  his  exertions,  in  conjunction  with 
those  of  Carlo  Zeno,  the  Venetians  soon  recovered 
the  ascendency  over  their  maritime  rivals. 

The  Italian  communities  were  no  less  unjust  to 
their  citizens  than  the  Greek  republics.  Liberty, 
both  with  the  one  and  the  other,  seems  to  have  been 
a  national,  not  an  individual  object :  and  notwith- 
standing the  boasted  equality  be/ore  the  laws, 
which  an  ancient  Greek  writer1  considered  the 
great  distinctive  mark  between  his  countrymen  and 
the  barbarians,  the  mutual  rights  of  fellow-citizens 
seem  never  to  have  been  the  principal  scope  of  the 
aid  democracies.  The  world  may  have  not  yet  seen 
an  essay  by  the  author  of  the  Italian  Republics,  in 
which  the  distinction  between  the  liberty  of  former 
States,  and  the  signification  attached  to  that  word 
by  the  happier  constitution  of  England,  is  ingen- 
iously developed.  The  Italians,  however,  when 
they  had  ceased  to  be  free,  still  looked  back  with  a 
sigh  upon  those  times  of  turbulence,  when  every 
citizen  might  rise  to  a  share  of  sovereign  power, 
and  have  never  been  taught  fully  to  appreciate  the 
repose  of  a  monarchy.  Sperone  Speroni,  when 
Francis  Maria  II.  Duke  of  Rovere  proposed  the 
question,  "  which  was  preferable,  the  republic  or 
the  principality  —  the  perfect  and  not  durable,  or 
the  less  perfect,  and  not  so  liable  to  change," 
replied,  "  that  our  happiness  is  to  be  measured  by 
its  quality,  not  by  its  duration;  and  that  he  pre- 
ferred to  live  for  one  day  like  a  man,  than  for  a 
hundred  years  like  a  brute,  a  stock,  or  a  stone." 
This  was  thought,  and  called,  a  magnificent  an- 
swer, down  to  the  last  days  of  Italian  servitude.2 


XX.    PETRARCH'S  CROWN. 

"And  the  crown 
Which    Petrarch's    laureate    brow    supremely 

wore 
Upon  afar  and  foreign  soil  had  grown.''' 

Stanza  lvii.  lines  6,  7,  and  8. 

The  Florentines  did  not  take  the  opportunity  of 
Petrarch's  short  visit  to  their  city  in  1350  to  revoke 
the  decree  which  confiscated  the  property  of  his 
father,  who  had  been  banished  shortly  after  the  ex- 
ile of  Dante.  His  crown  did  not  dazzle  them  ;  but 
when  in  the  next  year  they  were  in  want  of  his  as- 
sistance in  the  formation  of  their  university,  they 
repented  of  their  injustice,  and  Boccaccio  was  sent 
to  Padua  to  entreat  the  laureate  to  conclude  his 
wanderings  in  the  bosom  of  his  native  country, 
where  he  might  finish  his  immortal  Africa,  and 
enjoy,  with  his  recovered  possessions,  the  esteem  of 


1  The  Greek  boasted  that  he  was  iowomoj.  See 
Jhe  last  chapter  of  the  first  book  of  Dionysius  of 
Halicaraassus. 

2  "  E  intorno  alia  magnifica  risposta,"  etc. 
Serassi,  Vita  del  Tasso,  lib.  iii.  p.  149,  torn.  ii.  edit. 
2,  Bergamo. 


all  classes  of  his  fellow-citizens.  They  gave  him 
the  option  of  a  book  and  the  science  he  might  con- 
descend to  expound  :  they  called  him  the  glory  0/ 
his  country,  who  was  dear,  and  would  be  dearer 
to  them  ;  and  they  added,  that  if  there  was  any 
thing  unpleasing  in  their  letter,  he  ought  to  return 
amongst  them,  were  it  only  to  correct  their  style.3 
Petrarch  seemed  at  first  to  listen  to  the  flattery  and 
to  the  entreaties  of  his  friend,  but  he  did  not  return 
to  Florence,  and  preferred  a  pilgrimage  to  the  tomb 
of  Laura  and  the  shades  of  Vaucluse. 


XXI.     BOCCACCIO. 

"  Boccaccio  to  his  parent  earth  bequeathed 
His  dust.  Stanza  lviii.  lines  1  and  2. 

Boccaccio  was  buried  in  the  church  of  St.  Mi- 
chael and  St.  James,  at  Certaldo,  a  small  town  in  the 
Valdelsa,  which  was  by  some  supposed  the  place  of 
his  birth.  There  he  passed  the  latter  part  of  his 
life  in  a  course  of  laborious  study,  which  shortened 
his  existence  ;  and  there  might  his  ashes  have  been 
secure,  if  not  of  honor,  at  least  of  repose.  But  the 
"  hyaena  bigots"  of  Certaldo  tore  up  the  tombstone 
of  Boccaccio,  and  ejected  it  from  the  holy  precincts 
of  St.  Michael  and  St.  James.  The  occasion,  and, 
it  may  be  hoped,  the  excuse,  of  this  ejectment  was 
the  making  of  a  new  floor  for  the  church  ;  but  the 
fact  is,  that  the  tombstone  was  taken  up  and  thrown 
aside  at  the  bottom  of  the  building.  Ignorance  may 
share  the  sin  with  bigotry.  It  would  be  painful  to 
relate  such  an  exception  to  the  devotion  of  the  Ital- 
ians for  their  gr^at  names,  could  it  not  be  accom- 
panied by  a  trait  more  honorably  conformable  to  the 
general  character  of  the  nation.  The  principal  per- 
son of  the  district,  the  last  branch  of  the  house  of 
Medicis,  afforded  that  protection  to  the  memory  of 
the  insulted  dead  which  her  best  ancestors  had  dis- 
pensed upon  all  contemporary  merit.  The  Marchion- 
ess Lenzoni  rescued  the  tombstone  of  Boccaccio 
from  the  neglect  in  which  it  had  some  time  lain,  and 
found  for  it  an  honorable  elevation  in  her  own  man- 
sion. She  has  done  more  :  the  house  in  which  the 
poet  lived  has  been  as  little  respected  as  his  tomb, 
and  is  falling  to  ruin  over  the  head  of  one  indiffer- 
ent to  the  name  of  its  former  tenant.  It  consists 
of  two  or  three  little  chambers,  and  a  low  tower,  on 
which  Cosmo  II.  affixed  an  inscription.  This  house 
she  has  taken  measures  to  purchase,  and  proposes 
to  devote  to  it  that  care  and  consideration  which 
are  attached  to  the  cradle  and  to  the  roof  of  genius. 

This  is  not  the  place  to  undertake  the  defence  of 
Boccaccio  ;  but  the  man  who  exhausted  his  little 
patrimony  in  the  acquirement  of  learning,  who  was 
amongst  the  first,  if  not  the  first,  to  allure  the 
science  and  the  poetry  of  Greece  to  the  bosom  of 
Italy; — who  not  only  invented  a  new  style,  but 
founded,  or  certainly  fixed,  a  ne,v  language  ;  who, 
besides  the  esteem  of  every  polite  court  of  Europe, 
was   thought  worthy  of  employment  by  the  pre- 


3  "Accingiti  innoltre,  se  ci  e  lecito  ancor  1'  esor- 
tarti,  a  compire  1'  immortal  tua  Africa  .  .  .  Se  ti 
avviene  d'  incontrare  nel  nostra  stile  cosa  che  ti  dis. 
piaccia,  ci6  debb'  essere  un  altro  notivo  ad  esaudire 
i  desiderj  della  tua  patria."  Storia  della  Lett.  ItaL 
torn.  v.  par.  i.  lib.  i.  p.  76. 


HISTORICAL  NOTES    TO    CANTO    THE  FOURTH 


363 


dominant  republic  of  his  own  country,  and,  what  is 
more,  of  the  friendship  of  Petrarch,  who  lived  the 
life  of  a  philosopher  and  a  freeman,  and  who  died 
in  the  pursuit  of  knowledge,  —  such  a  man  might 
have  found  more  consideration  than  he  has  met 
with  from  the  priest  of  Certaldo,  and  from  a  late 
English  traveller,  who  strikes  off  his  portrait  as  an 
odious,  contemptible,  licentious  writer,  whose  im- 
pure remains  should  be  suffered  to  rot  without  a 
record.1  That  English  traveller,  unfortunately  for 
those  who  have  to  deplore  the  loss  of  a  very  amiable 
person,  is  beyond  all  criticism;  but  the  mortality 
which  did  not  protect  Boccaccio  from  Mr.  Eustace, 
must  not  defend  Mr.  Eustace  from  the  impartial 
judgment  of  his  successors.  Death  may  canonize 
his  virtues,  not  his  errors;  and  it  may  be  modestly 
pronounced  that  he  transgressed,  not  only  as  an 
author,  but  as  a  man,  when  he  evoked  the  shade  of 
Boccaccio  in  company  with  that  of  Aretine,  amidst 
the  sepulchres  of  Santa  Croce,  merely  to  dismiss  it 
with  indignity.     As  far  as  respects 

"  II  flagello  de'  Principi, 
II  divin  Pietro  Aretino," 

it  is  of  little  import  what  censure  is  passed  upon  a 
coxcomb  who  owes  his  present  existence  to  the 
above  burlesque  character  given  to  him  by  the  poet, 
whose  amber  has  preserved  many  other  grubs  and 
worms :  but  to  classify  Boccaccio  with  such  a  per- 
son, and  to  excommunicate  his  very  ashes,  must  of 
itself  make  us  doubt  of  the  qualification  of  the 
classical  tourist  for  writing  upon  Italian,  or,  in- 
deed, upon  any  other  literature;  for  ignorance  on 
one  point  may  incapacitate  an  author  merely  for 
that  particular  topic,  but  subjection  to  a  professional 
prejudice  must  render  him  an  unsafe  director  on  all 
occasions.  Any  perversion  and  injustice  may  be 
made  what  is  vulgarly  called  "  a  case  of  conscience," 
and  this  poor  excuse  is  all  that  can  be  offered  for 
the  priest  of  Certaldo,  or  the  author  of  the  Classi- 
cal Tour.  It  would  have  answered  the  purpose  to 
confine  the  censure  to  the  novels  of  Boccaccio;  and 
gratitude  to  that  source  which  supplied  the  muse 
of  Dryden  with  her  last  and  most  harmonious  num- 
bers might,  perhaps,  have  restricted  that  censure  to 
the  objectionable  qualities  of  the  hundred  tales.  At 
any  rate  the  repentance  of  Boccaccio  mght  have 
arrested  his  exhumation,  and  it  should  have  been 
recollected  and  told,  that  in  his  old  age  he  wrote  a 
letter  entreating  his  friend  to  discourage  the  reading 


1  Classical  Tour,  chap.  ix.  vol.  ii.  p.  355,  edit.  3d. 
"  Of  Boccaccio,  the  modern  Petronius,  we  say  noth- 
ing; the  abuse  of  genius  is  more  odious  and  more 
contemptible  than  its  absence;  and  it  imports  little 
where  the  impure  remains  of  a  licentious  author 
are  consigned  to  their  kindred  dust.  For  the  same 
reason  the  traveller  may  pass  unnoticed  the  tomb  of 
the  malignant  Aretino."  This  dubious  phrase  is 
hardly  enough  to  save  the  tourist  from  the  suspi- 
cion of  another  blunder  respecting  the  burial-place 
of  Aretine,  whose  tomb  was  in  the  church  of  St. 
Luke  at  Venice,  and  gave  rise  to  the  famous  con- 
troversy of  which  some  notice  is  taken  in  Bayle. 
Now  the  words  of  Mr.  Eustace  would  lead  us  to 
think  the  tomb  was  at  Florence,  or  at  least  was  to 
be  somewhere  recognized.  Whether  the  inscription 
so  much  disputed  was  ever  written  on  the  tomb  can- 
not now  be  decided,  for  all  memorial  of  this  p.uthor 
has  disappeared  from  the  church  of  St.  Luke. 


of  the  Decameron,  for  the  sake  of  modesty,  and  for 
the  sake  of  the  author,  who  would  not  have  an 
apologist  always  at  hand  to  state  in  his  excuse  that 
he  wrote  it  when  young,  and  at  the  command  of  his 
superiors.2  It  is  neither  the  licentiousness  of  the 
writer,  nor  the  evil  propensities  of  the  reader,  which 
have  given  to  the  Decameron  alone,  of  all  the  works 
of  Boccaccio,  a  perpetual  popularity.  The  estab- 
lishment of  a  new  and  delightful  dialect  conferred 
an  immortality  on  the  works  in  which  it  was  first 
fixed.  The  sonnets  of  Petrarch  were,  for  the  same 
reason,  fated  to  survive  his  self-admired  Africa,  the 
"  favorite  of  kings."  The  invariable  traits  of  na- 
ture and  feeling  with  which  the  novels,  as  well  as 
the  verses,  abound,  have  doubtless  been  the  chief 
source  of  the  foreign  celebrity  of  both  authors;  but 
Boccaccio,  as  a  man,  is  no  more  to  be  estimated  by 
that  work,  than  Petrarch  is  to  be  regarded  in  no 
other  light  than  as  the  lover  of  Laura.  Even,  how- 
ever, had  the  father  of  the  Tuscan  prose  been  known 
only  as  the  author  of  the  Decameron,  a  considerate 
writer  would  have  been  cautious  to  pronounce  a 
sentence  irreconcilable  with  the  unerring  voice  of 
many  ages  and  nations.  An  irrevocable  value  has 
never  been  stamped  upon  any  work  solely  recom- 
mended by  impurity. 

The  true  source  of  the  outcry  against  Boccaccio, 
which  began  at  a  very  early  period,  was  the  choice 
of  his  scandalous  personages  in  the  cloisters  as  well 
as  the  courts;  but  the  princes  only  laughed  at  the 
gallant  adventures  so  unjustly  charged  upon  queen 
Thee  delinda,  whilst  the  priesthood  cried  shame  upon 
the  debauches  drawn  from  the  convent  and  the  her- 
mitage; and  most  probably  for  the  opposite  reason, 
namely,  that  the  picture  was  faithful  to  the  life. 
Two  of  the  novels  are  allowed  to  be  facts  usefully 
turned  into  tales,  to  deride  the  canonization  of 
rogues  and  laymen.  Ser  Ciappelletto  and  Marcel- 
linus  are  cited  with  applause  even  by  the  decent 
Muratori.3  The  great  Arnaud,  as  he  is  quoted  in 
Bayle,  states,  that  a  new  edition  of  the  novels  was 
proposed,  of  which  the  expurgation  consisted  in 
omitting  the  words  "  monk  "  and  "  nun  "  and  tack- 
ing the  immoralities  to  other  names.  The  literary 
history  of  Italy  particularizes  no  such  edition ;  but  it 
was  not  long  before  the  whole  of  Europe  had  but 
one  opinion  of  the  Decameron;  and  the  absolution 
of  the  author  seems  to  have  been  a  point  settled  at 
least  a  hundred  years  ago:  "  On  se  feroit  siffler  si 
l'on  pretendoit  convaincre  Boccace  de  n'avoir  pas 
ete  honnete  homme,  puis  qu'il  a  fait  le  Decameron." 
So  said  one  of  the  best  men,  and  perhaps  the  best 
critic,  that  ever  lived  —  the  very  martyr  to  impar- 
tiality.4 But  as  this  information,  that  in  the  begin- 
ning of  the  last  century  one  would  have  been  hooted 
at  for  pretending  that  Boccaccio  was  not  a  good 
man,  may  seem  to  come  from  one  of  those  enemies 
who  are  to  be  suspected,  even  when  they  make  us 
a  present  of  truth,  a  more  acceptable  contrast  with 
the   proscription   of  the   body,  soul,  <and   muse  of 

2  "  Non  enim  ubique  est,  qui  in  excusationem 
meam  consurgens  dicat,  juvenis  scripsit,  et  majo- 
ris  coactus  imperio."  The  letter  was  addressed  to 
Maghinard  of  Cavalcanti,  marshal  of  the  kingdom 
of  Sicily.  See  Tiraboschi,  Storia,  etc.  tcm.  v.  par. 
ii.  lib.  iii.  p.  525,  ed.  Ven.  1795. 

3  Dissertazioni  sopra  le  Antichita  Italiane,  Diss, 
lviii.  p.  253,  torn.  iii.  edit.  Milan,  1751. 

4  Eclaircissemcnt,  etc.  etc.  p.  638,  edit.  Basle, 
1741,  in  the  Supplement  to  Bayle's  Dictionary. 


364 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


Boccaccio  may  be  found  in  a  few  words  from  the 
virtuous,  the  patriotic  contemporary,  who  thought 
one  of  the  tales  of  this  impure  writer  worthy  a 
Latin  version  from  his  own  pen.  "  I  have  re- 
marked elsewhere,"  says  Petrarch,  writing  to  Boc- 
caccio, "  that  the  book  itself  has  been  worried  by 
certain  dogs,  but  stoutly  defended  by  your  staff 
and  voice.  Nor  was  I  astonished,  for  I  have  had 
proof  of  the  vigor  of  your  mind,  and  I  know  you 
have  fallen  on  that  unaccommodating  incapable 
race  of  mortals,  who,  whatever  they  either  like 
not,  or  know  not,  or  cannot  do,  are  sure  to  repre- 
hend in  others;  and  on  those  occasions  only  put  on 
a  show  of  learning  and  eloquence,  but  otherwise 
are  entirely  dumb." ' 

It  is  satisfactory  to  find  that  all  the  priesthood  do 
not  resemble  those  of  Certaldo,  and  that  one  of  them 
who  did  not  possess  the  bones  of  Boccaccio  would 
not  lose  the  opportunity  of  raising  a  cenotaph  to  his 
memory.  Bevius,  canon  of  Padua,  at  the  beginning 
of  the  sixteenth  century,  erected  at  Arqua,  opposite 
to  the  tomb  of  the  Laureate,  a  tablet,  in  which  he 
associated  Boccaccio  to  the  equal  honors  of  Dante 
and  of  Petrarch. 


XXII.    THE  MEDICI. 

"  What  is  her  pyramid  of  precious  stones  >  " 
Stanza  be.  line  i. 

Our  veneration  for  the  Medici  begins  with  Cosmo 
and  expires  with  his  grandson;  that  stream  is  pure 
only  at  the  source;  and  it  is  in  search  of  some  me- 
morial of  the  virtuous  republicans  of  the  family  that 
we  visit  the  church  of  St.  Lorenzo  at  Florence.  The 
tawdry,  glaring,  unfinished  chapel  in  that  church, 
designed  for  the  mausoleum  of  the  Dukes  of  Tus- 
cany, set  round  with  crowns  and  coffins,  gives  birth 
to  no  emotions  but  those  of  contempt  for  the  lavish 
vanity  of  a  race  of  despots,  whilst  the  pavement 
slab,  simply  inscribed  to  the  Father  of  his  Country, 
reconciles  us  to  the  name  of  Medici.'2  It  was  very 
natural  for  Corinna3  to  suppose  that  the  statue 
raised  to  the  Duke  of  Urbino  in  the  capella  de' 
de posit i  was  intended  for  his  great  namesake;  but 
the  magnificent  Lorenzo  is  only  the  sharer  of  a  cof- 
fin half  hidden  in  the  niche  of  the  sacristy.  The 
decay  of  Tuscany  dates  from  the  sovereignty  of  the 
Medici.  Of  the  sepulchral  peace  which  succeeded 
to  the  establishment  of  the  reigning  families  in  Italy, 
our  own  Sidney  has  given  us  a  glowing,  but  a  faith- 
ful picture.  "  Notwithstanding  all  the  seditions  of 
Florence,  and  other  cities  of  Tuscany,  the  horrid 
factions  of  Guelphs  and  Ghibelins,  Neri  and  Bian- 
chi,  nobles  and  commons,  they  continued  populous, 
strong,  and  exceeding  rich;  but  in  the  space  of  less 
than  a  hundred  and  fifty  years,  the  peaceable  reign 


1  "Animadverti  alicubi  librum  ipsum  canum  den- 
tibus  lacessitum,  tuo  tamen  baculo  egregie  tuaque 
voce  defensum.  Nee  miratus  sum :  nam  et  vires 
ingenii  tui  novi,  et  scio  expertus  esses  hominum 
genus  insolens  et  ignavum,  qui  quicquid  ipsi  vel 
nolunt  vel  nesciunt,  vel  non  possunt,  in  aliis  rep- 
rehendunt;  ad  hoc  untim  docti  et  arguti,  sed  elin- 
gues  ad  reliqua."  Epist.  Joan.  Boccatio,  Opp.  torn. 
i.  p.  540,  edit.  Basil. 

2  CosmusMedices,  Decreto  Publico,  Pater  Patrise. 

3  Corinne,  liv.  xviii.  chap.  iii.  vol.  iii.  p.  248^. 


of  the  Medices  is  thought  to  have  destroyed  nine 
parts  in  ten  of  the  people  of  that  province.  Amongst 
other  things,  it  is  remarkable,  that  when  Philip  the 
Second  of  Spain  gave  Sienna  to  the  Duke  of  Flor- 
ence, his  embassador  then  at  Rome  sent  him  word 
that  he  had  given  away  more  than  650,000  subjects; 
and  it  is  not  believed  there  are  now  20,000  souls  inhab- 
iting that  city  and  territory.  Pisa,  Pistoia,  Arezzo, 
Cortona,  and  other  towns,  that  were  then  good  and 
populous,  are  in  the  like  proportion,  diminished,  and 
Florence  more  than  any.  When  that  city  had  been 
long  troubled  with  seditions,  tumults,  and  wars,  for 
the  most  part  unprosperous,  they  still  retained  such 
strength,  that  when  Charles  VIII.  of  France,  being 
admitted  as  a  friend  with  his  whole  army,  which 
soon  after  conquered  the  kingdom  of  Naples, 
thought  to  master  them,  the  people,  taking  arms, 
struck  such  a  terror  into  him,  that  he  was  glad  to 
depart  upon  such  conditions  as  they  thought  fit  to 
impose.  Machiavel  reports,  that  in  that  time  Flor- 
ence alone,  with  the  Val  d'Arno,  a  small  territory 
belonging  to  that  city,  could,  in  a  few  hours,  by  the 
sound  of  a  bell,  bring  together  135,000  well-armed 
men;  whereas  now  that  city,  with  all  the  others  in 
that  province,  are  brought  to  such  despicable  weak- 
ness, emptiness,  poverty,  and  baseness,  that  they  can 
neither  resist  the  oppressions  of  theirown  prince,  nor 
defend  him  or  themselves  if  they  were  assavdted  by 
a  foreign  enemy.  The  people  are  dispersed  or  de- 
stroyed, and  the  best  families  sent  to  seek  habita- 
tions in  Venice,  Genoa,  Rome,  Naples,  and  Lucca. 
This  is  not  the  effect  of  war  or  pestilence :  they 
enjoy  a  perfect  peace,  and  suffer  no  other  plague 
than  the  government  they  are  under."4  From  the 
usurper  Cosmo  down  to  the  imbecile  Gaston,  we 
look  in  vain  for  any  of  those  unmixed  qualities 
which  should  'raise  a  patriot  to  the  command  of 
his  fellow-citizens.  The  Grand  Dukes,  and  par- 
ticularly the  third  Cosmo,  had  operated  so  entire  a 
change  in  the  Tuscan  character,  that  the  candid 
Florentines,  in  excuse  for  some  imperfections  in 
the  philanthropic  system  of  Leopold,  are  obliged 
to  confess  that  the  sovereign  was  the  only  liberal 
man  in  his  dominions.  Yet  that  excellent  prince 
himself  had  no  other  notion  of  a  national  assembly, 
than  of  a  body  to  represent  the  wants  and  wishes, 
not  the  will,  of  the  people. 


XXIII.     BATTLE  OF  THRASIMENE. 

"An  earthquake  reeled  unlieedcdly  away." 
Stanza  lxiii   line  5. 

"And  such  was  their  mutual  animosity,  so  intent 
were  they  upon  the  battle,  that  the  earthquake,  which 
overthrew  in  great  part  many  of  the  cities  of  Italy, 
which  turned  the  course  of  rapid  streams,  poured 
back  the  sea  upon  the  rivers,  and  tore  down  the  very 
mountains,  was  not  felt  by  one  of  the  combatants."  B 
Such  is  the  description  of  Livy.     It  may  be  doubted 


4  On  Government,  chap.  ii.  sect.  xxvi.  p.  208, 
edit.  1751.  Sidney  is  together  with  Locke  and 
Hoadley,  one  of  Mr.  Hume's  "  despicable  "  writers. 

5  "  Tantusque  fuit  ardor  armorum,  adeo  intentus 
pugna;  animus,  ut  sum  terrse  motum  qui  multarum 
urbium  Italiae  magnas  partes  prostravit,  avertitque 
cursu  rapidos  amnes,  mare  fluminibus  invexit,  mor- 


HISTORICAL  NOTES   TO    CANTO    THE  FOURTH. 


365 


whether  n  >»dern  tactics  would  admit  of  such  an  ab- 
straction. 

The  si^-  ">f  the  battle  of  Thrasimene  is  not  to  be 
mistaken.  The  traveller  from  the  village  under 
Cortona  lu  ^asa  di  Piano,  the  next  stage  on  the 
way  to  Reus,  has  for  the  first  two  or  three  miles, 
around  him,  but  more  particularly  to  the  right,  that 
flat  land  which  Hannibal  laid  waste  in  order  to  in- 
duce the  Consul  Flaminius  to  move  from  Arezzo. 
On  his  left,  aad  in  front  of  him,  is  a  ridge  of  hills 
bending  dowa  towards  the  lake  of  Thrasimene, 
called  by  Livy  "  montes  Cortonenses,"  and  now 
named  the  Gualandra.  These  hills  he  approaches 
at  Ossaja,  a  village  which  the  itineraries  pretend  to 
have  been  sc  denominated  from  the  bones  found 
there:  but  th«re  have  been  no  bones  found  there, 
and  the  battle  was  fought  on  the  other  side  of  the 
hill.  From  Ossaja  the  road  begins  to  rise  a  little, 
but  does  no*  pass  into  the  roots  of  the  mountains 
until  the  sixty-seventh  milestone  from  Florence. 
The  ascent  thence  is  not  steep  but  perpetual,  and 
continues  for  twenty  minutes.  The  lake  is  soon 
seen  below  on  the  right,  with  Borghetto,  a  round 
tower,  close  upon  'the  water;  and  the  undulating 
hills  partially  covered  with  wood,  amongst  which 
the  road  winds,  sink  by  degrees  into  the  marshes 
near  to  this  tower.  Lower  than  the  road,  down  to 
the  right  amidst  these  woody  hillocks,  Hannibal 
placed  his  horse,1  in  the  jaws  of,  or  rather  above, 
the  pass,  which  was  between  the  lake  and  the  pres- 
ent road,  and  most  probably  close  to  Borghetto,  just 
under  the  lowest  of  the  "tumuli."2  On  a  summit 
to  the  left,  above  the  road,  is  an  old  circular  ruin, 
which  the  peasants  call  "the  Tower  of  Hannibal 
the  Carthaginian."  Arrived  at  the  highest  point 
of  the  road,  the  traveller  has  a  partial  view  of  the 
fatal  plain,  which  opens  fully  upon  him  as  he  de- 
scends the  Gualandra.  He  soon  finds  himself  in  a 
vale  inclosed  to  the  left,  and  in  front,  and  behind 
him  by  the  Gualandra  hills,  bending  round  in  a  seg- 
ment larger  than  a  semicircle,  and  running  down  at 
each  end  to  the  lake,  which  obliques  to  the  right 
and  forrr.s  the  chord  of  this  mountain  arc.  The 
position  cannot  be  guessed  at  from  the  plains  of 
Cortona,  nor  appears  to  be  so  completely  inclosed 
unless  to  one  who  is  fairly  within  the  hills.  It  then, 
indeed,  appears  "  a  place  made  as  it  were  on  pur- 
pose for  a  snare,"  locus  insidiis  natus.  "  Bor- 
ghetto is  then  found  to  stand  in  a  narrow  marshy 
pass  close  to  the  hill,  and  to  the  lake,  whilst  there  is 
no  other  outlet  at  the  opposite  turn  of  the  moun- 
tains than  through  the  little  town  of  Passignano, 
which  is  pushed  into  the  water  by  the  foot  of  a  high 
rocky  acclivity."3  There  is  a  woody  eminence 
branching  down  from  the  mountains  into  the  upper 
end  of  the  plain  nearer  to  the  side  of  Passignano, 
and  on  this  stands  a  white  village  called  Torre. 
Polybius  seems  to  allude  to  this  eminence  as  the 
one  on  which  Hannibal  encamped,  and  drew  out  his 
heavy-armed  Africans  and  Spaniards  in  a  conspicu- 
ous position.4      From  this  spot  he  despatched  his 


tes  lapsu  ingenti  proruit,  nemo  pugnantium  sense- 
rit."     Tit.  Liv.  lib.  xxii.  cap.  v. 

1  "  Equites  ad  ipsas  fauces  saltus  tumulis  apte 
tegentibus  locat."     T.  Livii,  lib.  xxii.  cap.  iv. 

2  "  Ubi  maxime  montes  Cortonenses  Thrasime- 
nus  subit."     T.  Livii,  lib.  xxii.  cap.  iv. 

3  "  Inde  colles  assurgunt."     Ibid. 

4  Toy    yuier    Kara    npoauirrou    Tr)s    7ropeias    \6<j>ov 
3VT0S  xare AajSe-ro  /cat  tous  Ai/3uas  /cai  tous  'IjSrjpas 


Balearic  and  light-armed  troops  round  through  the 
Gualandra  heights  to  the  right,  so  as  to  arrive  un- 
seen and  form  an  ambush  amongst  the  broken 
acclivities  which  the  road  now  passes,  and  to  be 
ready  to  act  upon  the  left  flank  and  above  the 
enemy,  whilst  the  horse  shut  up  the  pass  behind. 
Flaminius  came  to  the  lake  near  Borghetto  at  sun- 
set; and,  without  sending  any  spies  before  him, 
marched  through  the  pass  the  next  morning  before 
the  day  had  quite  broken,  so  that  he  perceived 
nothing  of  the  horse  and  light  troops  above  and 
about  him,  and  saw  only  the  heavy-armed  Cartha- 
ginians in  front  on  the  hill  of  Tone."'  The  consul 
began  to  draw  out  his  army  in  the  flat,  and  in  the 
mean  time  the  horse  in  ambush  occupied  the  pass 
behind  him  at  Borghetto.  Thus  the  Romans  were 
completely  inclosed,  having  the  lake  on  the  right, 
the  main  army  on  the  hill  of  Torre  in  front,  the 
Gualandra  hills  filled  with  the  light-armed  on  their 
left  flank,  and  being  prevented  from  receding  by  the 
cavalry,  who,  the  further  they  advanced,  stopped  up 
all  the  outlets  in  the  rear.  A  fog  rising  from  the 
lake  now  spread  itself  over  the  army  of  the  consul, 
but  the  high  lands  were  in  the  sunshine,  and  ail  the 
different  corps  in  ambush  looked  towards  the  hill  of 
Torre  for  the  order  of  attack.  Hannibal  gave  the 
signal,  and  moved  down  from  his  post  on  the  height. 
At  the  same  moment  all  his  troops  on  the  eminences 
behind  and  in  the  flank  of  Flaminius  rushed  for- 
wards as  it  were  with  one  accord  into  the  plain. 
The  Romans,  who  were  forming  their  array  in  the 
mist,  suddenly  heard  the  shouts  of  the  enemy 
amongst  them,  on  every  side,  and  before  they 
could  fall  into  their  ranks,  or  draw  their  swords, 
or  see  by  whom  they  were  attacked,  felt  at  once 
that  they  were  surrounded  and  lost. 

There  are  two  little  rivulets  which  run  from  the 
Gualandra  into  the  lake.  The  traveller  crosses  the 
first  of  these  at  about  a  mile  after  he  comes  into 
the  plain,  and  this  divides  the  Tuscan  from  the 
Papal  territories.  The  second,  about  a  quarter  of 
a  mile  further  on,  is  called  "  the  bloody  rivulet;  " 
and  the  peasants  point  out  an  open  spot  to  the  left 
between  the  "  Sanguinetto,"  and  the  hills,  which, 
they  say,  was  the  principal  scene  of  slaughter.  The 
other  part  of  the  plain  is  covered  with  thick-set 
olive-trees  in  corn  grounds,  and  is  nowhere  quite 
level,  except  near  the  edge  of  the  lake.  It  is,  in- 
deed, most  probable  that  the  battle  was  fought  near 
this  end  of  the  valley,  for  the  six  thousand  Romans, 
who,  at  the  beginning  of  the  action,  broke  through 
the  enemy,  escaped  to  the  summit  of  an  eminence 
which  must  have  been  in  this  quarter,  otherwise 
they  would  have  had  to  traverse  the  whole  plain, 
and  to  pierce  through  the  main  army  of  Hannibal. 

The  Romans  fought  desperately  for  three  hours; 
but  the  death  of  Flaminius  was  the  signal  for  a  gen- 
eral dispersion.  The  Carthaginian  horse  then  burst 
in  upon  the  fugitives,  and  the  lake,  the  marsh  about 
Borghetto,  but  chiefly  the  plain  of  the  Sanguinetto 
and  the  passes  of  the  Gualandra,  were  strewed  with 
dead.     Near  some  old  walls  on  a  bleak  ridge  to  the 


e^ajv  ejr'  avrov  KaTeorpaTOTreSevcre.  Hist.  lib.  iii. 
cap.  83.  The  account  in  Polybius  is  not  so  easily 
reconcilable  with  present  appearances  as  that  in 
Livy :  he  talks  of  hills  to  the  right  and  left  of  the 
pass  and  valley;  but  when  Flaminius  entered  he 
had  the  lake  at  the  right  of  both. 

5  "  A  tergo  et  super  caput  decepere  insidise."    T 
Liv.  etc. 


566 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


left  above  the  rivulet  many  human  bones  have  been 
repeatedly  found,  and  thus  has  confirmed  the  pre- 
tensions and  the  name  of  the  "  stream  of  blood." 

Every  district  of  Italy  has  its  hero.  In  the  north 
some  painter  is  the  usual  genius  of  the  place,  and 
the  foreign  Julio  Romano  more  than  divides  Mantua 
with  her  native  Virgil.1  To  the  south  we  hear  of 
Roman  names.  Nenr  Thrasimene  tradition  is  still 
faithful  to  the  fame  of  an  enemy,  and  Hannibal  the 
Carthaginian  is  the  only  ancient  name  remembered 
on  the  banks  of  the  Perugian  lake.  Flaminius  is 
unknown;  but  the  postilions  on  that  road  have  been 
taught  to  show  the  very  spot  where  //  Console 
Romano  was  slain.'  Of  all  who  fought  and  fell  in 
the  battle  of  Thrasimene,  the  historian  himself  has, 
besides  the  generals  and  Maharbal,  preserved  indeed 
only  a  single  name.  You  overtake  the  Cartha- 
ginian again  on  the  same  road  to  Rome.  The  anti- 
quary, that  is,  the  hostler  of  the  posthouse  at 
Spoleto,  tells  you  that  his  town  repulsed  the  victo- 
rious enemy,  and  shows  you  the  gate  still  called 
Porta  di  Annibale.  It  is  hardly  worth  while  to 
rem. irk  that  a  French  travel  writer,  well  known  by 
the  name  of  the  President  Dupaty,  saw  Thrasimene 
in  the  lake  of  Bolsena,  which  lay  conveniently  on 
his  way  from  Sienna  to  Rome. 


XXIV.    STATUE  OF  POMPEY. 

*  And  than,  dread  statue  I  still  existent  in 
The  austerestform  of  naked  majesty." 
Stanza  lxxxvii.  lines  i  and  2. 

The  projected  division  of  the  Spada  Pompey  has 
already  been  recorded  by  the  historian  of  the  Decline 
and  Fall  of  the  Roman  Empire.  Mr.  Gibbon  found 
it  in  the  memorials  of  Flaminius  Vacca;  and  it  may 
be  added  to  his  mention  of  it,  that  Pope  Julius  III. 
gave  the  contending  owners  five  hundred  crowns 
for  the  statue,  and  presented  it  to  Cardinal  Capo  di 
Ferro,  who  had  prevented  the  judgment  of  Solomon 
from  being  executed  upon  the  image.  In  a  more 
civilized  age  this  statue  was  exposed  to  an  actual 
operation;  for  the  French,  who  acted  the  Brutus  of 
Voltaire  in  the  Coliseum,  resolved  that  their  Csesai 
should  fall  at  the  base  of  that  Pompey,  which  was 
supposed  to  have  been  sprinkled  with  the  blood  of 
the  original  dictator.  The  nine-foot  hero  was  there- 
fore removed  to  the  arena  of  the  amphitheatre,  and, 
to  facilitate  its  transport,  suffered  the  temporary 
amputation  of  its  right  arm.  The  republican  trage- 
dians had  to  plead  that  the  arm  was  a  restoration: 
but  their  accusers  do  not  believe  that  the  integrity 
of  the  statue  would  have  protected  it.  The  love  of 
finding  every  coincidence  has  discovered  the  true 
Caesarean  ichor  in  a  stain  neai  the  right  knee;  but 
colder  criticism  has  rejected  not  only  the  blood,  but 
the  portrait,  and  assigned  the  glob^  of  power  rather 
to  the  first  of  the  emperors  than  to  the  last  of  the 
republican  masters  of  Rome.    Winkelmann2  is  loth 


1  About  the  middle  of  the  twelfth  century  the 
coins  of  Mantua  bore  on  one  side  the  image  and 
figure  of  Virgil.  Zecca  d'  Italia,  pi.  xvii.  i.  6. 
Voyage  dans  le  Milanais,  etc.  par  A.  Z.  Millin,  torn. 
<i.  p.  294,  Paris,  1817. 

-  Storia  delle  Arti,  etc.  lib.  ix.  cap.  i.  p.  321,  322, 
tcm.  ii. 


to  allow  an  heroic  statue  of  a  Roman  citizen,  but 
the  Grimani  Agrippa,  a  contemporary  almost,  is 
heroic;  and  naked  Roman  figures  were  only  very 
rare,  not  absolutely  forbidden.  The  face  accords 
much  better  with  the  "  hominem  integrum  et  cas- 
tum  et  gravem,"-1  than  with  any  of  the  busts  of 
Augustus,  and  is  too  stern  for  him  who  was  beauti- 
ful, says  Suetonius,  at  all  periods  of  his  life.  The 
pretended  likeness  to  Alexander  the  Great  cannot 
be  discerned,  but  the  traits  resemble  the  medal  of 
Pompey.4  The  objectionable  globe  may  not  have 
been  an  ill  applied  flattery  to  him  who  found  Asia 
Minor  the  boundary,  and  left  it  the  centre  of  the 
Roman  empire.  It  seems  that  Winkelmann  has 
made  a  mistake  in  thinking  that  no  proof  of  the 
identity  of  this  statue  with  that  which  received  the 
bloody  sacrifice  can  be  derived  from  the  spot  wher« 
it  was  discovered."  Flaminius  Vacca  says  sotto  una 
cantina,  and  this  cantina  is  known  to  have  been  ic 
the  Vicolo  de'  Leutari,  near  the  Cancellaria;  a 
position  corresponding  exactly  to  that  of  the  Janus 
before  the  basilica  of  Pompey 's  theatre,  to  which 
Augustus  transferred  the  statue  after  the  curia  was 
either  burnt  or  taken  down.';  Part  of  the  Pompeian 
shade,7  the  portico,  existed  in  the  beginning  of  the 
XVth  century,  and  the  atrium  was  still  called 
Satrum.  So  says  Blondus.'1  At  all  events,  so 
imposing  is  the  stern  majesty  of  the  statue,  and  so 
memorable  is  the  story,  that  the  play  of  the  imagi- 
nation leaves  no  room  for  the  exercise  of  the  judg- 
ment, and  the  fiction,  if  a  fiction  it  is,  operates  on  the 
spectator  with  an  effect  not  less  powerful  than  truth. 


XXV.  fTHE   BRONZE  WOLF. 

"And    thou,    the    thunder-stricken    nurse    of 
home  .  Stanza  lxxxviii.  line  1. 

Ancient  Rome,  like  modern  Sienna,  abounded 
most  probably  with  images  of  the  foster-mother  of 
her  founder;  but  there  were  two  she-wolves  of 
whom  history  makes  particular  mention.  One 
of  these,  of  brass  in  ancient  work,  was  seen  by 
Dionysius"  at  the  temple  of  Romulus,  under  the 
Palatine,  and  is  universally  believed  to  be  that  men- 
tioned by  the  Latin  historian,  as  having  been  made 
from  the  money  collected  by  a  fine  on  usurers,  and 
as  standing  under  the  Ruminal  fig-tree.10  The  other 
was  that  which  Cicero  H  has  celebrated  both  in  prose 


3  Cicer.  Epist.  ad  Atticum,  xi.  6. 

4  Published  by  Causeus,  in  his  Museum  Romanum. 

6  Storia  delle  Arti,  etc.  lib.  ix.  cap.  i.  p.  321.  322, 
torn.  ii. 

c  Sueton.  in  vit.  August,  cap.  3t,  and  in  vit.  C.  J. 
Caesar,  cap.  88.  Appian  says  it  was  burnt  down, 
See  a  note  of  Pitiscus  to  Suetonius,  p.  324. 

7  "  Tu  modo  Pompeia  lentus  ipatiare  sub  umbra." 

Ovid.  Art.  Am.  267. 

8  Roma  Instaurata,  lib.  ii.  fo.  31. 

9  XaA/cea  iroi.rifi.aTa  7raA.aids  epyouri'as.  Antiq 
Rom.  lib.  1,  c.  79. 

10  "  Ad  ficum  Ruminalem  simulacra  infantium 
conditorum  urbis  sub  uberibus  lupae  posuerunt." 
Liv.  Hist.  lib.  x.  cap.  xxiii.  This  was  in  the  yea 
u.c.  455  or  457. 

11  "  Turn  statua  Nattae,  turn  simulacra  Deorum, 


HISTORICAL  NOTES    TO    CANTO    THE  FOURTH. 


367 


and  verse,  and  which  the  historian  Dion  also  records 
as  having  suffered  the  same  accident  as  is  alluded 
to  by  the  orator.1  The  question  agitated  by  the 
3ntiquanes  is,  whether  the  wolf  now  in  the  Conser- 
vators' Palace  is  that  of  Livy  and  Dionysius,  or  | 
that  of  Cicero,  or  whether  it  is  neither  one  nor  the 
other.  The  earlier  writers  differ  as  much  as  the 
moderns:  Lucius  Faunus2  says,  that  it  is  the  one 
alluded  to  by  both,  which  is  impossible,  and  also  by 
Virgil,  which  may  be.  Fulvius  Ursinus3  calls  it 
the  wolf  of  Dionysius,  and  Marlianus  *  talks  of  it  as 
the  one  mentioned  by  Cicero.  To  him  Rycquius 
■tremblingly  assents.6     Nardini  is  inclined  to  sup- 


Romulusque  et  Remus   cum   altrice  bellua  vi  ful- 
mink     icti    conciderunt."       De    Divinat.    ii.    20. 
!<  Tactus   est   ille   etiam   qui   hanc   urbem  condidit 
Romulus,   quem   inauratum   in   Capitolio   parvum 
atque  lectentem,  uberibus  lupinis  inhiantem  fuisse 
meministis."  In  Catilin.  iii.  8. 
"  Hie  silvestris  erat  Romani  nominis  altrix 
Martia,  qua;  parvos  Mavortis  semine  natos 
Uberibus  gravidis  vitali  rore  rigabat; 
Quae  turn  cum  pueris  flammato  fulminis  ictu 
Concidit,  atque  avulsa  pedum  vestigia  liquit." 
De  Consulatu,  lib.  ii.  (lib.  i.  de  Divinat.  cap.  xii.) 

1  'Ev'  yap  tcu  Ka7ri)ToAioJ  avSpiavTes  re  ttoAAoi 
U7rb  Kepav vdv  ovv G^wv^vOijaai',  /cat  aya.Kpa.Ta.  aAAa 
re,  Kat  Atbs  cttl  kiovos  topvpivov,  tiKiiiv  re  T15 
\vK.aiv7]<;  avv  re  tw  *PiJjp.<i>  Kat  avv  tw  'Pwjuti'Aui 
iopvpivn  en-ecrr).  Dion.  Hist.  lib.  xxxvii.  p.  37, 
edit.  Rob.  Steph.  1548.  He  goes  on  to  mention 
that  the  letters  of  the  columns  on  which  the  laws 
were  written  were  liquefied  and  become  dp-vSpd. 
All  that  the  Romans  did  was  to  erect  a  large  statue 
to  Jupiter,  looking  towards  the  east :  no  mention  is 
afterwards  made  of  the  wolf.  This  happened  in 
A.u.c.  689.  The  Abate  Fea,  in  noticing  this  pas- 
sage of  Dion  (Storia  delle  Arti,  etc.  torn.  i.  p.  202, 
note  x.),  says,  Nonosiantc,  aggiunge  Dione,  che 
fosse  benfermata  (the  wolf) ;  by  which  it  is  clear 
the  Abate  translated  the  Xylandro-Leunclavian 
version,  which  puts  quamvis  stabilita  for  the 
original  i&pvpevq,  a  word  that  does  not  mean  ben 
fermata,  but  only  raised,  as  may  be  distinctly 
seen  from  another  passage  of  the  same  Dion: 
'H/3uuA>j#7j  p.kv  ovv  6  'AypiffiTas  Kat  Tor  AvyovaTov 
ii'TavBa  iSpv&ai.  Hist.  lib.  lvi.  Dion  says  that 
Agrippa  "  wished  to  raise  a  statue  of  Augustus  in 
the  Pantheon." 

2  "  In  eadem  porticu  aenea  lupa,  cujus  uberibus 
Romulus  ac  Remus  lactentes  inhiant,  conspicitur: 
de  hac  Cicero  et  Virgilius  semper  intellexere. 
Livius  hoc  signum  ab  yEdilibus  ex  pecuniis  quibus 
mulctati  essent  fceneratores,  positum  innuit.  Antea 
ui  Comitiis  ad  Ficum  Ruminalem,  quo  loco  pueri 
fuerant  expositi  localum  pro  certo  est."  Luc. 
Fauni  de  Antiq.  Urb.  Rom.  lib.  ii.  cap.  vii.  ap. 
Sallengre,  torn.  i.  p.  217.  In  his  xviith  chapter  he 
.epeats  that  the  statues  were  there,  but  not  that 
Jley  werefound  there. 

"Ao.  Nardini,  Roma  Vetus,  lib.  v.  cap.  iv. 

*  Marliani  Urb.  Rom.  Topograph,  lib.  ii.  cap.  ix. 
He  mentions  another  wolf  and  twins  in  the  Vatican, 
lib.  v.  cap.  xxi. 

'"  "  Non  desunt  qui  hanc  ipsam  esse  putent,  quam 
adpinximus,  quae  e  con.itio  in  Basilicam  Lateranam, 
cum  nonnullis  aliis  antiquitatum  religuiis,  atque 
hinc  ui  CapitoJium  postea  relata  sit,  quamvis  Mar- 


pose  it  may  be  one  of  the  many  wolves  preserved 
in  ancient  Rome;  but  of  the  two  rather  bends  to 
the  Ciceronian  statue.6  Montfaucon "  mentions  it 
as  a  point  without  doubt.  Of  the  latter  writers  the 
decisive  Winkelmann8  proclaims  it  as  having  been 
found  at  the  church  of  Saint  Theodore,  where,  or 
near  where,  was  the  temple  of  Romulus,  and  con- 
sequently makes  it  the  wolf  of  Dionysius.  Hie 
authority  is  Lucius  Faunus,  who,  however,  only 
says  that  it  was  placed,  not  found,  at  the  Ficus 
Ruminalis,  by  the  Comitium,  by  which  he  does  not 
seem  to  allude  to  the  church  of  Saint  Theodore. 
Rycquius  was  the  first  to  make  the  mistake,  and 
Winkelmann  followed  Rycquius. 

Flaminius  Vacca  tells  quite  a  different  story,  and 
says  he  had  heard  the  wolf  with  the  twins  was 
found9  near  the  arch  of  Septimius  Severus.  The 
commentator  on  Winkelmann  is  of  the  same  opin- 
ion with  that  learned  person,  and  is  incensed  at 
Nardini  for  not  having  remarked  that  Cicero,  in 
speaking  of  the  wolf  struck  with  lightning  in  the 
Capitol,  makes  use  of  the  past  tense.  But,  with 
the  Abate's  leave,  Nardini  does  not  positively  as- 
sert the  statue  to  be  that  mentioned  by  Cicero,  and, 
if  he  had,  the  assumption  would  not  perhaps  have 
been  so  exceedingly  indiscreet.  The  Abate  him- 
self is  obliged  to  own  that  there  are  marks  very 
like  the  scathing  of  lightning  in  the  hinder  legs  of 
the  present  wolf;  and,  to  get  rid  of  this,  adds,  that 
the  wolf  seen  by  Dionysius  might  have  been  also 
struck  by  lightning,  or  otherwise  injured. 

Let  us  examine  the  subject  by  a  reference  to  the 
words  of  Cicero.  The  orator  in  two  places  seems 
to  particularize  the  Romulus  and  the  Remus,  es- 
pecially the  first,  which  his  audience  remembered 
to  have  been  in  the  Capitol,  as  being  struck  with 
lightning.  In  his  verses  he  records  that  the  twins 
and  wolf  both  fell,  and  that  the  latter  left  behind 
the  marks  of  her  feet.  Cicero  does  not  say  that 
the  wolf  was  consumed:  and  Dion  only  mentions 
that  it  fell  down,  without  alluding,  as  the  Abate  has 
made  him,  to  the  force  of  the  blow,  or  the  firmness 
with  which  it  had  been  fixed.  The  whole  strength, 
therefore,  of  the  Abate's  argument  hangs  upon  the 
past  tense;  which,  however,  may  be  somewhat 
diminished  by  remarking  that  the  phrase  only 
shows  that  the  statue  was  not  then  standing  in  its 
former  position.  Winkelmann  has  observed,  that 
the  present  twins  are  modern;  and  it  is  equally 
clear  that  there  are  marks  of  gilding  on  the  wolf, 


lianus  antiquam  Capitolinam  esse  maluit  a  Tullio 
descriptam,  cui  ut  in  re  nimis  dubia,  trepide  adsen- 
timur."     Just.   Rycquii  de  Capit.   Roman.  Comm. 
cap.  xxiv.  p.  250,  edit.  Lugd.  Bat.  1696. 
15  Nardini,  Roma  Vetus,  lib.  v.  cap.  iv. 

7  "  Lupa  hodieque  in  capitolinis  prostat  asdibus, 
cum  vestigio  fulminis  quo  ictam  narrat  Cicero." 
Diarium  Italic,  torn.  i.  p.  174. 

8  Storia  delle  Arti,  etc.  lib.  iii.  cap.  iii.  §  ii.  note  10. 
Winkelmann  has  made  a  strange  blunder  in  a  note, 
by  saying  the  Ciceronian  wolf  was  not  in  the  Capi- 
tol, and  that  Dion  was  wrong  in  saying  so. 

9  "  Intesi  dire,  che  1'  Ercolo  di  bronzo,  che  oggi 
si  trova  nella  sala  di  Campidoglio,  fu  trovato  nel 
foro  Romano  appresso  1'  arco  di  Settimio :  e  vi  fu 
trovata  anche  la  lupa  di  bronzo  che  allata  Romolo 
e  Remo,  e  sta  nella  Loggia  de  Conservation. " 
Flam.  Vacca,  Memorie,  num.  iii.  p.  i.  ap.  Mont- 
faucon, Diar.  Ital.  torn.  i. 


36S 


CHILDE   HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


which  might  therefore  be  supposed  to  make  part  of 
the  ancient  group.  It  is  known  that  the  sacred 
images  of  the  Capitol  were  not  destroyed  when 
injured  by  time  or  accident,  but  were  put  into 
certain  under-ground  depositaries,  C3.\\<zd /avis see.1 
It  may  be  thought  possible  that  the  wolf  had  been 
so  deposited,  and  had  been  replaced  in  some  con- 
spicuous situation  when  the  Capitol  was  rebuilt  by 
Vespasian.  Rycquius,  without  mentioning  his  au- 
thority, tells  that  it  was  transferred  from  the  Comi- 
tium  to  the  Lateran,  and  thence  brought  to  the 
Capitol.  If  it  was  found  near  the  arch  of  Severus, 
it  may  have  been  one  of  the  images  which  Orosius2 
says  was  thrown  down  in  the  Forum  by  lightning 
when  Alaric  took  the  city.  That  it  is  of  very  high 
antiquity  the  workmanship  is  a  decisive  proof:  and 
that  circumstance  induced  Winkelmann  to  believe 
it  the  wolf  of  Dionysius.  The  Capitoline  wolf, 
however,  may  have  been  of  the  same  early  date  as 
that  at  the  temple  of  Romulus.  Lactantius3  as- 
serts that  in  his  time  the  Romans  worshipped  a 
wolf ;  and  it  is  known  that  the  Lupercalia  held  out 
to  a  very  late  period4  after  every  other  observance 
of  the  ancient  superstition  had  totally  expired. 
This  may  account  for  the  preservation  of  the  an- 
cient image  longer  than  the  other  early  symbols  of 
Paganism. 

It  may  be  permitted,  however,  to  remark,  that 
the  wolf  was  a  Roman  symbol,  but  that  the  wor- 
ship of  that  symbol  is  an  inference  drawn  by  the 
zeal  of  Lactantius.  The  early  Christian  writers 
are  not  to  be  trusted  in  the  charges  which  they 
make  against  the  Pagans.  Eusebius  accused  the 
Romans  to  their  faces  of  worshipping  Simon 
Magus,  and  raising  a  statue  to  him  in  the  island  of 
the  Tyber.  The  Romans  had  probably  never  heard 
of  such  a  person  before  who  came,  however,  to 
play  a  considerable,  though  scandalous  part  in  the 
church  history,  and  has  left  several  tokens  of  his 
aerial  combat  with  St.  Peter  at  Rome;  notwith- 
standing that  an  inscription  found  in  this  very 
island  of  the  Tyber  showed  the  Simon  Magus  of 
Eusebius  to  be  a  certain  indigenal  god  called  Semo 
Sangus  or  Fidius/' 

Even  when  the  worship  of  the  founder  of  Rome 
had  been  abandoned,  it  was  thought  expedient  to 
humor  the  habits  of  the  good  matrons  of  the  city, 


1  Luc.  Faun.  ibid. 

2  See  note  to  stanza  LXXX.  in  "  Historical 
Illustrations." 

3  "  Romuli  nutrix  Lupa  honoribus  est  affecta 
divinis,  et  ferrem,  si  animal  ipsum  fuisset,  cujus 
figuram  gerit."  Lactant.  de  Falsa  Religione,  lib. 
i  can.  xx.  p.  ioi,  edit,  varior  1660;  that  is  to  say, 
he  would  rather  adore  a  wolf  than  a  prostitute. 
His  commentator  has  observed  that  the  opinion  of 
Livy  concerning  Laurentia  being  figured  in  this 
wolf  was  not  universal.     Strabo  thought  so.     Ryc- 

'  quius  is  wrong  in  saying  that  Lactantius  mentions 
the  wolf  was  in  the  Capitol. 

4  To  A.D.  496,  "  Quis  credere  possit,"  says 
P»aronius  [Ann.  Eccles.  torn.  viii.  p.  602,  in  an. 
496],  "  viguisse  adhuc  Romas  ad  Gelasii  tempora, 
quas  fuere  ante  exordia  urbis  allata  in  Italiam 
jLupercalia?  "  Gelasius  wrote  a  letter  which  occu- 
Ipies  four  folio  pages  to  Andromachus  the  senator, 
and  others,  to  show  that  the  rites  should  be  given  up. 

■"'  Eusebius  has  these  words:  icai  ap5ptai>rt  trap' 
Vfi.lv  ws  $eb?  TeTtjixTflTai,  (1/  t<*>  Ti/3epi  norapup  fx€- 
Ta£v  rai'  8vo  yetpvpitv,  s\iav  iinypa<j>r}v  'Pw/u.atK7)»' 


by  sending  them  with  their  sick  infants  to  the 
church  of  Saint  Theodore,  as  they  had  before 
carried  them  to  the  temple  of  Romulus.6  The 
practice  is  continued  to  this  day,  and  the  site  of 
the  above  church  seems  to  be  thereby  identified 
with  that  of  the  temple  ;  so  that  if  the  wolf  had 
been  really  found  there,  as  Winkelmann  says,  there 
would  be  no  doubt  of  the  present  statue  being  that 
seen  by  Dionysius."  But  Faunus,  in  saying  that 
it  was  at  the  Ficus  Ruminalis  by  the  Comitium,  is 
only  talking  of  its  ancient  position  as  recorded  by 
Pliny ;  and  even  if  he  had  been  remarking  where 
it  was  found,  would  not  have  alluded  to  the  church 
of  Saint  Theodore,  but  to  a  very  different  place,  near 
which  it  was  then  thought  the  Ficus  Ruminalis  had 
been,  and  also  the  Comitium:  that  is.  the  three 
columns  by  the  church  of  Santa  Maria  Liberatrice, 
at  the  corner  of  the  Palatine  looking  on  the  Forum. 
It  is,  in  fact,  a  mere  conjecture  where  the  image 
was  actually  dug  up:  8  and  perhaps,  on  the  whole, 
the  marks  of  the  gilding,  and  of  the  lightning,  are  a 
better  argument  in  favor  of  its  being  the  Ciceronian 
wolf,  than  any  that  can  be  adduced  for  the  contrary 
opinion.  At  any  rate,  it  is  reasonably  selected  in 
the  text  of  the  poem  as  one  of  the  most  interesting 
relics  of  the  ancient  city,'-'  and  is  certainly  the  fig- 
ure, if  not  the  very  animal  to  which  Virgil  alludes 
in  his  beautiful  verses:  — 

"  Geminos  huic  ubera  circum 
Ludere  pendentes  pueros,  et  lambere  matrem 
Impavidos:   illam  tereti  cervice  refiexam 
Mulcere  alternos,  et  corpora  fingere  lingua."10 

tolvttiv  Sc/uun'i  6etu  2ayKT:u.  Eccles.  Hist.  lib.  ii. 
cap.  xiii.  p.  40.  Justin  Martyr  had  told  the  story 
before:  but  Barpnius  himself  was  obliged  to  detect 
this  fable.    See  Nardini,  Roma  Vet.  lib.  vii.  cap.  xii. 

0  "  In  esse  gli  antichi  pontefici  per  toglier  la 
memoria  de'  giuochi  Lupercali  istitiuti  in  onore  di 
Romolo,  introdussero  1'  uso  di  portarvi  bambini  op- 
pressi  de  infermita  occulte,  acci&  si  liberino  per  1] 
intercessione  di  questo  santo,  come  di  continuo  si 
sperimenta."  Rione  xii.  Ripa,  accurata  e  suc- 
cincta  Descrizione,  etc.  di  Roma  Moderna,  dell' 
Ab.  Ridolf.  Venuti,  1766. 

'  Nardini,  lib.  v.  cnp.  n,  convicts  Pomponius 
Laetus  crassi  erroris,  in  putting  the  Ruminal  fig- 
tree  at  the  church  of  Saint  Theodore :  but  as  Livy 
says  the  wolf  was  at  the  Ficus  Ruminalis,  and 
Dionysius  at  the  temple  of  Romulus,  he  is  obliged 
(cap.  iv.)  to  own  that  the  two  were  close  together, 
as  well  as  the  Lupercal  cave,  shaded,  as  it  were,  by 
the  fig-tree. 

8  "  Ad  comitium  ficus  olim  Ruminalis  germinabat, 
sub  qua  lapse  rumam,  hoc  est,  mammam,  docente 
Varrone,  suxerant  olim  Romulus  et  Remus;  non 
procul  a  templo  hodie  D.  Mariae  Liberatricis  appel- 
late, ubi  Jorsan  inventa  nobilis  ilia  aenea  statua 
lupae  geminos  puerulos  lactantis,  quam  hodie  in 
Capitolio  videmus."  Olai  Borrichii  Anttqua  Urbis 
Romanae  Facies,  cap.  x.  See  also  cap.  xii.  Bor- 
richius  wrote  after  Nardini,  in  1687.  Ap.  Graev. 
Antiq.  Rom.  torn.  iv.  p.  1522. 

'•'  Donatus,  lib.  xi.  cap.  18,  gives  a  medal  repre- 
senting on  one  side  the  wolf  in  the  same  position  as 
that  in  the  Capitol;  and  on  the  reverse  the  wolf  with 
the  head  not  reverted.  It  is  of  the  time  of  Antoni- 
nus Pius. 

10  JEn.  viii.  631.  See  Dr.  Middleton,  in  his  Let- 
ter from  Rome,  who  inclines  to  the  Ciceronian 
wolf,  but  without  examining  the  subject. 


HISTORICAL  NOTES   TO    CANTO    THE  FOURTH. 


369 


XXVI.    JULIUS   CjESAR. 

"  For  the  Roman's  mind 
Was  modelled  in  a  less  terrestrial  mould." 
Stanza  xc.  lines  3  and  4. 

It  is  possible  to  be  a  very  great  man  and  to  be 
still  very  inferior  to  Julius  Caesar,  the  most  complete 
character,  so  Lord  Bacon  thought,  of  all  antiquity. 
Nature  seems  incapable  of  such  extraordinary  com- 
binations as  composed  his  versatile  capacity,  which 
was  the  wonder  even  of  the  Romans  themselves. 
The  first  general  —  the  only  triumphant  politician  — 
inferior  to  none  in  eloquence  —  comparable  to  any  in 
the  attainments  of  wisdom,  in  an  age  made  up  of  the 
greatest  commanders,  statesmen,  orators,  and  philos- 
ophers that  ever  appeared  in  the  world  —  an  author 
who  composed  a  perfect  specimen  of  military  annals 
in  his  travelling  carriage  —  at  one  time  in  a  contro- 
versy with  Cato,  at  another  writing  a  treatise  on 
punning,  and  collecting  a  set  of  good  sayings  — 
fighting  '  and  making  love  at  the  same  moment, 
and  willing  to  abandon  both  his  empire  and  his  mis- 
tress for  a  sight  of  the  Fountains  of  the  Nile.  Such 
did  Julius  Caesar  appear  to  his  contemporaries  and 
to  those  of  the  subsequent  ages  who  were  the  most 
inclined  to  deplore  and  execrate  his  fatal  genius. 

But  we  must  not  be  so  much  dazzled  with  his 
surpassing  glory,  or  with  his  magnanimous,  his 
amiable  qualities,  as  to  forget  the  decision  of  his 
impartial  countrymen:  — 

HE   WAS  JUSTLY   SLAIN.2 


XXVII.     EGERIA. 

"  Egeria!  sweet  creation  0/ some  heart 

Which  found  no  mortal  resting-place  so  fair 
As  thine  ideal  breast." 

Stanza  cxv.  lines  1,  2,  and  3. 

The   respectable   authority  of  Flaminius   Vacca 
would   incline   us  to  believe   in  the   claims  of  the 


1  In  his  tenth  book,  Lucan  shows  him  sprinkled 
with  the  blood  of  Pharsalia  in  the  arms  of  Cleopatra. 

"  Sanguine  Thessalicae  cladis  perfusus  adulter 
Admisit  Venerem  curis,et  miscuit  armis." 

After  feasting  with  his  mistress,  he  sits  up  all 
night  to  converse  with  the  Egyptian  sages,  and  tells 
Achoreus,  _  . 

opes  sit  mihi  certa  videndi 
Niliacos  fontes,  bellum  civile  relinquam." 
"  Sic  velut  in  tuta  securi  pace  trahebant 
Noctis  iter  mediae." 

Immediately  afterwards,  he  is  fighting  again,  and 
defending  every  position. 

"  Sed  adest  defensor  ubique 
Caesar  et  hos  aditu  gladiis,  hos  ignibus  arcet. 

. caeca  nocte  carinis 

Insiluit  Caesar,  semper  feliciter  usus 
Praecipiti  cursu  bellorum  et  tempore  rapto." 

2  "Jure  caesus  existimetur,"says  Suetonius, after 
a  fair  estimation  of  his  character,  and  making  use 
of  a  phrase  which  was  a  formula  in  Livy's  time. 
•'Maelium  jure  caesum  pronuntiavit,  etiam  si  regni 


Egerian  grotto.3  He  assures  us  that  he  saw  an 
inscription  in  the  pavement,  stating  that  the  foun- 
tain was  that  of  Egeria,  dedicated  to  the  nymphs. 
The  inscription  is  not  there  at  this  day;  but  Mont- 
faucon  quotes  two  lines4  of  Ovid  from  a  stone  in  the 
Villa  Giustiniani,  which  he  seems  to  think  had  been 
brought  from  the  same  grotto. 

This  grotto  and  valley  were  formerly  frequented 
in  summer,  and  particularly  the  first  Sunday  in 
May,  by  the  modern  Romans,  who  attached  a  sa- 
lubrious quality  to  the  fountain  which  trickles  from 
an  orifice  at  the  bottom  of  the  vault,  and,  overflow- 
ing the  little  pools,  creeps  down  the  matted  grass 
into  the  brook  below.  The  brook  is  the  Ovidian 
Almo,  whose  name  and  qualities  are  lost  in  the 
modern  Aquataccio.  The  valley  itself  is  called 
Valle  di  Caffarelli,  from  the  dukes  of  that  name  who 
made  over  their  fountain  to  the  Pallavicini,  with 
sixty  rubbia  of  adjoining  land. 

There  can  be  little  doubt  that  this  long  dell  is  the 
Egerian  valley  of  Juvenal,  and  the  pausing  place  of 
Umbritius,  notwithstanding  the  generality  of  his 
commentators  have  supposed  the  descent  of  the 
satirist  and  his  friend  to  have  been  into  the  Arician 
grove,  where  the  nymph  met  Hippolitus,  and  where 
she  was  more  peculiarly  worshipped. 

The  step  from  the  Porta  Capena  to  the  Alban 
hill,  fifteen  miles  distant,  would  be  too  considerable, 
unless  we  were  to  believe  in  the  wild  conjecture  of 
Vossius,  who  makes  that  gate  travel  from  its  pres- 
ent station,  where  he  pretends  it  was  during  the 
reign  of  the  Kings,  as  far  as  the  Arician  grove,  and 
then  makes  it  recede  to  its  old  site  with  the  shrink- 
ing city.5  The  tufo,  or  pumice,  which  the  poet 
prefers  to  marble,  is  the  substance  composing  the 
bank  in  which  the  grotto  is  sunk. 

The  modern  topographers"  find  in  the  grotto  the 
statue  of  the  nymph,  and  nine  niches  for  the  Muses; 


crimine  insons  fuerit:"  [lib.  iv.  cap.  15,]  and  which 
was  continued  in  the  legal  judgments  pronounced 
in  justifiable  homicides,  such  as  killing  house- 
breakers. See  Sueton.  in  Vit.  C.  J.  Caesar,  with 
the  commentary  of  Pitiscus,  p.  184. 

3  "  Poco  lontano  dal  detto  luogo  si  scende  ad  tin 
casaletto,  del  quale  ne  sono  padroni  li  Caffarelli, 
che  con  questo  nome  e  chiamato  il  luogo;  vi  e  una 
fontana  sotto  una  gran  volta  antica,  che  al  presente 
si  gode,e  i  Romani  vi  vanno  Testate  a  ricrearsi:  nel 
pavimento  di  essa  fonte  si  egge  in  tin  epitaffio  essere 
quella  la  fonte  di  Egeria,  dedicata  alle  ninfe,  e 
questa,  dice  l'epitaffio,  essere  la  medesima  fonte  in 
cui  fu  convertita."  Memorie,  etc.  ap.  Nardini,  p. 
13.     He  does  not  give  the  inscription. 

4  "  In  villa  Justiniana  extat  ingens  lapis  quadra- 
tus  solidus,  in  quo  sculpta  haec  duo  Ovidii  carmina 
sunt:  — ■ 

'  ./Egeria  est  quae  praebet  aquas, dea  grata  Camoenis; 

Ilia  Numae  conjunx  consiliumque  fuit.' 
Qui  lapis  videtur  ex  eodem  Egeriae  fonte,  aut  ejus 
vicinia,   isthuc   comportatus."     Diarium   Italic,  p. 
153- 

5  De  Magnit.  Vet.  Rom.  ap.  Graev.  Ant.  Rom: 
torn.  iv.  p.  1507. 

6  Echinard,  Descrizione  di  Roma  e  dell'  Agra 
Romano,  corretto  dall'  Abate  Venuti,  in  Roma, 
1750.  They  believe  in  the  grotto  and  nymph. 
"  Simulacr  >  di  questo  fonte,  essendovi  sculpite  le 
acque  a  pie  di  esso." 


370 


CHILDE   HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


and  a  iate  traveller1  has  discovered  that  the  cave  is 
restored  to  that  simplicity  which  the  poet  regretted 
had  been  exchanged  lor  injudicious  ornament. 
But  the  headless  statue  is  palpably  rather  a  male 
than  a  nymph,  and  has  none  of  the  attributes  as- 
cribed to  it  at  present  visible.  The  nine  Muses 
could  hardly  have  stood  in  six  niches;  and  Juvenal 
certainly  does  not  allude  to  any  individual  cave.2 
Nothing  can  be  collected  from  the  satirist  but  that 
somewhere  near  the  Porta  Capena  was  a  spot  in 
which  it  was  supposed  Numa  held  nightly  consul- 
tations with  his  nymph,  and  where  there  was  a  grove 
and  a  sacred  fountain,  and  fanes  once  consecrated 
to  the  Muses;  and  that  from  this  spot  there  was  a 
descent  into  the  valley  of  Egeria,  where  were  sev- 
eral artificial  caves.  It  is  dear  that  the  statues  of 
the  Muses  made  no  part  of  the  decoration  which  the 
satirist  thought  misplaced  in  these  caves;  for  he 
,  assigns  other  fanes  (delubra)  to  these 
divinities  above  the  valley,  and  moreover  tells  us 
that  they  had  been  ejected  to  make  room  for  the 
Jews.  In  fact,  the  little  temple,  now  called  that  of 
Bacchus,  was  formerly  thought  to  belong  to  the 
Muses,  and  Nardini"  places  them  in  a  poplar 
grove,  which  was  in  his  time  above  the  valley. 

It  is  probable,  from  the  inscription  and  position, 
that  the  cave  now  shown  may  be  one  of  the  "  arti- 
ficial caverns,"  of  which,  indeed,  there  is  another 
a  little  way  higher  up  the  valley,  under  a  tuft  of 
alder  bushes:  but  a  single  grotto  of  Egeria  is  a 
mere  modern  invention,  grafted  upon  the  applica- 
tion of  the  epithet  Eueri.in  to  these  nymphea  in 
general,  and  which  might  send  us  to  look  for  the 
haunts  of  Numa  upon  the  banks  of  the  Thames. 

Our  English  Juvenal  was  not  seduced  into  mis- 
translation by  his  acquaintance  with  Pope:  he  care- 
fully preserves  the  correct  plural  — 

"  Thence  slowly  winding  down  the  vale,  we  view 
The  Egerian  grots  :  oh,  how  unlike  the  true!  " 

The  valley  abounds  with  springs,4  and  over  these 
springs,  which  the  Muses  might  haunt  from  their 
neighboring  groves,  Egeria  presided:  hence  she 
was  said  to  supply  them  with  water;  and  she 
was  the  nymph  of  the  grottos  through  which  the 
fountains  were  taught  to  flow. 

The  whole  of  the  monuments  in  the  vicinity  of 
the  Egerian  valley  have  received  names  at  will, 
which  have  been  changed  at  will.  Venuti''owns  he 
can  see  no  traces  of  the  temples  of  Jove,  Saturn, 


1  Classical  Tour,  chap.  vi.  p.  217,  vol.  ii. 

2  "  Substitit  ad  veteres  arcus,  madidamque  Cap- 

enam; 
Hie  ubi  nocturnae  Numa  constituebat  arnicae, 
Nunc  sacri  fontis  nemus,  et  delubra  locantur 
Judaeis,  quorum  cophinus  fcenumque  supellex. 
Omnis  enim  populo  mercedem  pendere  jussa 

.est 
Arbor,  et  ejectis  mendicat  silva  Camcenis. 
In  vallem  Egeria;  descendimus,  et  speluncas 
Dissimiles  veris:   quanto  praestantius  esset 
Numen    aquae,  viridi   si   margine    clauderet 

undas 
Herba,    nee    ingenuum    violarent    marmora 

tophum."  —  Sat.  III. 

3  Lib.  iii.  cap.  iii. 

4  "  Undique  e  solo  aquae  scaturiunt."     Nardini, 
lib.  iii.  cap.  iii. 

'  Echinard,  etc.     Cic.  cit.  pp.  297,  298. 


Juno,  Venus,  and  Diana,  which  Nardini  found,  o' 
hoped  to  find.  The  mutatorium  of  Caracalla's  cir- 
cus, the  temple  of  Honor  and  Virtue,  the  temple 
of  Bacchus,  and,  above  all,  the  temple  of  the  god 
Rediculus,  are  the  antiquaries'  despair. 

The  circus  of  Caracalla  depends  on  a  medal  of 
that  Emperor  cited  by  Fulvius  Ursinus,  of  which 
the  reverse  shows  a  circus,  supposed,  however,  by 
some  to  represent  the  Circus  Maximus.  It  gives  a 
very  good  idea  of  that  place  of  exercise.  The  soil 
has  been  but  little  raised,  if  we  may  judge  from  the 
small  cellular  structure  at  the  end  of  the  Spina, 
which  was  probably  the  chapel  of  the  god  Consus. 
This  cell  is  half  beneath  the  soil,  as  it  0 
been  in  the  circus  itself;  fur  DionysiuS6  could  not 
be  persuaded  to  believe  that  this  divinity  was  the 
Roman  Neptune,  because  his  altar  was  underground- 


XXVIII.     THE  ROMAN    NEMESIS. 

"  Great  Nemesis.' 

Here,  ivhere  the  ancient  paid  thee  homage  long. 

Stanza  exxxii.  lines  2  and  3. 

We  read  in  Suetonius,  that  Augustus,  from  a 
warning  received  in  a  dream,"  counterfeited,  once 
a  year,  the  beggar,  sitting  before  the  gate  of  his 
palace  with  his  hand  hoilowed  and  stretched  out 
for  charity.  A  statue  formerly  in  the  Villa  Bor- 
ghese,  and  which  should  be  now  at  Paris,  repre- 
sents the  Emperor  in  that  posture  of  supplication. 
The  object  of  this  self-degradation  was  the  appease- 
ment of  Nemesis,  the  perpetual  attendant  on  good 
fortune,  of  whose  power  the  Roman  conquerors 
were  also  reminried  by  certain  symbols  attached  to 
their  cars  of  triumph.  The  symbols  were  the  whip 
and  the  crotalo,  which  were  discovered  in  the 
Nemesis  of  the  Vatican.  The  attitude  of  beggary 
made  the  above  statue  pass  for  that  of  Belisarius: 
and  until  the  criticism  of  Winkelmann8  had  recti- 
fied the  mistake,  one  fiction  was  called  in  to  sup- 
port another.  It  was  the  same  fear  of  the  sudden 
termination  of  prosperity  that  made  Amasis  king 
of  Egypt  warn  his  friend  Polycrates  of  Samos,  that 
the  gods  loved  those  whose  lives  were  chequered 
with  good  and  evil  fortunes.  Nemesis  was  sup» 
posed  to  lie  in  wait  particularly  for  the  prudent; 
that  is,  for  those  whose  caution  rendered  them 
accessible  only  to  mere  accidents:  and  her  first 
altar  was  raised  on  the  banks  of  the  Phyrgian 
iEsepus  by  Adrastus,  probably  the  prince  of  that 
name  who  killed  the  son  of  Crcesus  by  mistake. 
Hence  the  goddess  was  called  Adrastea.'-' 


0  Antiq.  Rom.  lib.  ii.  cap.  xxxi. 

7  Sueton.  in  Vit.  Augusti,  cap.  91,  Casaubon,  in 
the  note,  refers  to  Plutarch's  lives  of  Camillus  and 
yEmilius  Paulus,  and  also  to  his  apophthegms,  for 
the  character  of  this  deity.  The  hollowed  hand 
was  reckoned  the  last  degree  of  degradation ;  and 
when  the  dead  body  of  the  praefect  Rufinus  was 
borne  about  in  triumph  by  the  people,  the  indignity 
was  increased  by  putting  his  hand  in  that  position. 

$  Storia  delle  Arti,  etc.  lib.  xii.  III.  torn.  ii.  p.  422 
Visconti  calls  the  statue,  however,  a  Cybele.  It  is 
given  in  the  Museo  Pio-Clement.  torn.  i.  par.  40. 
The  Abate  Fea  (Spiegazione  dei  Rami.  Storia  etc 
"im.  iii.  p.  513,)  calls  it  a  Chrisippus. 

9  Diet,  de  Bayle,  article  Adrastea. 


HISTORICAL   NOTES    TO    CANTO    THL    FOURTH. 


371 


The  Roman  Nemesis  was  sacred  and  august : 
there  was  a  temple  to  her  in  the  Palatine  under  the 
name  of  Rhamnusia:1  so  great,  indeed,  was  the 
propensity  of  the  ancients  to  trust  to  the  revolu- 
tion of  events,  and  to  believe  in  the  divinity  of 
Fortune,  that  in  the  same  Palatine  there  was  a 
temple  to  the  Fortune  of  the  day.2  This  is  the 
last  superstition  which  retains  its  hold  over  the 
human  heart;  and,  from  concentrating  in  one  ob- 
ject the  credulity  so  natural  to  man,  has  always 
appeared  strongest  in  those  unembarrassed  by  other 
articles  of  belief.  The  antiquaries  have  supposed 
this  goddess  to  be  synonymous  with  Fortune  and 
with  Fate:  but  it  was  in  her  vindictive  quality 
that  she  was  worshipped  under  the  name  of  Neme- 


XXIX.    GLADIATORS. 

"  He,  their  sire, 
Butchered  to  make  a  Roman  holiday." 

Stanza  cxli.  lines  6  and  7. 

Gladiators  were  of  two  kinds,  compelled  and 
voluntary;  and  were  supplied  from  several  condi- 
tions;—  from  slaves  sold  for  that  purpose;  from 
culprits;  from  barbarian  captives  either  taken  in 
war,  and,  after  being  led  in  triumph,  set  apart  for 
the  games,  or  those  seized  and  condemned  as 
rebels:  also  from  free  citizens,  some  fighting  for 
hire  (auclorati),  others  from  a  depraved  ambi- 
tion: at  last  even  knights  and  senators  were  ex- 
hibited,—  a  disgrace  of  which  the  first  tyrant  was 
naturally  the  first  inventor.3  In  the  end,  dwarfs, 
and  even  women,  fought;  an  enormity  prohibited 
by  Severus.  Of  these  the  most  to  be  pitied  un- 
doubtedly were  the  barbarian  captives;  and  to  this 
species  a  Christian  writer4  justly  applies  the  epi- 
thet "  innocent,"  to  distinguish  them  from  the 
professional  gladiators.  Aurelian  and  Claudius 
supplied  great  numbers  of  these  unfortunate  vic- 
tims; the  one  after  his  triumph,  and  the  other  on 
the  pretext  of  a  rebellion.5     No  war,  says  Lipsius,0 


1  It  is  enumerated  by  the  regionary  Victor. 

2  Fortune  hujusce  diei.  Cicero  mentions  her, 
de  Legib.  lib.  ii. 

DEAE   NEMESI 

SIVE   FORTUNAE 

PISTOR1VS 

RVGIANVS 

V.  C.  LEGAT. 

LEG.  XIII.  G. 

CORD. 

See  Questiones  Romanae,  etc.  ap.  Graev.  Antiq. 
Roman,  torn.  v.  p.  942.  See  also  Muratori,  Nov. 
Thesaur.  Inscrip.  Vet.  torn.  i.  pp.  88,  89,  where 
there  are  three  Latin  and  one  Greek  inscription  to 
Nemesis,  and  others  to  Fate. 

3  Julius  Caesar,  who  rose  by  the  fall  of  the  aris- 
tocracy, brought  Furius  Leptinus  and  A.  Calenus 
upon  the  arena. 

4  Tertullian,  "  certe  quidem  et  innocentes  giadia- 
tores  in  ludum  veniunt,  et  voluptatis  publican  hos- 
tiae'fiant."  Just.  Lips.  Saturn.  Sermon,  lib.  ii. 
cap.  iii. 

6  Vopiscus,  in  vit.  Aurel.  and  in  vit.  Claud,  ibid. 

'"Credo,    immo   scio,    nullum    bellum     tantam 

riadem  vastitiemque  generi  humano  intulissej  quam 


was  ever  so  destructive  to  the  human  race  as  these 
sports.  In  spite  of  the  laws  of  Constantine  and 
Constans,  gladiatorial  shows  survived  the  old  es- 
tablished religion  more  than  seventy  years;  but 
they  owed  their  final  extinction  to  the  courage  of  a 
Christian.  In  the  year  404,  on  the  kalends  o( 
January,  they  were  exhibiting  the  shows  in  the 
Flavian  amphitheatre  before  the  usual  immense 
concourse  of  people.  Almachius,  or  Telemachus, 
an  eastern  monk,  who  had  travelled  to  Rome  intent 
on  his  holy  purpose,  rushed  into  the  midst  of  the 
area,  and  endeavored  to  separate  the  combatants. 
The  praetor  Alypius,  a  person  incredibly  attached 
to  these  games,7  gave  instant  orders  to  the  gladia- 
tors to  slay  him;  and  Telemachus  gained  the  crown 
of  martyrdom,  and  the  title  of  saint,  which  surely 
has  never  either  before  or  since  been  awarded  for  a 
more  noble  exploit.  Honorius  immediately  abol- 
ished the  shows,  which  were  never  afterwards 
revived.  The  story  is  told  by  Theodoret 8  and  Cas- 
siodorus,9  and  seems  worthy  of  credit  notwithstand- 
ing its  place  in  the  Roman  martyrology.10  Besides 
the  torrents  of  blood  which  flowed  at  the  funerals, 
in  the  amphitheatres,  the  circus,  the  forums,  and 
other  public  places,  gladiators  were  introduced  at 
feasts,  and  tore  each  other  to  pieces  amidst  the 
supper  tables,  to  the  great  delight  and  applause  of 
the  guests.  Yet  Lipsius  permits  himself  to  sup- 
pose the  loss  of  courage,  and  the  evident  degener- 
acy of  mankind,  to  be  nearly  connected  with  the 
abolition  of  these  bloody  spectacles.11 


XXX. 


Here,   where   the   Roman    millions'   blame    or 

praise 
Was  death  or  life,  the  playthings  of  a  crowd. 
Stanza  cxlii.  lines  5  and  6. 

When  one  gladiator  wounded  another,  he 
shouted,  "  he  has  it,"  "  hoc  habet,"  or  "  habet." 
The  wounded  combatant  dropped  his  weapon,  and 
advancing  to  the  edge  of  the  arena,  supplicated  the 
spectators.  If  he  had  fought  well,  the  people 
saved  him ;  if  otherwise,  or  as  they  happened  to  be 
inclined,  they  turned   down  their  thumbs,  and  he 


hos  ad  voluptatem  ludos."     Just.  Lips.  ibid.  lib.  i. 
cap.  xii. 

7  Augustinus  (lib.  vi.  Confess,  cap.  viii.).  "  Aly- 
pium  suum  gladiatorii  spectaculi  inhiatu  incredi- 
biliter  abreptum,"  scribit.  ib.  lib.  i.  cap.  xii. 

8  Hist.  Eccles.  cap.  xxvi.  lib.  v. 

9  Cassiod.  Tripartita,  1.  x.  c.  xi.     Saturn,  ib.  ib. 

10  Baronius,  ad  ann.  et  in  notis  ad  Martyrol. 
Rom.  I.  Jan.  See  —  Marangoni,  Delle  memorie 
sacre  e  profane  dell'  Anfiteatro  Flavio,  p.  25,  edit. 
1746. 

11  "Quod?  non  tu,  Lipsi,  momentum  aliquod 
habuisse  censes  ad  virtutem?  Magnum.  Tempora 
nostra,  nosque  ipsos,  videamus.  Oppidum  ecce 
unum  alteiumve  captum,  direptum  est;  tumultus 
circa  nqs,  non  in  nobis;  et  tamen  concidimus  et 
turbamur.  Ubi  robur,  ubi  tot  per  annos  medi- 
tata  sapientiae  studia?  ubi  ille  animus  qui  possit 
dicere,  si  fractus  illabatur  orbis  ?"  etc.  ibid.  lib. 
ii.  cap.  xxv.  The  prototype  of  Mr.  Windham's 
panegyric  on  bull-baiting. 


372 


CHILDE   HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


vas  slain.  They  were  occasionally  so  savage  that 
tney  were  impatient  if  a  combat  lasted  longer  than  or- 
dinary without  wounds  ordeath.  The  emperor's  pres- 
ence generally  saved  the  vanquished;  and  it  is  re- 
corded as  an  instance  of  Caracalla's  ferocity,  that  he 
sent  those  who  supplicated  him  for  life,  in  a  specta- 
cle, at  Nicomedia,  to  ask  the  people;  in  other  words, 
handed  them  over  to  be  slain.  A  similar  ceremony 
is  observed  at  the  Spanish  bull-fights.  The  magis- 
trate presides;  and  after  the  horsemen  and  picca- 
dores  have  fought  the  bull,  the  matadore  steps  for- 
'  ward  and  bows  to  him  for  permission  to  kill  the 
animal.  If  the  bull  has  done  his  duty  by  killing 
two  or  three  horses,  or  a  man,  which  last  is  rare, 
the  people  interfere  with  shouts,  the  ladies  wave 
their  handkerchiefs,  and  the  animal  is  saved.  The 
wounds  and  death  of  the  horses  are  accompanied 
with  the  loudest  acclamations,  and  many  gestures 
of  delight,  especially  from  the  female  portion  of 
the  audience,  including  those  of  the  gentlest  blood. 
Every  thing  depends  on  habit.  The  author  of 
Childe  Harold,  the  writer  of  this  note,  and  one  or 
two  other  Englishmen,  who  have  certainly  in  other 
days  borne  the  sight  of  a  pitched  battle,  were,  dur- 
ing the  summer  of  1809,  in  the  governor's  box  at 
the  great  amphitheatre  of  Santa  Maria,  opposite  to 
Cadiz.  The  death  of  one  or  two  horses  completely 
satisfied  their  curiosity.  A  gentleman  present,  ob- 
serving them  shudder  and  look  pale,  noticed  that 
unusual  reception  of  so  delightful  a  sport  to  some 
young  ladies,  who  stared  and  smiled,  and  continued 
their  applauses  as  another  horse  fell  bleeding  to 
the  ground.  One  bull  killed  three  horses  off  his 
own  horns.  He  was  saved  by  acclam  itions, 
which  were  redoubled  when  it  was  known  he  be- 
longed to  a  priest. 

An  Englishman  who  can  be  much  pleased  with 
seeing  two  men  beat  themselves  to  pieces,  cannot 
bear  to  look  at  a  horse  galloping  round  an  arena 
with  his  bowels  trailing  on  the  ground,  and  turns 
from  the  spectacle  and  the  spectators  with  horror 
and  disgust. 


XXXI.    THE  ALBAN   HILL. 

"And  afar 
The  Tiber  winds,  and  the  broad  ocean  laves 
The  Latian  coast,"  etc.  etc. 

Stanza  clxxiv.  lines  2,  3,  and  4. 

The  whole  declivity  of  the  Alban  hill  is  of  unri- 
valled beauty,  and  from  the  convent  on  the  highest 
point,  which  has  succeeded  to  the  temple  of  the 
Latian  Jupiter,  the  prospect  embraces  all  the  objects 
alluded  to  in  the  cited  stanza;  the  Mediterranean; 
the  whole  scene  of  the  latter  half  of  the  ^Eneid,  and 
the  coast  from  beyond  the  mouth  of  the  Tiber  to 
the  headland  of  Circaeum  and  the  Cape  of  Terracina. 

The  site  of  Cicero's  villa  may  be  supposed  either 
at  the  Grotta  Ferrata,  or  at  the  Tusculum  of  Prince 
Lucien  Buonaparte. 

The  former  was  thought  some  years  ago  the  act- 
ual site,  as  may  be  seen  from  Middleton's  Life  of 
Cicero.  At  present  it  has  lost  something  of  its 
credit,  except  for  the  Domenichinos.  Nine  monks 
of  the  Greek  order  live  there,  and  the  adjoining 
villa  is  a  cardinal's  summer-house.  The  other 
villa,  called  Rufinella,  is  on  the  summit  of  the  hill 
above  Frascati;  and  many  rich  remains  of  Tuscu- 


lum have  been  found  there,  besides  seventy-tw« 
statues  of  different  merit  and  preservation,  and 
seven  busts. 

From  the  same  eminence  are  seen  the  Sabine  hills, 
embosomed  in  which  lies  the  long  valley  of  Rustica. 
There  are  several  circumstances  which  tend  to  estab- 
lish the  identity  of  this  valley  with  the  "  Ustica  " 
of  Horace;  and  it  seems  possible  that  the  mosaic 
pavement  which  the  peasants  uncover  by  throwing 
up  the  earth  of  a  vineyard  may  belong  to  his  villa. 
Rustica  is  pronounced  short,  not  according  to  our 
stress  upon  —  "Ustica  cubanlis." — It  is  more 
rational  to  think  that  we  are  wrong,  than  that  th« 
inhabitants  of  this  secluded  valley  have  change^ 
their  tone  m  this  word.  The  addition  of  the  con- 
sonant prefixed  is  nothing:  yet  it  is  necessary  to  b« 
aware  that  Rustica  may  be  a  modern  name  which 
the  peasants  may  have  caught  from  the  antiquaries. 

The  villa,  or  the  mosaic,  is  in  a  vineyard  on  a 
knoll  covered  with  chestnut  trees.  A  stream  run» 
down  the  valley ;  and  although  it  is  not  true,  as  saiQ 
in  the  guide  books,  that  this  stream  is  called  Li- 
cenza,  yet  there  is  a  village  on  a  rock  at  the  head 
of  the  valley  which  is  so  denominated,  and  which 
may  have  taken  its  name  from  the  Digentia.  Li- 
cenza  contains  700  inhabitants.  On  a  peak  a  littlf 
way  beyond  is  Civitella,  containing  300.  On  thi 
banks  of  the  Anio,  a  little  before  you  turn  up  into 
Valle  Rustica,  to  the  left,  about  an  hour  from  th>« 
villa,  is  a  town  called  Vicovaro,  another  favorably 
coincidence  with  the  Varia  of  the  poet.  At  the 
end  of  the  valley,  towards  the  Anio,  there  is  a  bar* 
hill,  crowned  with  a  little  town  called  Bardela.  At 
the  foot  of  this  hill  the  rivulet  of  Licenza  flows,  and 
is  almost  absorbed  in  a  wide  sandy  bed  before  it 
reaches  the  Anio-  Nothing  can  be  more  fortunate 
for  the  lines  of  the  poet,  whether  in  a  metaphorical 
or  direct  sense  :  — 

"  Me  quotiens  reficit  gelidus  Digentia  rivus, 
Quern  Mandela  bibit  rugosus  frigore  pagus." 

The  stream  is  clear  high  up  the  valley,  but  before 
it  reaches  the  hill  of  Bardela  looks  green  and  yellow 
like  a  sulphur  rivulet. 

Rocca  Giovane,  a  ruined  village  in  the  hills,  half 
an  hour's  walk  from  the  vineyard  where  the  pave- 
ment is  shown,  does  seem  to  be  the  site  of  the  fane 
of  Vacuna,  and  an  inscription  found  there  tells  that 
this  temple  of  the  Sabine  Victory,  was  repaired  by 
Vespasian.1  With  these  helps,  and  a  position  cor- 
responding exactly  to  every  thing  which  the  poet 
has  told  us  of  his  retreat,  we  may  feel  tolerably  se- 
cure of  our  site. 

The  hill  which  should  be  Lucretilis  is  called 
Campanile,  and  by  following  up  the  rivulet  to  the 
pretended  Bandusia,  you  come  to  the  roots  of  the 
higher  mountain  Gennaro.  Singularly  enough,  the 
only  spot  of  ploughed  land  in  the  whole  valley  is  on 
the  knoll  where  this  Bandusia  rises. 

"  .  .  .  .  tu  frigus  amabile 
Fessis  vomere  tauris 
Praebes,  et  pecori  vago." 


1  IMP.    CESAR    VESPASIANVS 

PONT1FEX   MAXIMVS.  TRIB. 

POTEST.    CENSOR.    .EDEM 

VICTOR1/E.    VETVSTATE   ILLAPSAM. 

SVA.   IMPENSA.    REST1TVIT. 


HISTORICAL  NOTES   TO    CANTO    THE  FOURTH. 


373 


The  peasants  show  another  spring  near  the  mosaic 
pavement  which  they  call  "  Oradina,"  and   which 
flows  down  the  hills  into  a  tank,  or  mill-dam,  and 
thence  trickles  over  into  the  Digentia. 
But  we  must  not  hope 

"  To  trace  the  Muses  upwards  to  their  spring," 

by  exploring  the  windings  of  the  romantic  valley  in 
search  of  the  Bandusian  fountain.  It  seems  strange 
that  any  one  should  have  thought  Bandusia  a  foun- 
tain of  the  Digentia — Horace  has  not  let  drop  a 
word  of  it;  and  this  immortal  spring  has  in  fact 
been  discovered  in  possession  of  the  holders  of 
many  good  things  in  Italy,  the  monks.  It  was  at- 
tached to  the  church  of  St.  Gervais  and  Protais 
near  Venusia,  where  it  was  most  likely  to  be  found.1 
We  shall  not  be  so  lucky  as  a  late  traveller  in  find- 
ing the  occasional  pine  still  pendent  on  the  poetic 
villa.  There  is  not  a  pine  in  the  whole  valley,  but 
there  are  two  cypresses,  which  he  evidently  took, 
or  mistook,  for  the  tree  in  the  ode.2  The  truth  is, 
that  the  pine  is  now,  as  it  was  in  the  days  of  Virgil, 
a  garden  tree,  and  it  was  not  at  all  likely  to  be 
found  in  the  craggy  acclivities  of  the  valley  of  Rus- 
tica.  Horace  probably  had  one  of  them  in  the 
orchard  close  above  his  farm,  immediately  over- 
shadowing his  villa,  not  on  the  rocky  heights  at 
some  distance  from  his  abode.  The  tourist  may 
have  easily  supposed  himself  to  have  seen  this  pine 
figured  in  the  above  cypresses;  for  the  orange  and 
lemon  trees  which  throw  such  a  bloom  over  his  de- 
scription of  the  royal  gardens  at  Naples,  unless 
they  have  been  since  displaced,  were  assuredly 
only  acacias  and  other  common  garden  shrubs.3 


XXXII.     EUSTACE'S   CLASSICAL  TOUR. 

The  extreme  disappointment  experienced  by 
choosing  the  Classical  Tourist  as  a  guide  in  Italy 
must  be  allowed  to  find  vent  in  a  few  observations, 
which,  it  is  asserted  without  fear  of  contradiction, 
will  be  confirmed  by  every  one  who  has  selected  the 
same  conductor  through  the  same  country.  This 
author  is  in  fact  one  of  the  most  inaccurate,  unsat- 
isfactory writers  that  have  in  our  times  attained  a 
temporary  reputation,  and  is  very  seldom  to  be 
trusted  even  when  he  speaks  of  objects  which  he 
must  be  presumed  to  have  seen.  His  errors,  from 
the  simple  exaggeration  to  the  downright  misstate- 
ment, are  so  frequent  as  to  induce  a  suspicion  that 
he  had  either  never  visited  the  spots  described,  or 
had  trusted  to  the  fidelity  of  former  writers.  In- 
deed, the  Classical  Tour  has  every  characteristic  of 
a  mere  compilation  of  former  notices,  strung  to- 
gether upon  a  very  slender  thread  of  personal  obser- 
vation, and  swelled  out  by  those  decorations  which 
are  so  easily  supplied  by  a  systematic  adoption  of 
all  the  common-places  of  praise,  applied  to  every 
thing,  and  therefore  signifying  nothing. 

1  See  —  Historical  Illustrations  of  the  Fourth 
Canto,  p.  43. 

2  See  —  Classical  Tour,  etc.  chap.  vii.  p.  250, 
vol.  ii. 

3  "  Under  our  windows,  and  bordering  on  the 
beach,  is  the  royal  garden,  laid  out  in  parterres,  and 
walks  shaded  by  rows  of  orange  trees."  Classical 
Tour,  etc.  chap.  xi.  vol.  ii.  oct.  365. 


The  style  which  one  person  thinks  cloggy  and 
cumbrous,  and  unsuitable,  may  be  to  the  taste  of 
others,  and  such  may  experience  some  salutary 
excitement  in  ploughing  through  the  periods  of  the 
Classical  Tour.  It  must  be  said,  however,  that 
polish  and  weight  are  apt  to  beget  an  expectation 
of  value.  It  is  amongst  the  pains  of  the  damned  to 
toil  up  a  climax  with  a  huge  round  stone. 

The  tourist  had  the  choice  of  his  words,  but  there 
was  no  such  latitude  allowed  to  that  of  his  senti- 
ments. The  love  of  virtue  and  of  liberty,  which 
must  have  distinguished  the  character,  certainly 
adorns  the  pages  of  Mr.  Eustace;  and  the  gentle- 
manly spirit,  so  recommendatory  either  in  an  author 
or  his  productions,  is  very  conspicuous  throughout 
the  Classical  Tour.  But  these  generous  qualities 
are  the  foliage  of  such  a  performance,  and  may  be 
spread  about  it  so  prominently  and  profusely,  as  to 
embarrass  those  who  wish  to  see  and  find  the  fruit 
at  hand.  The  unction  of  the  divine,  and  the  ex- 
hortations of  the  moralist,  may  have  made  this  work 
something  more  and  better  than  a  book  of  travels, 
but  they  have  not  made  it  a  book  of  travels;  and 
this  observation  applies  more  especially  to  that 
enticing  method  of  instruction  conveyed  by  the 
perpetual  introduction  of  the  same  Gallic  Helot  to 
reel  and  bluster  before  the  rising  generation,  and 
terrify  it  into  decency  by  the  display  of  all  the  ex- 
cesses of  the  revolution.  An  animosity  against 
atheists  and  regicides  in  general,  and  Frenchmen 
specifically,  may  be  honorable,  and  may  be  useful 
as  a  record;  but  that  antidote  should  either  be 
administered  in  any  work  rather  than  a  tour,  or,  at 
least,  should  be  served  up  apart,  and  not  so  mixed 
with  the  whole  mass  of  information  and  reflection, 
as  to  give  a  bitterness  to  every  page:  for  who  would 
choose  to  have  the  antipathies  of  any  man,  however 
just,  for  his  travelling  companions?  A  tourist, 
unless  he  aspires  to  the  credit  of  prophecy,  is  not 
answerable  for  the  changes  which  may  take  place 
in  the  country  which  he  describes;  but  his  reader 
may  very  fairly  esteem  all  his  political  portraits 
and  deductions  as  so  much  waste  paper,  the  moment 
they  cease  to  assist,  and  more  particularly  if  they 
obstruct,  his  actual  survey. 

Neither  encomium  nor  accusation  of  any  govern- 
ment, or  governors,  is  meant  to  be  here  offered; 
but  it  is  stated  as  an  incontrovertible  fact,  that  the 
change  operated,  either  by  the  address  of  the  late 
imperial  system,  or  by  the  disappointment  of  every 
expectation  by  those  who  have  succeeded  to  the 
Italian  thrones,  has  been  so  considerable,  and  is  so 
apparentj  as  not  only  to  put  Mr.  Eustace's  antigal- 
lican  philippics  entirely  out  of  date,  but  even  to 
throw  some  suspicion  upon  the  competency  and 
candor  of  the  author  himself.  A  remarkable  exam- 
ple may  be  found  in  the  instance  of  Bologna,  over 
whose  papal  attachments,  and  consequent  desola- 
tion, the  tourist  pours  forth  such  strains  of  condo- 
lence and  revenge,  made  louder  by  the  borrowed 
trumpet  of  Mr.  Burke.  Now  Bologna  is  at  this 
moment,  and  has  been  for  some  years,  notoiious 
amongst  the  states  of  Italy  for  its  attachment  to 
revolutionary  principles,  and  was  almost  the  only 
city  which  made  any  demonstrations  in  favor  of  the 
unfortunate  Murat.  This  change  may,  however, 
have  been  made  since  Mr.  Eustace  visited  this 
country;  but  the  traveller  whom  he  has  thrilled 
with  horror  at  the  projected  stripping  of  the  copper 
from  the  cupola  of  St.  Peter's,  must  be  much  relieved 
to  find  that  sacrilege  out  of  the  power  of  the  French, 


374 


THE    GIAOUR. 


er  any  other  plunderers,  the  cupola  being  covered 
wtth  lead  l 

If  the  conspiring  voice  of  othewise  rival  critics 
had  not  given  considerable  currency  to  the  Classi- 
col  Tour,  it  would  have  been  unnecessary  to  warn 
the  reader,  that  however  it  may  adorn  his  library, 
it  will  be  of  liule  or  no  service  to  him  in  his  carriage; 
and  if  the  judgment  of  those  critics  had  hitherto 
been  suspended,  no  attempt  woidd  have  been  made 
to  anticipate  their    decision.     As  it  is,   those  who 

1  "  What,  then,  will  be  the  astonishment,  or 
rather  the  horror,  of  my  reader,  when  I  inform  him 
.  .  .  the  French  Committee  turned  its  attention  to 
Saint  Peters,  and  employed  a  company  of  Jews  to 
estimate  and  purchase  th«  gold,  silver,  and  bronze 
that  adorn  the  inside  of  the  edifice  as  well  as  the 
copper  that  covers  the  vaults  and  dome  on  the  out- 
side." Chap.  iv.  p.  130,  vol.  ii.  The  story  about 
the  Jews  is  positively  denied  at  Rome. 


stand  in  the  relation  of  posterity  to  Mr.  Eustace 
may  be  permitted  to  appeal  from  contemporary 
praises,  and  are  perhaps  more  likely  to  be  jnst  in 
proportion  as  the  causes  of  love  and  hatred  are  the 
further  removed.  This  appeal  had,  in  some  meas- 
ure, been  made  before  the  above  remarks  were 
written ;  for  one  of  the  most  respectable  of  the 
Florentine  publishers,  who  had  been  persuaded  by 
the  repeated  inquiries  of  those  on  their  journey 
southwards  to  reprint  a  cheap  edition  of  the  Classi- 
cal Tour,  was,  by  the  concurring  advice  of  relum- 
ing travellers,  induced  to  abandon  his  design, 
although  he  had  already  arranged  his  types  and 
paper,  and  had  struck  off  one  or  two  of  the  first 
shei/ts. 

The  writer  of  these  notes  would  wish  to  part 
(like  Mr.  Gibbon)  on  good  terms  with  the  Pope 
and  the  Cardinals,  but  he  does  not  think  it  neces- 
sary to  extend  the  same  discreet  silence  to  their 
humble  partisans. 


THE    GIAOUR; 


\  FRAGMENT   OF  A  TURKISH   TALE. 


"One  fatal  remembrance  —  one  sorrow  that  throws 
Its  bleak  shade  alike  o'er  our  joys  and  our  woes  — 
To  which  Life  nothing  darker  nor  brighter  can  bring, 
For  which  joy  hath  no  balm —  and  affliction  no  sting. 

Moore. 


VO   SAMUEL  ROGERS,    ESQ., 

AS  A   SLIGHT,   BUT   MOST   SINCERE  TOKEN   OF  ADMIRATION   OF  HIS  GENIUS, 

RESPECT  FOR  HIS   CHARACTER, 

AND   GRATITUDE   FOR   HIS    FRIENDSHIP, 

THIS  PRODUCTION   IS   INSCRIBED 

BY   HIS  OBLIGED  AND  AFFECTIONATE   SERVANT, 

London,  May,  1813.  BYRON. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 

The  tale  which  these  disjointed  fragments  present  is  founded  upon  circumstances  now  less  common  in 
the  East  than  formerly;  either  because  the  ladies  are  more  circumspect  than  in  the  "  :lden  time,"  01 
because  the  Christians  have  better  fortune,  or  less  enterprise.  The  story,  when  entire,  contained  the 
adventures  of  a  female  slave,  who  was  thrown,  in  the  Mussulman  manner,  into  the  sea  for  infidelity,  and 
stvanged  by  a  ycAing  Venetian,  her  lover,  at  the  time  the  Seven  Islands  were  possessed  by  the  Republic 


THE    GIAOUR. 


375 


of  Venice,  and  soon  after  the  Arnauts  were  beaten  back  from  the  Morea,  which  they  had  ravaged  for 
some  time  subsequent  to  the  Russian  invasion.  The  desertion  of  the  Mainotes,  on  being  refused  the 
plunder  of  Misitra,  led  to  the  abandonment  of  that  enterprise,  and  to  the  desolation  of  the  Morea,  during 
which  the  cruelty  exercised  on  all  sides  was  unparalleled  even  in  the  annals  of  the  faithful. 


INTRODUCTION. 

The  "  Giaour"  was  published  in  May,  1813,  and  abundantly  sustained  the  impression  created  by  the 
first  two  cantos  of  Childe  Harold.  It  is  obvious  that  in  this,  the  first  of  his  romantic  narratives,  Byron's 
versification  reflects  the  admiration  he  always  avowed  for  Coleridge's  "  Christabel,"  — the  irregular  rhythm 
of  which  had  already  been  adopted  in  the  "  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel."  The  fragmentary  style  o!  he 
composition  was  suggested  by  the  then  new  and  popular  "  Columbus  "  of  Mr.  Rogers.  As  to  the  subject, 
it  was  not  merely  by  recent  travel  that  the  author  had  familiarized  himself  with  Turkish  history.  "  Old 
Knolles,"  he  said  at  Missolonghi,  a  few  weeks  before  his  death,  "  was  one  of  the  first  books  that  gave  me 
pleasure  when  a  child;  and  I  believe  it  had  much  influence  on  my  future  wishes  to  visit  the  Levant,  and 
gave,  perhaps,  the  oriental  coloring  which  is  observed  in  my  poetry."  In  the  margin  of  his  copy  of  Mr. 
D'lsraeli's  essay  on  "The  Literary  Character,"  is  the  following  note:  —  "  Knolles,  Cantemir,  De  Tott, 
Lady  M.  W.  Montague,  Hawkins's  translation  from  Mignot's  History  of  the  Turks,  the  Arabian  Nights. 
—  All  travels  or  histories,  or  books  upon  the  East,  I  could  meet  with,  I  had  read,  as  well  as  Ricaut,  be- 
fore I  was  ten  years  old." 

An  incident  which  occurred  while  Byron  was  at  Athens  was  the  foundation  of  the  Giaour.  His  Turk- 
ish servant  tampered  with  a  female  slave,  and  on  his  return  from  bathing  one  day  Byron  met  a  party  of 
men  who  were  carrying  the  girl,  sewn  up  in  a  sack,  to  throw  her  into  the  sea.  He  threatened  to  shoot 
the  leader  of  the  band  unless  they  took  back  their  victim  to  the  governor's  house,  where  by  a  combina- 
tion of  menaces,  entreaties,  and  bribery,  he  obtained  her  release.  He  afterwards  said,  "  that  to  describe 
the  feelings  of  the  situation  was  impossible,  and  that  to  recollect  them  even,  was  icy." 


No  breath  of  air  to  break  the  wave 
That  rolls  below  the  Athenian's  grave, 
That  tomb  1  which,  gleaming  o'er  the  cliff, 
First  greets  the  homeward-veering  skiff, 
High  o'er  the  land  he  saved  in  vain : 
When  shall  such  hero  live  again  ? 
***** 

Fair  clime  !  2  where  every  season  smiles 
Benignant  o'er  those  blessed  isles, 


1  A  tomb  above  the  rocks  on  the  promontory,  by 
some  supposed  the  sepulchre  of  Themistocles. 

2  ["Of  the  beautiful  flow  of  Byron's  fancy,"  says 
Moore,  "  when  its  sources  were  once  opened  on 
any  subject,  the  Giaour  affords  one  of  the  most  re- 
markable instances  :  this  poem  having  accumulated 
under  his  hand,  both  in  printing  and  through  suc- 
cessive editions,  till  from  four  hundred  lines,  of 
which  it  consisted  in  its  first  copy,  it  at  present 
amounts  to  fourteen  hundred.  The  plan,  indeed, 
which  he  had  adopted,  of  a  series  of  fragments,  —  a 
sei.  of  'orient  pearls  at  random  strung '  — left  him 
free  to  introduce,  without  reference  to  more  than 
the  general  complexion  of  his  story,  whatever  sen- 


Which,  seen  from  far  Colonna's  height, 
Make  glad  the  heart  that  hails  the  sight. 
And  lend  to  loneliness  delight. 
There  mildly  dimpling,  Ocean's  cheek 
Reflects  the  tints  of  many  a  peak 
Caught  by  the  laughing  tides  that  lave 
These  Edens  of  the  eastern  wave : 


timents  or  images  his  fancy,  in  its  excursions,  could 
collect;  and,  how  little  fettered  he  was  by  any  re- 
gard to  connection  in  these  additions,  appears 
from  a  note  which  accompanied  his  own  copy  of 
this  paragraph,  in  which  he  says  — '  I  have  not  yet 
fixed  the  place  of  insertion  for  the  following  lines, 
but  will,  when  I  see  you — as  I  have  no  copy.' 
Even  into  this  new  passage,  rich  as  it  was  at  first, 
his  fancy  afterwards  poured  a  fresh  infusion."  — 
The  value  of  these  after-touches  may  be  appreciated 
by  comparing  the  following  verses,  from  his  orig- 
inal draft  of  this  paragraph,  with  the  form  which 
they  now  wear:  — 

"  Fair  clime!  where  ceaseless  summer-  smiles, 
Benignant  o'er  those  blessed  isles, 
Which,  seen  from  far  Colonna's  height, 


376 


THE    GIAOUR. 


And  if  at  times  a  transient  breeze 
Break  the  blue  crystal  of  the  seas, 
Or  sweep  one  blossom  from  the  trees, 
How  welcome  is  each  gentle  air 
That  wakes  and  wafts  the  odors  there  ! 
For  there  —  the  Rose  o'er  crag  or  vale, 
Sultana  of  the  Nightingale,1 
The  maid  for  whom  his  melody, 
His  thousand  songs  are  heard  on  high, 
Blooms  blushing  to  her  lover's  tale : 
His  queen,  the  garden  queen,  his  Rose, 
Unbent  by  winds,  unchilled  by  snows, 
Far  from  the  winters  of  the  west, 
By  every  breeze  and  season  blest, 
Returns  the  sweets  by  nature  given 
In  softest  incense  back  to  heaven ; 
And  grateful  yields  that  smiling  sky 
Her  fairest  hue  and  fragrant  sigh. 
And  many  a  summer  flower  is  there, 
And  many  a  shade  that  love  might  share, 
And  many  a  grotto,  meant  for  rest, 
That  holds  the  pirate  for  a  guest ; 
Whose  bark  in  sheltering  cove  below 
Lurks  for  the  passing  peaceful  prow, 
Till  the  gay  mariner's  guitar  2 
Is  heard,  and  seen  the  evening  star; 
Then  stealing  with  the  muffled  oar 
Far  shaded  by  the  rocky  shore, 
Rush  the  night-prowlers  on  the  prey, 
And  turn  to  groans  his  roundelay. 
Strange  —that  where  Nature  loved  to  trace, 
As  if  for  Gods,  a  dwelling-place, 
And  every  charm  and  grace  hath  mixed 
Within  the  paradise  she  fixed, 
There  man,  enamoured  of  distress, 
Should  mar  it  into  wilderness, 
And  trample,  brute-like,  o'er  each  flower 
That  tasks  not  one  laborious  hour; 
Nor  claims  the  culture  of  his  hand 
To  bloom  along  the  fairy  land, 
But  springs  as  to  preclude  his  care, 


Make  glad  the  heart  that  hails  the  sight, 

And  give  to  loneliness  delight. 

There  shine  the  bright  abodes  ye  seek, 

Like  dimples  -upon  Ocean's  cheek, 

So  smiling'  round  the  waters  lave 

These  Edens  of  the  eastern  wave. 

Or  if,  at  times,  the  transient  breeze 

Break  the  smooth  crystal  of  the  seas, 

Or  brush  one  blossom  from  the  trees, 

How  grateful  is  the  gentle  air 

That  waves  and  wafts  the  fragrance  there." 
The  whole  of  this  passage,  from  line  7  down  to  line 
167,  "  Who  heard  it  first  had  cause  to  grieve,"  was 
not  in  the  first  edition. 

1  The  attachment  of  the  nightingale  to  the  rose  is 
a  well-known  Persian  fable.  If  I  mistake  not,  the 
"  Bulbul  of  a  thousand  tales"  is  one  of  his  appel- 
lations. 

=  The  guitar  is  the  constant  amusement  of  the 
Greek  sailor  by  night:  with  a  steady  fair  wind,  and 
during  a  calm,  it  is  accompanied  always  by  the 
voice,  and  often  by  dancing. 


And  sweetly  woos  him  —  but  to  spare! 

Strange  — that  where  all  is  peace  beside, 

There  passion  riots  in  het  pride, 

And  lust  and  rapine  wildly  reign 

To  darken  o'er  the  fair  domain. 

It  is  as  though  the  fiends  prevailed 

Against  the  seraphs  they  assailed, 

And,  fixed  on  heavenly  thrones,  should  dwell 

The  freed  inheritors  of  hell; 

So  soft  the  scene,  so  formed  for  joy, 

So  curst  the  tyrants  that  destroy ! 

He  who  hath  bent  him  o'er  the  dead 
Ere  the  first  day  of  death  is  fled. 
The  first  dark  day  of  nothingness, 
The  last  of  danger  and  distress, 
(Before  Decay's  effacing  fingers 
Have  swept  the  lines  where  beauty  lingers,) 
And  marked  the  mild  angelic  air, 
The  rapture  of  repose  that's  there, 
The  fixed  yet  tender  traits  that  streak 
The  languor  of  the  placid  cheek. 
And  —  but  for  that  sad  shrouded  eye, 
That  fires  not,  wins  not,  weeps  not,  now, 
And  but  for  that  chill,  changeless  brow, 
Where  cold  Obstruction's  apathy3 
Appalls  the  gazing  mourner's  heart, 
As  if  to  him  it  could  impart 
The  doom  he  dreads,  yet  dwells  upon ; 
Yes,  but  for  these  and  these  alone, 
Some  moments,  ay,  one  treacherous  hour, 
He  still  migljt  doubt  the  tyrant's  power; 
So  fair,  so  calm,  so  softly  sealed, 
The  first,  last  look  by  death  revealed  I  4 
Such  is  the  aspect  of  this  shore  ; 
'Tis  Greece,  but  living  Greece  no  more !  6 
So  coldly  sweet,  so  deadly  fair, 
We  start,  for  soul  is  wanting  there. 
Hers  is  the  loveliness  in  death, 
That  parts  not  quite  with  parting  breath ; 


3  "  Ay,  but  to  die  and  go  we  know  not  where, 

To  lie  in  cold  obstruction  —  " 

Measure  for  Measure. 

4  I  trust  that  few  of  my  readers  have  ever  had  an 
opportunity  of  witnessing  what  is  here  attempted 
in  description,  but  those  who  have  will  probably  re- 
tain a  painful  remembrance  of  that  singular  beauty 
which  pervades,  with  few  exceptions,  the  features 
of  the  dead,  a  few  hours,  and  but  for  a  few  hours, 
after  "  the  spirit  is  not  there."  It  is  to  be  remarked 
in  cases  of  violent  death  by  gun-shot  wounds,  the 
expression  is  always  that  of  languor,  whatever  the 
natural  energy  of  the  sufferer's  character:  but  in 
death  from  a  stab  the  countenance  preserves  its 
traits  of  feeling  or  ferocity,  and  the  mind  its  bias,  to 
the  last. 

5  [In  Dallaway's  Constantinople,  a  book  k'  ich 
Lord  Byron  is  not  unlikely  to  have  consulted,  I  fiiid 
a  passage  quoted  from  Gillies's  History  of  Gre  e 
which  contains,  perhaps,  the  first  seed  of  the  thoi'  lit 
thus  expanded  into  full  perfection  by  genius:  - 
"  The  present  state  of  Greece  compared  to  1  .  i 
ancient,  is  the  silent  obscurity  of  the  grave  c  n 
trasted  with  the  vivid  lustre  of  active  life."  * 
Moore.] 


THE    GIAOUR. 


377 


But  beauty  with  that  fearful  bloom, 
That  hue  .vhich  haunts  it  to  the  tomb, 
Expression's  last  receding  ray, 
A  gilded  halo  hovering  round  decay, 
The  farewell  beam  of  Feeling  past  away  1 
Spark  of  that  flame,  perchance  of  heavenly 

birth, 
Which  gleams,  but  warms  no  more  its  cher- 
ished earth  !  l 

Clime  of  the  unforgotten  brave  ! 
Whose  land  from  plain  to  mountain-cave 
Was  Freedom's  home  or  Glory's  grave ! 
Shrine  of  the  mighty  !  can  it  be. 
That  this  is  all  remains  of  thee  ? 
Approach,  thou  craven  crouching  slave: 

Say,  is  not  this  Thermopylse  ? 
These  waters  blue  that  round  you  lave, 

Oh  servile  offspring  of  the  free  — 
Pronounce  what  sea,  what  shore  is  this  ? 
The  gulf,  the  rock  of  Salamis  ! 
These  scenes,  their  story  not  unknown, 
Arise,  and  make  again  your  own  ; 
Snatch  from  the  ashes  of  your  sires 
The  embers  of  their  former  fires ; 
And  he  who  in  the  strife  expires 
Will  add  to  theirs  a  name  of  fear 
That  Tyranny  shall  quake  to  hear, 
And  leave  his  sons  a  hope,  a  fame, 
They  too  will  rather  die  than  shame : 
For  Freedom's  battle  once  begun, 
Bequeathed  by  bleeding  Sire  to  Son, 
Though  baffled  oft  is  ever  won. 
Bear  witness,  Greece,  thy  living  page, 
Attest  it  many  a  deathless  age  ! 
While  kings,  in  dusty  darkness  hid. 
Have  left  a  nameless  pyramid, 
Thy  heroes,  though  the  general  doom 
Hath  swept  the  column  from  their  tomb, 
A  mightier  monument  command, 
The  mountains  of  their  native  land ! 
There  points  thy  Muse  to  stranger's  eye 
The  graves  of  those  that  cannot  die! 
'Twere  long  to  tell,  and  sad  to  trace, 
Each  step  from  splendor  to  disgrace ; 
Enough  —  no  foreign  foe  could  quell 
Thy  soul,  till  from  itself  it  fell ; 
Yes  !  Self-abasement  paved  the  way 
To  villain-bonds  and  despot  sway. 

What  can  he  tell  who  treads  thy  shore  ? 

No  legend  of  thine  olden  time, 
No  theme  on  which  the  muse  might  soar 
High  as  thine  own  in  days  of  yore, 


1  [There  is  infinite  beauty  and  effect,  though  of 
a  painful  and  almost  oppressive  character,  in  this 
extraordinary  passage;  in  which  the  author  has 
illustrated  the  beautiful,  but  still  and  melancholy 
aspect  of  the  once  busy  and  glorious  shores  of 
Greece,  by  an  image  more  true,  more  mournful, 
and  more  exquisitely  finished,  than  any  that  we  can 
recollect  in  the  whole  compass  of  poetry.  — 
7effrey.\ 


When  man  was  worthy  of  thy  clime. 
The  hearts  within  thy  valleys  bred, 
The  fiery  souls  that  might  have  led 

Thy  sons  to  deeds  sublime, 
Nq,w  crawl  from  cradle  to  the  grave, 
Slaves  —  nay,  the  bondsmen  of  a  slave,2 

And  callous,  save  to  crime  ; 
Stained  with  each  evil  that  pollutes 
Mankind,  where  least  above  the  brutes ; 
Without  even  savage  virtue  blest, 
Without  one  free  or  valiant  breast, 
Still  to  the  neighboring  ports  they  waft 
Proverbial  wiles,  and  ancient  craft; 
In  this  the  subtle  Greek  is  found, 
For  this,  and  this  alone,  renowned. 
In  vain  might  Liberty  invoke 
The  spirit  to  its  bondage  broke, 
Or  raise  the  neck  that  courts  the  yoke  : 
No  more  her  sorrows  I  bewail, 
Yet  this  will  be  a  mournful  tale, 
And  they  who  listen  may  believe, 
Who  heard  it  first  had  cause  to  grieve. 

Far,  dark,  along  the  blue  sea  glancing, 
The  shadows  of  the  rocks  advancing 
Start  on  the  fisher's  eye  like  boat 
Of  island-pirate  or  Mainote ; 
And  fearful  for  his  light  caique, 
He  shuns  the  near  but  doubtful  creek 
Though  worn  and  weary  with  his  toil, 
And  cumbered  with  his  scaly  spoil, 
Slowly,  yet  strongly,  plies  the  oar, 
Till  Port  Leone's  safer  shore 
Receives  him  by  the  lovely  light 
That  best  becomes  an  Eastern  night. 
***** 

Who  thundering  comes  on  blackest  steed* 
With  slackened  bit  and  hoof  of  speed  ? 
Beneath  the  clattering  iron's  sound 
The  caverned  echoes  wake  around 
In  lash  for  lash,  and  bound  for  bound ; 
The  foam  that  streaks  the  courser's  side 
Seems  gathered  from  the  ocean-tide  : 
Though  weary  waves  are  sunk  to  rest, 
There's  none  within  his  rider's  breast ; 
And  though  to-morrow's  tempest  lower, 


2  Athens  is  the  property  of  the  Kislar  Aga  (the 
slave  of  the  seraglio  and  guardian  of  the  women), 
who  appoints  the  Way-wode.  A  pander  and  eunucb 
—  these  are  not  polite,  yet  true  appellations — now 
governs  the  governor  of  Athens ! 

3  [The  reciter  of  the  tale  is  a  Turkish  fisherman, 
who  has  been  employed  during  the  day  in  the  gulf 
of  ."Egiua,  and  in  the  evening,  apprehensive  of  the 
Mainote  pirates  who  infest  the  coast  of  Attica,  lands 
with  his  boat  on  the  harbor  of  Port  Leone,  the 
ancient  Pirajus.  He  becomes  the  eye-witness  of 
nearly  all  the  incidents  in  the  story,  and  in  one  of 
them  is  a  principal  agent.  It  is  to  his  feelings,  and 
particularly  to  his  religious  prejudices,  that  we  ire 
indebted  for  some  of  the  most  forcible  and  splendid 
parts  of  the  poem.  —  George  Ellis.\ 


378 


THE    GIAOUR. 


"Pis  calmer  than  thy  heart,  young  Giaour !  i 
I  know  thee  not,  I  loathe  thy  race, 
But  in  thine  lineaments  I  trace 
What  time  shall  strengthen,  not  efface: 
Though  young  and  pale,  that  sallow  fron' 
Is  scathed  by  fiery  passion's  brunt; 
Though  bent  on  earth  thine  evil  eye, 
As  meteor-like  thou  glidest  by, 
Right  well  I  view  and  deem  thee  one 
Whom  Othman's  sons  should  slay  or  shun. 

On  —  on  he  hastened,  and  he  drew 
My  gaze  of 'wonder  as  he  flew : 
Though  like  a  demon  of  the  night 
He  passed,  and  vanished  from  my  sight, 
His  aspect  and  his  air  impressed 
A  troubled  memory  on  my  breast, 
And  long  upon  my  startled  ear 
Rung  his  dark  courser's  hoofs  of  fear. 
He  spurs  his  steed;  he  nears  the  steep, 
That,  jutting,  shadows  o'er  the  deep; 
He  winds  around  ;  he  hurries  by  ; 
The  rock  relieves  him  from  mine  eye ; 
For  well  I  ween  unwelcome  he 
Whose  glance  is  fixed  on  those  that  flee ; 
And  not  a  star  but  shines  too  bright 
On  him  who  takes  such  timeless  flight. 
He  wound  along ;  but  ere  he  passed 
One  glance  he  snatched,  as  if  his  last, 
A  moment  checked  his  wheeling  steed, 
A  moment  breathed  him  from  his  speed, 
A  moment  on  his  stirrup  stood  — 
Why  looks  he  o'er  the  olive  wood  ? 
The  crescent  glimmers  on  the  hill, 
The    Mosque's   high  lamps  are  quivering 

still  : 
Though  too  remote  for  sound  to  wake 
In  echoes  of  the  far  tophaike,2 
The  flashes  of  each  joyous  peal 
Are  seen  to  prove  the  Moslem's  zeal, 
To-night,  set  Rhamazani's  sun  ; 
To-night,  the  Bairam  feast's  begun  ; 
To-night — -but  who  and  what  art  thou 
Of  foreign  garb  and  fearful  brow  ? 
And  what  are  these  to  thine  or  thee, 
That  thou  should'st  either  pause  or  flee  ? 

He  stood  —  some  dread  was  on  his  face, 
Soon  Hatred  settled  in  its  place  : 
It  rose  not  with  the  reddening  flush 
Of  transient  Anger's  hasty  blush, 
But  pale  as  marble  o'er  the  tomb, 
Whose  ghastly  whiteness  aids  its  gloom. 
His  brow  was  bent,  his  eye  was  glazed ; 


1  [In  Dr.  Clarke's  Travels,  this  word,  which 
means  Infidel,  is  always  written  according  to  its 
English  pronunciation,  Djour.  Byron  adopted  the 
Italian  spelling  usual  among  the  Franks  of  the 
Levant.] 

2  "  Tophaike,"  musket.  —  The  Bairam  is  an- 
nounced by  the  cannon  at  sunset;  the  illumination 
nf  the  mosques,  and  the  firing  of  all  kinds  of  small 
arms,  loaded  with  ball,  proclaim  it  during  the  night. 


He  raised  his  arm,  and  fiercely  raised, 

And  sternly  shook  his  hand  on  high, 

As  doubting  to  return  or  fly  : 

Impatient  of  his  flight  delayed, 

Here  loud  his  raven  charger  neighed  — 

Down  glanced  that  hand,  and  grasped  hi! 

blade. 
That  sound  had  burst  his  waking  dream, 
As  Slumber  starts  at  owlet's  scream. 
The  spur  hath  lanced  his  courser's  sides  • 
Away,  away,  for  life  he  rides : 
Swift  as  the  hurled  on  high  jerreed8 
Springs  to  the  touch  his  startled  steed ; 
The  rock  is  doubled,  and  the  shore 
Shakes  with  the  clattering  tramp  no  more; 
The  crag  is  won,  no  more  is  seen 
His  Christian  crest  and  haughty  mien. 
'Twas  but  an  instant  he  restrained 
That  fiery  barb  so  sternly  reined ; 
'Twas  but  a  moment  that  he  stood, 
Then  sped  as  if  by  death  pursued: 
But  in  that  instant  o'er  his  soul 
Winters  of  Memory  seemed  to  roll, 
And  gather  in  that  drop  of  time 
A  life  of  pain,  -an  age  of  crime. 
O'er  him  who  loves,  or  hates,  or  fears, 
Such  moment  pours  the  grief  of  years  : 
What  felt  he  then,  at  once  opprest 
By  all  that  most  distracts  the  breast  ? 
That  pause,  which  pondered  o'er  his  fate, 
Oh,  who  its  dreary  length  shall  date ! 
Though  in  Time's  record  nearly  nought, 
It  was  Eternity  to  Thought! 
For  infinite  as  boundless  space 
The  thought  that  Conscience  must  embrace, 
Which  in  itself  can  comprehend 
Woe  without  name,  or  hope,  or  end. 

The  hour  is  past,  the  Giaour  is  gone; 
And  did  he  fly  or  fall  alone  ? 
Woe  to  that  hour  he  came  or  went ! 
The  curse  for  Hassan's  sin  was  sent 
To  turn  a  palace  to  a  tomb ; 
He  came,  he  went,  like  the  Simoom* 
That  harbinger  of  fate  and  gloom, 
Beneath  whose  widely-wasting  breath 
The  very  cypress  droops  to  death  — 
Dark  tree,  still  sad  when  others'  grief  is  fled, 
The  only  constant  mourner  o'er  the  dead ! 

The  steed  is  vanished  from  the  stall ; 
No  serf  is  seen  in  Hassan's  hall ; 
The  lonely  Spider's  thin  gray  pall 

3  Jerreed,  or  Djerrid,  a  blunted  Turkish  javelin, 
which  is  darted  from  horseback  with  great  force  and 
precision.  It  is  a  favorite  exercise  of  the  Mussul- 
mans; but  I  know  not  if  it  can  be  called  a  ?nn>ily 
one,  since  the  most  expert  in  the  art  are  the  Black 
Eunuchs  of  Constantinople.  I  think,  next  to  these, 
a  Mamlouk  at  Smyrna  was  the  most  skilful  that 
came  within  my  observation. 

*  The  blast  of  the  desert,  fatal  to  every  thing  liv- 
ing, and  often  alluded  to  in  eastern  poetry      [The 


THE    GIAOUR. 


37? 


Waves  slowly  widening  o'er  the  wall ; 

The  Bat  builds  in  his  Haram  bower, 

And  in  the  fortress  of  his  power 

The  Owl  usurps  the  beacon-tower ; 

The  wild-dog  howls  o'er  the  fountain's  brim, 

With  baffled  thirst,  and  famine,  grim ; 

For  the  stream  has  shrunk  from  its  marble 

bed, 
Where  the  weeds  and  the  desolate  dust  are 

spread. 
'Twas  sweet  of  yore  to  see  it  play 
And  chase  the  sultriness  of  day, 
As  springing  high  the  silver  dew 
In  whirls  fantastically  flew, 
And  flung  luxurious  coolness  round 
The  air,  and  verdure  o'er  the  ground. 
'Twas  sweet,  when    cloudless    stars    were 

.  bright, 
To  view  the  wave  of  watery  light, 
And  hear  its  melody  by  night. 
And  oft  had  Hassan's  Childhood  played 
Around  the  verge  of  that  cascade ; 
And  oft  upon  his  mother's  breast 
That  sound  had  harmonized  his  rest ; 
And  oft  had  Hassan's  Youth  along 
Its  bank  been  soothed  by  Beauty's  song; 
And  softer  seemed  each  melting  tone 
Of  Music  mingled  with  its  own. 
But  ne'er  shall  Hassan's  Age  repose 
Along  the  brink  at  Twilight's  close: 
The  stream  that  filled  that  font  is  fled  — 
The  blood  that  warmed  his  heart  is  shed  ! 
And  here  no  more  shall  human  voice 
Be  heard  to  rage,  regret,  rejoice. 
The  last  sad  note  that  swelled  the  gale 
Was  woman's  wildest  funeral  wail : 
That  quenched  in  silence,  all  is  still, 
But  the  lattice  that  flaps  when  the  wind  is 

shrill : 
Though  raves  the  gust,  and  floods  the  rain, 
No  hand  shall  close  its  clasp  again. 
On  desert  sands  'twere  joy  to  scan 
The  rudest  steps  of  fellow  man, 
So  here  the  very  voice  of  Grief 
Might  wake  an  Echo  like  relief — 
At  least  'twould  say,  "  All  are  not  gone  ; 
There  lingers  Life,  though  but  in  one"  — 
For  many  a  gilded  chamber's  there, 
Which  Solitude  might  well  forbear ; l 


effects  of   the   Simoom  have    been   grossly  exag- 
gerated.] 

1  ["  I  have  just  recollected  an  alteration  you  may 
make  in  the  proof.  Among  the  lines  on  Hassan's 
Serai,  is  this  — 

'  Unmeet  for  solitude  to  share.' 
Now,  to  share  implies  more  than  one,  and  Solitude 
is  a  single  gentleman;  it  must  be  thus  — 

'  For  many  a  gilded  chamber's  there, 

Which  solitude  might  well  forbear;  ' 

and  so  on.     Will  you  adopt   this   correction?   and 

pray   accept   a   Stilton   cneese    from   me   for  your 

trouble.  —  P.  S.    I  leave  this  to  your  discretior  :  ir 


Within  that  dome  as  yet  Decay 

Hath  slowly  worked  her  cankering  way-^ 

But  gloom  is  gathered  o'er  the  gate, 

Nor  there  the  Fakir's  self  will  wait ; 

Nor  there  will  wandering  Dervise  stay, 

For  bounty  cheers  not  his  delay  ; 

Nor  there  will  weary  stranger  halt 

To  bless  the  sacred  "  bread  and  salt."  2 

Alike  must  Wealth  and  Poverty 

Pass  heedless  and  unheeded  by, 

For  Courtesy  and  Pity  died 

With  Hassan  on  the  mountain  side. 

His  roof,  that  refuge  unto  men, 

Is  Desolation's  hungry  den. 

The  guest  flies  the  hall,  and  the  vassal  from 

labor 
Since  his  turban  was  cleft  by  the  infidel's 

sabre ! s 

***** 

I  hear  the  sound  of  coming  feet, 
But  not  a  voice  mine  ear  to  greet ; 
More  near  —  each  turban  I  can  scan, 
And  silver-sheathed  ataghan  ;  4 
The  foremost  of  the  band  is  seen 
An  Emir  by  his  garb  of  green  ;  ° 
"  Ho  !  who  art  thou  ?  "  —  "  this  low  salam  6 
Replies  of  Moslem  faith  I  am."  — 
"  The  burden  ye  so  gently  bear 
Seems  one  that  claims  your  utmost  care, 
And,  doubtless,  holds  some  precious  freight, 
My  humble  bark  would  gladly  wait." 

"  Thou  speakest  sooth  :  thy  skiff  unmoor, 
And  waft  us  from  the  silent  shore  ; 
Nay,  leave  the  sail  still  furled,  and  ply 
The  nearest  oar  that's  scattered  by, 
And  midway  to  those  rocks  where  sleep 
The  channelled  waters  dark  and  deep. 


anybody  thinks  the  old  line  a  good  one,  or  the  cheese 
a  bad  one,  don't  accept  of  either."  —  Byron's  Let- 
ters, Stilton,  October  3,  1813.] 

2  To  partake  of  food,  to  break  bread  and  salt 
with  your  host,  insures  the  safety  of  the  guest :  even 
though  an  enemy,  his  person  from  that  moment  is 
sacred. 

3  I  need  hardly  observe,  that  Charity  and  Hos- 
pitality are  the  first  duties  enjoined  by  Mahomet; 
and  to  say  truth,  very  generally  practised  by  his 
disciples.  The  first  praise  that  can  be  bestowed  01. 
a  chief,  is  a  panegyric  on  his  bounty;  the  next,  on 
his  valor. 

*  The  ataghan,  a  long  dagger  worn  with  pistols 
in  the  belt,  in  a  metal  scabbard,  generally  of  silver; 
and,  among  the  wealthier,  gilt,  or  of  gold. 

5  Green  is  the  privileged  color  of  the  prophet's 
numerous  pretended  descendants;  with  them,  as 
here,  faith  (the  family  inheritance)  is  supposed  to 
supersede  the  necessity  of  good  works:  they  are 
the  worst  of  a  very  indifferent  brood. 

6  "  Salam  aleikoum !  aleikoum  salam !  "  peace  be 
with  you;  be  with  you  peace  —  the  salutation 
reserved  for  the  faithful:  —  to  a  Christian,  "  Urla- 
rula,"  a  good  journey;  or,  "  saban  hiresem,  saban 
serula;  "  good  morn,  good  even;  and  sometimes, 
"  may  your  end  be  happy;  "  are  the  usual  salutes. 


3S0 


THE    GIAOUR. 


Rest  from  your  task  —  so  —  bravely  done, 
Our  course  has  been  right  swiftly  run  ; 
Yet  'tis  the  longest  voyage,  I  trow, 
That  one  of—  *  *  * 

*  *  *  *  *•• 

Sullen  it  plunged,  and  slowly  sank, 
The  calm  wave  rippled  to  the  bank ; 
I  watched  it  as  it  sank,  methought 
Some  motion  from  the  current  caught 
Bestirred  it  more,  —  'twas  but  the  beam 
That  checkered  o'er  the  living  stream  : 
I  g.ized,  till  vanishing  from  view, 
Like  lessening  pebble  it  withdrew; 
Still  less  and  less,  a  speck  of  white 
That   gemmed   the  tide,  then  mocked  the 

sight ; 
And  all  its  hidden  secrets  sleep, 
Known  but  to  Genii  of  the  deep, 
Which,  trembling  in  Uieir  coral  caves, 
Thev  dare  not  whisper  to  the  waves. 

As  rising  on  its  purple  wing 
The  insect  queen  1  of  eastern  spring 
O'er  emerald  meadows  of  Kashmeer 
Invites  the  young  pursuer  near, 
And  leads  him  on  from  flower  to  flower 
A  weary  chase  and  wasted  hour, 
Then  leaves  him,  as  it  soars  on  high, 
With  panting  heart  and  tearful  eye : 
So  Beauty  lures  the  full-grown  child, 
With  hue  as  bright,  and  wing  as  wild ; 
A  cbase  of  idle  hopes  and  fears, 
Begun  in  folly,  closed  in  tears. 
If  won,  to  equal  ills  betrayed, 
Woe  waits  the  insect  and  the  maid  ; 
A  life  of  pain,  the  loss  of  peace, 
From  infant's  play,  and  man's  caprice  : 
The  lovely  toy  so  fiercely  sought 
Hath  lost  its  charm  by  being  caught, 
For  every  touch  that  wooed  its  stay 
Hath  brushed  its  brightest  hues  away, 
Till  charm,  and  hue,  and  beauty  gone, 
'Tis  left  to  fly  or  fall  alone. 
With  wounded  wing,  or  bleeding  breast, 
Ah  !  where  shall  either  victim  rest  ? 
Can  this  with  faded  pinion  soar 
From  rose  to  tulip  as  before  ? 
Or  Beauty,  blighted  in  an  hour, 
Find  joy  within  her  broken  bower? 
No  :  gayer  insects  fluttering  by 
Ne'er  droop  the  wing  o'er  those  that  die, 
And  lovelier  things  have  mercy  shown 
To  every  failing  but  their  own, 
And  every  woe  a  tear  can  claim 
Except  an  erring  sister's  shame. 

*  *    "       #  *  * 

The  Mind,  that  broods  o'er  guilty  woes, 
Is  like  the  Scorpion  girt  by  fire, 


1  The   blue-winged   butterfly   of  Kashmeer,   the 
most  rare  and  beautiful  of  the  species. 


In  circle  narrowing  as  it  glows, 

The  flames  around  their  captive  close, 

Till  inly  searched  by  thousand  throes, 

And  maddening  in  her  ire, 
One  sad  and  sole  relief  she  knows, 
The  sting  she  nourished  for  her  foes, 
Whose  venom  never  yet  was  vain, 
Gives  but  one  pang,  and  cures  all  pain, 
And  darts  into  her  desperate  brain ; 
So  do  the  dark  in  soul  expire, 
Or  live  like  Scorpion  girt  by  fire ; 2 
So  writhes  the  mind  Remorse  hath  riven, 
Unfit  for  earth,  undoomed  for  heaven, 
Darkness  above,  despair  beneath, 
Around  it  flame,  within  it  death  ! 

Black  Hassan  from  the  Haram  flies, 
Nor  bends  on  woman's  form  his  eyes ;' 
The  unwonted  chase  each  hour  employs. 
Yet  shares  he  not  the  hunter's  joys. 
Not  thus  was  Hassan  wont  to  fly 
When  Leila  dwelt  in  his  Serai. 
Doth  Leila  there  no  longer  dwell  ? 
That  tale  can  only  Hassan  tell : 
Strange  rumors  in  our  city  say 
Upon  that  eve  she  fled  away 
When  Rhamazan's3  last  sun  was  set, 
And  flashing  from  each  minaret 
Millions  of  lamps  proclaimed  the  feast 
Of  Bairam  through  the  boundless  East. 
'Twas  then  sfie  went  as  to  the  bath, 
Which  Hassan  vainly  searched  in  wrath ; 
For  she  was  flown  her  master's  rage 
In  likeness  of  a  Georgian  page, 
And  far  beyond  the  Moslem's  power 
Had  wronged  him  with  the  faithless  Giaour, 
Somewhat  of  this  had  Hassan  deemed  ; 
But  still  so  fond,  so  fair  she  seemed. 
Too  well  he  trusted  to  the  slave 
Whose  treachery  deserved  a  grave  : 
And  on  that  eve  had  gone  to  mosque, 
And  thence  to  feast  in  his  kiosk. 
Such  is  the  tale  his  Nubians  tell, 
Who  did  not  watch  their  charge  too  well ; 
But  others  say,  that  on  that  night, 
By  pale  Phingari's4  trembling  light, 
The  Giaour  upon  his  jet  black  steed 


2  Alluding  to  the  dubious  suicide  of  the  scorpion, 
so  placed  for  experiment  by  gentle  philosophers. 
Some  maintain  that  the  position  of  the  sting,  when 
turned  towards  the  head,  is  merely  a  convulsive 
movement;  but  others  have  actually  brought  in 
the  verdict  "  Felo  de  se."  The  scorpions  are  sure- 
ly interested  in  a  speedy  decision  of  the  question; 
as,  if  once  fairly  established  as  insect  Catos,  they 
will  probably  be  allowed  to  live  as  long  as  they 
think  proper,  without  being  martyred  for  the  sake 
of  an  hypothesis.  [Byron  told  Mr.  Dallas  that  this 
simile  of  the  scorpion  was  imagined  by  him  in  his 
sleep.] 

3  The  cannon  at  sunset  close  the  Rhamazan, 
See  ante,  p.  378,  note. 

1  Phingari,  the  moon. 


THE   GIAOUR. 


381 


Was  seen,  but  seen  alone  to  speed 
With  bloody  spur  along  the  shore, 
Nor  maid  nor  page  behind  him  bore. 
***** 

Her  eyes'  dark  charm  'twere  vain  to  tell, 
But  gaze  on  that  of  the  Gazelle, 
It  will  assist  thy  fancy  well ; 
As  large,  as  languishingly  dark, 
But  Soul  beamed  forth  in  every  spark 
That  darted  from  beneath  the  lid, 
Bright  as  the  jewel  of  Giamschid.1 
Yea,  Soul,  and  should  our  prophet  say 
That  form  was  nought  but  breathing  clay, 
By  Alia  1  I  would  answer  nay ; 
Though  on  Al-Sirat's2  arch  I  stood, 
Which  totters  o'er  the  fiery  flood, 
With  Paradise  within  my  view, 
And  all  his  Houris3  beckoning  through. 
Oh  !  who  young  Leila's  glance  could  read 
And  keep  that  portion  of  his  creed, 
Which  saith  that  woman  is  but  dust, 
A  soulless  toy  for  tyrant's  lust  ?  4 
On  her  might  Muftis  gaze,  and  own 
That  through  her  eye  the  Immortal  shone ; 
On  her  fair  cheek's  unfading  hue 


1  The  celebrated  fabulous  ruby  of  Sultan  Giam- 
schid, the  embellisher  of  Istakhar;  from  its  splendor, 
named  Schebgerag,  "the  torch  of  night;"  also 
"  the  cup  of  the  sun,"  etc.  In  the  first  edition, 
"  Giamschid"  was  written  as  a  word  of  three  syl- 
lables, so  D'Herbelot  has  it;  but  I  am  told  Rich- 
ardson reduces  it  to  a  dissyllable,  and  writes  "  Jam- 
shid."  I  have  left  in  the  text  the  orthography  of 
the  one  with  the  pronunciation  of  the  other. —  [In 
the  first  edition,  Lord  Byron  had  used  this  word  as 
a  trisyllable, — "Bright  as  the  gem  of  Giam- 
schid,"—  but,  on  my  remarking  to  him,  upon  the 
authority  of  Richardson's  Persian  Dictionary,  that 
this  was  incorrect,  he  altered  it  to  "  Bright  as  the 
ruby  of  Giamschid."  On  seeing  this,  however,  I 
wrote  to  him,  "  that,  as  the  comparison  of  his  her- 
oine's eye  to  a  ruby  might  unluckily  call  up  the 
idea  of  its  being  bloodshot,  he  had  better  change  the 
line  to  '  Bright  as  the  jewel  of  Giamschid;  '  "which 
he  accordingly  did,  in  the  following  edition.  — 
Moore.] 

2  Al-Sirat,  the  bridge  of  breadth,  narrower  than 
the  thread  of  a  famished  spider,  and  sharper  than 
the  edge  of  a  sword,  over  which  the  Mussulmans 
must  skate  into  Paradise,  to  which  it  is  the  only 
entrance;  but  this  is  not  the  worst,  the  river  beneath 
being  hell  itself,  into  which,  as  may  be  expected,  the 
unskilful  and  tender  of  foot  contrive  to  tumble  with 
a"facilis  descensus  Averni,"  not  very  pleasing  in 
prospect  to  the  next  passenger.  There  is  a  shorter 
cut  downwards  for  the  Jews  and  Christians. 

3  [The  virgins  of  Paradise,  called  from  their  large 
black  eyts,  Hur  al  cyun.  An  intercourse  with 
these,  according  to  the  institution  of  Mahomet,  is 
to  constitute  the  principal  felicity  of  the  faithful. 
Not  formed  of  clay,  like  mortal  women,  they  are 
adorned  with  unfading  charms,  and  deemed  to  pos- 
<?ess  the  celestial  privilege  of  an  eternal  youth.] 

*  A  vulgar  error:  the  Koran  allots  at  least  a  third 
of  Paradise  to  well-behaved  women;  but  by  far  the 
greater  number  of  Mussulmans  interpret  the  text 


The  young  pomegranate's5  blossoms  strew 

Their  bloom  in  bmshes  ever  i>ew ; 

Her  hair  in  hyacinthine  6  flow, 

When  left  to  roll  its  folds  below, 

As  midst  her  handmaids  in  the  hall 

She  stood  superior  to  them  all, 

Hath  swept  the  marble  where  her  feet 

Gleamed  whiter  than  the  mountain  sleet 

Ere  from  the  cloud  that  gave  it  birth 

It  fell,  and  caught  one  stain  of  earth. 

The  cygnet  nobly  walks  the  water; 

So  moved  on  earth  Circassia's  daughter, 

The  loveliest  bird  of  Franguestan  !  1 

As  rears  her  crest  the  ruffled  Swan, 

And  spurns  the  wave  with  wings  of  pride, 
When  pass  the  steps  of  stranger  man, 

Along  the  banks  that  bound  her  tide; 
Thus  rose  fair  Leila's  whiter  neck  :  — 
Thus  armed  with  beauty  would  she  check 
Intrusion's  glance,  till  Folly's  gaze 
Shrunk  from  the  charms  it  meant  to  praise, 
Thus  high  and  graceful  was  her  gait ; 
Her  heart  as  tender  to  her  mate ; 
Her  mate  —  stern  Hassan,  who  was  he  ? 
Alas  !  that  name  was  not  for  thee  ! 
***** 

Stern  Hassan  hath  a  journey  ta'en 
With  twenty  vassals  in  his  train, 
Each  armed,  as  best  becomes  a  man, 
With  arquebuss  and  ataghan  ; 
The  chief  before,  as  decked  for  war, 
Bears  in  his  belt  the  scimitar 
Stained  with  the  best  of  Arnaut  blood, 
When  in  the  pass  the  rebels  stood, 
And  few  returned  to  tell  the  tale 
Of  what  befell  in  Parne's  vale. 
The  pistols  which  his  girdle  bore 
Were  those  that  once  a  pasha  wore, 
Which  still,  though  gemmed  and  bosseo 

with  gold, 
Even  robbers  tremble  to  behold. 
'Tis  said  he  goes  to  woo  a  bride 
More  true  than  her  who  left  his  side ; 
The  faithless  slave  that  broke  her  bower, 
And,  worse  than  faithless,  for  a  Giaour! 
***** 

The  sun's  last  rays  are  on  the  hill, 
And  sparkle  in  the  fountain  rill, 
Whose  welcome  waters,  cool  and  clear, 
Draw  blessings  from  the  mountaineer : 


their  own  way,  and  exclude  their  moities  from 
heaven.  Being  enemies  to  Platonics,  they  cannot 
discern  "  any  fitness  of  things"  in  the  souls  of  the 
other  sex,  conceiving  them  to  be  superseded  by  the 
Houris. 

5  An  oriental  simile,  which  may,  perhaps,  though 
fairly  stolen,  be  deemed  "  plus  Arabe  qu'en  Ara- 
bic" 

0  Hyacinthine,  in  Arabic  "  Sunbul;  "  as  common 
a  thought  in  the  eastern  poets  as  it  was  among  the 
Greeks. 

7  "  Franguestan,"  Circassia. 


582 


THE   GIAOUR. 


Here  mav  the  loitering  merchant  Greek 
Find  that  repose  'twere  vain  to  seek 
In  cities  lodged  too  near  his  lord, 
And  trembling  for  his  secret  hoard  — 
Here  may  he  rest  where  none  can  see, 
In  crowds  a  slave,  in  deserts  free; 
And  with  forbidden  wine  may  stain 
The  bowl  a  Moslem  must  not  drain. 
***** 

The  foremost  Tartar's  in  the  gap, 
Conspicuous  by  his  yellow  cap  ; 
The  rest  in  lengthening  line  the  while 
Wind  slowly  through  the  long  defile  : 
Above,  the  mountain  rears  a  peak, 
Where  vultures  whet  the  thirsty  beak, 
And*  theirs  may  be  a  feast  to-night, 
Shall  tempt  them  down  ere  morrow's  light ; 
Beneath,  a  river's  wintry  stream 
Has  shrunk  before  the  summer  beam, 
And  left  a  channel  bleak  and  bare, 
Save  shrubs  that  spring  to  perish  there : 
Each  side  the  midway  path  there  lay 
Small  broken  crags  of  granite  gray, 
By  time,  or  mountain  lightning,  riven 
From  summits  clad  in  mists  of  heaven; 
For  where  is  he  that  hath  beheld 
The  peak  of  Liakura  unveiled  ? 

***** 

They  reach  the  grove  of  pine  at  last : 
"  Bismillah  !  1  now  the  peril's  past ; 
For  yonder  view  the  opening  plain, 
And  there  we'll  prick  our  steeds  amain  :  " 
The  Chiaus  spake,  and  as  he  said, 
A  bullet  whistled  o'er  his  head  ; 
The  foremost  Tartar  bites  the  ground! 

Scarce  had  they  time  to  check  the  rein, 
Swift  from  their  steeds  the  riders  bound ; 

But  three  shall  never  mount  again  : 
Unseen  the  foes  that  gave  the  wound, 

The  dying  ask  revenge  in  vain. 
With  steel  unsheathed,  and  carbine  bent, 
Some  o'er  their  courser's  harness  leant, 

Half  sheltered  by  the  steed  ; 
Some  fly  behind  the  nearest  rock, 
And  there  await  the  coming  shock, 

Nor  tamely  stand  to  bleed 
Beneath  the  shaft  of  foes  unseen, 
Who  dare  not  quit  their  craggy  screen. 
Stern  Hassan  only  from  his  horse 
Disdains  to  light,  and  keeps  his  course, 
Till  fiery  flashes  in  the  van 
Proclaim  too  sure  the  robber-clan 
Have  well  secured  the  only  way 
Could  now  avail  the  promised  prey  ; 
Then  curled  his  verv  beard  -  with  ire, 


1  Bismillah  —  "In  the  name  of  God;  "  the  com- 
mencement of  all  the  chapters  of  the  Koran  but  one, 
and  of  prayer  and  thanksgiving. 

2  A  phenomenon  not  uncommon  with  an  angry 
Mussulman.  In  1809,  the  Capitan  Pacha's  whiskers 
at  a  diplomatic  audience  were  no  less  lively  with 


And  glared  his  eye  with  fiercer  fire  : 
"  Though  far  and  near  the  bullets  hiss, 
I've  scaped  a  bloodier  hour  than  this." 
And  now  the  foe  their  covert  quit, 
And  call  his  vassals  to  submit ; 
•But  Hassan's  frown  and  furious  word 
Are  dreaded  more  than  hostile  sword, 
Nor  of  his  little  band  a  man 
Resigned  carbine  or  ataghan, 
Nor  raised  the  craven  cry,  Amaun  !  3 
In  fuller  sight,  more  near  and  near, 
The  lately  ambushed  foes  appear, 
And,  issuing  from  the  grove,  advance 
Some  who  on  battle-charger  prance. 
Who  leads  them  on  with  foreign  brand, 
Far  flashing  in  his  red  right  hand  ? 
"  'Tis  he  !  'tis  he  !   I  know  him  now ; 
I  know  him  by  his  pallid  brow ; 
I  know  him  by  the  evil  eye  * 
That  aids  his  envious  treachery; 
I  know  him  by  his  jet-black  barb  : 
Though  now  arrayed  in  Ainaut  garb, 
Apostate  from  his  own  vile  faith, 
It  shall  not  save  him  from  the  death  : 
'Tis  he  !  well  met  in  any  hour, 
Lost  Leila's  love,  accursed  Giaour !  " 

As  rolls  the  river  into  ocean, 
In  sable  torrent  wildly  streaming; 

As  the  sea-tide's  opposing  motion, 
In  azure  column  proudly  gleaming, 
Beats  back  flie  current  many  a  rood, 
In  curling  foam  and  mingling  flood, 
While  eddying  whirl,  and  breaking  wave, 
Roused  by  the  blast  of  winter,  rave ; 
Through    sparkling    spray,   in    thundering 

clash, 
The  lightnings  of  the  waters  flash 
In  awful  whiteness  o'er  the  shore 
That  shines  and  shakes  beneath  the  roar ; 
Thus  —  as  the  stream  and  ocean  £reet, 
With  waves  that  madden  as  the]  meet  — 
Thus  join  the  bands,  whom  mmual  wrong, 
And  fate,  and  fury,  drive  along. 
The  bickering  sabres'  shivering  jar  ; 
And  pealing  wide  or  ringing  near 
Its  echoes  on  the  throbbing  ear, 
The  deathshot  hissing  from  afar ; 
The  shock,  the  shout,  the  groan  of  war. 
Reverberate  along  that  vale, 
More  suited  to  the  shepherd's  tale  : 
Though  few  the  numbers  —  theiis  the  strife, 


indignation  than  a  tiger  cat's,  to  the  horror  of  all 
the  dragomans;  the  portentous  mustac hios  wisted, 
they  stood  erect  of  their  own  accord,  ar»  1  were 
expected  every  moment  to  change  their  color,  but 
at  last  condescended  to  subside,  which,  probably, 
saved  more  heads  than  they  contained  hairs. 

3  "Amaun,"  quarter,  pardon. 

4  The  "evil  eye,"  a  common  superstition  in  the 
Levant,  and  of  which  the  imaginary  effects  are  yet 
very  singular  on  those  who  conceive  themselve* 
affected. 


THE    GIAOUR. 


383 


That  neither  spares  nor  speaks  for  life ! 
Ah  !  fondly  youthful  hearts  can  press 
To  seize  and  share  the  dear  caress : 
But  Love  itself  could  never  pant 
For  all  that  Beauty  sighs  to  grant 
With  half  the  fervor  Hate  bestows 
Upon  the  last  embrace  of  foes, 
When  grappling  in  the  fight  they  fold 
Those  arms  that  ne'er  shall  lose  their  hold: 
Friends  meet  to  part ;  Love  laughs  at  faith  ; 
True  foes,  once  met,  are  joined  till  death  ! 
***** 

With  sabre  shivered  to  the  hilt, 
Yet  dripping  with  the  blood  he  spilt ; 
Yet  strained  within  the  severed  hand 
Which  quivers  round  that  faithless  brand ; 
His  turban  far  behind  him  rolled, 
And  cleft  in  twain  its  firmest  fold ; 
His  flowing  robe  by  falchion  torn, 
And  crimson  as  those  clouds  of  morn 
That,  streaked  with  dusky  red,  portend 
The  day  shall  have  a  stormy  end  ; 
A  stain  on  every  bush  that  bore 
A  fragment  of  his  palampore, 1 
His  breast  with  wounds  unnumbered  riven, 
His  back  to  earth,  his  face  to  heaven, 
Fallen  Hassan  lies  —  his  unclosed  eye 
Yet  lowering  on  his  enemy, 
As  if  the  hour  that  sealed  his  fate 
Surviving  left  his  quenchless  hate  ; 
And  o'er  him  bends  that  foe  with  brow 
As  dark  as  his  that  bled  below. — 
*  *  *  *  * 

"Yes,  Leila  sleeps  beneath  the  wave, 
But  his  shall  be  a  redder  grave  ; 
Her  spirit  pointed  well  the  steel 
Which  taught  that  felon  heart  to  feel. 
He  called  the  Prophet,  but  his  power 
Was  vain  against  the  vengeful  Giaour : 
He  called  on  Alia  — but  the  word 
Arose  unheeded  or  unheard. 
Thou  Paynim  fool !  could  Leila's  prayer 
Be  passed,  and  thine  accorded  there  ? 
I  watched  my  time,  I  leagued  with  these, 
The  traitor  in  his  turn  to  seize ; 
My  wrath  is  wreaked,  the  deed  is  done, 
And  now  I  go  —  but  go  alone." 


The  browsing  camels'  bells  are  tinkling  :  " 
His  Mother  looked  from  her  lattice  high, 
She  saw  the  dews  of  eve  besprinkling 


1  The  flowered  shawls  generally  worn  by  persons 
Oi  ..nk. 

2  [This  beautiful  passage  first  appeared  in  the 
third  edition.  "If  you  send  more  proofs,"  writes 
Byron  to  Mr.  Murray  (August  loth,  1813),  "I 
shall  never  finish  this  infernal  story.  Ecce  signum 
—  thirty  three  more  lines  inclosed! — to  the  utter 
discomfiture  of  the  printer,  and,  I  fear,  not  to  your 
advantage."] 


The  pasture  green  beneath  her  eye, 

She  saw  the  planets  faintly  twinkling : 
"  'Tis  twilight  —  sure  his  train  is  nigh." 
She  could  not  rest  in  the  garden-bower, 
But  gazed  through  the  grate  of  his  steepest 

tower ; 
Why  comes  he  not  ?  his  steeds  are  fleet, 
Nor  shrink  they  from  the  summer  heat; 
Why  sends  not  the  Bridegroom  his  prom- 
ised gift  ? 
Is  his  heart  more   cold,  or   his   barb   less 

swift  ? 
Oh,  false  reproach  !  yon  Tartar  now 
Has  gained  our  nearest  mountain's  brow, 
And  warily  the  steep  decends, 
And  now  within  the  valley  bends  ;     . 
And  he  bears  the  gift  at  his  saddle  bow  — 
How  could  I  deem  his  courser  slow  ? 
Right  well  my  largess  shall  repay 
His  welcome  speed,  and  weary  way." 

The  Tartar  lighted  at  the  gate, 
But  scarce  upheld  his  fainting  weight : 
His  swarthy  visage  spake  distress, 
But  this  might  be  from  weariness ; 
His  garb  with  sanguine  spots  was  dyed, 
But  these  might  be  from  his  courser's  side  ; 
He  drew  the  token  from  his  vest  — 
Angel  of  Death  !  'tis  Hassan's  cloven  crest ! 
His  calpac3  rent  —  his  caftan  red  — 
"  Lady,  a  fearful  bride  thy  Son  hath  wed  : 
Me,  not  from  mercy,  did  they  spare, 
But  this  empurpled  pledge  to  bear. 
Peace  to  the  brave  !  whose  blood  is  spilt ; 
Woe  to  the  Giaour !  for  his  the  guilt." 
***** 

A  turban4  carved  in  coarsest  stone, 
A  pillar  with  rank  weeds  o'ergrown, 
Whereon  can  now  be  scarcely  read 
The  Koran  verse  that  mourns  the  dead, 
Point  out  the  spot  where  Hassan  fell 
A  victim  in  that  lonely  dell. 
There  sleeps  as  true  an  Osmanlie 
As  e'er  at  Mecca  bent  the  knee ; 
As  ever  scorned  forbidden  wine, 
Or  prayed  with  face  towards  the  shrine, 
In  orisons  resumed  anew 
At  solemn  sound  of  "  Alia  Hu  !  "  5 


3  The  "  Calpac  "  is  the  solid  cap  or  centre  part  of 
rhe  headdress;  the  shawl  is  wound  round  it,  and 
forms  the  turban. 

4  The  turban,  pillar,  and  inscriptive  verse,  deco- 
rate the  tombs  of  the  Osmanlies,  whether  in  the 
cemetery  or  the  wilderness.  •  In  the  mountains  you 
frequently  pass  similar  mementos:  and  on  inquiry 
you  are  informed  that  they  record  some  victim  of 
rebellion,  plunder,  or  revenge. 

5  "  Alia  Hu!"  the  concluding  words  of  the 
Muezzin's  call  to  prayer  from  the  highest  gallery 
on  the  exterior  of  the  Minaret.  On  a  still  evening, 
when  the  Muezzin  has  a  fine  voice,  which  is  fre- 
quently the  case,  the  effect  is  solemn  and  beautiful 
beyond  all  the  bells  in  Christendom. —  [Valid,  the 


384 


THE    GIAOUR. 


Yet  died  he  by  a  stranger's  hand, 
And  stranger  in  his  native  land ; 
Yet  died  he  as  in  arms  he  stood, 
And  unavenged,  at  least  in  blood. 
But  him  the  maids  of  Paradise 

Impatient  to  their  halls  invite, 
And  the  dark  Heaven  of  Houris'  eyes 
On  him  shall  glance  for  ever  bright; 
They   come  —  their    kerchiefs   green    they 

wave,1 
And  welcome  with  a  kiss  the  brave ! 
]    Who  falls  in  battle  'gainst  a  Giaour 
l     Is  worthiest  an  immortal  bower. 

***** 

But  thou,  false  Infidel !  shalt  writhe 
Beneath  avenging  Monkir's2  scythe; 
And  from  its  torment  'scape  alone 
To  wander  round  lost  Eblis' 3  throne  ; 
And  fire  unquenched,  unquenchable, 
Around,  within,  thy  heart  shall  dwell; 
Nor  ear  can  hear  nor  tongue  can  tell 
The  tortures  of  that  inward  hell ! 
But  first,  on  earth  as  vampire4  sent, 
Thy  corse  shall  from  its  tomb  be  rent : 
Then  ghastly  haunt  thy  native  place, 
And  suck  the  blood  of  all  thy  race ; 
There  from  thy  daughter,  sister,  wife, 
At  midnight  drain  the  stream  of  life ; 
Yet  loathe  the  banquet  which  perforce 


son  of  Abdalmalek,  was  the  first  who  erected  a 
minaret  or  turret;  and  this  he  placed  on  the  grand 
mosque  at  Damascus,  for  the  muezzin,  or  crier,  to 
announce  from  it  the  hour  of  prayer.] 

1  The  following  is  part  of  a  battle  song  of  the 
Turks:  — "  I  see  —  I  see  a  dark-eyed  girl  of  Para- 
dise, and  she  waves  a  handkerchief,  a  kerchief  of 
green;  and  cries  aloud,  'Come,  kiss  me,  for  I  love 
thee,' "  etc. 

2  Monkir  and  Nekir  are  the  inquisitors  of  the 
dead,  before  whom  the  corpse  undergoes  a  slight 
noviciate  and  preparatory  training  for  damnation. 
If  the  answers  are  none  of  the  clearest,  he  is  hauled 
up  with  a  scythe  and  thumped  down  with  a  red  hot 
mace  till  properly  seasoned,  with  a  variety  of  sub- 
sidiary probations.  The  office  of  these  angels  is  no 
sinecure;  there  are  but  two,  and  the  number  of 
orthodox  deceased  being  in  small  proportion  to  the 
remainder,  their  hands  are  always  full.  See  Relig. 
Ceremon.  and  Sale's  Koran. 

3  Eblis,  the  Oriental  Prince  of  Darkness. — 
[D'Herbelot  supposes  this  title  to  have  been  a  cor- 
ruption of  the  Greek  Ata/3oAos.] 

4  The  Vampire  superstition  is  still  general  in  the 
Levant.  Honest  Tournefort  tells  a  long  story, 
which  Mr.  Southey,  in  the  notes  on  Thalaba,  quotes, 
about  these  "  Vroucolochas,"  as  he  calls  them. 
The  Romaic  term  is  "  Vardoulacha."  I  recollect  a 
whole  family  being  terrified  by  the  scream  of  a 
child,  which  they  imagined  must  proceed  from  such 
a  visitation.  The  Greeks  never  mention  the  word 
without  horror.  1  find  that  "  Broucolocas"  is  an 
old  legitimate  Hellenic  appellation  —  at  least  is  so 
applied  to  Arsenius,  who,  according  to  the  Greeks, 
was  after  his  death  animated  by  the  Devil.  —  The 
moderns,  however,  use  the  word  I  mention. 


Must  feed  thy  livid  living  corse : 
Thy  victims  ere  they  yet  expire 
Shall  know  the  demon  for  their  sire, 
As  cursing  thee,  thou  cursing  them, 
Thy  flowers  are  withered  on  the  stem. 
But  one  that  for  thy  crime  must  fall, 
The  youngest,  most  beloved  of  all, 
Shall  bless  thee  with  a  father 's  name  — 
That  word  shall  wrap  thy  heart  in  flame ! 
Yet  must  thou  end  thy  task,  and  mark 
Her  cheek's  last  tinge,  her  eye's  last  spark, 
And  the  last  glassy  glance  must  view 
Which  freezes  o'er  its  lifeless  blue  ; 
Then  with  unhallowed  hand  shall  tear 
The  tresses  of  Iter  yellow  hair, 
Of  which  in  life  a  lock  when  shorn 
Affection's  fondest  pledge  was  worn, 
But  now  is  borne  away  by  thee, 
Memorial  of  thine  agony ! 
Wet  with  thine  own  best  blood  shall  drip8 
Thy  gnashing  tooth  and  haggard  lip ; 
Then  stalking  to  thy  sullen  grave, 
Go  —  and  with  Ghouls  and  Afrits  rave; 
Till  these  in  horror  shrink  away 
From  spectre  more  accursed  than  they  I  6 
***** 

"  How  name  ye  yon  lone  Caloyer  ? 

His  features  I  have  scanned  before 
In  mine  own  land  :  'tis  many  a  year. 

Since,  dashing  by  the  lonely  shore, 
I  saw  him  u»ge  as  fleet  a  steed 
As  ever  served  a  horseman's  need. 
But  once  I  saw  that  face,  yet  then 
It  was  so  marked  with  inward  pain, 
I  could  not  pass  it  by  again  ; 
It  breathes  the  same  dark  spirit  now, 
As  death  were  stamped  upon  his  brow." 

"  'Tis  twice  three  years  at  summer  tide 

Since  first  among  our  freres  he  came ; 
And  here  it  soothes  him  to  abide 

For  some  dark  deed  he  will  not  name, 
But  never  at  our  vesper  prayer, 
Nor  e'er  before  confession  chair 
Kneels  he,  nor  recks  he  when  arise 
Incense  or  anthem  to  the  skies, 
But  broods  within  his  cell  alone, 
His  faith  and  race  alike  unknown. 
The  sea  from  Paynim  land  he  crost, 
And  here  ascended  from  the  coast ; 
Yet  seems  he  not  of  Othman  race, 
But  only  Christian  in  his  face  : 
I'd  judge  him  some  stray  ienegade, 


B  Th9  freshness  of  the  face,  and  the  wetness  of 
the  lip  with  blood,  are  the  never-failing  signs  of  a 
Vampire.  The  stories  told  in  Hungary  and  Greece 
of  these  foul  feeders  are  singular,  and  some  of  them 
most  incredibly  attested. 

6  [The  imprecations  of  the  Turk,  against  the 
"accursed  Giaour,"  are  introduced  with  great 
judgment,  and  contribute  much  to  the  dramatic 
effect  of  the  narrative.  —  George  EHis.] 


THE    GIAOUR. 


385 


Repentant  of  the  change  he  made, 
Save  that  he  shuns  our  holy  shrine, 
Nor  tastes  the  sacred  bread  and  wine. 
Great  largess  to  these  walls  he  brought, 
And  thus  our  abbot's  favor  bought ; 
But  were  I  Prior,  not  a  day 
Should  brook  such  stranger's  further  stay, 
Or  pent  within  our  penance  cell 
Should  doom  him  there  for  aye  to  dwell. 
Much  in  his  visions  mutters  he 
Of  maiden  whelmed  beneath  the  sea ; 
Of  sabres  clashing,  foemen  flying, 
Wrongs  avenged,  and  Moslem  dying. 
On  cliff  he  hath  been  known  to  stand, 
And  rave  as  to  some  bloody  hand 
Fresh  severed  from  its  parent  limb, 
Invisible  to  all  but  him, 
Which  beckons  onward  to  his  grave, 
And  lures  to  leap  into  the  wave." 


Dark  and  unearthly  is  the  scowl1 

That  glares  beneath  his  dusky  cowl : 

The  flash  of  that  dilating  eye 

Reveals  too  much  of  times  gone  by ; 

Though  varying,  indistinct  its  hue, 

Oft  will  his  glance  the  gazer  rue, 

For  in  it  lurks  that  nameless  spell, 

Which  speaks,  itself  unspeakable, 

A  spirit  yet  unquelled  and  high, 

That  claims  and  keeps  ascendency : 

And  like  the  bird  whose  pinions  quake, 

But  cannot  fly  the  gazing  snake, 

Will  others  quail  beneath  his  look, 

Nor  'scape   the  glance    they  scarce    can 

brook. 
From  him  the  half-affrighted  Friar 
When  met  alone  would  fain  retire, 
As  if  that  eye  and  bitter  smile 
Transferred  to  others  fear  and  guile : 
Not  oft  to  smile  descendeth  he, 
And  when  he  doth  'tis  sad  to  see 
That  he  but  mocks  at  Misery. 
How  that  pale  lip  will  curl  and  quiver ! 
Then  fix  once  more  as  if  for  ever ; 
As  if  his  sorrow  or  disdain 
Forbade  him  e'er  to  smile  again. 
Well  were  it  so  —  such  ghastly  mirth 
From  joyaunce  ne'er  derived  its  birth. 
But  sadder  still  were  it  to  trace 
What  once  were  feelings  in  that  face ; 
Time  hath  not  yet  the  features  fixed, 
But  brighter  traits  with  evil  mixed ; 
And  there  are  hues  not  always  faded, 
Which  speak  a  mind  not  all  degraded 
Even    by   the    crimes    through    which    it 

waded : 


1  [The  remaining  lines,  about  five  hundred  in 
number,  were,  with  the  exception  of  the  last  six- 
teen, all  added  to  the  poem  either  during  its  first 
progress  through  the  press,  or  in  subsequent  edi- 
tions.] 


The  common  crowd  but  see  the  gloom 
Of  wayward  deeds,  and  fitting  doom  ; 
The  close  observer  can  espy 
A  noble  soul,  and  lineage  high  : 
Alas!  though  both  bestowed  in  vain, 
Which  Grief  could  change,  and  Guilt  could 

stain, 
It  was  no  vulgar  tenement 
To  which  such  lofty  gifts  were  lent, 
And  still  with  little  less  than  dread 
On  such  the  sight  is  riveted. 
The  roofless  cot,  decayed  and  rent, 

Will  scarce  de'iy  the  passer  by ; 
The  tower  by  war  or  tempest  bent, 
While  yet  may  frown  one  battlement, 

Demands  and  daunts  the  stranger's  eye_ 
Each  ivied  arch,  and  pillar  lone, 
Pleads  haughtily  for  glories  gone  ! 

"  His  floating  robe  around  him  folding, 
Slow  sweeps   he   through  the  columned 
aisle ; 
With  dread  beheld,  with  gloom  beholding 

The  rites  that  sanctify  the  pile. 
But  when  the  anthem  shakes  the  choir, 
And  kneel  the  monks,  his  steps  retire ; 
By  yonder  lone  and  wavering  torch 
His  aspect  glares  within  the  porch ; 
There  will  he  pause  till  all  is  done —  ' 
And  hear  the  prayer,  but  utter  none. 
See — by  the  half-illumined  wall 
His  hood  fly  back,  his  dark  hair  fall, 
That  pale  brow  wildly  wreathing  round, 
As  if  the  Gorgon  there  had  bound 
The  sablest  of  the  serpent-braid 
That  o'er  her  fearful  forehead  strayed  : 
For  he  declines  the  convent  oath, 
And  leaves  those  locks  unhallowed  growth, 
But  wears  our  grab  in  all  beside  ; 
And,  not  from  piety  but  pride, 
Gives  wealth  to  walls  that  never  heard 
Of  his  one  holy  vow  nor  word. 
Lo  !  — mark  ye,  as  the  harmony 
Peals  louder  praises  to  the  sky, 
That  livid  cheek,  that  stony  air 
Of  mixed  defiance  and  despair! 
Saint  Francis,  keep  him  from  the  shrine ! 
Else  may  we  dread  the  wrath  divine 
Made  manifest  by  awful  sign. 
If  ever  evil  angel  bore 
The  form  of  mortal,  such  he  wore  : 
By  all  my  hope  of  sins  forgiven, 
Such  looks  are  not  of  earth  nor  heaven!" 

To  love  the  softest  hearts  are  prone, 
But  such  can  ne'er  be  all  his  own; 
Too  timid  in  his  woes  to  share, 
Too  meek  to  meet,  or  brave  despair; 
And  sterner  hearts  alone  may  feel 
The  wound  that  time  can  never  heaL 
The  rugged  metal  of  the  mine 
Must  burn  before  its  surface  shine. 


386 


THE    GIAOUR. 


But  plunged  within  the  furnace-flame, 
It  bends  and  melts  —though  still  the  same ; 
Then  tempered  to  thy  want,  or  will, 
'Twill  serve  thee  to  defend  or  kill; 
A  breast-plate  for  thine  hour  of  need, 
Or  blade  to  bid  thy  foeman  bleed ; 
But  if  a  dagger's  form  it  bear, 
Let  those  who  shape  its  edge,  beware. 
Thus  passion's  fire,  and  woman's  art, 
Can  turn  and  tame  the  sterner  heart ; 
From  these  its  form  and  tone  are  ta'en, 
And  what  they  make  it,  must  remain, 
But  break  —  before  it  bend  again. 


If  solitude  succeed  to  grief, 
Release  from  pain  is  slight  relief; 
The  vacant  bosom's  wilderness 
Might  thank  the  pang  that  made  it  less. 
We  loathe  what  none  are  left  to  share : 
Even  bliss  —  'twere  woe  alone  to  bear; 
The  heart  once  left  thus  desolate 
Must  fly  at  last  for  ease  —  to  hate. 
It  is  as  if  the  dead  could  feel 
The  icy  worm  around  them  steal, 
And  shudder,  as  the  reptiles  creep 
To  revel  o'er  their  rotting  sleep, 
Without  the  power  to  scare  away 
The  cold  consumers  of  their  clay! 
It  is  as  if  the  desert-bird,1 

Whose  beak  unlocks  her  bosom's  stream 

To  still  her  famished  nestlings'  scream, 
Nor  mourns  a  life  to  them  transferred, 
Should  rend  her  rash  devoted  breast, 
And  find  them  flown  her  empty  nest. 
The  keenest  pangs  the  wretched  find 

Are  rapture  to  the  dreary  void, 
The  leafless  desert  of  the  mind, 

The  waste  of  feelings  unemployed. 
Who  would  be  doomed  to  gaze  upon 
A  sky  without  a  cloud  or  sun  ? 
Less  hideous  far  the  tempest's  roar 
Than  ne'er  to  brave  the  billows  more  — 
Thrown,  when  the  war  of  winds  is  o'er, 
A  lonely  wreck  on  fortune's  shore, 
'Mid  sullen  calm,  and  silent  bay, 
Unseen  to  drop  by  dull  decay  ;  — 
Better  to  sink  beneath  the  shock 
Than  moulder  piecemeal  on  the  rock ! 
***** 

"Father!  thy  days  have  passed  in  peace, 

'Mid  counted  beads,  and  countless  prayer ; 
To  bid  the  sins  of  others  cease, 

Thyself  without  a  crime  or  care, 
Save  transient  ills  that  all  must  bear, 
Has  been  thy  lot  from  youth  to  age ; 
And  thou  wilt  bless  thee  from  the  rage 
Of  passions  fierce  and  uncontrolled, 


1  The  pelican  is.  I  believe,  the  bird  so  libelled, 
by  the  imputation  of  feeding  her  chickens  with  her 
h' nod. 


Such  as  thy  penitents  unfold, 

Whose  secret  sins  and  sorrows  rest 

Within  thy  pure  and  pitying  breast. 

My  days,  though  few,  have  passed  below 

In  much  of  joy,  but  more  of  woe; 

Yet  still  in  hours  of  love  or  strife, 

I've  'scaped  the  weariness  of  life: 

Now  leagued  with  friends,  now  girt  by  foes 

I  loathed  the  languor  of  repose. 

Now  nothing  left  to  love  or  hate, 

No  more  with  hope  or  pride  elate, 

I'd  rather  be  the  thing  that  crawls 

Most  noxious  o'er  a  dungeon's  walls, 

Than  pass  my  dull,  unvarying  days, 

Condemned  to  meditate  and  gaze. 

Yet,  lurks  a  wish  within  my  breast 

For  rest — but  not  to  feel  'tis  rest. 

Soon  shall  my  fate  that  wish  fulfil ; 

And  I  shall  sleep  without  the  dream 
Of  what  I  was,  and  would  be  still, 

Dark  as  to  thee  my  deeds  may  seem  : 
My  memory  now  is  but  the  tomb 
Of  joys  long  dead;  my  hope,  their  doom 
Though  better  to  have  died  with  those 
Than  bear  a  life  of  lingering  woes. 
My  spirit  shrunk  not  to  sustain 
The  searching  throes  of  ceaseless  pain ; 
Nor  sought  the  self-accorded  grave 
Of  ancient  fool  and  modern  knave  : 
Yet  death  I  have  not  feared  to  meet ; 
And  in  the  field  it  had  been  sweet, 
Had  danger  wooed  me  on  to  move 
The  slave  of  glory,  not  of  love. 
I've  braved  it  —  not  for  honor's  boast ; 
I  smile  at  laurels  won  or  lost ; 
To  such  let  others  carve  their  way, 
For  high  renown,  or  hireling  pay  : 
But  place  again  before  my  eyes 
Aught  that  I  deem  a  worthy  prize, 
The  maid  I  love,  the  man  I  hate; 
And  I  will  hunt  the  steps  of  fate, 
To  save  or  slay,  as  these  require, 
Through  rending  steel,  and  rolling  fire: 
Nor  needst  thou  doubt  this  speech  from  on< 
Who  would  but  do — what  he  hath  done. 
Death  is  but  what  the  haughty  brave, 
The  weak  must  bear,  the  wretch  must  crave 
Then  let  Life  go  to  him  who  gave : 
I  have  not  quailed  to  danger's  brow 
When  high  and  happy  —  need  I  now? 


"  I  loved  her,  Friar !  nay,  adored  — 

But  these  are  words  that  all  can  use  — 
I  proved  it  more  in  deed  than  word ; 
There's  blood  upon  that  dinted  sword, 

A  stain  its  steel  can  never  lose  : 
'Twas  shed  for  her,  who  died  for  me, 

It  warmed  the  heart  of  one  abhorred : 
Nay,  start  not  —  no  —  nor  bend  thy  knee, 

Nor  midst  my  sins  such  act  record ; 
Thou  wilt  absolve  me  from  the  deed. 


THE    GIAOUR. 


38? 


For  he  was  hostile  to  thy  creed ! 

The  very  name  of  Nazarene 

Was  wormwood  to  his  Paynim  spleen. 

Ungrateful  fool !  since  but  for  brands 

Well  wielded  in  some  hardy  hands, 

And  wounds  by  Galileans  given, 

The  surest  pass  to  Turkish  heaven, 

For  him  his  Houris  still  might  wait 

Irupatient  at  the  Prophet's  gate. 

I  loved  her — love  will  find  its  way 

Through  paths  where  wolves  would  fear  to 

prey; 
And  if  it  dares  enough,  'twere  hard 
If  passion  met  not  some  reward  — 
No  matter  how,  or  where,  or  why, 
I  did  not  vainly  seek,  nor  sigh  : 
Yet  sometimes,  with  remorse,  in  vain 
I  wish  she  had  not  loved  again. 
She  died  —  I  dare  not  tell  thee  how; 
But  look  'tis  written  on  my  brow ! 
There  read  of  Cain  the  curse  and  crime, 
In  characters  unworn  by  time  : 
Still,  ere  thou  dost  condemn  me,  pause; 
Not  mine  the  act,  though  I  the  cause. 
Yet  did  he  but  what  I  had  done. 
Had  she  been  false  to  more  than  one. 
Faithless  to  him,  he  gave  the  blow ; 
But  true  to  me,  I  laid  him  low  : 
Howe'er  deserved  her  doom  might  be, 
Her  treachery  was  truth  to  me ; 
To  me  she  gave  her  heart,  that  all 
Which  tyranny  can  ne'er  enthrall ; 
And  I,  alas  !  too  late  to  save ! 
Yet  all  I  then  could  give,  I  gave, 
'Twas  some  relief,  our  foe  a  grave. 
His  death  sits  lightly ;  but  her  fate 
Has  made  me  — what  thou  well  may'st  hate. 
His  doom  was  sealed  —  he  knew  it  well, 
Warned  by  the  voice  of  stern  Taheer, 
Deep  in  whose  darkly  boding  ear  * 

1  This  superstition  of  a  second  hearing  (for  I 
never  met  with  downright  second-sight  in  the  East) 
fell  once  under  my  own  observation.  On  my  third 
journey  to   Cape   Colonna,  early   in    1811,   as  we 

f>assed  through  the  defile  that  leads  from  the  ham- 
et  between  Keratia  and  Colonna,  I  observed  Der- 
vish Tahiri  riding  rather  out  of  the  path,  and  lean- 
ing his  head  upon  his  hand,  as  if  in  pain.  I  rode 
up  and  inquired.  "  We  are  in  peril,"  he  answered. 
"What  peril?  we  are  not  now  in  Albania,  nor  in 
the  passes  to  Ephesus  Messalunghi,  or  Lepanto; 
there  are  plenty  of  us,  well  armed,  and  the  Chori- 
ates  have  not  courage  to  be  thieves."  —  "True, 
AfTendi,  but  nevertheless  the  shot  is  ringing  in  my 
ears."  —  "  The  shot!  not  a  tophaike  has  been  fired 
this  morning."  —  "I  hear  it  notwithstanding  —  Bom 
—  Bom  —  as  plainly  as  I  hear  your  voice."  — 
"  Psha!  "  —  "  As  you  please,  AfTendi:  if  it  is  written, 
so  will  it  be."  —  I  left  this  quick-eared  predestina- 
rian,  and  rode  up  to  Basili,  his  Christian  compa- 
triot, whose  ears,  though  not  at  all  prophetic,  by 
no  means  relished  the  intelligence.  We  all  arrived 
at  Colonna,  remained  some  hours,  and  returned 
leisurely,   saying  a  variety  of  brilliant   things,  in 


The  deathshot  pealed  of  murder  near, 
As  filed  the  troop  to  where  they  fell  I 
He  died  too  in  the  battle  broil, 
A  time  that  heeds  nor  pain  nor  toil ; 
One  cry  to  Mahomet  for  aid, 
One  prayer  to  Alia  all  he  made : 
He  knew  and  crossed  me  in  the  fray  — 
I  gazed  upon  him  where  he  lay, 
And  watched  his  spirit  ebb  away  : 
Though  pierced  like  pard  by  hunters'  steel, 
He  felt  not  half  that  now  I  feel. 
I  searched,  but  vainly  searched,  to  find 
The  workings  of  a  wounded  mind  ; 
Each  feature  of  that  sullen  corse 
Betrayed  his  rage,  but  no  remorse. 
Oh,  what  had  Vengeance  given  to  trace 
Despair  upon  his  dying  face  ! 
The  late  repentance  of  that  hour, 
When  Penitence  hath  lost  her  power 
To  tear  one  terror  from  the  grave, 
And  will  not  soothe,  and  cannot  save. 
***** 

"  The  cold  in  clime  are  cold  in  blood, 
Their  love  can  scarce  deserve  the  name ; 

But  mine  was  like  the  lava  flood 
That  boils  in  ^Etna's  breast  of  flame. 

more  languages  than  spoiled  the  building  of  Babel, 
upon  the  mistaken  seer.  Romaic,  Arnaout,  Turk- 
ish, Italian,  and  English,  were  all  exercised,  in 
various  conceits,  upon  the  unfortunate  Mussulman. 
While  we  were  contemplating  the  beautiful  pros- 
pect, Dervish  was  occupied  about  the  columns.  I 
thought  he  was  deranged  into  an  antiquarian,  and 
asked  him  if  he  had  become  a  "  Palaocastro" 
man?  "No,"  said  he,  "but  these  pillars  will  be 
useful  in  making  a  stand ;  "  and  added  other  re- 
marks, which  at  least  evinced  his  own  belief  in  his 
troublesome  faculty  of  forehearing.  On  our  re- 
turn to  Athens  we  heard  from  Leone  (a  prisoner 
set  ashore  some  days  after)  of  the  intended  attack 
of  the  Mainotes,  mentioned,  with  the  cause  of  its 
not  taking  place,  in  the  notes  to  Childe  Harold, 
Canto  2d.  I  was  at  some  pains  to  question  the 
man,  and  he  described  the  dresses,  arms,  and 
marks  of  the  horses  of  our  party  so  accurately, 
that,  with  other  circumstances,  we  could  not  doubt 
of  his  having  been  in  "  villanous  company,"  and 
ourselves  in  a  bad  neighborhood.  Dervish  became 
a  soothsayer  for  life,  and  I  dare  say  is  now  hearing 
more  musketry  than  ever  will  be  fired,  to  the  great 
refreshment  of  the  Arnaouts  of  Berat,  and  his 
native  mountains.  —  I  shall  mention  one  trait  more 
of  this  singular  race.  In  March,  181 1,  a  remark- 
ably stout  and  active  Arnaout  came  (I  believe  the 
fiftieth  on  the  same  errand)  to  offer  himself  as  an 
attendant,  which  was  declined:  "Weil,  Affendi," 
quoth  he,  "  may  you  live !  — you  would  have  found 
me  useful.  I  shall  leave  the  town  for  the  hills  to- 
morrow, in  the  winter  I  return,  perhaps  you  will 
then  receive  me."  —  Dervish,  who  was  present,, 
remarked  as  a  thing  of  course,  and  of  no  con- 
sequence, "  in  the  meantime  he  will  join  the 
Klephtes"  (robbers),  which  was  true  to  the  letter. 
If  not  cut  off,  they  come  down  in  the  winter,  and 
pass  it  unmolested  in  some  town,  where  they  are 
often  as  well  known  as  their  exploits. 


388 


THE    GIAOUR. 


I  cannot  prate  in  puling  strain 
Of  ladye-love,  and  beauty's  chain : 
If  changing  cheek,  and  scorching  vein, 
Lips  taaght  to  writhe,  but  not  complain, 
If  bursting  heart,  and  maddening  brain, 
And  daring  deed,  and  vengeful  steel, 
And  all  that  I  have  felt  and  feel, 
Betoken  love  —  that  love  was  mine, 
And  shown  by  many  a  bitter  sign. 
'Tis  true,  I  could  not  whine  nor  sigh, 
I  knew  but  to  obtain  or  die. 
I  die  —  but  first  I  have  possessed, 
And  come  what  may,  I  have  been  blest. 
Shall  I  the  doom  I  sought  upbraid  ? 
No —  reft  of  all,  yet  undismayed 
But  for  the  thought  of  Leila  slain, 
Give  me  the  pleasure  with  the  pain, 
So  would  I  live  and  love  again. 
I  grieve,  but  not,  my  holy  guide  ! 
For  him  who  dies,  but  her  who  died : 
She  sleeps  beneath  the  wandering  wave  — 
Ah  !  had  she  but  an  earthly  grave, 
This  breaking  heart  and  throbbing  head 
Should  seek  and  share  her  narrow  bed.1 
She  was  a  form  of  life  and  light, 
That,  seen,  became  a  part  of  sight ; 
And  rose,  where'er  I  turned  mine  eye, 
The  Morning-star  of  Memory  ! 

Yes,  Love  indeed  is  light  from  heaven  ;  2 

A  spark  of  that  immortal  lire 
With  angels  shared,  by  Alia  given, 

To  lift  from  earth  our  low  desire. 
Devotion  wafts  the  mind  above, 
But  heaven  itself  descends  in  love  ; 
A  feeling  from  the  Godhead  caught, 
To  wean  from  self  each  sordid  thought ; 
A  Ray  of  him  who  formed  the  whole  ; 
A  Glory  circling  round  the  soul ! 
I  grant  my  love  imperfect,  all 
That  mortals  by  the  name  miscall; 


1  [These,  in  our  opinion,  are  the  most  beautiful 
passages  of  the  poem ;  and  some  of  them  of  a  beauty 
which  it  would  not  be  easy  to  eclipse  by  many  cita- 
tions in  the  language.  —  jeffrey.\ 

2  [The  hundred  and  twenty-six  lines  which  fol- 
low, down  to  "  Tell  me  no  more  of  fancy's  gleam," 
first  appeared  in  the  fifth  edition.  In  returning  the 
proof,  Byron  says:  —  "  I  have,  but  with  some  diffi- 
culty, not  added  any  more  to  this  snake  of  a  poem, 
which  has  been  lengthening  its  rattles  every  month. 
It  is  now  fearfully  long,  being  more  than  a  canto 
and  a  half  of  '  Childe  Harold.'  The  last  lines  Hodg- 
son likes.  It  is  not  often  he  does;  and  when  he 
don't,  he  tells  me  with  great  energy,  and  I  fret,  and 
alter.  I  have  thrown  them  in  to  soften  the  ferocity 
of  our  Infidel;  and,  for  a  dying  man,  have  given 
him  a  good  deal  to  say  for  himself.  Do  you  know 
anybody  who  can  stop — I  mean  point  —  commas, 
and  so  forth?  for  I  am,  I  hear,  a  sad  hand  at  your 
punctuation."  Among  the  Giaour  MSS.  is  the  first 
draught  of  this  passage:  — 

1  Yes  )  f  doth  spring 

Love  indeed  \  descend        \  from  heaven 
(  be  born 


Then  deem  it  evil,  what  thou  wilt; 

But  say,  oh  say,  hers  was  not  guilt ! 

She  was  my  life's  unerring  light : 

That  quenched,  what  beam  shall  break  mj 

night  ? 
Oh !  would  it  shone  to  lead  me  still, 
Although  to  death  or  deadliest  ill ! 
Why  marvel  ye,  if  they  who  lose 

This  present  joy,  this  future  hope, 

No  more  with  sorrow  meekly  cope ; 
In  phrenzy  then  their  fate  accuse : 
In  madness  do  those  fearful  deeds 

That  seem  to  add  but  guilt  to  woe  ? 
Alas  !  the  breast  that  inly  bleeds 

Hath  nought  to  dread  from  outward  blow 
Who  falls  from  all  he  knows  of  bliss, 
Cares  little  into  what  abyss. 
Fierce  as  the  gloomy  vulture's  now 

To  thee,  old  man,  my  deeds  appear: 
I  read  abhorrence  on  thy  brow, 

And  this  too  was  I  born  to  bear  I 
'Tis  true,  that,  like  that  bird  of  prey, 
With  havoc  have  I  marked  my  way : 
But  this  was  taught  me  by  the  dove, 
To  die  —  and  know  no  second  love. 
This  lesson  yet  hath  man  to  learn, 
Taught  by  the  thing  he  dares  to  spurn : 
The  bird  that  sings  within  the  brake, 
The  swan  that  swims  upon  the  lake, 
One  mate,  and  one  alone,  will  take. 
And  let  the/ool  still  prone  to  range, 
And  sneer  on  all  who  cannot  change, 
Partake  his  jest  with  boasting  boys  ; 
I  envy  not  his  varied  joys, 
But  deem  such  feeble,  heartless  man, 
Less  than  yon  solitary  swan  ; 
Far,  far  beneath  the  shallow  maid 
He  left  believing  and  betrayed. 
Such  shame  at  least  was  never  mine  — 
Leila !  each  thought  was  only  thine ! 
My  good,  my  guilt,  my  weal,  my  woe, 
My  hope  on  high  —  my  all  below. 
Earth  holds  no  other  like  to  thee, 
Or,  if  it  doth,  in  vain  for  me : 


(  immortal  i 
A  spark  of  that  I  eternal      J  fire, 

(  celestial    ) 
To  human  hearts  in  mercy  given, 

To  lift  from  earth  our  low  desire. 
A  feeling  from  the  Godhead  caught, 

To  wean  from  self  j  ^h  I  sordid  thought; 

Devotion  sends  the  soul  above, 
But  Heaven  itself  descends  to  love. 

Yet  marvel  not,  if  they  who  love 
This  present  joy,  this  future  hope, 
Which  taught  them  with  all  ill  to  cope, 

In  madness,  then,  their  fate  accuse  — 

In  madness  do  those  fearful  deeds 

Tl  ,  (to  add  but  guilt  to      /  _ _. 

That  seem  j  but  tQ  mf^mt  their  {  woe. 

Alas!  the   \  \™f  I  that  inly  bleeds, 
Has  nought  to  dread  from  outward  foe,"  etc.J 


THE    GIAOUR. 


389 


For  worlds  I  dare  not  view  the  dame 
Resembling  thee,  yet  not  the  same. 
The  very  crimes  that  mar  my  youth, 
This  bed  of  death  —  attest  my  truth  ! 
'Tis  all  too  late  —  thou  wert,  thou  art 
The  cherished  madness  of  my  heart ! 

"And  she  was  lost  —  and  yet  I  breathed, 

But  not  the  breath  of  human  life  : 
A  serpent  round  my  heart  was  wreathed, 

And  stung  my  every  thought  to  strife. 
Alike  all  time,  abhorred  all  place, 
Shuddering  I  shrunk  from  Nature's  face, 
Where  every  hue  that  charmed  before 
The  blackness  of  my  bosom  wore. 
The  rest  thou  dost  already  know, 
And  all  my  sins,  and  half  my  woe. 
But  talk  no  more  of  penitence; 
Thou  see'st  I  soon  shall  part  from  hence : 
And  if  thy  holy  tale  were  true, 
The  deed  that's  done  canst  thou  undo  ? 
Think  me  not  thankless  —  but  this  grief 
Looks  not  to  priesthood  for  relief.  * 
My  soul's  estate  in  secret  guess : 
But  wouldst  thou  pity  more,  say  less. 
When  thou  canst  bid  my  Leila  live, 
Then  will  I  sue  thee  to  forgive ; 
Then  plead  my  cause  in  that  high  place 
Where  purchased  masses  proffer  grace. 
Go,  when  the  hunter's  hand  hath  wrung 
From  forest-cave  her  shrieking  young, 
And  calm  the  lonely  lioness : 
But  soothe  not — mock  not  my  distress! 

"  In  earlier  days,  and  calmer  hours, 

When  heart  with  heart  delights  to  blend, 
Where  bloom  my  native  valley's  bowers 

I  had  —  Ah  !  have  I  now  ?  —  a  friend  ! 
To  him  this  pledge  I  charge  thee  send, 

Memorial  ot  a  youthful  vow; 
I  would  remind  him  of  my  end  : 

Though  souls  absorbed  like  mine  allow 
Brief  thought  to  distant  friendship's  claim, 
Yet  dear  to  him  my  blighted  name. 
'Tis  strange  —  he  prophesied  my  doom, 

And     I     have     smiled  —  I    then    could 
smile  — 
When  Prudence  would  his  voice  assume, 

And   warn  —  I    recked    not  what  —  the 
while, 
But  now  remembrance  whispers  o'er 
Those  accents  scarcely  marked  before. 
Say  —  that  his  bodings  came  to  pass, 

And  he  will  start  to  hear  their  truth, 

And  wish  his  words  had  not  been  sooth  : 
Tell  him,  unheeding  as  I  was, 


1  The  monk's  sermon  is  omitted.  It  seems  to  have 
nad  so  little  effect  upon  the  patient,  that  it  could 
have  no  hopes  from  the  reader.  It  may  be  sufficient 
to  say,  that  it  was  of  a  customary  length  (as  may  be 
perceived  from  the  interruptions  and  uneasiness  of 
the  patient,)  and  was  delivered  in  the  usual  tone  of 
all  orthodox  preachers- 


Through  many  a  busy  bitter  scene 
Of  all  our  golden  youth  had  been, 
In  pain,  my  faltering  tongue  had  tried 
To  bless  his  memory  ere  I  died; 
But  Heaven  in  wrath  would  turn  away, 
If  Guilt  should  for  the  guiltless  pray. 
I  do  not  ask  him  not  to  blame, 
Too  gentle  he  to  wound  my  name ; 
And  what  have  I  to  do  with  fame  ? 
I  do  not  ask  him  not  to  mourn, 
Such  cold  request  might  sound  like  scorn- 
And  what  than  friendship's  manly  tear 
May  better  grace  a  brother's  bier  ? 
But  bear  this  ring,  his  own  of  old, 
And  tell  him  — what  thou  dost  behold! 
The  withered  frame,  the  ruined  mind, 
The  wrack  by  passion  left  behind, 
A  shrivelled  scroll,  a  scattered  leaf, 
Seared  by  the  autumn  blast  of  grief! 
*  *  *  *    "       # 

"  Tell  me  no  more  of  fancy's  gleam, 
N<3,  father,  no,  'twas  not  a  dream  ; 
Alas !  the  dreamer  first  must  sleep, 
I  only  watched,  and  wished  to  weep ; 
But  could  not,  for  my  burning  brow 
Throbbed  to  the  very  brain  as  now : 
I  wished  but  for  a  single  tear, 
As  something  welcome,  new,  and  dear 
I  wished  it  then,  I  wish  it  still; 
Despair  is  stronger  than  my  will. 
Waste  not  thine  orison,  despair 
Is  mightier  than  thy  pious  prayer: 
I  would  not,  if  I  might,  be  blest ; 
I  want  no  paradise,  but  rest. 
'Twas  then,  I  tell  thee,  father!  then 
I  saw  her ;  yes,  she  lived  again  ; 
And  shining  in  her  white  symar,2 
As  through  yon  pale  gray  cloud  the  star 
Which  now  I  gaze  on,  as  on  her, 
Who  looked  and  looks  far  lovelier; 
Dimly  I  view  its  trembling  spark ; 
To-morrow's  night  shall  be  more  dark; 
And  I,  before  its  rays  appear, 
That  lifeless  thing  the  living  fear. 
I  wander,  father !  for  my  soul 
Is  fleeting  towards  the  final  goal. 
I  saw  her,  friar !  and  I  rose 
Forgetful  of  our  former  woes ; 
And  rushing  from  my  couch,  I  dart, 
And  clasp  her  to  my  desperate  heart ; 
I  clasp  —  what  is  it  that  I  clasp  ? 
No  breathing  form  within  my  grasp, 
No  heart  that  beats  reply  to  mine, 
Yet,  Leila  !  yet  the  form  is  thine ! 
And  art  thou,  dearest,  changed  so  much, 
As  meet  my  eye,  yet  mock  my  touch  ? 
Ah !  were  thy  beauties  e'er  so  cold, 
I  care  not ;  so  my  arms  enfold 
The  all  they  ever  wished  to  hold. 
Alas  !  around  a  shadow  prest 


2  "  Symar,"  a  shroud. 


390 


THE  BRIDE    OF  A  B  YD  OS. 


They  shrink  upon  my  lonely  breast ; 
Yet  still  'tis  there  !     In  silence  stands, 
And  beckons  with  beseeching  hands ! 
With  braided  hair,  and  bright-black  eye  — 
I  knew  'twas  false  —  she  could  not  die ! 
But  he  is  dead !  within  the  dell 
I  saw  him  buried  where  he  fell ; 
He  comes  not,  for  he  cannot  break 
From  earth  ;  why  then  art  thou  awake  ? 
They  told  me  wild  waves  rolled  above 
The  face  I  view,  the  form  I  love ; 
They  told  me  —  'twas  a  hideous  tale! 
I'd  tell  it,  but  my  tongue  would  fail : 
If  true,  and  from  thine  ocean-cave 
Thou  com'st  to  claim  a  calmer  grave, 
Oh  !  pass  thy  dewy  fingers  o'er 
This  brow  that  then  will  burn  no  more ; 
Or  place  them  on  my  hopeless  heart : 
But,  shape  or  shade  !  whate'er  thou  art, 
In  mercy  ne'er  again  depart ! 
Or  further  with  thee  bear  my  soul 
Than  winds  can  waft  or  waters  roll ! 
***** 

"  Such  is  my  name,  and  such  my  tale. 

Confessor !  to  thy  secret  ear 
I  breathe  the  sorrows  I  bewail, 

And  thank  thee  for  the  generous  tear 
This  glazing  eye  could  never  shed. 
Then  lay  me  with  the  humblest  dead, 
And,  save  the  cross  above  my  head, 
Be  neither  name  nor  emblem  spread, 
By  prying  stranger  to  be  read, 
Or  stay  the  passing  pilgrim's  tread."  1 


He  passed  —  nor  of  his  name  and  race 
Hath  left  a  token  or  a  trace, 
Save  what  the  father  must  not  say 
Who  shrived  him  on  his  dying  day: 
This  broken  tale  was  all  we  knew 
Of  her  he  loved,  or  him  he  slew. 


1  The  circumstance  to  which  the  above  story  re- 
lates was  not  very  uncommon  in  Turkey.  A  few 
years  ago  the  wife  of  Muchtar  Pacha  complained  to 


his  father  of  his  son's  supposed  infidelity ;  he  asked 
with  whom,  and  she  had  the  barbarity  to  give  in  a 
list  of  the  twelve  handsomest  women  in  Yanina. 
They  were  seized,  fastened  up  in  sacks,  and  drowned 
in  the  lake  the  same  night !  One  of  the  guards  who 
was  present  informed  me,  that  not  one  of  the  victims 
uttered  a  cry,  or  showed  a  symptom  of  terror  at  so 
sudden  a  "  wrench  from  all  we  know,  from  all  we 
love."  The  fate  of  Phrosine,  the  fairest  of  this  sac- 
rifice, is  the  subject  of  many  a  Romaic  and  Arnaout 
ditty.  The  story  in  the  text  is  one  told  of  a  young 
Venetian  many  years  ago,  and  now  nearly  forgotten. 
I  heard  it  by  accident  recited  by  one  of  the  coffee- 
house story-tellers  who  abound  in  the  Levant,  and 
sing  or  recite  their  narratives.  The  additions  and 
interpolations  by  the  translator  will  be  easily  dis- 
tinguished from  the  rest,  by  the  want  of  Eastern 
imagery ;  and  I  regret  that  my  memory  has  retained 
so  few  fragments  of  the  original.  For  the  contents 
of  some  of  the  notes  I  am  indebted  partly  to  D'Her- 
belot,  and  partly  to  that  most  Eastern,  and,  as  Mr. 
Weber  justly  entitles  it,  "  sublime  tale,"  the  "Ca- 
liph Vathek."  I  do  not  know  from  what  source  the 
author  of  that  singular  volume  may  have  drawn  his 
materials:  some  of  his  incidents  are  to  be  found  in 
the  "  Bibliotheque  Orientale;  "  but  for  correctness 
of  costume,  beauty  of  description,  and  power  of  im- 
agination, it  faf  surpasses  all  European  imitations; 
and  bears  such  marks  of  originality,  that  those  who 
have  visited  the  East  will  find  some  difficulty  in 
believing  it  to  be  more  than  a  translation.  As  an 
Eastern  tale,  even  Rasselas  must  bow  before  it;  his 
"  Happy  Valley"  will  not  bear  a  comparison  with 
the"HallofEblis." 


THE    BRIDE   OF    ABYDOS:1 

A  TURKISH  TALE. 


"  Had  we  never  loved  so  kindly, 
Had  we  never  loved  so  blindly, 
Never  met  or  never  parted, 
We  had  ne'er  been  broken-hearted." 

Burns. 


1  ["  Murray  tells  me  that  Croker  asked  him  why  the  thing  is  called  the  Bride  of  Abydotr  It  is  an 
awkward  question,  being  unanswerable:  she  is  not  a  bride;  only  about  to  be  one.  I  don't  wonder  at 
his  finding  out  the  Bull;  but  the  detection  is  too  late  to  do  any  good.  I  was  a  great  fool  to  have 
made    it,  and   am   ashamed  of  not  being  an  Irishman."  —  Byron's  Diary,  December  6,  1813.] 


THE  BRIDE    OF  A B  YD  OS. 


391 


INTRODUCTION. 

The  "  Bride  of  Abydos"  was  published  in  the  beginning  of  December,  1813.  The  mood  of  mind  in 
which  it  was  struck  off  is  thus  stated  by  Byron,  in  a  letter  to  Mr.  Gifford: — "You  have  been  good 
enough  to  look  at  a  thing  of  mine  in  MS. —  a  Turkish  story  —  and  I  should  feel  gratified  if  you  would 
do  it  the  same  fayor  in  its  probationary  state  of  printing.  It  was  written,  I  cannot  say  for  amusement, 
nor  '  obliged  by  hunger  and  request  of  friends,'  but  in  a  state  of  mind,  from  circumstances  which  occa- 
sionally occur  to  '  us  youth,'  that  rendered  it  necessary  for  me  to  apply  my  mind  to  something,  anything, 
but  reality;  and  under  this  not  very  brilliant  inspiration  it  was  composed.     Send  it  either  to  the  flames,  of 

'  A  hundred  hawkers'  load 


On  wings  of  winds  to  fly  or  fall  abroad.' 

It  deserves  no  better  than  the  first,  as  the  work  of  a  week,  and  scribbled  '  stans  pede  In  uno'  (by  the  by, 
the  only  foot  I  have  to  stand  on) ;  and  I  promise  never  to  trouble  you  again  under  forty  cantos,  and  a 
voyage  between  each." 

The  opening  lines  of  "  The  Bride  "  were  supposed  to  have  been  imitated  from  a  song  of  Goethe's  — 

"  Kennst  du  das  Land  wo  die  Citronen  bliihn?" 

But  Byron  could  not  read  German,  and  if  he  borrowed  the  idea,  he  must,  he  said,  have  derived  it  from 
Madame  de  Stael  who  copied  Goethe  in  some  verses  which  Byron,  however,  was  nearly  confident  he  had 
never  seen  when  he  wrote  his  own. 


TO   THE   RIGHT   HONORABLE   LORD   HOLLAND, 

THIS  TALE  IS   INSCRIBED, 

WITH   EVERY   SENTIMENT  OF   REGARD  AND   RESPECT, 

BY  HIS  GRATEFULLY  OBLIGED  AND 

SINCERE  FRIEND, 

BYRON, 


CANTO  THE   FIRST. 


I. 

Know  ye  the   land  where  the  cypress  and 

myrtle, 
Are  emblems  of  deeds  that  are   done   in 

their  clime, 
Where  the  rage  of  the  vulture,  the  love  of  the 

turtle, 
Now   melt  into  sorrow,  now   madden    to 

crime  ? 
Know  ye  the  land  of  the  cedar  and  vine, 
Where  the  flowers  ever  blossom,  the  beams 

ever  shine ; 
Where  the  light  wings  of  Zephyr,  oppressed 

with  perfume, 


Wax  faint  o'er  the  gardens  of  Gul1  in  hei 

bloom ; 
Where  the  citron  and  olive  are  fairest  of  fruit, 
And  the  voice  of  the  nightingale  never  is  mute  : 
Where  the  tints  of  the  earth,  and  the  hues  of 

the  sky, 
In  color  though  varied,  in  beauty  may  vie, 
And  the  purple  of  Ocean  is  deepest  in  dye; 
Where  the  virgins  are  soft  as  the  roses  they 

twine, 
And  all,  save  the  spirit  of  man,  is  divine  ? 
'Tis  the  clime  of  the  East ;  'tis  the  land  of  the 

Sun  — 


■"  "  Gul,"  the  rose. 


392 


THE  BRIDE   OF  A  B  YD OS. 


Can  he  smile  on  such  deeds  as  his  children 

have  done  ?  * 
Oh !  wild  as  the  accents  of  lovers'  farewell 
Are  the  hearts  which  they  bear,  and  the  tales 
which  they  tell. 

II. 
Begirt  with  many  a  gallant  slave, 
Apparelled  as  becomes  the  brave, 
Awaiting  each  his  lord's  behest 
To  guide  his  steps,  or  guard  his  rest, 
Old  Giaffir  sate  in  his  Divan  : 

Deep  thought  was  in  his  aged  eye ; 
And  though  the  face  of  Mussulman 

Not  oft  betrays  to  standers  by 
The  mind  within,  well  skilled  to  hide 
All  but  unconquerable  pride, 
His  pensive  cheek  and  pondering  brow 
Did  more  than  he  was  wont  avow. 


III. 


■  the   train 


"  Let  the  chamber  be  cleared, 
disappeared  — 
"  New   call   me   the   chief  of  the   Haram 
guard." 

With  Giaffir  is  none  but  his  only  son, 
And  the  Nubian  awaiting  the  sire's  award. 
"  Haroun  — when  all  the  crowd  that  wait 
Are  passed  beyond  the  outer  gate, 
(Woe  to  the  head  whose  eye  beheld 
My  child  Zuleika's  face  unveiled!) 
Hence,  lead  my  daughter  from  her  tower; 
Her  fate  is  fixed  this  very  hour  : 
Yet  not  to  her  repeat  my  thought ; 
By  me  alone  be  duty  taught !  " 
"  Pacha !  to  hear  is  to  obey." 
No  more  must  slave  to  despot  say  — 
Then  to  the  tower  had  ta'en  his  way, 
But  here  young  Selim  silence  brake, 

First  lowly  rendering  reverence  meet ; 
And  downcast  looked,  and  gently  spake, 

Still  standing  at  the  Pacha's  feet : 
For  son  of  Moslem  must  expire, 
Ere  dare  to  sit  before  his  sire ! 

"  Father!  for  fear  that  thou  shouldst  chide 
My  sister,  or  her  sable  guide, 
Know  —  for  the  fault,  if  fault  there  be, 
Was  mine,  then  fall  thy  frowns  on  me  — 
So  lovelily  the  morning  shone, 

That  —  let  the  old  and  weary  sleep  — 
I  could  not ;  and  to  view  alone 

The  fairest  scenes  of  land  and  deep, 
With  none  to  listen  and  reply 
To  thoughts  with  which  my  heart  beat  high 
Were  irksome  —  for  whate'er  my  mood, 
In  sooth  I  love  not  solitude ; 
I  on  Zuleika's  slumber  broke, 

And,  as  thou  knowest  that  for  me 


1  "  Souls  made  of  fire,  and  children  of  the  Sun, 
With  whom  revenge  is  virtue." 

Young's  Revenge. 


Soon  turns  the  Haram's  grating  key, 
Before  the  guardian  slaves  awoke 
We  to  the  cypress  groves  had  flown, 
And  made  earth,  main,  and  heaven  our  own ; 
There  lingered  we,  beguiled  too  long 
With  Mejnoun's  tale,  or  Sadi's  song;2 
Till  I,  who  heard  the  deep  tambour3 
Beat  thy  Divan's  approaching  hour, 
To  thee,  and  to  my  duty  true, 
Warned  by  the  sound,  to  greet  thee  flew: 
But  there  Zuleika  wanders  yet  — 
Nay,  Father,  rage  not  —  nor  forget 
That  none  can  pierce  that  secret  bower 
But  those  who  watch  the  women's  tower." 


"  Son  of  a  slave  "  —  the  Pacha  said  — 
"  From  unbelieving  mother  bred, 
Vain  were  a  father's  hope  to  see 
Aught  that  beseems  a  man  in  thee. 
Thou,  when  thine  arm  should  bend  the  bow, 
And  hurl  the  dart,  and  curb  the  steed, 
Thou,  Greek  in  soul  if  not  in  creed, 
Must  pore  where  babbling  waters  flow, 
And  watch  unfolding  roses  blow. 
Would  that  yon  orb,  whose  matin  glow 
Thy  listless  eyes  so  much  admire, 
Would  lend  thee  something  of  his  fire ! 
Thou,  who  would'st  see  this  battlement 
By  Christian  cannon  piecemeal  rent ; 
Nay,  tamejy  view  old  Stambol's  wall 
Before  the  dogs  of  Moscow  fall, 
Nor  strike  one  stroke  for  life  and  death 
Against  the  curs  of  Nazareth  ! 
Go  — let  thy  less  than  woman's  hand 
Assume  the  distaff — not  the  brand. 
But,  Haroun  !  —  to  my  daughter  speed  : 
And  hark  —  of  thine  own  head  take  heed  — 
If  thus  Zuleika  oft  takes  wing  — 
Thou  see'st  yon  bow  —  it  hath  a  string!  " 


No  sound  from  Selim's  lip  was  heard, 

At  least  that  met  old  Giamr's  ear, 
But  every  frown  and  every  word 
Pierced  keener  than  a  Christian's  sword. 

"  Son  of  a  slave  !  —  reproached  with  fear ! 

Those  gibes  had  cost  another  dear. 
Son  of  a  slave  !  —  and  tvho  my  sire  ?  " 

Thus  held  his  thoughts  their  dark  career; 
And  glances  ev'n  of  more  than  ire 
•     Flash  forth,  then  faintly  disappear. 
Old  Giaffir  gazed  upon  his  son 

And  started  ;  for  within  his  eye 
He  read  how  much  his  wrath  had  done ; 
He  saw  rebellion  there  begun : 

"  Come  hither,  boy  —  what,  no  reply  ? 

1  mark  thee  —  and  I  know  thee  too; 

2  Mejnoun  and  Leila,  the  Romeo  and  Juliet  of  th« 
East.     Sadi,  the  moral  poet  of  Persia. 

3  Tambour.     Turkish  drum,  which  sounds  at  sun. 
*ise,  noon,  and  twilight. 


THE  BRIDE    OF  A  B  YD  OS. 


3% 


But  there  be  deeds  thou  dar'st  not  do : 
But  if  thy  beard  had  manlier  length, 
And  if  thy  hand  had  skill  and  strength, 
I'd  joy  to  see  thee  break  a  lance, 
Albeit  against  my  own  perchance." 

As  sneeringly  these  accents  fell, 
On  Selim's  eye  he  fiercely  gazed  : 

That  eye  returned  him  glance  for  glance, 
And  proudly  to  his  sire's  was  raised, 

Till      Giaffir's     quailed     and.    shrunk 
askance  — 
And  why — he  felt,  but  durst  not  tell. 
"  Much  I  misdoubt  this  wayward  boy 
Will  one  day  work  me  more  annoy : 
I  never  loved  him  from  his  birth, 
And  —  but  his  arm  is  little  worth, 
And  scarcely  in  the  chase  could  cope 
With  timid  fawn  or  antelope, 
Far  less  would  venture  into  strife 
Where  man  contends  for  fame  and  life  — 
I  would  not  trust  that  look  or  tone: 
No  —  nor  the  .blood  so  near  my  own. 
That    blood  —  he     hath    not     heard  —  no 

more  — 
I'll  watch  him  closer  than  before. 
He  is  an  Arab  1  to  my  sight, 
Or  Christian  crouching  in  the  fight  — 
But  hark  !  —  I  hear  Zuleika's  voice ; 

L.ike  Houris'  hymn  it  meets  mine  ear : 
She  is  the  offspring  of  my  choice ; 

Oh !  more  than  ev'n  her  mother  dear, 
With  all  to  hope,  and  nought  to  fear — 
My  Peri !  ever  welcome  here  ! 
Sweet  as  the  desert  fountain's  wave 
To  lips  just  cooled  in  time  to  save — ■ 

Such  to  my  longing  sight  art  thou; 
Nor  can  they  waft  to  Mecca's  shrine 
More  thanks  for  life,  than  I  for  thine, 

Who  blest  thy  birth,  and  bless  thee  now." 

VI. 
Fair,  as  the  first  that  fell  of  womankind, 
When   on   that   dread  yet    lovely  serpent 
smiling, 
Whose  image  then  was  stamped  upon  her 
mind  — 
But  once  beguiled  —  and  ever  more  beguil- 
ing; 
Dazzling,  as  that,  oh  !  too  transcendent  vision 
1  o    Sorrow's    phantom-peopled     slumber 
given, 
When   heart   meets  heart   again   in  dreams 
Elysian, 
And  paints  the  lost  on   Earth  revived  in 
Heaven ; 
Soft,  as  the  memory  of  buried  love ; 
Pure,  as  the  prayer  which  Childhood  wafts 
above ; 


1  The  Turks  abhor  the  Arabs  (who  return  the 
compliment  a  hundred-fold)  even  more  than  they 
hate  the  Christians. 


Was  she — the  daughter  of  that  rude  old  Chief, 
Who  met  the  maid  with  tears — but  not  of 
grief. 

Who  hath  not  proved  how  feebly  words  essay 
To  fix  one  spark  of  Beauty's  heavenly  ray  ? 
Who  doth  not  feel,  until  his  failing  sight 
Faints  into  dimness  with  its  own  delight, 
His  changing  cheek,  his  sinking  heart  confess 
The  might  —  the  majesty  of  Loveliness? 
Such  was  Zuleika —  such  around  her  shone 
The    nameless    charms    unmarked    by    her 

alone ; 
The  light  of  love,  the  purity  of  grace, 
The  mind,  the   Music2  breathing  from  her 

face,3 
The   heart  whose  softness  harmonized   the 

whole  — 
And,  oh !  that  eye  was  in  itself  a  Soul! 


2  This  expression  has  met  with  objections.  I  will 
not  refer  to  "  Him  who  hath  not  Music  in  his  soul," 
but  merely  request  the  reader  to  recollect,  for  ten 
seconds,  the  features  of  the  woman  whom  he  believes 
to  be  the  most  beautiful ;  and  if  he  then  does  not 
comprehend  fully  what  is  feebly  expressed  in  the 
above  line,  I  shall  be  sorry  for  us  both.  For  an  elo- 
quent passage  in  the  latest  work  of  the  first  female 
writer  of  this,  perhaps  of  any,  age,  on  the  analogy 
(and  the  immediate  comparison  excited  by  that 
analogy)  between  "  painting  and  music,"  see  vol. 
iii.  cap.  io,  De  I ' Allemagne.  And  is  not  this  con- 
nection still  stronger  with  the  original  than  the  copy? 
With  the  coloring  of  Nature  than  of  Art?  After  all, 
this  is  rather  to  be  felt  than  described;  still  I  think 
there  are  some  who  will  understand  it,  at  least  they 
would  have  done  had  they  beheld  the  countenance 
whose  speaking  harmony  suggested  the  idea;  for 
this  passage  is  not  drawn  from  imagination,  but 
memory,  that  mirror  which  Affliction  dashes  to  the 
earth,  and  looking  down  upon  the  fragments,  only 
beholds  the  reflection  multiplied!  —  ["This  morn- 
ing, a  very  pretty  billet  from  the  Stael.  She  has 
been  pleased  to  be  pleased  with  my  slight  eulogy  in 
the  note  annexed  to  the  '  Bride.'  This  is  to  be  ac- 
counted for  in  several  ways: — firstly,  all  women 
like  all,  or  any  praise;  secondly,  this  was  unex- 
pected, because  I  have  never  courted  her;  and, 
thirdly,  as  Scrub  says,  those  who  have  been  all 
their  lives  regularly  praised,  by  regular  critics,  like 
a  little  variety,  and  are  j*lad  when  any  one  goes  out 
of  his  way  to  say  a  civil  thing;  and,  fourthly,  she 
is  a  very  good-natured  creature,  which  is  the  best 
reason,  after  all,  and,  perhaps  the  only  one."  — 
Byron's  Diary,  Dec.  7,  1813.] 

3  [Among  the  imputed  plagiarisms  so  industri- 
ously hunted  out  in  his  writings,  this  line  has  been 
with  somewhat  more  plausibility  than  is  frequent  in 
such  charges,  included;  the  lyric  poet  Lovelace 
having,  it  seems,  written  "  The  melody  and  music 
of  her  face."  Sir  Thomas  Browne,  too,  in  his  Re- 
ligio  Medici,  says,  "  There  is  music  even  in  beauty." 
The  coincidence,  no  doubt,  is  worth  observing,  and 
the  task  of  "  tracking  thus  a  favorite  writer  in  the 
snow  (as  Dryden  expresses  it)  of  others,"  is  some- 
times not  unamusing:  but  to  those  who  found  upon 
such  resemblances  a  general  charge  of  plagiarism, 
we  may  apply  what  Sir  Walter  Scott  says:  —  "  It  is 
a  favorite  theme  of  laborious  dulness  to  trace  suclr 


394 


THE  BRIDE    OF  A  B  YD  OS. 


Her  graceful  arms  in  meekness  bending 
Across  her  gently-budding  breast ; 

At  one  kind  word  those  arms  extending 
To  clasp  the  neck  of  him  who  blest 
His  child  caressing  and  carest, 
Zuleika  came  —  and  Giaffir  felt 
His  purpose  half  within  him  melt : 
Not  that  against  her  fancied  weal 
His  heart  though  stern  could  ever  feel; 
Affection  chained  her  to  that  heart ; 
Ambition  tore  the  links  apart. 


"  Zuleika  !  child  of  gentleness ! 
How  dear  this  very  day  must  tell, 

When  I  forget  my  own  distress, 
In  losing  what  I  love  so  well, 
To  bid  thee  with  another  dwell : 
Another !  and  a  braver  man 
Was  never  seen  in  battle's  van. 

We  Moslem  reck  not  much  of  blood ; 
But  yet  the  line  of  Carasman  i 

Unchanged,  unchangeable  hath  stood 
First  of  the  bold  Timariot  bands 

That  won  and  well  can  keep  their  lands. 
Enough  that  he  who  comes  to  woo 
Is  kinsman  of  the  Bey  Oglou  : 
His  years  need  scarce  a  thought  employ ; 
I  would  not  have  thee  wed  a  boy. 
And  thou  shalt  have  a  noble  dower : 
And  his  and  my  united  power 
Will  laugh  to  scorn  the  death-firman, 
Which  others  tremble  but  to  scan, 
And  teach  the  messenger2  what  fate 
The  bearer  of  such  boon  may  wait. 

And  now  thou  know'st  thy  father's  will ; 
All  that  thy  sex  hath  need  to  know : 

'Twas  mine  to  teach  obedience  still  — 
The  way  to  love,  thy  lord  may  show." 

VIII. 
In  silence  bowed  the  virgin's  head ; 

And  if  her  eye  was  filled  with  tears 
That  stifled  feeling  dare  not  shed, 
And  changed  her  cheek  from  pale  to  red, 


»oincidences,  because  they  appear  to  reduce  genius 
W  the  higher  order  to  the  usual  standard  of  human- 
ity, and  of  course  to  bring  the  author  nearer  to  a 
level  with  his  critics."  —  Moore.~\ 

1  Carasman  Oglou,  or  Kara  Osman  Oglou,  is  the 
principal  landholder  in  Turkey;  he  governs  Mag- 
nesia: those  who,  by  a  kind  of  feudal  tenure,  pos- 
sess land  on  condition  of  service,  are  called  Tima- 
riots:  they  serve  as  Spahis,  according  to  the  extent 
of  territory,  and  bring  a  certain  number  into  the 
field,  generally  cavalry. 

2  When  a  Pacha  is  sufficiently  strong  to  resist, 
the  single  messenger,  who  is  always  the  first  bearer 
of  the  order  for  his  death,  is  strangled  instead,  and 
sometimes  five  or  six,  one  after  the  other  on  the 
same  errand,  by  command  of  the  refractory  patient; 
if,  on  the  contrary,  he  is  weak  or  loyal,  he  bows, 
kisses  the  Sultan's  respectable  signature,  and  is 
bowstrung  with  great  complacency.     In  1810,  sev- 


And  red  to  pale,  as  through  her  ears 
Those  winged  words  like  arrows  sped. 

What  could  such  be  but  maiden  fears  ? 
So  bright  the  tear  in  Beauty's  eye, 
Love  half  regrets  to  kiss  it  dry  ; 
So  sweet  the  blush  of  Bashfulness, 
Even-Pity  scarce  can  wish  it  less ! 
Whate'er  it  was  the  sire  forgot ; 
Or  if  remembered,  marked  it  not; 
Thrice  clapped  his  hands,  and  called  hi* 
steed* 

Resigned  his  gem-adorned  chibouque,4 
And  mounting  featly  for  the  mead, 

With  Maugrabee  5  and  Mamaluke, 

His  way  amid  his  Delis  took,6 
To  witness  many  an  active  deed 
With  sabre  keen,  or  blunt  jerreed. 
The  Kislar  only  and  his  Moors 
Watch  well  the  Haram's  massy  doors. 


His  head  was  leant  upon  his  hand, 

His  eye  looked  o'er  the  dark  blue  watei 
That  swiftly  glides  and  gently  swells 
Between  the  winding  Dardanelles ; 
But  yet  he  saw  nor  sea  nor  strand, 
Nor  even  his  Pacha's  turbaned  band 

Mix  in  the  game  of  mimic  slaughter, 
Careering  cleave  the  folded  felt7 
With  sabre  stroke  right  sharply  dealt; 
Nor  marked  the  javelin-darting  crowd, 
Nor  heard  their  Ollahs8  wild  and  loud  — 
He  thought  but  of  old  Giaffir's  daughter! 


No  word  from  Selim's  bosom  broke; 
One  sigh  Zuleika's  thought  bespoke  : 


eral  of  these  presents  were  exhibited  in  the  niche  of 
the  Seraglio  gate;  among  others,  the  head  of  the 
Pacha  of  Bagdat,  a  brave  young  man,  cut  off  by 
treachery  after  a  desperate  resistance. 

3  Clapping  of  the  hands  calls  the  servants.  The 
Turks  hate  a  superfluous  expenditure  of  voice,  and 
they  have  no  bells. 

*"  Chibouque,"  the  Turkish  pipe  of  which  the 
amber  mouthpiece,  and  sometimes  the  ball  which 
contains  the  leaf,  is  adorned  with  precious  stones, 
if  in  possession  of  the  wealthier  orders. 

0  "  Maugrabee,"  Moorish  mercenaries. 

6  "  Delis,"  bravos  who  form  the  forlorn  hope  of 
the  cavalry,  and  always  begin  the  action. 

7  A  twisted  fold  oi  felt  is  used  for  scimitar  prac- 
tice by  the  Turks,  and  few  but  Mussulman  arms 
can  cut  through  it  at  a  single  stroke:  sometimes  a 
tough  turban  is  used  for  the  same  purpose.  The 
jerreed  is  a  game  of  blunt  javelins,  animated  and 
graceful. 

8  "  Ollahs,"  Alia  il  Allah,  the  "  Leilies,"  as  the 
Spanish  poets  call  them,  the  sound  is  Ollah;  a  cry 
of  which  the  Turks,  for  a  silent  people,  are  some- 
what profuse,  particularly  during  the  jerreed,  or  in 
the  chase,  but  mostly  in  battle.  Their  animation 
in  the  field,  and  gravity  in  the  chamber,  with  theii 
pipes  and  comboloios,  form  an  amusing  contrast. 


THE  BRIDE    OF  A  B  YD  OS. 


395 


Still  gazed  he  through  the  lattice  grate, 
Pale,  mute,  and  mournfully  sedate. 
To  him  Zuleika's  eye  was  turned, 
But  little  from  his  aspect  learned : 
Equal  her  grief,  yet  not  the  same; 
Her  heart  confessed  a  gentler  flame  : 
But  yet  that  heart  alarmed  or  weak, 
She  knew  not  why,  forbade  to  speak. 
Yet  speak  she  must — but  when  essay? 
"  How  strange  he  thus  should  turn  away  1 
Not  thus  we  e'er  before  have  met; 
Not  thus  shall  be  our  parting  yet." 
Thrice  paced  she  slowly  through  the  room, 

And  watched  his  eye  —  it  still  was  fixed  : 

She  snatched  the  urn  wherein  was  mixed 
The  Persian  Atar-gul's  1  perfume, 
And  sprinkled  all  its  odors  o'er 
The  pictured  roof2  and  marble  floor: 
The  drops,  that  through  his  glittering  vest 
The  playful  girl's  appeal  addressed, 
Unheeded  o'er  his  bosom  flew, 
As  if  that  breast  were  marble  too. 
"  What,  sullen  yet  ?  it  must  not  be  — 
Oh!  gentle  Selim,  this  from  thee!  " 
She  saw  in  curious  order  set 

The  fairest  flowers  of  eastern  land  — 
"  He  loved  them  once  ;  may  touch  them  yet, 

If  offered  by  Zuleika's  hand." 
The  childish  thought  was  hardly  breathed 
Before  the  Rose  was  plucked  and  wreathed  ; 
The  next  fond  moment  saw  her  seat 
Her  fairy  form  at  Selim's  feet : 
"  This  rose  to  calm  my  brother's  cares 
A  message  from  the  Bulbul 3  bears ; 
It  says  to-night  he  will  prolong 
For  Selim's  ear  his  sweetest  song; 
And  though  his  note  is  somewhat  sad, 
He'll  try  for  once  a  strain  more  glad, 
With  some  faint  hope  his  altered  lay 
May  sing  these  gloomy  thoughts  away. 

XI. 

"  What!  not  receive  my  foolish  flower? 

Nay  then  I  am  indeed  unblest : 
On  me  can  thus  thy  forehead  lower  ? 

And  know'st  thou  not  who  loves  thee  best  ? 
Oh,  Selim  dear!  oh,  more  than  dearest! 
Say,  is  it  me  thou  hat'st  or  fearest  ? 


1  "  Atar-gul,"  ottar  of  roses.  The  Persian  is 
the  finest. 

2  The  ceiling  and  wainscots,  or  rather  walls,  of 
the  Mussulman  apartments  are  generally  painted, 
in  great  houses,  with  one  eternal  and  highly  colored 
view  of  Constantinople,  wherein  the  principal  feat- 
ure is  a  noble  contempt  of  perspective;  below, 
arms,  scimitars,  etc.  are  in  general  fancifully  and 
nouinelegantly  disposed. 

3  It  has  been  much  doubted  whether  the  notes  of 
this  "  Lover  of  the  rose  "  are  sad  or  merry ;  and  Mr. 
Fox's  remarks  on  the  subject  have  provoked  some 
learned  controversy  as  to  the  opinions  of  the  an- 
cients on  the  subject.  I  dare  not  venture  a  con- 
jecture on  the  point,  though  a  little  inclined  to  the 

errare  mallem,"  etc.  if  Mr.  Fox  was  mistaken 


Come,  lay  thy  head  upon  my  breast, 
And  I  will  kiss  thee  into  rest, 
Since  words  of  mine,  and  songs  must  fail 
Ev'n  from  my  fabled  nightingale. 
I  knew  our  sire  at  times  was  stern, 
But  this  from  thee  had  yet  to  learn ; 
Too  well  I  know  he  loves  thee  not; 
But  is  Zuleika's  love  forgot  ? 
Ah !  deem  I  right  ?  the  Pacha's  plan  — 
This  kinsman  Bey  of  Carasman 
Perhaps  may  prove  some  foe  of  thine. 
If  so,  I  swear  by  Mecca's  shrine, 
If  shrines  that  ne'er  approach  allow 
To  woman's  step  admit  her  vow, 
Without  thy  free  consent,  command, 
The  Sultan  should  not  have  my  hand  I 
Think'st  thou  that  I  could  bear  to  part 
With  thee,  and  learn  to  halve  my  heart  ? 
Ah  !  were  I  severed  from  thy  side, 
Where    were    thy   friend  —  and   who    my 

guide  ? 
Years  have  not  seen,  Time  shall  not  see 
The  hour  that  tears  my  soul  from  thee  : 
Ev'n  Azrael,4  from  his  deadly  quiver 

When  flies  that  shaft,  and  fly  it  must, 
That  parts  all  else,  shall  doom  for  ever 

Our  hearts  to  undivided  dust !  " 

XII. 

He  lived — he   breathed — he  moved — he 

felt. 
He  raised  the  maid  from  where  she  knelt  • 
His  trance  was  gone  —  his  keen  eye  shone' 
With  thoughts  that  long  in  darkness  dwelt ; 
With  thoughts  that  burn  —  in  rays  that  melt 
As  the  stream  late  concealed 

By  the  fringe  of  its  willows, 
When  it  rushes  revealed 

In  the  light  of  its  billows ; 
As  the  bolt  bursts  on  high 

From  the  black  cloud  that  bound  it, 
Flashed  the  soul  of  that  eye 

Through  the  long  lashes  round  it. 
A  war-horse  at  the  trumpet's  sound, 
A  lion  roused  by  heedless  hound, 
A  tyrant  waked  to  sudden  strife 
By  graze  of  ill-directed  knife, 
Starts  not  to  more  convulsive  life 
Than  he,  who  heard  that  vow,  displayed, 
And  all,  before  repressed,  betrayed: 
"  Now  thou  art  mine,  for  ever  mine, 
With  life  to  keep,  and  scarce  with  life  resign; 
Now  thou  art  mine,  that  sacred  oath, 
Though  sworn  by  one,  hath  bound  us  both, 
Yes,  fondly,  wisely  hast  thou  done ; 
That  vow  hath  saved  more  heads  than  one; 
But  blench  not  thou  — thy  simplest  tress 
Claims  more  from  me  than  tenderness; 
I  would  not  wrong  the  slenderest  hair 
That  clusters  round  thy  forehead  fair, 

*  "  Azrael,"  the  angel  of  death. 


396 


THE  BRIDE    OF  A  B  YD  OS. 


For  all  the  treasures  buried  far 

Within  the  caves  of  Istakar.1 

This  morning  clouds  upon  me  lowered, 

Reproaches,  on  my  head  were  showered, 

And  Giaffir  almost  called  me  coward ! 

Now  I  have  motive  to  be  brave ; 

The  son  of  his  neglected  slave, 

Nay,  start  not,  'twas  the  term  he  gave, 

May  show,  though  little  apt  to  vaunt, 

A  heart  his  words  nor  deeds  can  daunt. 

His  son,  indeed  !  — yet,  thanks  to  thee, 

Perchance  I  am,  at  least  shall  be; 

But  let  our  plighted  secret  vow 

Be  only  known  to  us  as  now. 

I  know  the  wretch  who  dares  demand 

From  Giaffir  thy  reluctant  hand ; 

More  ill-got  wealth,  a  meaner  soul 

Holds  not  a  Musselim's2  control: 

Was  he  not  bred  in  Egripo  ?  3 

A  viler  race  let  Israel  show; 

But  let  that  pass  —  to  none  be  told 

Our  oath  ;  the  rest  shall  time  unfold. 

To  me  and  mine  leave  Osman  Bey ; 

I've  partisans  for  peril's  day  : 

Think  not  I  am  what  I  appear; 

I've  arms,  and  friends,  and  vengeance  near.' 

XIII. 

"  Think  not  thou  art  what  thou  appearest ! 

My  Selim,  thou  art  sadly  changed  : 
This  morn  I  saw  thee  gentlest,  dearest ; 

But  now  thou'rt  from  thyself  estranged. 
My  love  thou  surely  knew'st  before, 
It  ne'er  was  less,  nor  can  be  more. 
To  see  thee,  hear  thee,  near  thee  stay, 

And  hate  the  night  I  know  not  why, 
Save  that  we  meet  not  but  by  day ; 

With  thee  to  live,  with  thee  to  die, 

I  dare  not  to  my  hope  deny : 
Thy  cheek,  thine  eyes,  thy  lips  to  kiss, 
Like  this  —  and  this  —  no  more  than  this: 
For,  Alia !  sure  thy  lips  are  flame : 

What  fever  in  thy  veins  is  flushing  ? 
My  own  have  nearly  caught  the  same, 

At  least  I  feel  my  cheek  too  blushing. 
To  soothe  thy  sickness,  watch  thy  health, 
Partake,  but  never  waste  thy  wealth, 
Or  stand  with  smiles  unmurmuring  by, 
And  lighten  half  thy  poverty ; 
Do  all  but  close  thy  dying  eye, 
For  that  I  could  not  live  to  try; 
To  these  alone  my  thoughts  aspire: 
More  can  I  do  ?  or  thou  require  ? 


1  The  treasures  of  the  Pre-adamite  Sultans.  See 
D'Herbelot,  article  Istakar. 

2  "  Musselim,"  a  governor,  the  next  in  rank  after 
a  Pacha;  a  Waywode  is  the  third;  and  then  come 
the  Agas. 

3  "  Egripo,"  the  Negropont.  According  to  the 
proverb,  the  Turks  of  Egripo,  the  Jews  of  Salonica, 
and  the  Greeks  of  Athens,  are  the  worst  of  their 
respective  races. 


But,  Selim,  thou  must  answer  why 

We  need  so  much  of  mystery  ? 

The  cause  I  cannot  dream  nor  tell. 

But  be  it,  since  thou  say'st  'tis  well ; 

Yet   what    thou    meanest    by '  arms'    and 

'  friends,' 
Beyond  my  weaker  sense  extends. 
I  meant  that  Giaffir  should  have  heard 

The  very  vow  I  plighted  thee ; 
His  wrath  would  not  revoke  my  word: 

But  surely  he  would  leave  me  free. 

Can  this  fond  wish  seem  strange  in  me, 
To  be  what  I  have  ever  been  ? 
What  other  hath  Zuleika  seen 
From  simple  childhood's  earliest  hour? 

What  other  can  she  seek  to  see 
Than  thee,  companion  of  her  bower, 

The  partner  of  her  infancy  ? 
These  cherished  thoughts  with  life  begun, 

Say,  why  must  I  no  more  avow  ? 
What    change    is  wrought    to    make    me 
shun 

The  truth  ;  my  pride,  and  thine  till  now  ? 
To  meet  the  gaze  of  stranger's  eyes 
Our  law,  our  creed,  our  God  denies ; 
Nor  shall  one  wandering  thought  of  mine 
At  such,  our  Prophet's  will,  repine  : 
No !  happier  made  by  that  decree, 
He  left  me  all  in  leaving  thee. 
Deep  were  my  anguish,  thus  compelled 
To  wed  with  one  I  ne'er  beheld : 
This  wherefore  should  I  not  reveal  ? 
Why  wilt  thou  urge  me  to  conceal  ? 
I  know  the  Pacha's  haughty  mood 
To  thee  hath  never  boded  good ; 
And  he  so  often  storms  at  nought, 
Allah  !  forbid  that  e'er  he  ought ! 
And  why,  I  know  not,  but  within 
My  heart  concealment  weighs  like  sin. 
If  then  such  secrecy  be  crime, 

And  such  it  feels  while  lurking  here; 
Oh,  Selim  !  tell  me  yet  in  time, 

Nor  leave  me  thus  to  thoughts  of  fear. 
Ah  1  yonder  see  the  Tchocadar* 
My  father  leaves  the  mimic  war; 
I  tremble  now  to  meet  his  eye  — 
Say,  Selim,  canst  thou  tell  me  why  ?" 


"  Zuleika  —  to  thy  tower's  retreat 

Betake  thee  —  Giaffir  I  can  greet: 

And  now  with  him  I  fain  must  prate 

Of  firmans,  impost,  levies,  state. 

There's  fearful  news  from  Danube's  banks, 

Our  Vizier  nobly  thins  his  ranks, 

For  which  the  Giaour  may  give  him  thanks ! 

Our  Sultan  hath  a  shorter  way 

Such  costly  triumph  to  repay. 

But,  mark  me,  when  the  twilight  drum 


4  "  Tchocadar"  —  one  of  the  attendants  who  pro 
cedes  a  man  of  authority. 


THE  BRIDE    OF  A  B  YD  OS. 


39? 


Hath  warned  the  troops  to  food  and  sleep, 
Unto  thy  cell  will  Selim  come : 
Then  softly  from  the  haram  creep 
Where  we  may  wander  by  the  deep: 
Our  garden-battlements  are  steep  ; 
Nor  these  will  rash  intruder  climb 
To  list  our  words,  or  stint  our  time  ; 
And  if  he  doth,  I  want  not  steel 
Which  some  have  felt,  and  more  may  feel, 
Then  shalt  thou  learn  of  Selim  more 
Than  thou  hast  heard  or  thought  before. 


Trust  me,  Zuleika  —  fear  not  me ! 
Thou  knowest  I  hold  a  Haram  key." 

"  Fear  thee,  my  Selim  1  ne'er  till  now 
Did  word  like  this —  " 

"  Delay  not  thou ; 
I  keep  the  key  —  and  Haroun's  guard 
Have  some,  and  hope  of  more  reward. 
To-night,  Zuleika,  thou  shalt  hear 
My  tale,  my  purpose,  and  my  fear: 
I  am  not,  lovel  what  I  appear.'' 


CANTO  THE  SECOND. 


I. 

THE  winds  are  high  on  Helle's  wave, 

As  on  that  night  of  stormy  water 
When  Love,  who  sent,  forgot  to  save 
The  young,  the  beautiful,  the  brave, 

The  lonely  hope  of  Sestos'  daughter. 
Oh  !  when  alone  along  the  sky 
Her  turret-torch  was  blazing  high, 
Though  rising  gale,  and  breaking  foam, 
And  shrieking  sea-birds  warned  him  home ; 
And  clouds  aloft  and  tides  below, 
With  signs  and  sounds,  forbade  to  go. 
He  could  not  see,  he  would  not  hear, 
Or  sound  or  sign  foreboding  fear; 
His  eye  but  saw  that  light  of  love, 
The  only  star  it  hailed  above ; 
His  ear  but  rang  with  Hero's  song, 
"  Ye  waves,  divide  not  lovers  long !  "  — 
That  tale  is  old,  but  love  anew 
May  nerve  young  hearts  to  prove  as  true. 

II. 
The  winds  are  high,  and  Helle's  tide 

Rolls  darkly  heaving  to  the  main  ; 
And  Night's  descending  shadows  hide 

That  field  with  blood  bedewed  in  vain, 
The  desert  of  old  Priam's  pride  ; 

The  tombs,  sole  relics  of  his  reign, 
All  —  save  immortal  dreams  that  could  be- 
guile 
The  blind  old  man  of  Scio's  rocky  isle ! 


Oh !  yet  —  for  there  my  steps  have  been ; 

These  feet  have  pressed  the  sacred  shore, 
These  limbs  that  buoyant  wave  hath  borne — 
Minstrel !  with  thee  to  muse,  to  mourn, 

To  trace  again  those  fields  of  yore, 
Believing  every  hillock  green 

Contains  no  fabled  hero's  ashes, 
And  that  around  the  undoubted  scene 


Thine   own  "  broad    Hellespont "  *  stib 
dashes, 
Be  long  my  lot !  and  cold  were  he 
Who  there  could  gaze  denying  thee ! 

IV. 

The  night  hath  closed  on  Helle's  stream, 

Nor  yet  hath  risen  on  Ida's  hill 
That  moon,  which  shone  on  his  high  theme : 
No  warrior  chides  her  peaceful  beam, 

But  conscious  shepherds  bless  it  still. 
Their  flocks  are  grazing  on  the  mound 

Of  him  wh    felt  the  Dardan's  arrow  : 
Tha.  mighty  heap  of  gathere  '  ground 
Which  Ammon  s  son  ran  pr  udly  round,2 
By  nations  raised,  by  monarchs  crowned, 

Is    ow  a  lone  and  nameless  barrow ! 

Within  —  thy  dwelling-place  how  narrow ! 
Without  —  car  only  strangers  breathe 
The  nam>    of  him  that  was  beneath  : 
Dust  long  outlasts  the  storied  stone ; 
But  Thou  —  thy  very  dust  is  gone! 

V. 
Late,  late  to-night  will  Dian  cheer 
The  swain,  and  chase  the  boatman's  fear : 


1  The  ..rangling  about  this  epithet,  "the  broad 
Hellespont"  r  the  "boundless  Hellespont," 
whether  it  means  one  or  the  other,  or  what  it  means 
at  all,  has  been  beyond  all  possibility  of  detail.  I 
have  even  heard  it  disputed  on  the  spot;  and  not 
foreseeing  a  speedy  conclusion  to  the  controversy, 
amused  myself  with  swimming  across  it  in  the  mean 
time;  and  probably  may  again,  before  the  point  is 
settled.  Indeed,  the  question  as  to  the  truth  of  "  the 
tale  of  Troy  divine  "  still  continues,  much  of  it  rest- 
ing upon  the  talismanic  word  "  ajretpos:  "  probably 
Homer  had  the  same  notion  of  distance  that  a  co- 
quette has  of  time;  and  when  he  talks  of  boundless, 
means  half  a  mile;  as  the  latter,  by  a  like  figure, 
when  she  says  eternal  attachment,  simply  specifies 
three  weeks. 

2  Before  his  Persian  invasion,  and  crowned  the 
altar  with  laurel,  etc.     He  was  afterwards  imitated 


398 


THE  BRIDE    OF  A  B  YD  OS. 


Till  then  — no  beacon  on  the  cliff 

May  shape  the  course  of  struggling  skiff; 

The  scattered  lights  that  skirt  the  bay, 

All,  one  by  one,  have  died  away; 

The  only  lamp  of  this  lone  hour 

Is  glimmering  in  Zuleika's  tower. 

Yes !  there  is  light  in  that  lone  chamber, 

And  o'er  her  silken  Ottoman 
Are  thrown  the  fragrant  beads  of  amber, 

O'er  which  her  fairy  fingers  ran ;  l 
Near  these,  with  emerald  rays  beset, 
(How  could  she  thus  that  gem  forget  ?) 
Her  mother's  sainted  amulet,2 
Whereon  engraved  the  Koorsee  text, 
Could  smooth  this  life,  and  win  the  next; 
And  by  her  comboloio  3  lies 
A  Koran  of  illumined  dyes; 
And  many  a  bright  emblazoned  rhyme 
By  Persian  scribes  redeemed  from  time ; 
And  o'er  those  scrolls,  not  oft  so  mute, 
Reclines  her  now  neglected  lute ; 
And  round  her  lamp  of  fretted  gold 
Bloom  flowers  in  urns  of  China's  mould; 
The  richest  work  of  Iran's  loom, 
And  Sheeraz'  tribute  of  perfume; 
All  that  can  eye  or  sense  delight 

Are  gathered  in  that  gorgeous  room : 

But  yet  it  hath  an  air  of  gloom. 
She,  of  this  Peri  cell  the  sprite, 
What  doth  she  hence, and  on  sorude  anight? 


Wrapt  in  the  darkest  sable  vest, 

Which  none  save  noblest  Moslem  wear, 

To  guard  from  winds  of  heaven  the  breast 
As  heaven  itself  to  Selim  dear, 


by  Caracalla  in  his  race.  It  is  believed  that  the 
last  also  poisoned  a  friend,  named  Festus,  for  the 
sake  of  new  Patroclan  games.  I  have  seen  the 
sheep  feeding  on  the  tombs  of  iEsietes  and  Antilo- 
chus  :  the  first  is  in  the  centre  of  the  plain. 

1  When  rubbed,  the  amber  is  susceptible  of  a 
perfume,  which  is  slight  but  not  disagreeable.  [On 
discovering  that,  in  some  of  the  early  copies,  the 
all-important  monosyllable"  net  "  had  been  omitted, 
Byron  wrote  to  Mr.  Murray,  —  "  There  is  a  diabol- 
ical mistake  which  must  be  corrected;  it  is  the 
omission  of  '  not '  before  disagreeable,  in  the  note 
on  the  amber  rosary.  This  is  really  horrible,  and 
nearly  as  bad  as  the  stumble  of  mine  at  the  threshold 
—  I  mean  the  misnomer  of  Bride.  Pray  do  not  let 
a  copy  go  without  the  '  not:  '  it  is  nonsense,  and 
worse  than  nonsense.  I  wish  the  printer  was  sad- 
dled with  a  vampire."] 

2  The  belief  in  amulets  engraved  on  gems,  or  en- 
closed in  gold  boxes,  containing  scraps  from  the 
Koran,  worn  round  the  neck,  wrist,  or  arm,  is  still 
universal  in  the  East.  The  Koorsee  (throne)  verse 
in  the  second  cap.  of  the  Koran  describes  the  attri- 
butes of  the  Most  High,  and  is  engraved  in  this  man- 
ner, and  worn  by  the  pious,  as  the  most  esteemed 
and  sublime  of  all  sentences. 

3  "  Comboloio" —  a  Turkish  rosary.  The  MSS., 
particularly  those  of  the  Persians,  are  richly  adorned 
and  illuminated.    The  Greek  females  are  kept  in 


With  cautious  steps  the  thicket  threading, 
And  starting  oft,  as  through  the  glade 
The  gust  its  hollow  moanings  made, 

Till  on  the  smoother  pathway  treading, 

More  free  her  timid  bosom  beat, 
The  maid  pursued  her  silent  guide; 

And  though  her  terror  urged  retreat, 
How  could  she  quit  her  Selim's  side  ? 
How  teach  her  tender  lips  to  chide  ? 


They  reached  at  length  a  grotto,  hewn 

By  nature,  but  enlarged  by  art, 
Where  oft  her  lute  she  wont  to  tune, 
And  oft  her  Koran  conned  apart; 
And  oft  in  youthful  reverie 
She  dreamed  what  Paradise  might  be : 
Where  woman's  parted  soul  shall  go 
Her  Prophet  had  disdained  to  show ; 
But  Selim's  mansion  was  secure, 
Nor  deemed  she,  could  he  long  endure 
His  bower  in  other  worlds  of  bliss, 
Without  her,  most  beloved  in  this ! 
Oh  !  who  so  dear  with  him  could  dwell  ? 
What  Houri  soothe  him  half  so  well  ? 

VIII. 

Since  last  she  visited  the  spot 

Some  change  seemed  wrought  within  th 

grot : 
It  might  be  only  that  the  night 
Disguised  things  seen  by  better  light: 
That  brazen  lamp  but  dimly  threw 
A  ray  of  no  celestial  hue ; 
But  in  a  nook  within  the  cell 
Her  eye  on  stranger  objects  fell. 
There  arms  were  piled,  not  such  as  wield 
The  turbaned  Delis  in  the  field; 
But  brands  of  foreign  blade  and  hilt, 
And  one  was  red  —  perchance  with  guilt ! 
Ah !  how  without  can  blood  be  spilt  ? 
A  cup  too  on  the  board  was  set 
That  did  not  seem  to  hold  sherbet. 
What  may  this  mean  ?  she  turned  to  see 
Her  Selim  — "  Oh  !  can  this  be  he  ?  " 


His  robe  of  pride  was  thrown  aside, 

His  brow  no  high-crowned  turban  bore, 
But  in  its  stead  a  shawl  of  red, 

Wreathed  lightly  round, his  temples  wore 
That  dagger,  on  whose  hilt  the  gem 
Were  worthy  of  a  diadem, 
No  longer  glittered  at  his  waist, 
Where  pistols  unadorned  were  braced; 
And  from  his  belt  a  sabre  swung, 
And  from  his  shoulder  loosely  hung 
The  cloak  of  white,  the  thin  capote 

utter  ignorance;  but  many  of  the  Turkish  girls  are 
highly  accomplished,  though  not  actually  qualified 
for  a  Christian  coterie.  Perhaps  some  of  our  ewn 
"  blues  "  might  not  be  the  worse  for  bleaching. 


THE  BRIDE    OF  A  B  YD  OS. 


399 


That  decks  the  wandering  Candiote ; 
Beneath  —  his  golden  plated  vest 
Clung  like  a  cuirass  to  his  breast ; 
The  greaves  below  his  knee  that  wound 
With    silvery  scales   were    sheathed    and 

bound. 
But  were  it  not  that  high  command 
Spake  in  his  eye,  and  tone,  and  hand, 
All  that  a  careless  eye  could  see 
In  him  was  some  young  Galiongee.1 

x. 

"  I  said  I  was  not  what  I  seemed; 

And  now  thou  see'st  my  words  were  true: 
I  have  a  tale  thou  hast  not  dreamed, 

If  sooth  —  its  truth  must  others  rue. 
My  story  now  'twere  vain  to  hide, 
I  must  not  see  thee  Osman's  bride  : 
But  had  not  thine  own  lips  declared 
How  much  of  that  young  heart  I  shared, 
I  could  not,  must  not,  yet  have  shown 
The  darker  secret  of  my  own. 
In  this  I  speak  not  now  of  love; 
That,  let  time,  truth,  and  peril  prove: 
But  first  —  Oh  !  never  wed  another  — 
Zuleika !  I  am  not  thy  brother  1 " 


"  Oh !  not  my  brother !  —  yet  unsay  — 

God  !  am  I  left  alone  on  earth 
To  mourn  —  I  dare  not  curse  —  the  day 

That  saw  my  solitary  birth  ? 
Oh !  thou  wilt  love  me  now  no  more ! 

My  sinking  heart  foreboded  ill ; 
But  know  me  all  I  was  before, 

Thy  sister  —  friend  —  Zuleika  still. 
Thou  led'st  me  here  perchance  to  kill ; 

If  thou  hast  cause  for  vengeance,  see! 
My  breast  is  offered  —  take  thy  fill ! 

Far  better  with  the  dead  to  be 

Than  live  thus  nothing  now  to  thee : 
Perhaps  far  worse,  for  now  I  know 
Why  Giaffir  always  seemed  thy  foe; 
And  I,  alas!  am  Giaffir's  child. 
For  whom  thou  wert  contemned,  reviled. 
If  not  thy  sister  —  would'st  thou  save 
My  life,  oh !  bid  me  be  thy  slave  1 " 

XII. 

"  My  slave,  Zuleika !  —  nay,  I'm  thine : 

But,  gentle  love,  this  transport  calm, 

Thy  lot  shall  yet  be  linked  with  mine ; 


1  "Galiongee"  —  or  Galiongi,  a  sailor,  that  is,  a 
Turkish  sailor;  the  Greeks  navigate,  the  Turks 
work  the  guns.  Their  dress  is  picturesque;  and  I 
have  seen  the  Capitan  Pacha  more  than  once  wear- 
ing it  as  a  kind  of  incog.  Their  legs,  however,  are 
generally  naked.  The  buskins  described  in  the 
text  as  sheathed  behind  with  silver  are  those  of  an 
Arnaut  robber,  who  was  my  host  (he  had  quitted 
the  profession)  at  his  Pyrgo,  near  Gastouni  in  the 
Morea;  they  were  placed  in  scales  one  over  the 
other  like  the  back  of  an  armadillo. 


I  swear  it  by  our  Prophet's  shrine, 

And  be  that  thought  thy  sorrow's  balm. 
So  may  the  Koran  -  verse  displayed 
Upon  its  steel  direct  my  blade, 
In  danger's  hour  to  guard  us  both, 
As  I  preserve  that  awful  oath ! 
The  name  in  which  thy  heart  hath  prided 

Must  change ;  but,  my  Zuleika,  know, 
That  tie  is  widened,  not  divided, 

Although  thy  Sire's  my  deadliest  foe. 
My  father  was  to  Giaffir  all 

That  Selim  late  was  deemed  to  thee; 
That  brother  wrought  a  brother's  fall, 

But  spared,  at  least,  my  infancy ; 
And  lulled  me  with  a  vain  deceit 
That  yet  a  like  return  may  meet. 
He  reared  me,  not  with  tender  help, 

But  like  the  nephew  of  a  Cain  ;  3 
He  watched  me  like  a  lion's  whelp, 

That  gnaws  and  yet  may  break  his  chain. 

My  father's  blood  in  every  vein 
Is  boiling;  but  for  thy  dear  sake 
No  present  vengeance  will  I  take ; 

Though  here  I  must  no  more  remain. 
But  first,  beloved  Zuleika !  hear 
How  Giaffir  wrought  this  deed  of  fear. 


How  first  their  strife  to  rancor  grew, 
If  love  or  envy  made  them  foes, 


2  The  characters  on  all  Turkish  scimitars  con- 
tain sometimes  the  name  of  the  place  of  their  manu- 
facture, but  more  generally  a  text  from  the  Koran, 
in  letters  of  gold.  Amongst  those  in  my  possession 
is  one  with  a  blade  of  singular  construction;  it  is 
very  broad,  and  the  edge  notched  into  serpentine 
curves  like  the  ripple  of  water,  or  the  wavering  of 
flame.  I  asked  the  Arminian  who  sold  it,  what 
possible  use  such  a  figure  could  add:  he  said,  in 
Italian,  that  he  did  not  know;  but  the  Mussulmans 
had  an  idea  that  those  of  this  form  gave  a  severer 
wound;  and  liked  it  because  it  was  "  piu  feroce." 
I  did  not  much  admire  the  reason,  but  bought  it  for 
its  peculiarity. 

3  It  is  to  be  observed,  that  every  allusion  to  any 
thing  or  personage  in  the  Old  Testament,  such  as 
the  Ark,  or  Cain,  is  equally  the  privilege  of  Mussul- 
man and  Jew:  indeed,  the  former  profess  to  be 
much  better  acquainted  with  the  lives,  true  and 
fabulous,  of  the  patriarchs,  than  is  warranted  by 
our  own  sacred  writ;  and  not  content  with  Adam, 
they  have  a  biography  of  Pre-Adamites.  Solomon 
is  the  monarch  of  all  necromancy,  and  Moses  a 
prophet  inferior  only  to  Christ  and  Mahomet.  Zu- 
leika is  the  Persian  name  of  Potiphar's  wife;  and 
her  amour  with  Joseph  constitutes  one  of  the  finest 
poems  in  their  language.  It  is,  therefore,  no  viola- 
tion of  costume  to  put  the  names  of  Cain,  or  Noah, 
into  the  mouth  of  a  Moslem.  —  [Some  doubt  having 
been  expressed  by  Mr.  Murray,  as  to  the  propriety 
of  putting  the  name  of  Cain  into  the  mouth  of  a 
Mussulman,  Byron  sent  him  the  preceding  note  — 
"for  the  benefit  of  the  ignorant."  "I  don't  cars 
one  lump  of  sugar,"  he  says,  "  for  my  poetry;  bul 
for  my  costume,  and  my  correctness  on  those  pointSj 
I  will  combat  lustily."] 


400 


THE  BRIDE    OF  A B  YD  OS 


It  matters  little  if  I  knew  ; 

In  fiery  spirits,  slights,  though  few 

And  thoughtless,  will  disturb  repose. 
In  war  Abdallah's  arm  was  strong, 
Remembered  yet  in  Bosniac  song. 
And  Paswan's  x  rebel  hordes  attest 
How  little  love  they  bore  such  guest : 
His  death  is  all  I  need  relate, 
The  stern  effect  of  Giaffir's  hate; 
And  how  my  birth  disclosed  to  me, 
Whate'er  beside  it  makes,  hath  made  me 
free. 

XIV. 
"  When  Paswan,  after  years  of  strife, 
At  last  for  power,  but  first  for  life, 
In  Widin's  walls  too  proudly  sate, 
Our  Pachas  rallied  round  the  state ; 
Nor  last  nor  least  in  high  command, 
Each  brother  led  a  separate  band  ; 
They  gave  their  horse-tails2  to  the  wind, 

And  mustering  in  Sophia's  plain 
Their  tents  were  pitched,  their  post  assigned  ; 

To  one,  alas !  assigned  in  vain  ! 
What  need  of  words  ?  the  deadly  bowl, 

By  Giaffir's  order  drugged  and  given, 
With  venom  subtle  as  his  soul, 

Dismissed  Abdallah's  hence  to  heaven. 
Reclined  and  feverish  in  the  bath, 

He,  when  the  hunter's  sport  was  up, 
But  little  deemed  a  brother's  wrath 

To  .quench  his  thirst  had  such  a  cup  : 
The  bowl  a  bribed  attendant  bore ; 
He  drank  one  draught3  nor  needed  more  ! 
If  thou  my  tale,  Zuleika,  doubt, 
Call  Haroun  —  he  can  tell  it  out. 

XV. 

"  The  deed  once  done,  and  Paswan's  feud 
In  part  suppressed,  though  ne'er  subdued, 

Abdallah's  Pachalick  was  gained  :  — 
Thou  know'st  not  what  in  our  Divan 
Can  wealth  procure  for  worse  than  man  — 

Abdallah's  honors  were  obtained, 
By  him  a  brother's  murder  stained ; 
'Tis  true,  the  purchase  nearly  drained 
His  ill  got  treasure,  soon  replaced. 
Would'st    question    whence  ?    Survey   the 

waste, 
And  ask  the  squalid  peasant  how 


1  Paswan  Oglou,  the  rebel  of  Widin;  who,  for 
the  last  years  of  his  life,  set  the  whole  power  of  the 
Porte  at  defiance. 

2  "  Horse-tail,"  the  standard  of  a  Pacha. 

3  Giaffir,  Pacha  of  Argyro  Castro,  or  Scutari,  I 
am  not  sure  which,  was  actually  taken  off  by  the 
Albanian  Ali,  in  the  manner  described  in  the  text. 
Ali  Pacha,  while  I  was  in  the  country,  married  the 
daughter  of  his  victim,  some  years  after  the  event 
l»ad  taken  place  at  a  bath  in  Sophia,  or  Adrianople. 
The  poison  was  mixed  in  the  cup  of  coffee,  which 
is  presented  before  the  sherbet  bv  the  bath-keeper, 
after  dressing. 


His  gains  repay  his  broiling  brow !  — 
Why  me  the  stern  usurper  spared, 
Why  thus  with  me  his  palace  shared, 
I  know  not.     Shame,  regret,  remorse, 
And  little  fear  from  infant's  force; 
Besides,  adoption  as  a  son 
By  him  whom  Heaven  accorded  none, 
Or  some  unknown  cabal,  caprice, 
Preserved  me  thus ;  — but  not  in  peace: 
He  cannot  curb  his  haughty  mood, 
Nor  I  forgive  a  father's  blood. 


"  Within  thy  father's  house  are  foes ; 

Not  all  who  break  his  bread  are  true: 
To  these  should  I  my  birth  disclose, 

His  days,  his  very  hours  were  few: 
They  only  want  a  heart  to  lead, 
A  hand  to  point  them  to  the  deed. 
But  Haroun  only  knows  or  knew 

This  tale,  whose  close  is  almost  nigh : 
He  in  Abdallah's  palace  grew, 

And  held  that  post  in  his  Serai 

Which  holds  he  here  —  he  saw  him  die: 
But  what  could  single  slavery  do  ? 
Avenge  his  lord  ?  alas  !  too  late  ; 
Or  save  his  son  from  such  a  fate  ? 
He  chose  the  last,  and  when  elate 

With  foes  subdued,  or  friends  betrayed, 
Proud  Giaffir  in  high  triumph  sate, 
He  led  me  helpless  to  his  gate, 

And  not  in  vain  it  seems  essayed 

To  save  the  life  for  which  he  prayed. 
The  knowledge  of  my  birth  secured 

From  all  and  each,  but  most  from  me; 
Thus  Giaffir's  safety  was  insured. 

Removed  he  too  from  Roumelie 
To  this  our  Asiatic  side, 
Far  from  our  seats  by  Danube's  tide, 

With  none  but  Haroun,  who  retains 
Such  knowledge  —  and  that  Nubian  feels 

A  tyrant's  secrets  are  but  chains, 
From  which  the  captive  gladly  steals, 
And  this  and  more  to  me  reveals  : 
Such  still  to  guilt  just  Alia  sends  — 
Slaves,  tools,  accomplices  —  no  friends! 

XVII. 

"All  this,  Zuleika,  harshly  sounds; 

But  harsher  stiil  my  tale  must  be  : 
Howe'er  my  tongue  thy  softness  wounds, 

Yet  I  must  prove  all  truth  to  thee. 

I  saw  thee  start  this  garb  to  see, 
Yet  is  it  one  I  oft  have  worn, 

And  long  must  wear:  this  Galiongee, 
To  whom  thy  plighted  vow  is  sworn, 

Is  leader  of  those  pirate  hordes, 

Whose  laws  and  lives  are  on  their  swords ; 
To  hear  whose  desolating  tale 
Would  make  thy  waning  cheek  more  pale  : 
Those    arms   thou  see'st   my  band    hav* 
brought, 


THE  BRIDE    OF  A B  YD  OS. 


401 


The  hands  that  wield  are  not  remote ; 
This  cup  too  for  the  rugged  knaves 

Is  filled  —  once  quaffed,  they  ne'er  repine  : 
Our  prophet  might  forgive  the  slaves  ; 

They're  only  infidels  in  wine. 


"  What  could  I  be  ?  Proscribed  at  home, 

And  taunted  to  a  wish  to  roam ; 

And  listless  left  —  for  Giaffir's  fear 

Denied  the  courser  and  the  spear  — 

Though  oft — Oh,  Mahomet!  howoftl  — 

In  full  Divan  the  despot  scoffed, 

As  if  my  weak  unwilling  hand 

Refused  the  bridle  or  the  brand : 

He  ever  went  to  war  alone, 

And  pent  me  here  untried  —  unknown  ; 

To  Haroun's  care  with  women  left, 

By  hope  unblest,  of  fame  bereft, 

While  thou  —  whose  softness  long  endeared, 

Though  it  unmanned  me,  still  had  cheered  — 

To  Brusa's  walls  for  safety  sent, 

Awaited'st  there  the  field's  event. 

Haroun,  who  saw  my  spirit  pining 

Beneath  inaction's  sluggish  yoke, 
His  captive,  though  with  dread  resigning, 

My  thraldom  for  a  season  broke, 
On  promise  to  return  before 
The  day  when  Giaffir's  charge  was  o'er. 
'Tis  vain  —  my  tongue  can  not  impart 
My  almost  drunkenness  of  heart, 
When  first  this  liberated  eye 
Surveyed  Earth,  Ocean,  Sun,  and  Sky, 
As  if  my  spirit  pierced  them  through, 
And  all  their  inmost  wonders  knew  ! 
One  word  alone  can  paint  to  thee 
That  more  than  feeling —  I  was  Free  ! 
E'en  for  thy  presence  ceased  to  pine ; 
The  World  —  nay,  Heaven  itself  was  mine! 

XIX. 
"  The  shallop  of  a  trusty  Moor 
Conveyed  me  from  this  idle  shore; 
I  longed  to  see  the  isles  that  gem 
Old  Ocean's  purple  diadem  : 
I  sought  by  turns,  and  saw  them  all;  1 

But  when  and  where  I  joined  the  crew, 
With  whom  I'm  pledged  to  rise  or  fall, 

When  all  that  we  design  to  do 
Is  done,  'twill  then  be  time  more  meet 
To  tell  thee,  when  the  tale's  complete. 

XX. 

'Tis  true,  they  are  a  lawless  brood, 

But  rough  in  form,  nor  mild  in  mood ; 

And  every  creed,  and  every  race, 

With  them  hath  found  —  may  find  a  place  : 

But  open  speech,  and  ready  hand, 

Obedience  to  their  chiefs  command. 


1  The  Turkish  notions  of  almost  all  islands  are 
senfined  to  the  Archipelago,  the  sea  alluded  to. 


A  soul  for  every  enterprise, 
That  never  sees  with  Terror's  eyes; 
Friendship  for  each,  and  faith  to  all, 
And  vengeance  vowed  for  those  who  fall, 
Have  made  them  fitting  instruments 
For  more  than  ev'n  my  own  intents. 
And  some  —  and  I  have  studied  all 

Distinguished  from  the  vulgar  rank, 
But  chiefly  to  my  council  call 

The  wisdom  of  the  cautious  Frank  — 
And  some  to  higher  thoughts  aspire, 
The  last  of  Lambro's  2  patriots  there 
Anticipated  freedom  share ; 
And  oft  around  the  cavern  fire 
On  visionary  schemes  debate, 
To  snatch  the  Rayahs  3  from  their  fate. 
So  let  them  ease  their  hearts  with  prate 
Of  equal  rights,  which  man  ne'er  knew ; 
I  have  a  love  for  freedom  too. 
Ay !  let  me  like  the  ocean-Patriarch  4  roam, 
Or  only  know  on  land  the  Tartar's  home !  & 
My  tent  on  shore,  my  galley  on  the  sea, 
Are  more  than  cities  and  Serais  to  me : 
Borne  by  my  steed,  or  wafted  by  my  sail, 
Across  the  desert,  or  before  the  gale, 
Bound  where  thou  wilt,    my  barb !  or  glide, 

my  prow, 
But  be   the   star   that  guides   the  wanderer, 

Thou ! 
Thou,  my  Zuleika,  share  and  bless  my  bark  ; 
The  Dove  of  peace  and  promise  to  mine  ark  !  6 
Or,  since  that  hope  denied  in  worlds  of  strife, 
Be  thou  the  rainbow  to  the  storms  of  life ! 
The  evening  beam  that  smiles  the  clouds  away, 
And  tints  to-morrow  with  prophetic  ray ! 


3  Lambro  Canzani,  a  Greek,  famous  for  his  efforts, 
in  1789-90,  for  the  independence  of  his  country. 
Abandoned  by  the  Russians,  he  became  a  pirate, 
and  the  Archipelago  was  the  scene  of  his  enter- 
prises. He  is  said  to  be  still  alive  at  Petersburg. 
He  and  Riga  are  the  two  most  celebrated  of  the 
Greek  revolutionists. 

3  "  Rayahs,"  —  all  who  pay  the  capitation  tax, 
called  the  "  Haratch."' 

4  The  first  of  voyages  is  one  of  the  few  with  which 
the  Mussulmans  profess  much  acquaintance. 

5  The  wandering  life  of  the  Arabs,  Tartars,  and 
Turkomans,  will  be  found  well  detailed  in  any  book 
of  Eastern  travels.  That  it  possesses  a  charm 
peculiar  to  itself,  cannot  be  denied.  A  young 
French  renegado  confessed  to  Chateaubriand,  that 
he  never  found  himself  alone,  galloping  in  the 
desert,  without  a  sensation  approaching  to  rapture 
which  was  indescribable. 

0  [The  longest,  as  well  as  most  splendid,  of  those 
passages,  with  which  the  perusal  of  his  own  strains, 
during  revision,  inspired  him,  was  that  rich  flow  of 
eloquent  feeling  which  follows  the  couplet,  —  "Thou, 
my  Zuleika,  share  and  bless  my  bark,"  etc.  —  a 
strain  of  poetry,  which,  for  energy  and  tenderness 
of  thought,  for  music  of  versification,  and  select- 
ness  of  diction,  has.  throughout  the  greater  portion 
of  it,  but  few  rivals  in  either  ancient  or  modern 
song. — Moore.] 


402 


THE  BRIDE    OF  ABYDOS. 


Blest  —  as  the  Muezzin's  strain  from  Mecca's 

wall 
To  pilgrims  pure  and  prostrate  at  his  call ; 
Soft  —  as  the  melody  of  youthful  days, 
That  steals  the  trembling  tear  of  speechless 

praise ; 
Dear  — as  his  native  song  to  Exile's  ears, 
Shall  sound  each  tone  thy  long-loved  voice 

endears. 
For  thee   in   those   bright    isles    is    built    a 

bower 
Blooming  as  Aden  l  in  its  earliest  hour. 
A  thousand  swords,  with   Selim's  heart  and 

hand, 
Wait — wave — defend — destroy  —  at  thy  com- 
mand ! 
Girt  by  my  band,  Zuleika  at  my  side, 
The  spoil  of  nations  shall  bedeck  my  bride. 
The  Haram's  languid  years  of  listless  ease 
Are  well  resigned   for  cares  —  for  joys   like 

these : 
Not  blind  to  fate,  I  see,  where'er  I  rove, 
Unnumbered  perils,  —  but  one  only  love! 
Yet  well  my  toils  shall  that  fond  breast  repay, 
Though  fortune  frown,  or  falser  friends  betray. 
How  dear  the  dream  in  darkest  hours  of  ill, 
Should  all  be  changed,  to  find  thee   faithful 

still! 
Be  but  thy  soul,  like  Selim's,  firmly  shown ; 
To  thee  be  Selim's  tender  as  thine  own ; 
To  soothe  each  sorrow,  share  in  each  delight, 
Blend  every  thought,  do  all  —  but  disunite! 
Once  free,  'tis  mine  our  horde  again  to  guide  ; 
Friends  to  each  other,  foes  to  aught  beside : 
Yet  there  we  follow  but  the  bent  assigned 
By  fatal  Nature  to  man's  warring  kind  : 
Mark !  where  his  carnage  and  his  conquests 

cease ! 
He  makes  a  solitude,  and  calls  it  —  peace  ! 
I  like  the  rest  must  use  my  skill  or  strength, 
But  ask  no  land  beyond  my  sabre's  length  : 
Power  sways  but  by  division  —  her  resource 
The  blest  alternative  of  fraud  or  force  ! 
Ours  be  the  last;  in  time  deceit  may  come 
When  cities  cage  us  in  a  social  home  : 
There  even  thy  soul  might  err  —  how  oft  the 

heart 
Corruption  shakes  which  peril  could  not  part ! 
And  woman,  more  than  man,  when  death  or 

woe, 
Or  even  Disgrace,  would  lay  her  lover  low, 
Sunk  in  the  lap  of  Luxury  will  shame  — 
Away  suspicion  !  —  not  Zuleika's  name  ! 
But  life  is  hazard  at  the  best ;  and  here 
No  more  remains  to  win,  and  much  to  fear : 
Yes,  fear !—  the  doubt,  the   dread  of  losing 

thee, 
By  Osman's  power,  and  Giaffir's  stern  decree. 
That  dread  shall  vanish  with  the  favoring  gale, 


1  "  Jannat  al  Aden,"  the  perpetual  abode,  the 
Mussulman  paradise. 


Which  love  to-night   hath   promised  to    my 

sail: 
No  danger  daunts  the  pair  his   smile   hath 

blest, 
Their  steps  still  roving,  but  their  hearts  at  rest. 
With  thee  all  toils  are  sweet,  each  clime  hath 

charms, 
Earth  —  sea  alike —  our  world  within  our  arms ! 
Ay  !  —  let  the  loud  winds  whistle  o'er  the  deck, 
So  that  those  arms   cling   closer   round   my 

neck : 
The  deepest  murmur  of  this  lip  shall  be 
No  sigh  for  safety,  but  a  prayer  for  thee ! 
The  war  of  elements  no  fears  impart 
To  Love,  whose  deadliest  bane  is  human  Art : 
There  lie  the  only  rocks  our  course  can  check ; 
Here  moments  menace  —  there  are  years  of 

wreck ! 
But  hence  ye  thoughts  that  rise  in  Horror's 

shape ! 
This  hour  bestows,  or  ever  bars  escape. 
Few  words  remain  of  mine  my  tale  to  close : 
Of  thine  but  one  to  waft  us  from  our  foes ; 
Yea  —  foes  —  to  me  will  Giaffir's  hate  decline  ? 
And  is  not  Osman,  who  would  part  us,  thine  ? 

XXI. 

"  His  head  and  faith  from  doubt  and  death 

Returned  in  time  my  guard  to  save ; 

Few  heard,  none  told,  that  o'er  the  wave 
From  isle  to  lisle  I  roved  the  while : 
And  since,  though  parted  from  my  band, 
Too  seldom  now  I  leave  the  land, 
No  deed  they've  done,  nor  deed  shall  do, 
Ere  I  have  heard  and  doomed  it  too: 
I  form  the  plan,  decree  the  spoil, 
'Tis  fit  I  oftener  share  the  toil. 
But  now  too  long  Fve  held  thine  ear; 
Time  presses,  floats  my  bark,  and  here 
We  leave  behind  but  hate  and  fear. 
To-morrow  Osman  with  his  train 
Arrives  —  to-night  must  break  thy  chain  : 
And  wouldst  thou  save  that  haughty  Bey, 

Perchance,  his  life  who  gave  thee  thine, 
With  me,  this  hour  away  —  away! 

But  yet,  though  thou  art  plighted  mine 
Wouldst  thou  recall  thy  willing  vow, 
Appalled  by  truths  imparted  now, 
Here  rest  I  — not  to  see  thee  wed : 
But  be  that  peril  on  my  head !  " 

XXII. 

Zuleika,  mute  and  motionless, 
Stood  like  that  statue  of  distress, 
When,  her  last  hope  for  ever  gone, 
The  mother  hardened  into  stone; 
All  in  the  maid  that  eye  could  see 
Was  but  a  younger  Niobe. 
But  ere  her  lip,  or  even  her  eye, 
Essayed  to  speak,  or  look  reply, 
Beneath  the  garden's  wicket  porch 


THE  BRIDE    OF  A B  YD  OS. 


403 


Far  flashed  on  high  a  blazing  torch  ! 
Another  —  and  another  —  and  another  — 
"Oh!  fly — no  more  —  yet  now  my  more 

than  brother!  " 
Far,  wide,  through  every  thicket  spread, 
The  fearful  lights  are  gleaming  red  ; 
Nor  these  alone  — for  each  right  hand 
Is  ready  with  a  sheathless  brand. 
They  part,  pursue,  return,  and  wheel 
With  searching  flambeau,  shining  steel ; 
And  last  of  all,  his  sabre  waving, 
Stern  Giaffir  in  his  fury  raving : 
And  now  almost  they  touch  the  cave  — 
Oh  !  must  that  grot  be  Selim's  grave  ? 

XXIII. 

Dauntless  he  stood  —  "  'Tis  come  —  soon 

past  — 
One  kiss,  Zuleika  —  'tis  my  last : 

But  yet  my  band  not  far  from  shore 
May  hear  this  signal,  see  the  flash  ; 
Yet  now  too  few — the  attempt  were  rash  : 

No  matter  — yet  one  effort  more." 
Forth  to  the  cavern  mouth  he  stept ; 

His  pistol's  echo  rang  on  high, 
Zuleika  started  not,  nor  wept, 

Despair  benumbed  her  breast  and  eye !  — 
"  They  hear  me  not,  or  if  they  ply 
Their  oars,  'tis  but  to  see  me  die ; 
That  sound  hath  drawn  my  foes  more  nigh. 
Then  forth  my  father's  scimitar, 
Thou  ne'er  hast  seen  less  equal  war ! 
Farewell,  Zuleika  !  — Sweet !  retire  : 

Yet  stay  within  —  here  linger  safe, 

At  thee  his  rage  will  only  chafe. 
Stir  not — lest  even  to  thee  perchance 
Some  erring  blade  or  ball  should  glance. 
Fear'st  thou  for  him  ?  —  may  I  expire 
If  in  this  strife  I  seek  thy  sire ! 
No  —  though  by  him  that  poison  poured: 
No  —  though  again  he  call  me  coward! 
But  tamely  shall  I  meet  their  steel  ? 
No —  as  each  crest  save  his  may  feel !  " 

XXIV. 

One  bound  he  made,  and  gained  the  sand. 

Already  at  his  feet  hath  sunk 
The  foremost  of  the  prying  band, 

A  gasping  head,  a  quivering  trunk : 
Another  falls  — -but  round  him  close 
A  swarming  circle  of  his  foes ; 
From  right  to  left  his  path  he  cleft, 

And  almost  met  the  meeting  wave  : 
His  boat  appears  —  not  five  oars'  length  — 
His      comrades      strain     with     desperate 
strength  — 

Oh  !  are  they  yet  in  time  to  save  ? 

His  feet  the  foremost  breakers  lave; 
His  band  are  plunging  in  the  bay, 
Their  sabres  glitter  through  the  spray; 
Wet  —  wild  —  unwearied  to  the  strand 
They  struggle  —  now  they  touch  the  land  ! 


They  come  —  'tis  but  to  add  to  slaughter— 
His  heart's  best  blood  is  on  the  water. 


Escaped  from  shot,  unharmed  by  steel, 

Or  scarcely  grazed  its  force  to  feel, 

Had  Selim  won,  betrayed,  beset, 

To  where  the  strand  and  billows  met; 

There  as  his  last  step  left  the  land, 

And  the  last  death-blow  dealt  his  hand  — 

Ah  !  wherefore  did  he  turn  to  look 

For  her  his  eye  but  sought  in  vain  ? 
That  pause,  that  fatal  gaze  he  took, 

Hath  doomed  his  death,  or  fixed  his  chain. 
Sad  proof,  in  peril  and  in  pain, 
How  late  will  Lover's  hope  remain  ! 
His  back  was  to  the  dashing  spray ; 
Behind,  but  close,  his  comrades  lay, 
When,  at  the  instant,  hissed  the  ball  — 
"  So  may  the  foes  of  Giaffir  fall!  " 
Whose  voice  is  heard  ?  whose  carbine  rang  ? 
Whose  bullet  through  the  night-air  sang, 
Too  nearly,  deadly  aimed  to  err  ? 
'Tis  thine  —  Abdallah's  Murderer! 
The  father  slowly  rued  thy  hate, 
The  son  hath  found  a  quicker  fate : 
Fast  from  his  breast  the  blood  is  bubbling, 
The  whiteness  of  the  sea-foam  troubling  — 
If  aught  his  lips  essayed  to  groan, 
The  rushing  billows  choked  the  tone ! 


Morn  slowly  rolls  the  clouds  away ; 

Few  trophies  of  the  fight  are  there  : 
The  shouts  that  shook  the  midnight-bay 
Are  silent ;  but  some  signs  of  fray 

That  strand  of  strife  may  bear, 
And  fragments  of  each  shivered  brand  ; 
Steps  stamped  ;  and  dashed  into  the  sand 
The  print  of  many  a  struggling  hand 

May  there  be  marked  ;  nor  far  remote 

A  broken  torch,  an  oarless  boat; 
And  tangled  on  the  weeds  that  heap 
The  beach  where  shelving  to  the  deep 

There  lies  a  white  capote  ! 
'Tis  rent  in  twain  —  one  dark-red  stain 
The  wave  yet  ripples  o'er  in  vain  : 

But  where  is  he  who  wore  ? 
Ye !  who  would  o'er  his  relics  weep, 
Go,  seek  them  where  the  surges  sweep 
Their  burthen  round  Sigasum's  steep 

And  cast  on  Lemnos'  shore  : 
The  sea-birds  shriek  above  the  prey, 
O'er  which  their  hungry  beaks  delay, 
As  shaken  on  his  restless  pillow, 
His  head  heaves  with  the  heaving  billow ; 
That  hand,  whose  motion  is  not  life, 
Yet  feebly  seems  to  menace  strife, 
Flung  by  the  tossing  tide  on  high, 

Then  levelled  with  the  wave  — 
What  recks  it,  though  that  corse  shall  lie 

Within  a  living  grave  ? 


404 


THE  BRIDE    OF  A B  YD  OS. 


The  bird  that  tears  that  prostrate  form 

Hath  only  robbed  the  meaner  worm  ; 

The  only  heart,  the  only  eye 

Had  bled  or  wept  to  see  him  die, 

Had  seen  those  scattered  limbs  composed, 

And  mourned  above  his  turban  stone.1 
That    heart    hath     burst  —  that    eye    was 
closed  — 

Yea  —  closed  before  his  own ! 

XXVII. 

By  Helle's  stream  there  is  a  voice  of  wail ! 
A.nd  woman's  eye  is  wet  —  man's  cheek  is  pale. 
Zuleika !  last  of  Giaffir's  race, 

Thy  destined  lord  is  come  too  late: 
He  sees  not  —  ne'er  shall  see  thy  face ! 

Can  he  not  hear 
The  loud  Wul-wulleh'2  warn  his  distant  ear  ? 
Thy  handmaids  weeping  at  the  gate, 
The  Koran-chanters  of  the  hymn  of  fate, 
The  silent  slaves  with  folded  arms  that  wait, 
Sighs  in  the  hall,  and  shrieks  upon  the  gale, 

Tell  him  thy  tale  ! 
Thou  didst  not  view  thy  Selim  fall! 

That  fearful  moment  when  he  left  the  cave 
Thy  heart  grew  chill : 
He  was  thy  hope  —  thy  joy  —  thy  love  —  thine 
all  — 
And  that  last  thought  on  him  thou  could'st 
not  save 

Sufficed  to  kill ; 
Burst  forth  in  one  wild  cry  —  and  all  was  still. 
Peace  to  thy  broken  heart,  and  virgin  grave  ! 
Ah  !  happy  !  but  of  life  to  lose  the  worst ! 
That  grief— though   deep  —  though   fatal  — 

was  thy  first ! 
Thrice  happy !  ne'er  to  feel  nor  fear  the  force 
Of  absence,  shame,  pride,  hate,  revenge,  re- 
morse ! 
And,  oh  !  that  pang  wh^re  more  than  Mad- 
ness lies ! 
The  worm  that  will  not  sleep  —  and  never 

dies; 
Thought  of  the  gloomy  day  and  ghastly  night, 
That  dreads  the  darkness,  and  yet  loathes  the 

light, 
That  winds  around  and  tears  the  quivering 

heart ! 
Ah  !  wherefore  not  consume  it —  and  depart ! 
Woe  to  thee,  rash  and  unrelenting  chief! 
Vainly  thou  heap'st  the  dust  upon  thy  head, 
Vainly  the  sackcloth   o'er  thy  limbs  dost 

spread : 
By  that  same  hand  Abdaliah  —  Selim  bled. 
Now  let  it  tear  thy  beard  in  idle  grief: 
Thy  pride  of  heart,  thy  bride  for  Osman's  bed, 
She,  whom  thy  sultan  had  but  seen  to  wed, 


1  A  turban  is  carved  in  stone  above  the  graves  of 
men  only. 

2  The  death-song  of  the  Turkish  women.  The 
"silent  slaves"  are  the  men,  whose  notions  of 
decorum  forbid  complaint  in  public. 


Thy  Daughter's  dead! 
Hope  of  thine  age,  thy  twilight's  lonely  beam. 
The  Star  hath  set  that  shone  on  Helle'f 
stream. 
What  quenched  its  ray  ?  —  the  blood  that  thou 

hast  shed ! 
Hark!  to  the  hurried  question  of  Despair: 
"  Where  is  my  child  ?  "  — an  Echo  answers  — 
"Where  ?"3 

•  XXVIII. 

Within  the  place  of  thousand  tombs 

That  shine  beneath,  while  dark  above 
The  sad  but  living  cypress  glooms, 

And  withers  not,  though  branch  and  leal 
Are  stamped  with  an  eternal  grief, 

Like  early  unrequited  Love, 
One  spot  exists,  which  ever  blooms, 

Ev'n  in  that  deadly  grove  — 
A  single  rose  is  shedding  there 

Its  lonely  lustre,  meek  and  pale: 
It  looks  as  planted  by  Despair  — 

So  white  —so  faint  —  the  slightest  gale 
Might  whirl  the  leaves  on  high  ; 

And  yet,  though  storms  and  blight  assail, 
And  hands  more  rude  than  wintry  sky 

May  wring  it  from  the  stem  —  in  vain — 

To-morrow  sees  it  bloom  again ! 
The  stalk  some  spirit  gently  rears, 
And  waters  with  celestial  tears  ; 

For  well  nyiy  maids  of  Helle  deem 
That  this  can  be  no  earthly  flower. 
Which  mocks  the  tempest's  withering  hour, 
And  buds  unsheltered  by  a  bower ; 
Nor    droops,    though    spring    refuse    her 
shower, 

Nor  woos  the  summer  beam  : 
To  it  the  livelong  night  there  sings 

A  bird  unseen  —  but  not  remote : 
Invisible  his  airy  wings, 
But  soft  as  harp  that  Houri  strings 

His  long  entracing  note  ! 
It  were  the  Bulbul ;  but  his  throat, 

Though  mournful,  pours  not  such  a  strain ; 
For  they  who  listen  cannot  leave 
The  spot,  but  linger  there  and  grieve, 

As  if  they  loved  in  vain  ! 
And  yet  so  sweet  the  tears  they  shed, 
'Tis  sorrow  so  unmixed  with  dread. 
They  scarce  can  bear  the  morn  to  break 

That  melancholy  spell, 
And  longer  yet  would  weep  and  wake, 


3  "  I  came  to  the  place  of  my  birth,  and  cried, 
'  The  friends  of  my  youth,  where  are  they?  '  and  an 
Echo  answered,  '  Where  are  they.'"  " — From  an 
Arabic  MS.  The  above  quotation  (from  which 
the  idea  in  the  text  is  taken)  must  be  already  famil- 
iar to  every  reader:  it  is  given  in  the  first  annota- 
tion, p.  67,  of  "  The  Pleasures  of  Memory;  "  a  poem 
so  well  known  as  to  render  reference  almost  super- 
fluous; but  to  whose  page'  dl  will  be  delighted  to 
recur. 


THE  BRIDE    OF  ABYDOS. 


405 


He  sings  so  wild  and  well ! 
But  when  the  day-blush  bursts  from  high 
Expires  that  magic  melody. 
And  some  have  been  who  could  believe, 
(So  fondly  youthful  dreams  deceive, 

Yet  harsh  be  they  that  blame,) 
That  note  so  piercing  and  profound 
Will  shape  and  syllable  l  its  sound 

Into  Zuleika's  name.2 


1  "  And  airy  tongues  that  syllable  men's  names." 

Milton. 
For  a  belief  that  the  souls  of  the  dead  inhabit  the 
form  of  birds,  we  need  not  travel  to  the  East.  Lord 
Lyttleton's  ghost  story,  the  belief  of  the  Duchess  of 
Kendal,  that  George  I.  flew  into  her  window  in  the 
shape  of  a  raven  (see  Orford's  Reminiscences),  and 
many  other  instances,  bring  this  superstition  nearer 
home.  The  most  singular  was  the  whim  of  a  Wor- 
cester lady,  who,  believing  her  daughter  to  exist  in 
the  shape  of  a  singing  bird,  literally  furnished  her 
pew  in  the  cathedral  with  cages  full  of  the  kind; 
and  as  she  was  rich,  and  a  benefactress  in  beautify- 
ing the  church,  no  objection  was  made  to  her  harm- 
less folly.     For  this  anecdote,  see  Orford's  Letters. 

2  [The  heroine  of  this  poem,  the  blooming  Zuleika, 
is  all  purity  and  loveliness.  Never  was  a  faultless 
character  more  delicately  or  more  justly  delineated. 
Her  piety,  her  intelligence,  her  strict  sense  of  duty, 
and  her  undeviating  love  of  truth,  appear  to  have 
been  originally  blended  in  her  mind,  rather  than 
inculcated  by  education.  She  is  always  natural, 
always  attractive,  always  affectionate;  and  it  must 
be  admitted  that  her  affections  are  not  unworthily 
bestowed.  Selim,  while  an  orphan  and  dependant, 
is  never  degraded  by  calamity ;  when  better  hopes 
are  presented  to  him,  his  buoyant  spirit  rises  with 
his  expectations:  he  is  enterprising,  with  no  more 
rashness  than  becomes  his  youth;  and  when  disap- 
pointed in  the  success  of  a  well  concerted  project, 
he  meets,  with  intrepidity,  the  fate  to  which  he  is 
exposed  through  his  own  generous  forbearance.  To 
us,  "  The  Bride  of  Abydos  "  appears  to  be,  in  every 
respect,  superior  to  "  The  Giaour,"  though,  in  point 
of  diction,  it  has  been,  perhaps,  less  warmly  admired. 
We  will  not  argue  this  point,  but  will  simply  ob- 


'Tis  from  her  cypress  summit  heard, 
That  melts  in  air  the  liquid  word: 
'Tis  from  her  lowly  virgin  earth 
That  white  rose  takes  its  tender  birth. 
There  late  was  laid  a  marble  stone ; 
Eve  saw  it  placed  —  the  Morrow  gone ! 
It  was  no  mortal  arm  that  bore 
That  deep  fixed  pillar  to  the  shore ; 
For  there,  as  Helle's  legends  tell, 
Next  morn  'twas  found  where  Selim  fell ; 
Lashed  by  the  tumbling  tide,  whose  wave 
Denied  his  bones  a  holier  grave  : 
And  there  by  night,  reclined,  'tis  said. 
Is  seen  a  ghastly  turbaned  head : 
And  hence  extended  by  the  billow, 
'Tis  named  the"  Pirate-phantom'spillow  ! " 
Where  first  it  lay  that  mourning  flower 
Hath  flourished  ;  flourisheth  this  hour, 
Alone  and  dewy,  coldly  pure  and  pale ; 
As  weeping  Beauty's  cheek  at  Sorrow's  tale  !  3 


serve,  that  what  is  read  with  ease  is  generally  read 
with  rapidity;  and  that  many  beauties  of  style  which 
escape  observation  in  a  simple  and  connected  nar- 
rative, would  be  forced  on  the  reader's  attention  by 
abrupt  and  perplexing  transitions.  It  is  only  when 
a  traveller  is  obliged  to  stop  on  his  journey,  that  he 
is  disposed  to  examine  and  admire  the  prospect. 
—  George  Ellis.  ] 

3  ["  The  '  Bride,'  such  as  it  is,  is  my  first  entire 
composition  of  any  length  (except  the  Satire,  and 
be  d — d  to  it),  for  the  'Giaour'  is  but  a  string  of 
passages,  and  '  Childe  Harold '  is,  and  I  rather 
think  always  will  be,  unconcluded."  "  It  was  pub- 
lished on  Thursday,  the  2d  of  December;  but  how  it 
is  liked,  I  know  not.  Whether  it  succeeds  or  not, 
is  no  fault  of  the  public,  against  whom  I  can  have 
no  complaint.  But  I  am  much  more  indebted  to  the 
tale  than  I  can  ever  be  to  the  most  important  reader; 
as  it  wrung  my  thoughts  from  reality  to  imagina- 
tion; from  selfish  regrets  to  vivid  recollections; 
and  recalled  me  to  a  country  replete  with  the 
brightest  and  darkest,  but  always  most  lively  colors 
of  my  memory."  —  Byron's  Diary,  Decembers, 
1813.] 


THE   CORSAIR:    A    TALE.1 


- "  I  suoi  pensieri  in  lui  dormir  non  ponno." 

Tasso,  Gerusalemme  Liberata,  canto  x. 


TO  THOMAS   MOORE,   ESQ. 

My  dear  Moore:  —  I  dedicate  to  you  the  last  production  with  which  I  shall  trespass  on  pubtlc 
patience,  and  your  indulgence,  for  some  years;  and  I  own  that  I  feel  anxious  to  avail  myself  of  this  late- 
est  and  only  opportunity  of  adorning  my  pages  with  a  name,  consecrated  by  unshaken  public  principle, 
and  the  most  undoubted  and  various  talents.  While  Ireland  ranks  you  among  the  firmest  of  her  patriots; 
while  you  stand  alone  the  first  of  her  bards  in  her  estimation,  and  Britain  repeats  and  ratifies  the  decree, 
permit  one,  whose  only  regret,  since  our  first  acquaintance,  has  been  the  years  he  had  lost  before  it  com 
menced,  to  add  the  humble  but  sincere  suffrage  of  friendship,  to  the  voice  of  more  than  one  nation.  In 
will  at  least  prove  to  you,  that  I  have  neither  forgotten  the  gratification  derived  from  your  society,  nor 
abandoned  the  prospect  of  its  renewal,  whenever  your  leisure  or  inclination  allows  you  to  atone  to  you* 
friends  for  too  long  an  absence.  It  is  said  among  those  friends,  I  trust  truly,  that  you  are  engaged  in  thti 
composition  of  a  poem  whose  scene  will  be  laid  in  the  East;  none  can  do  those  scenes  so  much  justice 
The  wrongs  of  your  own  country,2  the  magnificent  and  fiery  spirit  of  her  sons,  the  beauty  and  feeling  of 
her  daughters,  may  there  be  found;  and  Collins,  when  he  denominated  his  Oriental  his  Irish  Eclogues 
was  not  aware  how  true,  at  least,  was  a  part  of  his  parallel.  Your  imagination  will  create  a  warmer  sun. 
and  less  clouded  sky;  but  wildness,  tenderness,  and  originality,  are  part  of  your  national  claim  of  orien- 
tal descent,  to  which  you  have  already  thus  far  proved  your  title  more  clearly  than  the  most  zealous  of 
your  country's  antiquarians. 

May  I  add  a  few  words  on  a  subject  on  which  all  men  are  supposed  to  be  fluent,  and  none  agreeable, 
—  Self?  I  have  written  much,  and  published  more  than  enough  to  demand  a  longer  silence  than  I  now 
meditate;  but,  for  some  years  to  come,  it  is  my  intention  to  tempt  no  further  the  award  of"  Gods,  men, 
nor  columns."  In  the  present  composition  I  have  attempted  not  the  most  difficult,  but,  perhaps,  the  best 
adapted  measure  to  our  language,  the  good  old  and  now  neglected  heroic  couplet.  The  stanza  of  Spen- 
ser is  perhaps  too  slow  and  dignified  for  narrative;  though,  I  confess,  it  is  the  measure  most  after  my  own 

1  The  time  in  this  poem  may  seem  too  short  for  the  occurrences,  but  the  whole  of  the  ^Egean  isles  are 
within  a  few  hours'  sail  of  the  continent,  and  the  reader  must  be  kind  enough  to  take  the  -wind  as  I  have 
often  found  it, 

2  [This  political  allusion  having  been  objected  to  by  a  friend,  Byron  sent  a  second  dedication  to  Mr. 
Moore,  with  a  request  that  he  would  "  take  his  choice."     It  ran  as  follows:  — 

January  7th,  18T4. 
"  My  dear  Moore:  —  I  had  written  to  you  a  long  letter  of  dedication,  which  I  suppress,  because, 
though  it  contained  something  relating  to  you,  which  evftry  one  had  been  glad  to  hear,  yet  there  was  too 
much  about  politics,  and  poesy,  and  all  things  whatsoever,  ending  with  that  topic  on  which  most  men 
are  fluent,  and  none  very  amusing,  —  one's  self.  It  might  have  been  rewritten;  but  to  what  purpose? 
My  praise  could  add  nothing  to  your  well-earned  and  firmly  established  fame;  and  with  my  most  hearty 
admiration  of  your  talents,  and  delight  in  your  conversation,  you  are  already  acquainted.  In  availing 
myself  of  your  friendly  permission  to  inscribe  this  poem  to  you,  I  can  only  wish  the  offering  vrere  as 
worthy  your  acceptance,  as  your  regard  is  dear  to 

"  Yours,  most  affectionately  and  faithfully, 

"  Byron."] 


THE  CORSAIR.  407 


heart:  Scott  alone,'  of  the  present  generation,  has  hitherto  completely  triumphed  over  the  fatal  facility  of 
the  octo-syllabic  verse;  and  this  is  not  the  least  victory  of  his  fertile  and  mighty  genius:  in  blank  verse, 
Milton,  Thomson,  and  our  dramatists,  arc  the  beacons  that  shine  along  the  deep,  but  warn  us  from  the 
rough  and  barren  rock  on  which  they  are  kindled.  The  heroic  couplet  is  not  the  most  popular  measure 
certainly;  but  as  I  did  not  deviate  into  the  other  from  a  wish  to  flatter  what  is  called  public  opinion,  I 
shall  quit  it  without  further  apology,  and  take  my  chance  once  more  with  that  versification,  in  which  I 
have  hitherto  published  nothing  but  compositions  whose  former  circulation  is  part  of  my  present,  and 
will  be  of  my  future  regret. 

With  regard  to  my  story,  and  stories  in  general,  I  should  have  been  glad  to  have  rendered  my  person- 
ages more  perfect  and  amiable,  if  possible,  inasmuch  as  I  have  been  sometimes  criticized,  and  considered 
no  less  responsible  for  their  deeds  and  qualities  than  if  all  had  been  personal.  Be  it  so  —  if  I  have  devi- 
ated into  the  gloomy  vanity  of"  drawing  from  self,"  the  pictures  are  probably  like,  since  they  are  unfa- 
vorable; and  if  not,  those  who  know  me  are  undeceived,  and  those  who  do  not,  I  have  little  interest  in 
undeceiving.  I  have  no  particular  desire  that  any  but  my  acquaintance  should  think  the  author  better 
than  the  beings  of  his  imagining;  but  I  cannot  help  a  little  surprise,  and  perhaps  amusement,  at  some  odd 
critical  exceptions  in  the  present  instance,  when  I  see  several  bards  (far  more  deserving,  I  allow)  in  very 
reputable  plight,  and  quite  exempted  from  all  participation  in  the  faults  of  those  heroes,  who,  neverthe- 
less, might  be  found  with  little  more  morality  than  "The  Giaour,"  and  perhaps  —  but  no  —  I  must 
admit  Childe  Harold  to  be  a  very  repulsive  personage;  and  as  to  his  identity,  those  who  like  it  must  give 
him  whatever  "  alias  "  they  please.' 

If,  however,  it  were  worth  while  to  remove  the  impression,  it  might  be  of  some  service  to  me,  that  the 
man  who  is  alike  the  delight  of  his  readers  and  his  friends,  the  poet  of  all  circles,  and  the  idol  of  his 
own,  permits  me  here  and  elsewhere  to  subscribe  myself 

Most  truly  and  affectionately,  his  obedient  servant, 

January  2, 1814.  BYRON. 


INTRODUCTION. 


"The  Corsair"  was  begun  on  the  18th,  and  finished  on  the  31st,  of  December,  1813;  a  rapidity  of 
composition  seldom  paralleled  in  literary  history.  Byron  states  it  to  have  been  written  "  con  amove, 
and  very  much  from  existence."  In  the  original  MS.  the  chief  female  character  was  called  Fraacesca, 
in  whose  person  the  author  meant  to  delineate  one  of  his  acquaintance;  but,  while  the  work  was  at 
press,  he  changed  the  name  to  Medora.  In  his  journal,  soon  after  the  publication  of  the  poem,  he  made 
the  following  entry:  "  Hobhouse  told  me  an  odd  report,  —  that  /  am  the  actual  Conrad,  the  veritable 
Corsair,  and  that  part  of  my  travels  are  supposed  to  have  passed  in  piracy.  Um!  —  people  s cnetimes 
hit  near  the  truth,  but  never  the  whole  truth.  H.  don't  know  what  I  was  about  the  year  after  J  left  the 
Levant;  nor  does  any  one  —  nor  —  nor  —  nor  —  however,  it  is  a  lie  —  but  'I  doubt  the  equivocation  of 
the  fiend  that  lies  like  truth !  ' "  He  mentioned  the  report  to  a  female  acquaintance,  who  replied,  '  I 
don't  wonder,  Conrad  is  so  like"  Upon  which  Byron  remarks  that  if  she  knew  nothing,  no  one  else 
oeuld.     These  dark  allusions  are  probably  mere  mystifications. 

The  success  of  the  Corsair  was  immense.     Fourteen  thousand  copies  were  sold  in  one  day. 

1  [After  the  words  of  "Scott  alone,"  Byron  had  inserted,  in  a  parenthesis  —  "He  will  excuse  the 
'Mr.'' —  we  do  not  say  Mr.  Caesar."] 

2  [It  is  difficult  to  say  whether  we  are  to  receive  this  passage  as  an  admission  or  a  denial  of  the  opin- 
ion to  which  it  refers;  but  Lord  Byron  certainly  did  the  public  injustice,  if  he  supposed  it  imputed 
to  him  the  criminal  actions  with  which  many  of  his  heroes  were  stained.  Men  no  more  expected  to 
meet  in  Lord  Byron  the  Corsair,  who  "  knew  himself  a  villain,"  than  they  looked  for  the  Kypocrisy 
of  Kehama  on  the  shores  of  the  Derweni  Water,  or  the  profligacy  of  Marmion  on  the  bank*  of  the 
Tweed.  —  Sir  Walter  Scott.] 


408 


THE   CORSAIR. 


CANTO  THE  FIRST. 


nessun  maggior  dolore, 


Che  ricordarsi  del  tempo  felice 

Nella  miseria, " 

Dante. 


I. 

"  O'ER  the  glad  waters  of  the  dark  blue  sea, 
Our  thoughts  as  boundless,  and  our  souls  as 

tree, 
Far  as  the  breeze  can  bear,  the  billows  foam, 
Survey  our  empire,  and  behold  our  home! 
These  are  our  realms,  no  limits  to  their  sway  — 
Our  flag  the  sceptre  all  who  meet  obey. 
Ours  the  wild  life  in  tumult  still  to  range 
From  toil  to  rest,  and  joy  in  every  change. 
Oh,  who  can  tell  ?  not  thou,  luxurious  slave ! 
Whose  soul  would  sicken  o'er  the   heaving 

wave; 
Not  thou,  vain  lord  of  wantonness  and  ease! 
Whom  slumber  soothes  not  —  pleasure  can- 
not please  — 
Oh,  who  can  tell,  save  he  whose  heart  hath 

tried, 
And  danced  in  triumph  o'er  the  waters  wide, 
The  exulting  sense  —  the  pulse's  maddening 

play, 
That  thrills  the  wanderer  of  that  trackless  way  ? 
That  for  itself  can  woo  the  approaching  fight, 
And  turn  what  some  deem  danger  to  delight ; 
That  seeks  what  cravens  shun  with  more  than 

zeal, 
And  where  the  feebler  faint  —  can  only  feel  — 
Feel  —  to  the  rising  bosom's  inmost  core, 
Its  hope  awaken  and  its  spirit  soar  ? 
No  dread  of  death  —  if  with  us  die  our  foes  — 
Save  that  it  seems  even  duller  than  repose  : 
Come  when   it  will  —  we  snatch   the   life   of 

life  — 
When   lost  —  what  recks   it  —  by  disease  or 

strife  ? 
Let  him  who  crawls  enamoured  of  decay 
Cling  to  his  couch,  and  sicken  years  away; 
Heave  his  thick  breath,  and  shake  his  palsied 

head ; 
Ours  —  the  fresh  turf,  and  not  the  feverish  bed. 
While  gasp  by  gasp  he  falters  forth  his  soul, 
Ours  with  one  pang  —  one  bound — escapes 

control. 
His  corse  may  boast  its  urn  and  narrow  cave, 
And  they  who  loathed  his  life  may  gild  his 

grave : 
Ours  are  the  tears,  though  few,  sincerely  shed, 
When   Ocean  shrouds  and   sepulchres   our 

dead. 
For  us,  even  banquets  fond  regrets  supply 
In  the  red  cup  that  crowns  our  memory; 
And  the  brief  epitaph  in  danger's  da% 


When  those  who  win  at  length  divide  the  prey, 
And  cry,  Remembrance  saddening  o'er  each 

brow, 
How  had  the  brave  who  fell  exulted  now  I" 

II. 

Such  were  the  notes  that  from  the  Pirate's  isle 
Around  the  kindling  watch-fire  rang  the  while  : 
Such  were  the  sounds  that  thrilled  the  rocks 

along, 
And  unto  ears  as  rugged  seemed  a  song! 
In  scattered  groups  upon  the  golden  sand, 
They  game  —  carouse  —  converse  —  or  whet 

the  brand ; 
Select  the  arms  —  to  each  his  blade  assign, 
And  careless  eye  the  blood  that  dims  its  shine ; 
Repair  the  boat,  replace  the  helm  or  oar, 
While  others  straggling  muse  along  the  shore ; 
For  the  wild  bird  the  busy  springes  set, 
Or  spread  beneath  the  sun  the  dripping  net; 
Gaze  where  some  distant  sail  a  speck  supplies, 
With  all  the  thirsting  eye  of  Enterprise  ; 
Tell  o'er  the  tales  of  many  a  night  of  toil, 
And   marvel  where   they  next   shall   seize  a 

spoH : 
No  matter  where  —  their  chiefs  allotment  this ; 
Theirs,  to  believe  no  prey  nor  plan  amiss. 
But  who    that   Chief?  his    name  on  every 

shore 
Is  famed  and  feared  —  they  ask  and  know  no 

more. 
With  these  he  mingles  not  but  to  command; 
Few  are  his  words,  but  keen  his  eye  and  hand. 
Ne'er  seasons  he  with  mirth  their  jovial  mess, 
But  they  forgive  his  silence  for  success. 
Ne'er  for  his  lip  the  purpling  cup  they  fill, 
That  goblet  passes  him  untasted  still  — 
And  for  his  fare  —  the  rudest  of  his  crew 
Would  that,  in  turn,  have  passed  untasted  too ; 
Earth's  coarsest  bread,  the  garden's  homeliest 

roots, 
And  scarce  the  summer  luxury  of  fruits, 
His  short  repast  in  humbleness  supply 
With  all  a  hermit's  board  would  scarce  deny. 
But  while  he  shuns  the  grosser  joys  of  sense, 
His  mind  seems  nourished  by  that  abstinence. 
"Steer    to    that    shore!"  —  they  sail.    "Do 

this  !  "  'tis  done  : 
"Now  form  and  follow  me!  "  —  the  spoil  is 

won. 
Thus  prompt  his  accents  and  his  actions  still, 
And  all  obey  and  few  inquire  his  will ; 


THE   CORSAIR 


409 


To  such,  brief  answer  and  contemptuous  eye 
Convey  reproof,  nor  further  deign  reply. 


"A  sail!  —  a  sail!"  —  a  promised  prize  to 
Hope! 

Her  nation  —  flag  —  how  speaks  the  tele- 
scope? 

No  prize,  alas  !  — but  yet  a  welcome  sail : 

The  blood-red  signal  glitters  in  the  gale. 

Yes  —  she  is  ours  —  a  home  returning  bark  — 

Blow  fair,  thou  breeze !  —  she  anchors  ere  the 
dark. 

Already  doubled  is  the  cape  —  our  bay 

Receives  that  prow  which  proudly  spurns  the 
spray. 

How  gloriously  her  gallant  course  she  goes! 

Her  white  wings  flying — never  from  her 
foes  — 

She  walks  the  water  like  a  thing  of  life, 

And  seems  to  dare  the  elements  to  strife. 

Who  would  not  brave  the  battle-fire  —  the 
wreck  — 

To  move  the  monarch  of  her  peopled  deck  ? 


Hoarse  o'er  her  side  the  rustling  cable  rings ; 
The  sails  are  furled  ;  and  anchoring  round  she 

swings : 
And  gathering  loiterers  on  the  land  discern 
Her  boat  descending  from  the  latticed  stern. 
'Tis  manned  —  the  oars  keep  concert  to  the 

strand, 
Till  grates  her  keel  upon  the  shallow  sand. 
Hail   to   the  welcome   shout !  —  the   friendly 

speech ! 
When  hand  grasps  hand  uniting  on  the  beach  ; 
The  smile,  the  question,  and  the  quick  reply, 
And  the  heart's  promise  of  festivity  ! 

V. 

The  tidings  spread,  and  gathering  grows  the 

crowd; 
The  hum  of  voices,  and  the  laughter  loud, 
And  woman's  gentler  anxious  tone  is  heard  — 
Friends'  —  husbands'  —  lovers'  names  in  each 

dear  word : 
"  Oh  !  are  they  safe  ?  we  ask  not  of  success  — ■ 
But    shall   we  see   them  ?  will    their  accents 

bless  ? 
From  where   the  battle   roars  —  the   billows 

chafe  — ■ 
They  doubtless  boldly  did  —  but  who  are  safe  ? 
Here  let  them  haste  to  gladden  and  surprise, 
And  kiss  the  doubt  from  these  delighted  eyes  !" 


"  Where  is  our  chief?  for  him  we  bear  report  — 
And  doubt  that  joy  —  which  hails  our  com- 
ing—  short ; 
Vet    thus  sincere  —  'tis  cheering,  though   so 
brief; 


But,  Juan !  instant  guide  us  to  our  chief: 
Our  greeting  paid,  we'll  feast  on  our  return, 
And   all  shall   hear  what  each  may  wish  to 

learn." 
Ascending  slowly  by  the  rock-hewn  way, 
To  where  his  watch-tower  beetles  o'er  the 

bay, 
By  bushy  brake,  and  wild  flowers  blossoming, 
And   freshness    breathing  from   each    silver 

spring, 
Whose  scattered  streams  from  granite  basins 

burst, 
Leap  into  life,  and  sparkling  woo  your  thirst ; 
From  crag  to  cliff  they  mount —  Near  yonder 

cave, 
What  lonely  straggler  looks  along  the  wave  ? 
In  pensive  posture  leaning  on  the  brand, 
Not  oft  a  resting-staff  to  that  red  hand  ? 
"'Tis  he  —  'tis   Conrad — here — as  wont  — 

alone ; 
On — Juan!  —  on  —  and  make  our   purpose 

known. 
The  bark  he  views  —  and  tell  him  we  would 

greet 
His  ears  with  tidings  he  must  quickly  meet : 
We  dare  not  yet  approach  — thou  know'st  his 

mood, 
When  strange  or  uninvited  steps  intrude. " 

VII. 

Him  Juan  sought,  and  told  of  their  intent;  — 
He  spake  not  —  but  a  sign  expressed  assent. 
These  Juan  calls  —  they  come  —  to  their  salute 
He  bends  him  slightly,  but  his  lips  are  mute. 
"  These  letters,  Chief,  are  from  the  Greek  — 

the  spy, 
Who  still  proclaims  our  spoil  or  peril  nigh : 
Whate'er  his  tidings,  we  can  well  report, 
Much   that"  —  "Peace,  peace!"  —  he    cuts 

their  prating  short. 
Wondering  they  turn,  abashed,  while  each  to 

each 
Conjecture  whispers  in  his  muttering  speech  : 
They  watch  his  glance  with  many  a  stealing 

look, 
To  gather  how  that  eye  the  tidings  took ; 
But,  this  as  if  he  guessed,  with  head  aside, 
Perchance    from   some    emotion,   doubt,   01 

pride. 
He    read    the    scroll  — "  My    tablets,    Juan, 

hark  — 
Where  is  Gonsalvo  ?  " 

"  In  the  anchored  bark." 
"There    let  him    stay  —  to   him   this    order 

bear  — 
Back  to  your  duty  —  for  my  course  prepare  : 
Mvself  this  enterprise  to-night  will  share." 
"To-night,  Lord  Conrad  ?" 

"  Ay !  at  set  of  sun  : 
The  breeze  will  freshen  when  the  day  is  done. 
My    corslet  —  cloak  —  one    hour  —  and    we 

are  gone. 


410 


THE   CORSAIR. 


Sling  on  thy  bugle  —  see  that  free  from  rust 
My  carbine-lock  springs  worthy  of  my  trust ; 
Be  the  edge  sharpened  of  my  boarding-brand, 
And  give  its  guard  more  room  to  fit  my  hand. 
This  let  the  Armourer  with. speed  dispose; 
Last  time,  it  more  fatigued  my  arm  than  foes  : 
Mark  that  the  signal-gun  be  duly  fired, 
To  tell  us  when  the  hour  of  stay's  expired." 


They  make  obeisance,  and  retire  in  haste, 
Too  soon  to  seek  again  the  watery  waste  : 
Yet  they  repine  not  —  so  that  Conrad  guides; 
And  who  dare  question  aught  that  he  decides  ? 
That  man  of  loneliness  and  mystery, 
Scarce  seen  to  smile,  and  seldom  heard  to 

sigh; 
Whose  name  appalls  the  fiercest  of  his  crew, 
And  tints  each  swarthy  cheek  with  sallower 

hue  ; 
Still  sways  their  souls  with  that  commanding 

art 
That  dazzles,  leads,  yet  chills  the  vulgar  heart. 
What  is  that  spell,  that  thus  his  lawless  train 
Confess  and  envy,  yet  oppose  in  vain  ? 
What  should  it  be,  that  thus  their  faith  can 

bind  ? 
The   power  of  Thought  —  the  magic  of  the 

Mind! 
Linked  with  success,  assumed  and  kept  with 

skill, 
That  moulds  another's  weakness  to  its  will ; 
Wields  with   their  hands,  but,  still   to  these 

unknown 
Makes  even  their  mightiest  deeds  appear  his 

own. 
Such  hath  it  been  —  shall  be  —  beneath  the 

sun 
The  many  still  must  labor  for  the  one ! 
'Tis  Nature's  doom  —  but  let  the  wretch  who 

toils, 
Accuse  not,  hate  not  him  who  wears  the  spoils. 
Oh  !  if  he  knew  the  weight  of  splendid  chains, 
How  light  the  balance  of  his  humbler  pains ! 


Unlike  the  heroes  of  each  ancient  race, 
Demons  in  act,  but  Gods  at  least  in  face, 
In  Conrad's  form  seems  little  to  admire, 
Though  his  dark  eyebrow  shades  a  glance  of 

fire : 
Robust  but  not  Herculean  —  to  the  sight 
No  giant  frame  sets  forth  his  common  height ; 
Yet,  in  the  whole,  who  paused  to  look  again, 
Saw  more  than  marks  the  crowd  of  vulgar 

men;  ! 


1  [In  the  features  of  Conrad,  those  who  have 
looked  upon  Lord  Byron  will  recognize  some  like- 
ness ;  and  the  ascetic  regimen  which  the  noble  poet 
himself  observed,  was  no  less  marked  in  the  pre- 
ceding description  of  Conrad's  fare.  To  what  are 
we  to  ascribe  the  singular  peculiarity  which  induced 


They  gaze  and  marvel  how  —  and  still  confess 
That  thus  it  is,  but  why  they  cannot  guess. 
Sun-burnt  his  cheek,  his  forehead  high  and 

pale 
The  sable  curls  in  wild  profusion  veil ; 
And  oft  perforce  his  rising  lip  reveals 
The  haughtier  thought  it  curbs,  but  scarce 

conceals. 
Though  smooth  his  voice  and  calm  his  gen- 
eral mien, 
Still   seems  there   something  he  would   not 

have  seen ; 
His  features'  deepening  lines  and  varying  hue 
At  times  attracted,  yet  perplexed  the  view, 
As  if  within  that  murkiness  of  mind 
Worked  feelings  tearful,  and  yet  undefined ; 
Such  might  it  be  —  that  none  could  truly  tell  — 
Too  close  inquiry  his  stern  glance  would  quell. 
There  breathe  but  few   whose  aspect  might 

defy 
The  full  encounter  of  his  searching  eye : 
He  had  the  skill,  when  Cunning's  gaze  would 

seek 
To  probe  his  heart  and  watch  his  changing 

cheek, 
At  once  the  observer's  purpose  to  espy, 
And  on  himseif  roll  back  his  scrutiny, 
Lest  he  to  Conrad  rather  should  betray 
Some  secret  thought,  than   drag  that  chiefs 

to-day. 


an  author  of  such  talent,  and  so  well  skilled  in  trac- 
ing the  darker  impressions  which  guilt  and  remorse 
leave  on  the  human  character,  so  frequently  to  affix 
features  peculiar  to  himself  to  the  robbers  and  cor- 
sairs which  he  sketched  with  a  pencil  as  forcible  as 
that  of  Salvator?  More  than  one  answer  may  be 
returned  to  this  question;  nor  do  we  pretend  to  say 
which  is  best  warranted  by  the  facts.  The  practice 
may  arise  from  a  temperament  which  radical  and 
constitutional  melancholy  had,  as  in  the  case  of 
Hamlet,  predisposed  to  identify  its  owner  with  scenes 
of  that  deep  and  amazing  interest  which  arises  from 
the  stings  of  conscience  contending  with  the  stub- 
born energy  of  pride,  and  delighting  to  be  placed  in 
supposed  situations  of  guilt  and  danger,  as  some 
men  love  instinctively  to  tread  the  giddy  edge  of  a 
precipice,  or,  holding  by  some  frail  twig,  to  stoop 
forward  over  the  abyss  into  which  the  dark  torrent 
discharges  itself.  Or,  it  maybe  that  these  disguises 
were  assumed  capriciously,  as  a  man  might  choose 
the  cloak,  poniard,  and  dark  lantern  Of  a  bravo,  for 
his  disguise  at  a  masquerade.  Or,  feeling  his  own 
powers  in  painting  the  sombre  and  the  horrible, 
Lord  Byron  assumed  in  his  fervor  the  very  sem- 
blance of  the  characters  he  describes;  like  an  actor 
who  presents  on  the  stage  at  once  his  own  person 
and  the  tragic  character  with  which  for  the  time  he 
is  invested.  Nor,  is  it  altogether  incompatible  with 
his  character  to  believe  that,  in  contempt  of  the 
criticisms  which,  on  this  account,  had  attended 
"  Childe  Harold"  he  was  determined  to  show  the 
public  how  little  he  was  affected  by  them,  and  how 
effectually  it  was  in  his  power  to  compel  attention 
and  respect,  even  when  imparting  a  portion  of  his 
own  likeness  and  his  own  peculiarities,  to  pirates 
and  outlaws.  —  Sir  Walter  Scott. \ 


THE   CORSAIR. 


411 


There  was  a  laughing  Devil  in  his  sneer, 
That  raised  emotions  both  of  rage  and  fear ; 
And  where  his  frown  of  hatred  darkly  fell, 
Hope  withering  fled  —  and  Mercy  sighed  fare- 
well !  i 

x. 
Slight  are  the  outward  signs  of  evil  thought, 
Within  —  within  —  'twas     there     the     spirit 

wrought ! 
Love  shows  all  changes  —  Hate,  Ambition, 

Guile, 
Betray  no  further  than  the  bitter  smile ; 
The  lip's  least  curl,  the  lightest  paleness  thrown 
Along  the  governed  aspect,  speak  alone 
Of  deeper  passions  ;  and  to  judge  their  mien, 
He,  who  would  see,  must  be  himself  unseen. 
Then  —  with  the  hurried  tread,  the  upward  eye, 
The  clenched  hand,  the  pause  of  agony, 
That  listens,  starting,  lest  the  step  too  near 
Approach  intrusive  on  that  mood  of  fear  : 
Then  —  with  each  feature  working  from  the 

heart, 
With    feelings    loosed    to    strengthen  —  not 

depart : 
That  rise  —  convulse  —  contend  —  that  freeze 

or  glow, 
Flush  in  the  cheek,  or  damp  upon  the  brow ; 
Then  —  Stranger  !  if  thou  canst,  and  tremblest 

not, 
Behold  his  soul  —  the  rest  that  soothes  his  lot ! 
Mark  —  how  that  lone  and  blighted  bosom 

sears 
The  scathing  thought  of  execrated  years  ! 
Behold  —  but  who  hath  seen,  or  e'er  shall  see, 
Man  as  himself — the  secret  spirit  free  ? 


Vet  was  not  Conrad  thus  by  Nature  sent 
To  lead  the  guilty  —  guilt's  worst  instrument  - 


1  That  Conrad  is  a  character  not  altogether  out 
of  nature,  I  shall  attempt  to  prove  by  some  histori- 
cal coincidences  which  I  have  met  with  since  writ- 
ing "  The  Corsair." 

"  Eccelin  prisonnier,"  dit  Rolandini,  "  s'enfer- 
moit  dans  un  silence  menaqant,  il  fixoit  sur  la  terre 
son  visage  feroce,  et  ne  donnoit  point  d'essor  a  sa 
profonde  indignation.  De  toutes  partes  cependant 
les  soldats  et  les  peuples  accouroient;  ils  vouloient 
voir  cet  homme,  jadis  si  puissant,  et  la  joie  univer- 
aelle  eclatoit  de  toutes  partes."  *  *  *  "  Eccelin 
etoit  d'une  petite  taille;  mais  tout  l'aspect  de  sa 
person  ne,  tous  ses  mouvemens,  indiquoient  un  sol- 
dat.  —  Son  langage  etoit  amer,  son  deportement 
superbe  —  et  par  son  seul  regard,  il  faisoit  trembler 
les  plus  hardis."  —  Sismondi,  tome  iii.  p.  219. 

Again,  "  Gizericus  (Genseric,  king  of  the  Van- 
dals, the  conqueror  of  both  Carthage  and  Rome), 
statura  mediocris,  et  equi  casu  claudicans,  animo 
profundus,  sermone  rarus,  luxurise  contemptor,  ira 
turbidus,  habendi  cupidus,  ad  solicitandas  gentes 
providentissimus,"  etc.  etc.  —  Jornandes  de  Rebus 
Geticis,  c.  33. 

I  beg  leave  to  quote  these  gloomy  realities  to 
keep  in  countenance  my  Giaour  and  Corsair.   r 


His  soul  was  changed,  before  his  deeds  had 

driven 
Him  forth  to  war  with  man  and  forfeit  heaven. 
Warped  by  the  world  in   Disappointment's 

school, 
In  words  too  wise,  in  conduct  there  a  fool ; 
Too  firm  to  yield,  and  far  too  proud  to  stoop. 
Doomed  by  his  very  virtues  for  a  dupe, 
He  cursed  those  virtues  as  the  cause  of  ill, 
And  not  the  traitors  who  betrayed  him  still ; 
Nor  deemed  that  gifts  bestowed  on  better  men 
Had  left  him  joy,  and  means  to  give  again. 
Feared —  shunned —  belied  —  ere  youth  had 

lost  her  force, 
He  hated  man  too  much  to  feel  remorse, 
And  thought  the  voice  of  wrath  a  sacred  call, 
To  pay  the  injuries  of  some  on  all. 
He  knew  himself  a  villain  —  but  he  deemed 
The  rest  no  better  than  the  thing  he  seemed  ; 
And  scorned  the  best  as  hypocrites  who  hid 
Those  deeds  the  bolder  spirit  plainly  did. 
He  knew  himself  det^ted,  but  he  knew 
The  hearts  that  loathed  him,  crouched  and 

dreaded  too. 
Lone,  wild,  and  strange,  he  stood  alike  exempt 
From  all  affection  and  from  all  contempt : 
His  name  could  sadden,  and  his  acts  surprise  ; 
But  they  that  feared  him  dared  not  to  despise  : 
Man  spurns  the  worm,  but  pauses  ere  he  wake 
The  slumbering  venom  of  the  folded  snake  ; 
The  first  may  turn  —  but  not  avenge  the  blow; 
The  last  expires  —  but  leaves  no  living  foe; 
Fast  to  the  doomed  offender's  form  it  clings, 
And  he  may  crush  —  not  conquer — still   it 

stings. 

XII. 

None  are  all  evil  —  quickening  round  his  heart 
One  softer  feeling  would  not  yet  depart ; 
Oft  could  he  sneer  at  others  as  beguiled 
By  passions  worthy  of  a  fool  or  child  ; 
Yet  'gainst  that  passion  vainly  still  he  strove, 
And  even  in  him  it  asks  the  name  of  Love ! 
Yes,  it  was  love  —  unchangeable  —  unchanged. 
Felt  but  for  one  from  whom  he  never  ranged; 
Though  fairest  captives  daily  met  his  eye, 
He  shunned,  nor  sought,  but  coldly  passed 

them  by ; 
Though  many  a  beauty  drooped  in  prisoned 

bower, 
None  ever  soothed  his  most  unguarded  hour. 
Yes  —  it  was  Love  —  if  thoughts  of  tenderness, 
Tried  in  temptation,  strengthened  by  distress, 
Unmoved  by  absence,  firm  in  every  clime, 
And  yet  —  Oh  more  than  all !  —  untired  by 

time ; 
Which  nor  defeated  hope,  nor  baffled  wile, 
Could  render  sullen  were  she  near  to  smile, 
Nor  rage  could  fire,  nor  sickness  fret  to  vent 
On  her  one  murmur  of  his  discontent ; 
Which  still  would  meet  with  joy,  with  calm« 

ness  part, 


+12 


THE  CORSAIR. 


Lest  that  his  look  of  grief  should  reach  her 

heart  ; 
Which   nought   removed,   nor    menaced    to 

remove  — 
If  there  be  love  in  mortals  —  this  was  love  ! 
He  was  a  villain  —  ay  —  reproaches  shower 
On  him  —  but  not  the  passion,  nor  its  power, 
Which  only  proved,  all  other  virtues  gone, 
Not  guilt  itself  could  quench  this  loveliest  one  ! 

XIII. 

He  paused  a  moment  —  till  his  hastening  men 
I    i  t  ie  first  winding  downward  to  the  glen. 

"  Strange  tidings  !  —  many  a  peril  have  I  past, 
Nor  know  I  why  this  next  appears  the  last! 
Yet  so  my  heart  forebodes,  but  must  not  fear, 
Nor  shall  my  followers  find  me  falter  here. 
'Tis  rash  to  meet,  but  surer  death  to  wait 
Till  here  they  hunt  us  to  undoubted  fate ; 
And,  if  my  plan  but  hold,  and  Fortune  smile, 
We'll  furnish  mourners  for  our  funeral  pile. 
Ay — let  them  slumber  —  peaceful   be   their 

dreams, 
Morn  ne'er  awoke  them  with  such  brilliant 

beams 
As   kindle    high    to-night    (but    blow,   thou 

breeze!) 
To  warm  these  slow  avengers  of  the  seas. 
Now  to  Medora  —  Oh  !  my  sinking  heart, 
Long  may  her  own  be  lighter  than  thou  art ! 
Yet  was  I  brave  —  mean  boast  where  all  are 

brave ! 
Even  insects  sting  for  aught  they  seek  to  save. 
This  common  courage  which  with  brutes  we 

share. 
That  owes  its  deadliest  efforts  to  despair, 
Small  merit  claims  —  but  'twas  my  nobler  hope 
To  teach  my  few  with  numbers  still  to  cope; 
Long  have  I  led  them  —  not  to  vainly  bleed  ; 
No  medium  now  —  we  perish  or  succeed! 
So  let  it  be  —  it  irks  me  not  to  die ; 
But  thus  to  urge  them  whence  they  cannot  fly. 
My  lot  hath  long  had  little  of  my  care, 
But  chafes  my  pride  thus  baffled  in  the  snare  : 
Is  this  my  skill  ?  my  craft  ?  to  set  at  last 
Hope,  power,  and  life  upon  a  single  cast  ? 
Oh,  Fate  !  — accuse  thy  folly,  not  thy  fate  — 
She  may  redeem  thee  still  —  nor  yet  too  late." 

XIV. 
Thus  with  himself  communion  held  he,  till 
He  reached  the  summit  of  his  tower-crowned 

hill: 
There  at  the  portal  paused  —  for  wild  and  soft 
He  heard  those  accents  never  heard  too  oft ; 
Through  the  high   lattice  far  yet  sweet  they 

rung, 
And  these  the  notes  his  bird  of  beauty  sung : 


"  Deep  in  my  soul  that  tender  secret  dwells, 
Lonely  and  lost  to  light  for  evermore, 


Save  when  to  thine  my  heart  responsive  swells 
Then  trembles  into  silence  as  before. 


"  There,  in  its  centre,  a  sepulchral  lamp 
Burns  the  slow  flame,  eternal — but  unseen, 

Which  not  the  darkness  of  despair  can  damp, 
Though  vain  its  ray  as  it  had  never  been. 


"  Remember  me  —  Oh  !   pass   not  thou   my 
grave 
Without  one  thought  whose   relics  there 
recline, 
The  only  pang  my  bosom  dare  not  brave 
Must  be  to  find  forgetfulness  in  thine. 


My  fondest  —  faintest  —  latest  accents  hear  — 
Grief  for  the  dead  not  Virtue  can  reprove ; 

Then  give  me  all  I  ever  asked  —  a  tear, 
The  first  —  last  —  sole  reward  of  so  much 
love !  " 

He  passed  the  portal  —  crossed  the  corridore, 
And  reached  the  chamber  as  the  strain  gave 

o'er: 
"  My  own  Medora!  sure  thy  song  is  sad  —  " 

"  In  Conrad's  absence  wouldst  thou  have  it 

glad  ?      r 
Without  thine  ear  to  listen  to  my  lay, 
Still    must   my  song   my  thoughts,,  my  soul 

betray : 
Still  must  each  accent  to  my  bosom  suit, 
My  heart  unhushed  —  although  my  lips  were 

mute. 
Oh  !  many  a  night  on  this  lone  couch  reclined, 
My  dreaming  fear  with  storms  hath  winged 

the  wind 
And  deemed  the  breath  that  faintly  fanned 

thy  sail 
The  murmuring  prelude  of  the  ruder  gale  ; 
Though  soft,  it  seemed  the  low  prophetic  dirge, 
That   mourned  thee  floating  on  the  savage 

surge : 
Still  would  I  rise  to  rouse  the  beacon  fire, 
Lest  spies  less  true  should  let  the  blaze  expire  ; 
And  many  a  restless  hour  outwatched  each 

star, 
And  morning  came  —  and  still  thou  wert  afar. 
Oh !  how  the  chill  blast  on  my  bosom  blew, 
And  day  broke  dreary  on  my  troubled  view, 
And  still  I  gazed  and  gazed  —  and  not  a  prow 
Was  granted  to   my  tears  —  my  truth  —  my 

vow! 
At  length  —  'twas  noon — 1  hailed  and  blest 

the  mast 
That  met  my  sight  —  it  neared  —  Alas !  it  past ! 
Another  came  —  Oh  God  !  'twas  thine  at  last ! 
Would  that  those  days  were  over  I  wilt  thou 

ne'er. 


THE  CORSAIR. 


413 


My  Conrad  !  learn  the  joys  of  peace  to  share  ? 
Sure  thou  hast  more  than  wealth,  and  many 

a  home 
As  bright  as  this  invites  us  not  to  roam  : 
Thou  know'st  it  is  not  peril  that  I  fear, 
I  only  tremble  when  thou  art  not  here ; 
Then  not  for  mine,  but  that  far  dearer  life, 
Which  flies  from   love   and   languishes  for 

strife  — 
How  strange  that  heart,  to  me  so  tender  still, 
Should  war  with  nature  and  its  better  will !  "  * 

'Yea,  strange  indeed  —  that  heart  hath  long 

been  changed; 
Worm  -  like     'twas     trampled  —  adder  -  like 

avenged, 
Without  one  hope  on  earth  beyond  thy  love, 
And  scarce  a  glimpse  of  mercy  from  above. 
Yet  the  same  feeling  which  thou  dost  con- 
demn, 
My  very  love  to  thee  is  hate  to  them, 
So  closely  mingling  here,  that  disentwined, 
I  cease  to  love  thee  when  I  love  mankind : 
Yet  dread  not  this — the  proof  of  all  the  past 
Assures  the  future  that  my  love  will  last; 
But  —  Oh,  Medora!  nerve  thy  gentler  heart, 
This  hour  again  —  but  not  for  long — we  part." 

"This  hour  we  part!  —  my  heart  foreboded 

this : 
Thus  ever  fade  my  fairy  dreams  of  bliss. 
This  hour  —  it  cannot  be  —  this  hour  away ! 
Yon  bark  hath  hardly  anchored  in  the  bay ; 
Her  consort  still  is  absent,  and  her  crew 
Have  need  of  rest  before  they  toil  anew : 
My  love !    thou  mock'st  my  weakness ;   and 

wouldst  steel 
My  breast  before  the  time  when  it  must  feel ; 
But  trifle  now  no  more  with  my  distress, 
Such  mirth  hath  less  of  play  than  bitterness. 
Be  silent,  Conrad  !  —  dearest !  come  and  share 
The  feast  these  hands  delighed  to  prepare ; 
Light  toil !  to  cull  and  dress  thy  frugal  fare  ! 
See,  I  have  plucked  the  fruit  that  promised 

best, 
And  where  not  sure,  perplexed,  but  pleased, 

I  guessed 
At  such  as  seemed  the  fairest ;  thrice  the  hill 
My  steps  have  wound  to  try  the  coolest  rill ; 
Yes  !  thy  sherbet  to-night  will  sweetly  flow, 
See  how  it  sparkles  in  its  vase  of  snow  ! 


1  [Lord  Byron  has  made  a  fine  use  of  the  gentle- 
ness and  submission  of  the  females  of  these  regions, 
as  contrasted  with  the  lordly  pride  and  martial 
ferocity  of  the  men :  and  though  we  suspect  he  has 
lent  them  more  soul  than  of  right  belongs  to  them, 
as  well  as  more  delicacy  and  reflection;  yet,  there 
is  something  so  true  to  female  nature  in  general,  in 
his  representations  of  this  sort,  and  so  much  of  the 
oriental  softness  and  acquiescence  in  his  particular 
delineations,  that  it  is  scarcely  possible  to  refuse 
the  picture  the  praise  of  being  characteristic  and 
harmonious,  as  well  as  eminently  sweet  and  beauti- 
ful in  itself.  —  Jeffrey. \ 


The  grapes'  gay  juice  thy  bosom  never  cheers; 
Thou  more  than  Moslem  when  the  cup  ap- 
pears : 
Think  not  I  mean  to  chide  —  for  I  rejoice 
What  others  deem  a  pennance  is  thy  choice. 
But  come,  the  board  is  spread  ;  our  silver  lamp 
Is  trimmed,  and  heeds  not  the  sirocco's  damp  : 
Then  shall  my  handmaids  while  the  time  along 
And  join  with  me  the  dance,  or  wake  the  song  ; 
Or  my  guitar,  which  still  thou  lov'st  to  hear, 
Shall  soothe  or  lull  —  or,  should  it  vex  thine 

ear, 
We'll  turn  the  tale,  by  Ariosto  told, 
Of  fair  Olympia  loved  and  left  of  old.2 
Why — thou  wert  worse  than  he  who  broke 

his  vow 
To  that  lost  damsel,  shouldst  thou  leave  me 

now; 
Or  even  that  traitor  chief — I've  seen  thee 

smile, 
When  the  clear  sky  showed  Ariadne's  Isle, 
Which  I  have  pointed  from  these  cliffs  the 

while : 
And  thus  half  sportive,  half  in  fear,  I  said, 
Lest  Time  should  raise  that  doubt  to  more 

than  dread, 
Thus  Conrad,  too,  will  quit  me  for  the  main  : 
And  he  deceived  me  —  for  —  he  came  again! 

"  Again  —  again  —  and  oft  again  —  my  love  ! 
If  there  be  life  below,  and  hope  above, 
He  will  return  —  but  now,  the  moments  bring 
The  time  of  parting  with  redoubled  wing : 
The  why  —  the  where  —  what  boots  it  now  to 

tell 
Since  all  must  end  in  that  wild  world — fare- 
well! 
Yet  would  I  fain  —  did  time  allow — disclose  — 
Fear  not —  these  are  no  formidable  foes  ; 
And  here  shall  watch  a  more  than  wonted 

guard, 
For  sudden  siege  and  long  defence  prepared  : 
Nor  be  thou  lonely  —  though  thy  lord's  away, 
Our  matrons  and  thy  handmaids  with  thee 

stay; 
And  this  thy  comfort — that,  when  next  we 

meet, 
Security  shall  make  repose  more  sweet. 
List !  —  'tis  the  bugle  —  Juan  shrilly  blew  — 
One      kiss  —  one      more  —  another  —  Oh ! 
Adieu ! " 

She  rose  —  she  sprung — she  clung  to  his  em- 
brace, 
Till  his  heart  heaved  beneath  her  hidden  face. 
He  dared  not  raise  to  his  that  deep-blue  eye, 
Which  downcast  drooped  in  tearless  agony. 
Her  long  fair  hair  lay  floating  o'er  his  arms, 
In  all  the  wildness  of  dishevelled  charms ; 
Scarce  beat  that  bosom  where  his  image  dwelt 
So  full  —  that  feeling  seemed  almost  unfelt! 

-  Orlando  Furioso,  Canto  x. 


414 


THE  CORSAIR. 


Hark —  peals  the  thunder  of  the  signal-gun! 
It  told  'twas  sunset  —  and  he  cursed  that  sun. 
Again  —  again  —  that  form  he  madly  pressed, 
Which  mutely  clasped,  imploringly  caressed ! 
And  tottering  to  the  couch  his  bride  he  bore, 
One  moment  gazed — as  if  to  gaze  no  more; 
Felt  —  that  for  him  earth  held  but  her  alone, 
Kissed  her  cold  forehead  —  turned  —  is  Con- 
rad gone  ? 

xv. 
"And  is  he  gone?  "  —  on  sudden  solitude 
How  oft  that  fearful  question  will  intrude ! 
" 'Twas  but  an  instant  past  —  and   here   he 

stood ! 
And  now"  —  without  the  portal's  porch  she 

rushed, 
And    then    at   length   her  tears   in   freedom 

gushed ; 
Big  —  blight  —  and  fast,  unknown  to  her  they 

fell; 
But  still   her  lips  refused  to  send  —  "Fare- 
well !  " 
For  in  that  word  —  that  fatal  word  —  howe'er 
We  promise — hope — believe — there  breathes 

despair. 
O'er  every  feature  of  that  still,  pale  face, 
Had  sorrow  fixed  what  time  can  ne'er  erase  : 
The  tender  blue  of  that  large  loving  eye 
Grew  frozen  with  its  gaze  on  vacancy, 
Till  —  Oh,  how  far!  —  it  caught  a  glimpse  of 

him, 
And  then  it  flowed  —  and  phrenzied  seemed 

to  swim 
Through   those    long,   dark,   and    glistening 

lashes  dewed 
With  drops  of  sadness  oft  to  be  renewed. 
"  He's  gone  !  "  — against  her  heart  that  hand 

is  driven, 
Convulsed  and  quick — then  gently  raised  to 

heaven ; 
She  looked  and  saw  the  heaving  of  the  main ; 
The  white  sail  set  —  she  dared  not  look  again  ; 
B''.t   turned   with   sickening   soul   within   the 

gate  — 
"It  is  no  dream  —  and  I  am  desolate ! " l 

XVI. 

From  crag  to  crag  descending — swiftly  sped 
Stern  Conrad  down,  nor  once  he  turned  his 

head ; 
But  shrunk  whene'er  the  windings  of  his  way 
Forced  on  his  eye  what  he  would  not  survey, 
His  lone,  but  lovely  dwelling  on  the  steep, 
That  hailed  him  first  when  homeward  from 

the  deep : 
And  she  —  the  dim  and  melancholy  star, 
Whose  ray  of  beauty  reached  him  from  afar, 
On  her  he  must  not  gaze,  he  must  not  think, 


1  [We  do  not  know  any  thing  in  poetry  more 
beautiful  or  touching  than  this  picture  of  their  part- 
ing-— Jeffrey.\ 


There  he  might  rest  —  but  on  Destruction'* 

brink : 
Yet  once  almost  he  stopped  —and  nearly  gave 
His  fate  to  chance,  his  projects  to  the  wave : 
But  no  —  it  must  not  be  —  a  worthy  chief 
May  melt,  but  not  betr"ay  to  woman's  grief. 
He  sees  his  bark,  he  notes  how  fair  the  winJ 
And  sternly  gathers  all  his  might  of  mind : 
Again  he  hurries  on  —  and  as  he  hears 
The  clang  of  tumult  vibrate  on  his  ears, 
The  busy  sounds,  the  bustle  of  the  shore, 
The  shout,  the  signal,  and  the  dashing  oar; 
As  marks  his  eye  the  seaboy  on  the  mast, 
The  anchors  rise,  the  sails  unfurling  fast, 
The  waving  kerchiefs  of  the  crowd  that  urge 
That  mute  adieu  to  those  who  stem  the  surge; 
And  more  than  all,  his  blood-red  flag  aloft, 
He  marvelled  how  his  heart  could  seem  so 

soft. 
Fire    in    his    glance,    and    wildness    in    his 

breast, 
He  feels  of  all  his  former  self  possest ; 
He  bounds  —  he    flies  —  until   his    footsteps 

reach 
The  verge  where  ends  the  cliff,  begins  the 

beach, 
There  checks  his  speed ;  but  pauses  less  to 

breathe 
The  breezy  freshness  of  the  deep  beneath, 
Than  there  his  wonted  statelier  step  renew ; 
Nor  rush,  disturbed  by  haste,  to  vulgar  view : 
For  well   had  Conrad   learned  to   curb  the 

crowd, 
By  arts  that  veil,  and  oft  preserved  the  proud; 
His  was  the  lofty  port,  the  distant  mien, 
That  seems  to  shun  the  sight  —  and  awes  if 

seen : 
The  solemn  aspect,  and  the  high-born  eye, 
That  checks  low  mirth,  but  lacks  not  courtesy ; 
All  these  he  wielded  to  command  assent : 
But  where  he  wished  to  win,  so  well  unbent, 
That   kindness   cancelled  fear  in  those  who 

heard, 
And    others'  gifts  show:ed  mean   beside  his 

word, 
When  echoed  to  the  heart  as  from  his  own 
His  deep  yet  tender  melody  of  tone  : 
But  such  was  foreign  to  his  wonted  mood, 
He  cared  not  what  he  softened, but  subdued; 
The  evil  passions  of  his  youth  had  made 
Him    value    less    who    loved  —  than     v/h£. 

obeyed. 

XVII. 

Around   him    mustering  ranged    his    ready 
guard. 

Before    him  Juan    stands  —  "Are    all    pre- 
pared ?  " 

"They  are  —  naymore — embarked:  theiates) 
boat 

Waits  but  my  chief " 

"  My  sword,  and  my  capote." 


THE   CORSAIR. 


41S 


Soon  firmly  girded  on,  and  lightly  slung, 
His  belt  and  cloak  were  o'er  his  shoulders 

flung: 
"Call  Pedro  here!"  He  comes  —  and  Conrad 

bends, 
With  all  the  courtesy  he  deigned  his  friends ; 
"  Receive    these    tablets,    and    peruse    with 

care, 
Words  of  high  trust  and  truth  are  graven 

there ; 
Double  the  guard,  and  when  Anselmo's  bark 
Arrives,  let  him  alike  these  orders  mark  : 
In  three  days  (serve  the  breeze)  the  sun  shall 

shine 
On  our  return  —  till  then  all  peace  be  thine  !  " 
This  said,  his  brother  Pirate's  hand  he  wrung, 
Then  to  his  boat  with  haughty  gesture  sprung. 
Flashed  the  dipt  oars,  and  sparkling  with  the 

stroke, 
Around  the  waves'   phosphoric  1   brightness 

broke ; 
They  gain  the  vessel  —  on  deck  he  stands, — 
Shrieks    the    shrill    whistle  —  ply    the    busy 

hands  — 
He  marks  how  well  the  ship  her  helm  obeys, 
How  gallant  all  her  crew  —  and   deigns  to 

praise. 
His  eyes  of  pride  to  young  Gonsalvo  turn  — 
Why  doth  he  start,  and  inly  seem  to  mourn  ? 
Alas !  those  eyes  beheld  his  rocky  tower, 
And  live  a  moment  o'er  the  parting  hour; 
She  —  his  Medora  —  did  she  mark  the  prow? 


1  By  night,  particularly  in  a  warm  latitude,  every 
stroke  of  the  oar,  every  motion  of  the  boat  or  ship, 
is  followed  by  a  slight  flash  like  sheet  lightning 
from  the  water. 


Ah  !  never  loved  he  half  so  much  as  now ! 
But  much  must  yet  be   done   ere  dawn   ol 

day  — 
Again  he  mans  himself  and  turns  away; 
Down  to  the  cabin  with  Gonsalvo  bends. 
And  there   unfolds  his   plan  —  his   means  — 

and  ends ; 
Before  them  burns  the  lamp,  and  spreads  the 

chart, 
And  all  that  speaks  and  aids  the  naval  art; 
They  to  the  midnight  watch  protract  debate ; 
To  anxious  eyes  what  hour  is  ever  late  ? 
Meantime,  the  steady  breeze  serenely  blew, 
And  fast  and  falcon-like  the  vessel  flew ; 
Passed  the  high  headlands  of  each  clustering 

isle 
To  gain  their  port  —  long  —  long  ere  morn- 
ing smile ; 
And  soon  the  night-glass  through  the  narrow 

bay 
Discovers  where  the  Pacha's  galleys  lay. 
Count  they  each  sail  —  and  mark  how  there 

supine 
The   lights    in   vain   o'er    heedless    Moslem 

shine. 
Secure,  unnoted,  Conrad's  prow  passed  by, 
And  anchored  where  his  ambush  meant  to 

lie; 
Screened  from  espial  by  the  jutting  cape, 
That  rears  on  high  its  rude  fantastic  shape. 
Then  rose  his  band  to  duty  —  not  from  sleep  — 
Equipped  for  deeds  alike  on  land  or  deep ; 
While   leaned  their   leader  o'er  the  fretting 

flood, 
And   calmly  talked — and  yet  he  talked  ol 

blood  1 


CANTO  THE  SECOND, 

"Conosceste  i  dubiosi  desiri?" 

Dante- 


1n  Coron's  bay  floats  many  a  galley  light, 
Through  Coron's  lattices  the  lamps  are  bright, 
For  Seyd,  the  Pacha,  makes  a  feast  to-night: 
A  feast  for  promised  triumph  yet  to  come, 
When  he  shall  drag  the  fettered  Rovers  home  ; 
This  hath  he  sworn  by  Alia  and  his  sword, 
And  faithful  to  his  firman  and  his  word, 
His  summoned  prows  collect  along  the  coast, 
And  great  the  gathering  crews,  and  loud  the 

boast, 
Already  shared  the  captives  and  the  prize. 
Though  far  the  distant  foe  they  thus  despise ; 
'Tis  but  to  sail  —  no  doubt  to-morrow's  Sun 


Will  see  the  Pirates  bound — fheirhaven  won ! 
Meantime  the  watch  may  slumber,  if  they  will, 
Nor  only  wake  to  war,  but  dreaming  kill. 
Though  all,  who  can,  disperse  on  shore  and 

seek 
To  flesh  their  glowing  valor  on  the  Greek ; 
How  well  such  deed  becomes  the  turbaned 

brave  — 
To  bare  the  sabre's  edge  before  a  slave ! 
Infest  his  dwelling  —  but  forbear  to  slay, 
Their  arms  are  strong,  yet  merciful  to-day, 
And  do  not  deign  to  smite  because  they  may! 
Unless  some  gay  caprice  suggests  the  blow. 
To  keep  in  practice  for  the  coming  foe. 


4L6 


THE  CORSAIR. 


Revel  and  rout  the  evening  hours  beguiled, 
And  they  who  wish  to  wear  a  head  must  smile  ; 
For  Moslem  mouths  produce  their   choicest 

cheer, 
And  hoard  their  curses,  till  the  coast  is  clear. 


High  in  his  hall  reclines  the  turbaned  Seyd; 

Around  —  the  bearded  chiefs  he  came  to  lead. 

jRcmoved  the  banquet,  and  the  last  pilaff — 
JForbidden  draughts,  'tis  said,  he  dared  to  quaff, 

| Though  to  the  rest  the  sober  berry's  juice  l 

'The  slaves  bear  round  for  rigid  Moslems'  use  ; 

The  long  chibouque's  2  dissolving  cloud  sup- 
ply, 

While  dance  the  Almas3  to  wild  minstrelsy. 

The  rising  morn  will  view  the  chiefs  embark ; 

But  waves  are  somewhat  treacherous  in  the 
dark; 

And  revellers  may  more  securely  sleep 

On  silken  couch  than  o'er  the  rugged  deep; 

Feast  there  who   can  —  nor  combat  till  they 
must, 

And  less  to  conquest  than  to  Korans  trust; 

And  yet  the  numbers  crowded  in  his  host 

Might   warrant  more  than  even  the  Pacha's 
boast. 

III. 

With  cautious  reverence  from  the  outer  gate 
Slow  stalks  the  slave,  whose  office  there  to  wait, 
1  m  iws  his  bent  head  —  his  hand  salutes  the  floor, 
Ere  yet  his  tongue  the  trusted  tidings  bore: 
"  A  captive  Dervise,  from  the  pirate's  nest 
Escaped,  is  here  —  himself  would  tell  the  rest. "  4 
He  took  the  sign  from  Seyd's  assenting  eye, 
And  led  the  holy  man  in  silence  nigh. 
His  arms  were  folded  on  his  dark-green  vest, 
His  step  was  feeble,  and  his  look  deprest  ; 
Yet  worn  he  seemed  of  hardship  more  than 

years, 
And  pale  his  cheek  with  penance,  not  from 

fears. 
Vowed  to  his  God  —  his  sable  locks  he  wore, 
And  these  his  lofty  cap  rose  proudly  o'er : 
Around  his   form   his   loose   long   robe  was 

thrown, 


»  Coffee. 

1  "  Chibouque,"  pipe. 

8  Dancing  girls. 

*  It  has  been  observed,  that  Conrad's  entering 
disguised  as  a  spy  is  out  of  nature.  Perhaps  so.  I 
find  something  not  unlike  it  in  history.  —  "  Anxious 
to  explore  with  his  own  eyes  the  state  of  the  Van- 
dals, Majorian  ventured,  after  disguising  the  color 
of  hair,  to  visit  Carthage  in  the  character  of  his 
own  ambassador;  and  Genseric  was  afterwards  mor- 
tified by  the  discovery,  that  he  had  entertained  and 
dismissed  the  Emperor  of  the  Romans.  Such  an 
anecdote  may  be  rejected  as  an  improbable  fiction; 
but  it  is  a  fiction  which  would  not  have  been  imag- 
ined unless  in  the  life  of  a  hero."  —  See  Gibbon's 
Decline  and  Fall,  vol.  vi.  p.  180. 


And  wrapt  a  breast  bestowed  on  heaven  alone  j 
Submissive,  yet  with  self-possession  manned, 
He  calmly  met  the  curious  eyes  that  scanned; 
And  question  of  his  coming  fain  would  seek, 
Before  the  Pacha's  will  allowed  to  speak. 

IV. 

"  Whence  com'st  thou,  Dervise  ?  " 

"  From  the  outlaw's  den, 
A  fugitive  —  " 

"  Thy  capture  where  and  when  ?  " 
"  From  Scalanovo's  port  to  Scio's  isle, 
The  Saick  was  bound  ;  but  Alia  did  not  smile 
Upon  our  course  —  the   Moslem   merchant's 

gains 
The  Rovers  won  :  our  limbs  have  worn  then- 
chains. 
I  had  no  death  to  fear,  nor  wealth  to  boast, 
Beyond  the  wandering  freedom  which  I  lost ; 
At  length  a  fisher's  humble  boat  by  night 
Afforded  hope,  and  offered  chance  of  flight; 
I  seized  the  hour,  and  find  my  safety  here  — 
With  thee — most   mighty   Pacha!    who   can 
fear  ?  " 

"  How  speed  the   outlaws  ?   stand  they  well 
prepared, 

Their   plundered  wealth,  and  robber's  rock, 
to  guard. 

Dream  they  of  this  our  preparation,  doomed 

To  view  with   fire  their  scorpion   nest   con- 
sumed ?  " 
f 

"  Pacha !  the  fettered  captive's  mourning  eye, 
That  weeps  for  flight,  but  ill  can  play  the  spy ; 
I  only  heard  the  reckless  waters  roar, 
Those  waves  that  would  not  bear  me  from  the 

shore. 
I  only  marked  the  glorious  sun  and  sky, 
Too  bright  —  too  blue  —  for  my  captivity  ; 
And   felt  —  that  all  which  Freedom's  bosom 

cheers, 
Must  break  my  chain  before  it  dried  my  tears. 
This  may'st  thou  judge,  at   least,  from   my 

escape, 
They  little  deem  of  aught  in  peril's  shape; 
Else  vainly  had  I  prayed  or  sought  the  chance 
That  leads  me  here  —  if  eyed  with  vigilance  : 
The  careless  guard  that  did  not  see  me  fly, 
May  watch  as  idly  when  thy  power  is  nigh  : 
Pacha !  —  my  limbs  are  faint  —  and  nature 

craves 
Food  for  my  hunger,  rest  from  tossing  waves : 
Permit   my  absence  —  peace   be  with   thee! 

Peace 
With  all  around !  —  now  grant  repose  —  re- 
lease." 
"  Stay,  Dervise  !     I  have  more  to  question  — • 

stay, 
I    do   command   thee — sit  —  dost  hear?  — 

obey ! 
More  I  must  ask,  and  food  th.e  «laves  shall 

bring ; 


THE  CORSAIR. 


417 


Thou  shalt  not  pine  where  all  are  banqueting : 
The  supper  done  —  prepare  thee  to  reply, 
Clearly  and  full — I  love  not  mystery." 
'Twere  vain  to  guess  what  shook  the  pious 

man, 
Who  looked  not  lovingly  on  that  Divan ; 
Nor  showed  high  relish  for  the  banquet  prest, 
And  less  respect  for  every  fellow  guest. 
'Twas  but  a  moment's  peevish  hectic  past 
Along  his  cheek,  and  tranquillized  as  fast : 
He  sate  him  down  in  silence,  and  his  look 
Resumed  the  calmness  which  before  forsook  : 
The  feast  was  ushered  in  —  but  sumptuous 

fare 
He  shunned  as  if  some  poison  mingled  there. 
For  one  so  long  condemned  to  toil  and  fast, 
Methinks  he  strangely  spares  the  rich  repast. 
"  What  ails  thee,  Dervise  ?  eat  —  dost  thou 

suppose 
This  feast  a  Christian's  ?  or   my  friends  thy 

foes  ? 
Why  dost  thou  shun  the  salt?  that  sacred 

pledge, 
Which,  once  partaken,  blunts  the  sabre's  edge, 
Makes  even  contending  tribes  in  peace  unite, 
And  hated  hosts  seem  brethren  to  the  sight !  " 

"  Salt  seasons  dainties  —  and  my  food  is  still 
The  humblest  root,  my  drink  the  simplest  rill ; 
And  my  stern  vow  and  order's l  laws  oppose 
To  break  or  mingle  bread  with  friend  or  foes  ; 
It  may  seem  strange  —  if  there  be  aught  to 

dread, 
That  peril  rests  upon  my  single  head  ; 
But  for  thy  sway  —  nay  more  —  thy  Sultan's 

throne, 
I  taste  nor  bread  nor  banquet — save  alone; 
Infringed  our  orders  rule,  the  Prophet's  rage 
To  Mecca's  dome  might  bar  my  pilgrimage." 
"  Well  —  as  thou  wilt — -ascetic  as  thou  art  — 
One  question  answer ;  then  in  peace  depart. 
How  many  ?  —  Ha !  it  cannot  sure  be  day  ? 
What  star  —  what  sun  is  bursting  on  the  bay  ? 
It  shines  a  lake  of  fire  !  —  away  —  away ! 
Ho  !  treachery  !  my  guards  !  my  scimitar ! 
The  galleys  feed  the  flames  —  and  I  afar! 
Accursed  Dervise  !  —  these  thy  tidings  —  thou 
Some  villain  spy  —  seize  —  cleave  him  —  slay 

him  now !  " 

Up  rose  the  Dervise  with  that  burst  of  light, 
Nor  less  his  change   of  form  appalled  the 

sight : 
Up  rose  that  Dervise  —  not  in  saintly  garb, 
But  like  a  warrior  bounding  on  his  barb, 
Dashed  his  high  cap,  and  tore  his  robe  away  — 
Shone   his  mailed  breast,  and  flashed    his 

sabre's  ray ! 
His  close  but  glittering  casque,  and  sable 

plume, 


'   The  T)er«ises  are  in  colleges,  and  of  different 
»r<Jers,  as  the  monks. 


More  glittering  eye,  and  black  brow's  sabler 

gloom. 
Glared   on   the   Moslems'   eyes   some    Afrit 

sprite, 
Whose  demon  death-blow  left  no  hope  for 

fight. 
The  wild  confusion,  and  the  swarthy  glow 
Of  flames  on  high,  and  torches  from  below; 
The  shriek  of  terror,  and  the  mingling  yell  — 
For  swords  began  to  clash,   and  shouts  to 

swell  — 
Flung  o'er  that  spot  of  earth  the  air  of  hell! 
Distracted,  to  and  fro,  the  flying  slaves 
Behold  but  bloody  shore  and  fiery  waves ; 
Nought  heeded  they  the  Pacha's  angry  cry, 
They  seize  that  Dervise  !  —  seize  on  Zatanai !  2 
He  saw  their  terror  —  checked  the  first   de- 
spair 
That  urged  him  but  to  stand  and  perish  there, 
Since  far  too  early  and  too  well  obeyed, 
The  flame  was  kindled  ere  the  signal  made; 
He  saw  their  terror  —  from  his  baldric  drew 
His  bugle  —  brief  the  blast  —  but  shrilly  blew ; 
'Tis  answered  —  "Well  ye  speed,  my  gallant 

crew ! 
Why  did  I  doubt  their  quickness  of  career  ? 
And  deem  design  had  left  me  single  here  ?  " 
Sweeps  his  long  arm  —  that  sabre's  whirling 

sway 
Sheds  fast  atonement  for  its  first  delay ; 
Completes  his  fury,  what  their  fear  begun, 
And  makes  the  many  basely  quail  to  one. 
The  cloven  turbans  o'er  the  chamber  spread, 
And  scarce  an  arm   dare   rise   to  guard  its 

head : 
Even  Seyd,  convulsed,  o'erwhelmed,  with  rage, 

surprise, 
Retreats  before  him,  though  he  still  defies. 
No  craven  he  —  and  yet  he  dreads  the  blow, 
So  much  Confusion  magnifies  his  foe ! 
His  blazing  galleys  still  distract  his  sight, 
He  tore  his  beard,  and  foaming  fled  the  fight ;  3 
For  now  the  pirates  pass'd  the  Haram  gate, 
And  burst  within  —  and  it  were  death  to  wait ; 
Where  wild  Amazement  shrieking —  kneeling 

—  throws 
The  sword  aside  — in  vain —  the  blood  o'er- 

flows ! 
The  Corsairs  pouring,  haste  to  where  within, 
Invited  Conrad's  bugle,  and  the  din 
Of  groaning  victims,  and  wild  cries  for  life, 
Proclaimed  how  well  he  did  the  work  of  strife. 
They  shout  to  find  him  grim  and  lonely  there, 
A  glutted  tiger  mangling  in  his  lair! 
But  short  their  greeting — shorter  his  reply  — 

2  "  Zatanai,"  Satan. 

3  A  common  and  not  very  novel  effect  of  Mussul- 
man anger.  See  Prince  Eugene's  Memoirs,  p. 
24.  "  The  Seraskier  received  a  wound  in  the  thigh, 
he  plucked  up  his  beard  by  the  roots,  because  he 
was  obliged  to  quit  the  field." 


41S 


THE   CORSAIR. 


"'  Tis  well  —  but  Seyd  escapes  —  and  he  must 

die  — 
Much  hath  been  done  —  but  more  remains  to 

do  — 
Their  galleys  blaze  —  why  not  their  city  too  ?  " 


Quick  at  the  word  —  they  seized  him  each  a 

torch, 
And  fire  the  dome  from  minaret  to  porch. 
A  stern  delight  was  fixed  in  Conrad's  eye, 
But  sudden  sunk — for  on  his  ear  the  cry 
Of  women  struck,  and  like  a  deadly  knell 
Knocked  at  that  heart  unmoved  by  battle's 

yell. 
"  Oh  !  burst  the  Haram  —  wrong  not  on  your 

lives 
One  female  form  —  remember  —  zve  have 

wives. 
On  them  such  outrage  Vengeance  will  repay ; 
Man  is  our  foe,  and  such  'tis  ours  to  slay : 
But  still  we  spared  —  must  spare  the  weaker 

prey. 
Oh  !  I  forgot  —  but  Heaven  will  not  forgive 
If  at  my  word  the  helpless  cease  to  live  : 
Follow  who  will  —  I  go  —  we  yet  have  time 
Our  souls  to  lighten  of  at  least' a  crime." 
He  climbs  the  crackling  stair  —  he  bursts  the 

door, 
Nor  feals   his  feet  glow  scorching  with  the 

floor; 
His  breath  choked  gasping  with  the  volumed 

smoke, 
But  still  from  room  to  room  his  way  he  broke. 
They   search  —  they  find  —  they  save  :  with 

lusty  arms 
Each  bears  a  prize  of  unregarded  charms  ; 
Calm  their  loud  fears ;  sustain  their  sinking 

frames 
With  all  the  care  defenceless  beauty  claims  : 
So  well   could   Conrad   tame  their    fiercest 

mood, 
And  check  the  very  hands  with  gore  imbrued. 
But  who  is  she  ?  whom  Conrad's  arms  convey 
From    reeking   pile   and   combat's   wreck  — 

away  — 
Who  but  the  love  of  him  he  dooms  to  bleed  ? 
The  Haram  queen  —  but  still  the  slave  of  Seyd ! 


Brief  time  had  Conrad  now  to  greet  Gulnare.i 
Few  words  to  reassure  the  trembling  fair; 
For  in  that  pause  compassion  snatched  from 

war, 
The  foe  before  retiring,  fast  and  far, 
With  wonder  saw  their  footsteps  unpursued, 
First  slowlier  fled  —  then  rallied  — then  with- 
stood. 


:  Gulnare,  a  female  name;  it  means,  literally,  the 
flower  of  the  pomegranate. 


This  Seyd  perceives,  then  first  perceives  how 

few, 
Compared  with  his,  the  Corsair's  roving  crew, 
And  blushes  o'er  his  error,  as  he  eyes 
The  ruin  wrought  by  panic  and  surprise. 
Alia  il  Alia!   Vengeance  swells  the  cry  — 
Shame  mounts  to  rage  that  must  atone  or  die ! 
And  flame  for   flame  and   blood  for  blood 

must  tell, 
The   tide   of  triumph  ebbs  that  flowed  too 

well  — 
When  wrath  returns  to  renovated  strife. 
And  those  who  fought  for  conquest  strike  for 

life. 
Conrad  beheld  the  danger —  he  beheld 
His   followers   faint    by  freshening   foes   re- 
pelled : 
"  One   effort  —  one  —  to  break   the   circling 

host!" 
They  form  —  unite  —  charge  —  waver  —  all  is 

lost! 
Within  a  narrower  ring  compressed,  beset, 
Hopeless,  not  heartless,  strive  and  struggle 

yet  — 
Ah  !  now  they  fight  in  firmest  file  no  more, 
Hemmed     in  —  cut    off — cleft    down  —  and 

trampled  o'er; 
But  each  strikes  singly,  silently,  and  home, 
And  sinks  outwearied  rather  than  o'crcome, 
His   last  faint   quittance   rendering  with   his 

breath 
Till  the  bladff  glimmers  in  the  grasp  of  death  ! 


But  first,  ere  came  the  rallying  host  to  blows, 
And  rank  to  rank,  and  hand  to  hand  oppose, 
Gulnare  and  all  her  Haram  handmaids  freed, 
Safe  in  the  dome  of  one  who  held  their  creed, 
By  Conrad's  mandate  safely  were  bestowed, 
And  dried  those  tears  for  life  and  fame  that 

flowed : 
Ami  when  that  dark-eyed  lady,  young  Gulnare, 
Recalled   those   thoughts   late'  wandering  in 

despair, 
Much  did  she  marvel  o'er  the  courtesy 
That  smoothed  his  accents;  softened  in  his 

eye: 
'Twas   strange  —  that  robber  thus  with  gore 

bedewed, 
Seemed  gentier  then   than   Seyd  in  fondest 

mood. 
The  Pacha  wooed  as  if  he  deemed  the  slave 
Must  seem  delighted  with  the  heart  he  gave ; 
The  Corsair  vowed   protection,  soothed   af- 
fright, 
As  if  his  homage  were  a  woman's  right. 
"  The  wish  is  wrong — nay,  worse  for  female 

—  vain : 
Yet  much  I  long  to  view  that  chief  again  ; 
If  but  to  thank  for,  what  my  fear  forgot, 
The  life  — -  my  loving  lord  remembered  not) 


THE   CORSAIR. 


419 


And  him   she   saw,  where   thickest  carnage 

spread, 
But  gathered  breathing  from  the  happier  dead  ; 
t^ar  from  his  band,  and  battling  with  a  host 
That  deem  right  dearly  won  the  field  he  lost, 
Felled  —  bleeding  —  baffled  of  the  death  he 

sought, 
And  snatched  to  expiate  all  the  ills  he  wrought ; 
Preserved  to  linger  and  to  live  in  vain, 
While  Vengeance  pondered  o'er  new  plans  of 

pain. 
And  stanched  the  blood  she  saves  to  shed 

again  — 
But  drop  for  drop,  for  Seyd's  unglutted  eye 
Would  doom  him  ever  dying  —  ne'er  to  die! 
Can  this  be  he  ?  triumphant  late  she  saw, 
When  his  red  hand's  wild  gesture  waved,  a 

law! 
'Tis  he  indeed  —  disarmed  but  undeprest, 
His  sole  regret  the  life  he  still  possest ; 
His  wounds  too  slight,  though  taken  with  that 

will, 
Which  would  have  kissed  the  hand  that  then 

could  kill. 
Oh  were  there  none,  of  all  the  many  given, 
To   send    his    soul  —  he   scarcely  asked    to 

heaven  ? 
Must  he  alone  of  all  retain  his  breath, 
Who  more  than  all  had  striven  and  struck  for 

death  ? 
He  deeply  felt —  what  mortal  hearts  must  feel, 
When    thus   reversed   on   faithless   fortune's 

wheel, 
For  crimes  committed,  and  the  victor's  threat. 
Of  lingering  tortures  to  repay  the  debt  — 
He  deeply,  darkly  felt ;  but  evil  pride 
That  led  to  perpetrate  —  now  serves  to  hide. 
Still  in  his  stern  and  self-collected  mien 
A  conqueror's  more  than  captive's  air  is  seen, 
Though  faint  with  wasting  toil  and  stiffening 

wound, 
But  few  that  saw  —  so  calmly  gazed  around  : 
Though  the  far  shouting  of  the  distant  crowd, 
Their  tremors  o'er,  rose  insolently  loud, 
The  better  warriors  who  beheld  him  near, 
Insulted  not  the  foe  who  taught  them  fear; 
And  the  grim  guards  that  to  his  durance  led, 
In  silence  eyed  him  with  a  secret  dread. 


The  Leech  was  sent  —  but  not  in  mercy  — 

there, 
To  note  how  much  the  life  yet  left  could  bear ; 
He  found  enough  to  load  with  heaviest  chain, 
And  promise  feeling  for  the  wrench  of  pain  : 
To-morrow  —  yea —  to-morrow's  evening  sun 
Will  sinking  see  impalement's  pangs  begun, 
And  rising  with  the  wonted  blush  of  morn 
Behold  how  well  or  ill  those  pangs  are  borne. 
Qi  torments  this  the  longest  and  the  worst, 


Which  adds  all  other  agony  to  thirst, 
That  day  by  day  death  still  forbears  to  slake, 
While  famished  vultures  flit  around  the  stake. 
"  Oh !  water —  water !  "  —  smiling  Hate  denies 
The  victim's  prayer  —  for  if  he  drinks  —  he 

dies. 
This  was  his  doom; — the  Leech,  the  guard, 

were  gone, 
And  left  proud  Conrad  fettered  and  alone. 

X. 

'Twere  vain  to  paint  to  what  his  feelings  grew  — 
It  even  were  doubtful  if  their  victim  knew. 
There  is  a  war,  a  chaos  of  the  mind, 
When    all    its    elements     convulsed  —  com- 
bined— 
Lie  dark  and  jarring  with  perturbed  force, 
And  gnashing  with  impenitent  Remorse ; 
That  juggling  fiend  —  who  never  spake  be- 
fore— 
But  cries  "  I  warned  thee !  "  when  the  deed  is 

o'er. 
Vain  voice !  the  spirit  burning  but  unbent, 
May  writhe  —  rebel  —  the  weak  alone  repent ! 
Even  in  that  lonely  hour  when  most  it  feels, 
And,  to  itself,  all — all  that  self  reveals, 
No  single  passion,  and  no  ruling  thought 
That   leaves   the  rest   as   once    unseen,  un- 
sought ; 
But  the  wild  prospect  when  the  soul  reviews  — 
All  rushing  through  their  thousand  avenues, 
Ambition's  dreams  expiring,  love's  regret, 
Endangered  glory,  life  itself  beset ; 
The  joy  untasted,  the  contempt  or  hate 
'Gainst  those  who  fain  would  triumph  in  our 

fate; 
The  hopeless  past,  the  hasting  future  driven 
Too  quickly  on  to  guess  if  hell  or  heaven  ; 
Deeds,  thoughts,  and  words,  perhaps  remem- 
bered not 
So  keenly  till  that  hour,  but  ne'er  forgot ; 
Things  light  or  lovely  in  their  acted  time, 
But  now  to  stern  reflection  each  a  crime  ; 
The  withering  sense  of  evil  unrevealed, 
Not   cankering  less  because  the  more  con- 
cealed — 
All,  in  a  word,  from  which  all  eyes  must  start. 
That  opening  sepulchre  —  the  naked  heart 
Bares  with  its  buried  woes,  till  Pride  awake, 
To  snatch  the   mirror  from  the  soul  —  and 

break. 
Ay  —  Pride  can  veil,  and  Courage  brave  it  all, 
All  —  all  —  before  —  beyond  —  the     deadliest 

fall. 
Each  has  some  fear,  and  he  who  least  betrays, 
The  only  hypocrite  deserving  praise  : 
Not  the  loud  recreant  wretch  who  boasts  and 

flies; 
But  he  who  looks  on  death  —  and  silent  dies. 
So  steeled  by  pondering  o'er  his  far  career, 
He  half-way  meets  him  should  he  menace  near ! 


420 


THE  CORSAIR. 


XI. 

In  the  high  chamber  of  his  highest  tower 
Sate  Conrad,  fettered  in  the  Pacha's  power. 
His  palace  perished  in  the  flame  —  this  fort 
Contained  at  once  his  captive  and  his  court. 
Not  much  could  Conrad  of  his  sentence  blame, 
His  foe,  if  vanquished,  had  but  shared  the 

same :  — 
Alone  he  sate  —  in  solitude  had  scanned 
His  guilty  bosom,  but  that  breast  he  manned  : 
One  thought  alone  he  could  not —  dared  not 

meet  — 
"  Oh,  how  these  tidings  will  Medora  greet  ?  " 
Then  —  only  then  —  his   clanking  hands  he 

raised, 
And  strained  with  rage  the  chain  on  which  he 

gazed : 
But  soon  he  found  —  or  feigned  —  or  dreamed 

relief, 
And  smiled  in  self-derision  of  his  grief, 
. "  And   now  come  torture  when   it  will  —  or 

may, 
More  need  of  rest  to  nerve  me  for  the  day !  " 
This  said,  with  languor  to  his  mat  he  crept, 
And,  whatsoe'er  his  visions,  quickly  slept. 
'Twas  hardly  midnight  when  that  fray  begun, 
For  Conrad's   plans  matured,  at  once  were 

done ; 
And  Havoc  loathes  so  much  the  waste  of  time, 
She  scarce  had  left  an  uncommitted  crime. 
One    hour   beheld    him    since    the    tide   he 

stemmed  — 
Disguised  —  discovered  —  conquering — taken 

—  condemned  — 
A  chief  on  land  —  an  outlaw  on  the  deep  — 
Destroying — saving — prisoned —  and  asleep ! 


He  slept  in  calmest  seeming  —  for  his  breath 
Was  hushed  so  deep  —  Ah  !  happy  if  in  death  ! 
He  slept — Who  o'er  his  placid  slumber  bends? 
His  foes  are  gone  —  and  here   he   hath   no 

friends ; 
Is  it  some  seraph  sent  to  grant  him  grace  ? 
No,  'tis  an  earthly  form  with  heavenly  face ! 
Its  white  arm  raised  a  lamp  —  yet  gently  hid, 
Lest  the  ray  flash  abruptly  on  the  lid 
Of  that  closed  eye,  which  opens  but  to  pain, 
And   once    unclosed— but   once   may   close 

again. 
That  form,  with   eye  so  dark,  and  cheek  so 

fair, 
And  auburn  waves  of  gemmed  and  braided 

hair; 
With  shape  of  fairy  lightness  —  naked  foot, 
That  shines  like  snow,  and  falls  on  earth  as 

mute  — 
Through  guards  and  dunnest  night  how  came 

it  there  ? 
Ah  !  rather  ask  what  will  not  woman  dare  ? 
Whom  youth  and  pity  lead  like  thee,  Gulnare ! 


She  could  not  sleep  —  and  while  the  Pacha's 

rest 
In  muttering  dreams  yet  saw  his  pirate-guest, 
She  left  his  side  —  his  signet-ring  she  bore, 
Which  oft  in  sport  adorned  her  hand  before  — 
And  with  it,  scarcely  questioned,  won  her  way 
Through  drowsy  guards  that  must  that  sign 

obey. 
Worn  out  with  toil,  and  tired  with  changing 

blows, 
Their  eyes  had  envied  Conrad  his  repose ; 
And  chill  and  nodding  at  the  turret  door, 
They  stretch  their  listless   limbs,  and  watch 

no  more : 
Just  raised  their  heads  to  hail  the  signet-ring, 
Nor  ask  or  what  or  who  the  sign  may  bring. 

XIII. 

She  gazed  in  wonder,  "  Can  he  calmly  sleep, 
While  other  eyes  his  fall  or  ravage  weep  ? 
And  mine  in  restlessness  are  wandering  here — 
What  sudden  spell  hath  made  this  man  so 

dear  ? 
True  —  'tis  to  him  my  life,  and  more,  I  owe, 
And  me  and  mine  he  spared  from  worse  than 

woe: 
Tis  late  to   think  —  but   soft  —  his   slumber 

breaks  — 
How  heavily  he  sighs!  — he  starts  —  awakes!" 

He  raised  his  head  —  and  dazzled  with  the 

light,        * 
His  eye  seemed  dubious  if  it  saw  aright : 
He  moved  his  hand  —  the  grating  of  his  chain 
Too  harshly  told  him  that  he  lived  again. 
"  What  is  that  form  ?  if  not  a  shape  of  air, 
Methinks,  my  jailor's  face  shows  wond'rous 

fair  !  " 
"  Pirate  !  thou  knowest  me  not — but  I  am  one, 
Grateful  for  deeds  thou  hast  too  rarely  done ; 
Look  on  me  —  and  remember  her,  thy  hand 
Snatched  from  the  flames,  and  thy  more  fear- 
ful band. 
I    come   through   darkness  —  and    I    scarce 

know  why  — 
Yet  not  to  hurt  —  I  would  not  see  thee  die." 
"  If  so,  kind  lady !  thine  the  only  eye 
That  would  not  here  in  that  gay  hope  delight : 
Theirs  is  the  chance  —  and  let  them  use  their 

right. 
But  still  I  think  their  courtesy  or  thine, 
That  would  confess  me  at  so  fair  a  shrine !  " 
Strange  though  it  seem  —  yet  with  extremest 

grief 
Is  linked  a  mirth  —  it  doth  not  bring  relief — 
That  playfulness  of  Sorrow  ne'er  beguiles, 
And  smiles  in  bitterness  —  but  still  it  smiles  ; 
And  sometimes  with  the  wisest  and  the  best, 
Till  even  the  scaffold  l  echoes  with  their  jest ! 


1  In  Sir  Thomas  More,  for  instance,  on  the  scaf- 
fold, and  Anne  Boleyn,  in  the  Tower,  when  s'^sp- 


THE  CORSAIR. 


421 


Yet  not  the  joy  to  which  it  seems  akin  — 
It  may  deceive  all  hearts,  save  that  within. 
Whate'er  it  was  that  flashed  on  Conrad,  now 
A  laughing  wildness  half  unbent  his  brow  : 
And  these  his  accents  had  a  sound  of  mirth, 
As  if  the  last  he  could  enjoy  on  earth  ; 
Yet  'gainst  his  nature  —  for  through  that  short 

life, 
Few  thoughts  had  he  to   spare  from  gloom 

and  strife. 

XIV. 

"  Corsair !  thy  doom  is  named  —  but  I  have 

power 
To  soothe  the  Pacha  in  his  weaker  hour. 
Thee  would  I  spare  —  nay  more  —  would  save 

thee  now, 
But     this  ■ —  time  —  hope  —  nor    even     thy 

strength   allow  ; 
But  all  I  can,  I  will :  at  least  delay 
The  sentence  that  remits  thee  scarce  a  day. 
More  now  were  ruin  —  even  thyself  were  loth 
The  vain  attempt  should  bring  but  doom  to 

both." 

"  Yes !  —  loth  indeed  :  —  my  soul  is  nerved  to 

all, 
Or  fall'n  too  low  to  fear  a  further  fall : 
Tempt  not  thyself  with  peril ;  me  with  hope 
Of  flight  from  foes  with  whom   I  could  not 

cope : 
Unfit  to  vanquish  —  shall  I  meanly  fly, 
The  one  of  all  my  band  that  would  not  die  ? 
Yet  there  is  one  —  to  whom  my  memory  clings, 
Till  to  these  eyes  her  own  wild  softness  springs. 
My  sole  resources  in  the  path  I  trod 
Were    these  —  my    bark  —  my    sword  —  my 

love  —  my  God  ! 
The  last  I  left  in  youth  —  he  leaves  me  now  — 
And  Man  but  works  his  will  to  lay  me  low. 
I  have  no  thought  to  mock  his  throne  with 

prayer 
Wrung  from  the  coward  crouching  of  despair ; 
It  is  enough  —  I  breathe  —  and  I  can  bear. 
My  sword  is  shaken  from  the  worthless  hand 
That  might  have  better  kept  so  true  a  brand ; 
My  bark  is  sunk  or  captive  —  but  my  love  — 
For  her  in  sooth  my  voice  would  mount  above  : 
Oh  !  she  is  all  that  still  to  earth  can  bind  — 
And  this  will  break  a  heart  so  more  than  kind, 
And  blight  a  form  — ■  till  thine  appeared,  Gul- 

nare! 
Mine  eye  ne'er  asked  if  others  were  as  fair." 

"  Thou  lov'st  another  then  ?  —  but  what  to  me 
Is  this  —  'tis  nothing  —  nothing  e'er  can  be  : 


ing  her  neck,  she  remarked,  that  it  "  was  too  slender 
to  trouble  the  headsman  much."  During  one  part 
of  the  French  Revolution,  it  became  a  fashion  to 
leave  some  "  mot "  as  a  legacy ;  and  the  quantity  of 
facetious  last  words  spoken  during  that  period  would 
form  a  melancholy  jest-book  of  a  considerable  size. 


But  yet  —  thou  lov'st  —  and  —  Oh  !    I   envy 

those 
Whose  hearts  on  hearts  as  faithful  can  repose, 
Who   nt  /er  feel  the   void  —  the  wandering 

thought 
That  sighs  o'er  visions  —  such  as  mine  hath 

wrought." 

"  Lady — methought  thy  love  was  his,  for  whom 
This  arm  redeemed  thee  from  a  fiery  tomb." 
"My  love  stern  Seyd's!     Oh  —  No — No  — 

not  my  love  — 
Yet  much  this  heart,  that   strives   no   more, 

once  strove 
To  meet  his  passion  —  but  it  would  not  be. 
I  felt  —  I  feel  —  love  dwells  with  —  with  the 

free. 
I  am  a  slave,  a  favored  slave  at  best, 
To  share  his  splendor,  and  seem  very  blest ! 
Oft  must  my  soul  the  question  undergo, 
Of — '  Dost  thou  love  ? '  and  burn  to  answer, 

'No!' 
Oh !  hard  it  is  that  fondness  to  sustain, 
And  struggle  not  to  feel  averse  in  vain ; 
But  harder  still  the  heart's  recoil  to  bear, 
And  hide  from  one  —  perhaps  another  there. 
He  takes  the  hand  I  give  not  —  nor  withhold  — 
Its    pulse    nor  checked  —  nor   quickened  — 

calmly  cold  : 
And  when  resigned,  it  drops  a  lifeless  weight 
From  one  I  never  loved  enough  to  hate. 
No  warmth  these  lips  return  by  his  imprest, 
And  chilled  remembrance  shudders  o'er  the 

rest. 
Yes  —  had  I  ever  proved  that  passion's  zeal, 
The  change  to  hatred  were  at  least  to  feel : 
But  still  —  he  goes  unmourned  —  returns  un« 

sought  — 
And    oft    when    present  —  absent  from   my 

thought. 
Or  when   reflection    comes  —  and    come    it 

must  — 
I  fear  that  henceforth  'twill  but  bring  disgust; 
I  am  his  slave  —  but,  in  despite  of  pride, 
'Twere  worse   than   bondage  to  become  his 

bride. 
Oh  !  that  this  dotage  of  his  breast  would  cease  ! 
Or  seek  another  and  give  mine  release, 
But  yesterday —  I  could  have  said,  to  peace  ! 
Yes  —  if  unwonted  fondness  now  I  feign, 
Remember —  captive  !  'tis  to  break  thy  chain  ; 
Repay  the  life  that  to  thy  hand  I  owe ; 
To  give  thee  back  to  all  endeared  below, 
Who  share  such  love  as  I  can  never  know. 
Farewell  —  morn   breaks  —  and  I  must  now 

away : 
"Twill  cost  me  dear  —  but  dread  no  death  to- 
day !  " 

xv. 

She  pressed  his  fettered  fingers  to  her  heart, 
And  bowed  her  head,  and  turned  her  to  de- 
part, 


422 


THE  CORSAIR. 


And  noiseless  as  a  lovely  dream  is  gone. 
And  was  she  here  ?  and  is  he  now  alone  ? 
What  gem  hath  dropped  and   sparkles  o'er 

his  chain  ? 
The  tear  most  sacred,  shed  for  others'  pain, 
That  starts  at   once  —  bright  —  pure  —  from 

Pity's  mine, 
Already  polished  by  the  hand  divine ! 

Oh!  too  convincing  —  dangerously  dear  — 
In  woman's  eye  the  unanswerable  tear ! 
That  weapon  of  her  weakness  she  can  wield, 
To   save,  subdue  —  at   once  her  spear  and 

shield : 
Avoid  it  —  Virtue  ebbs  and  Wisdom  errs, 
Too  fondly  gazing  on  that  grief  of  hers  ! 
What  lost  a  world,  and  bade  a  hero  fly  ? 


The  timid  tear  in  Cleopatra's  eye. 

Yet  be  the  soft  triumvir's  fault  forgiven. 

By  this  —  how   many  lose    not   earth  -^b«l 

heaven ! 
Consign  their  souls  to  man's  eternal  foe, 
And  seal  their  own  to  spare  some  wanton's  woe. 

XVI. 

Tis  morn  —  and  o'er  his  altered  features  play 
The  beams — -without  the  hope  ol  yesterday. 
What  shall  he  be  ere  night?  perchance  a  thing 
O'er  which  the  raven  flaps  her  funeral  wing: 
By  his  closed  eye  unheeded  arid  unfelt, 
While  sets  that  sun,  and  dews  of  evening  melt, 
Chill  —  wet  —  and  misty  round  each  stiffened 

limb 
Refreshing  earth  —  reviving  all  but  him  1  — 


CANTO  THE  THIRD. 


"  Come  vedi  —  ancor  non  m'  abbandona." 

Dante. 


I. 

SLOW  sinks,  more  lovely  ere  his  race  be  run,1 
Along  Morea's  hills  the  setting  sun  ; 
Not,  as  in  Northern  climes,  obscurely  bright, 
But  one  unclouded  blaze  of  living  light ! 
O'er  the  hushed  deep  the  yellow  beam  he 

throws, 
Gilds  the  green  wave,  that  trembles  as  it  glows. 
On  old  JEgina's  rock,  and  Idra's  isle, 
The  god  of  gladness  sheds  his  parting  smile ; 
O'er  his  own  regions  lingering,  loves  to  shine, 
Though  there  his  altars  are  no  more  divine. 
Descending  fast  the  mountain  shadows  kiss 
Thy  glorious  gulf,  unconquered  Salamis  ! 
Their  azure  arches  through  the  long  expanse 
More    deeply   purpled    meet   his   mellowing 

glance, 
And  tenderest  tints,  along  their  summits  driven, 
Mark   his  gay  course,  and  own  the  hues  of 

heaven, 
Till,  darkly  shaded  from  the  land  and  deep, 
Behind  his  Delphian  cliff  he  sinks  to  sleep. 
On  such  an  eve,  his  palest  beam  he  cast, 
When  —  Athens!  here  thy  Wisest  looked  his 

last. 
How  watched  thy  better  sons  his  farewell  ray, 


1  The  opening  lines,  as  far  as  section  ii.,  have, 
perhaps,  little  business  here,  and  were  annexed  to 
an  unpublished  (though  printed)  poem;  but  they 
were  written  on  the  spot,  in  the  Spring  of  1811,  and 
—  I  scarce  know  why  —  the  reader  must  excuse 
their  appearance  here  —  if  he  can. 


That  closed  their  murdered  sage's  2  latest  day '. 
Not  yet  —  nof  yet  —  Sol  pauses  on  the  hill— - 
The  precious  hour  of  parting  lingers  still ; 
But  sad  his  light  to  agonizing  eyes, 
And  dark  the  mountain's  once  delightful  dyes 
Gloom  o'er  the  lovely  land  he  seemed  to  pour, 
The  land,  where  Phoebus  never  frowned  be- 
fore; 
But  ere  he  sank  below  Cithaeron's  head, 
The  cup  of  woe  was  quaffed  —  the  spirit  fled; 
The  soul  of  him  who  scorned  to  fear  or  fly  — 
Who  lived  and  died,  as  none  can  live  or  die ! 

But  lo !  from  high  Hymettus  to  the  plain, 
The  queen  of  night  asserts  her  silent  reign.3 
No  murky  vapor,  herald  of  the  storm, 
Hides  her  fair  face,  nor  girds  her  glowing  form  ; 
With  cornice  glimmering  as  the  moon-beams 

play, 
There  the  white  column  greets  her  grateful  ray, 
And,  bright  around  with  quivering  beams  be- 
set, 
Her  emblem  sparkles  o'er  the  minaret : 
The  groves  of  olive  scattered  dark  and  wide 
Wherejneek  Cephisus  pours  his  scanty  tide, 

2  Socrates  drank  the  hemlock  a  short  time  before 
sunset  (the  hour  of  execution),  notwithstanding  the 
entreaties  of  his  disciples  to  wait  till  the  sun  went 
down. 

3  The  twilight  in  Greece  is  much  shorter  than  in 
our  own  country:  the  days  in  winter  are  longer, 
but  in  summer  of  shorter  duration. 


THE   CORSAIR. 


423 


The  cypress  saddening  by  the  sacred  mosque, 
The  gleaming  turret  of  the  gay  kiosk,1 
And,  dun  and  sombre  'mid  the  holy  calm, 
Near  Theseus'  fane  yon  solitary  palm, 
All  tinged  with  varied' hues  arrest  the  eye  — 
And  dull  were  his  that  passed  them  heedless 

by. 
'Igain  the  /Egean,  heard  no  more  afar, 
Lulls  his  chafed  breast  from  elemental  war; 
Again  his  waves  in  milder  tints  unfold 
Their  long  array  of  sapphire  and  of  gold, 
Mixed  with  the  shades  of  many  a  distant  isle, 
That  frown  —  where  gentler  ocean  seems  to 
smile.2 

•      II. 
Not  now  my  theme  —  why  turn  my  thoughts 

to  thee  ? 
Oh !  who  can  look  along  thy  native  sea, 
Nor  dwell  upon  thy  name,  whate'er  the  tale, 
So  much  its  magic  must  o'er  all  prevail  ? 
Who  that  beheld  that  Sun  upon  thee  set, 
Fair  Athens  !  could  thine  evening  face  forget  ? 
Not  he  —  whose  heart  nor  time  nor  distance 

frees, 
Spell-bound  within  the  clustering  Cyclades ! 
Nor  seems  this  homage  foreign  to  his  strain, 
His  Corsair's  isle  was  once  thine  own   do- 
main— 
Would  that  with  freedom  it  were  thine  again ! 

in. 
The  Sun  hath  sunk  — and,  darker  than  the 

night, 
Sinks  with  its  beam  upon  the  beacon  height 
Medora's  heart  —  the  third,  day's  come  and 

gone  — 
With  it  he  comes  not  —  sends  not — faithless 

one! 
The  wind  was  fair  though  light ;  and  storms 

were  none. 
Last  eve  Anselmo's  bark  returned,  and  yet 
His  only  tidings  that  they  had  not  met! 
Though  wild,  as  now,  far  different  were  the 

tale 


1  The  Kiosk  is  a  Turkish  summer-house:  the 
palm  is  without  the  present  walls  of  Athens,  not  far 
from  the  temple  of  Theseus,  between  which  and  the 
tree  the  wall  intervenes.  —  Cephisus'  stream  is  in- 
deed scanty,  and  Ilissus  has  no  stream  at  all. 

2  [Of  the  brilliant  skies  and  variegated  land- 
scapes of  Greece  every  one  has  formed  to  himself  a 
general  notion,  from  having  contemplated  them 
through  the  hazy  atmosphere  of  some  prose  narra- 
tion; but,  in  Lord  Byron's  poetry,  every  image  is 
distinct  and  glowing,  as  if  it  were  illuminated  by  its 
native  sunshine;  and  in  the  figures  which  people 
the  landscape  we  behold,  not  only  the  general  form 
and  costume,  but  the  countenance,  and  the  attitude, 
and  the  play  of  features  and  of  gestures  accompany- 
ing, and  indicating,  the  sudden  impulses  of  momen- 
tary feelings.  The  magic  of  coloring  by  which  this 
is  effected  is,  .perhaps,  the  most  striking  evidence 
of  Lord  Byron's  talent.  —  George  Ellis.\ 


Had  Conrad  waited  for  that  single  saii. 

The  night-breeze  freshens  —  she  that  day  had 

passed 
In  watching  all  that  Hope  proclaimed  a  mast; 
Sadly  she  sate  —  on  high  —  Impatience  bore 
At  last  her  footsteps  to  the  midnight  shore, 
And  there  she  wandered,  heedless  of  the  spray 
That  dashed  her  garments  oft,  and  warned 

away :  *■ 

She  saw  not  —  felt  not  this  —  nor  dared  depart, 
Nor  deemed   it  cold  —  her  chill  was  at  her 

heart ; 
Till  grew  such  certainty  from  that  suspense — . 
His.very  Sight  had  shocked  from  life  or  sense  ! 

It  came  at  last  —  a  sad  and  shattered  boat, 
Whose  inmates  first  beheld  whom  first  they 

sought ; 
Some  bleeding  —  all   most  wretched  >—  these 

the  few  — 
Scarce  knew  they  how  escaped  —  this  all  they 

knew. 
In  silence,  darkling,  each  appeared  to  wait 
His  fellow's  mournful  guess  at  Conrad's  fate: 
Something  they  would  have  said  ;  but  seemed 

to  fear 
To  trust  their  accents  to  Medora's  ear. 
She  saw  at  once,  yet  sunk  not  —  trembled  not  — 
Beneath  that  grief,  that  loneliness  of  lot, 
Within  that  meek  fair  form,  were  feelings  high, 
That  deemed  not  till  they  found  their  energy. 
While  yet  was   Hope  —  they  softened  —  flut- 
tered— wept  — 
All  lost  —  that  softness  died  not  —  but  it  slept ; 
And  o'er  its  slumber  rose  that  Strength  which 

said, 
"  With  nothing  left  to  love  —  there's  nought  to 

dread." 
'Tis  more  than  nature's  ;  like  the  burning  might 
Delirium  gathers  from  the  fever's  height. 

"  Silent  you  stand  —nor  would  I  hear  you  tell 
What  —  speak  not  — breathe  not  —  for  I  know 

it  well  — 
Yet  would  I  ask  —  almost  my  lip  denies 
The  —  quick  your  answer —  tell  me  where  he 

lies." 

"Lady!  we  know  not  —  scarce  with  life  we 

fled; 
But  here  is  one  denies  that  he  is  dead : 
He  saw  him  bound ;  and  bleeding  —  but  alive." 

She  heard  no  furthur  —  'twas  in  vain  to 
strive  — 

So  throbbed  each  vein  —  each  thought  —  tiU 
then  withstood ; 

Her  own  dark  soul  —  these  words  at  once  sub- 
dued : 

She  totters  —  falls  —  and  senseless  had  the 
wave 

Perchance  but  snatched  her  from  another 
grave ; 


424 


THE  CORSAIR. 


But  that  with  hands  though  rude,  yet  weeping 

eyes, 
They  yield  such  aid  as  Pity's  haste  supplies: 
Dash  o'er  her  deathlike  cheek  the  ocean  dew, 
Raise  —  fan  —  sustain  —  till  life  returns  anew; 
Awake  her  handmaids,  with  the  matrons  leave 
That  fainting  form  o'er  which  they  gaze  and 

grieve ; 
Then  seek  Anselmo's  cavern,  to  report 
The  tale  too  tedious  — when  the  triumph  short. 

IV. 

In  that  wild  council  words  waxed  warm  and 

strange 
With  thoughts  of  ranson,  rescue,  and  revenge  ; 
All,  save  repose  or  flight :  still  lingering  there 
Breathed  Conrad's  spirit,  and  forbade  despair ; 
Whate'er  his  fate  —  the  breasts  he  formed  and 

led 
Will  save  him  living,  or  appease  him  dead. 
Woe  to  his  foes !   there  yet  survive  a  few, 
Whose  deeds  are  daring,  as  their  hearts  are 

true. 

V. 
Within  the  Haram's  secret  chamber  sate 
Stern  Seyd,  still  pondering  o'er  his  Captive's 

fate; 
His  thoughts  on  love  and  hate  alternate  dwell, 
Now  with  Gulnare,  and  now  in  Conrad's  cell ; 
Here  at  his  feet  the  lovely  slave  reclined 
Surveys  his  brow  —  would  soothe  his  gloom 

of  mind : 
While  many  an  anxious  glance  her  large  dark 

eye 
Sends  in  its  idle  search  for  sympathy, 
His  only  bends  in  seeming  o'er  his  beads,1 
But  inly  views  his  victim  as  he  bleeds. 

"  Pacha  !  the  day  is  thine  ;  and  on  thy  crest 
Sits    Triumph  —  Conrad    taken  —  fallen   the 

rest! 
His  doom  is  fixed  —  he  dies  :  and  well  his  fate 
Was  earned  —  yet  much  too  worthless  for  thy 

hate: 
Methinks,  a  short  release,  for  ransom  told 
With  all  his  treasure,  not  unwisely  sold ; 
Report  speaks  largely  of  his  pirate-hoard  — 
Would  that  of  this  my  Pacha  were  the  lord ! 
While  baffled,  weakened  by  this  fatal  fray  — 
Watched  —  followed —  he  were  then  an  easier 

prey; 
But  once  cut  off — the  remnant  of  his  band 
Embark  their  wealth,  and  seek  a  safer  strand." 

"  Gulnare  !  —  if  for  each  drop  of  blood  a  gem 
Were  offered  rich  as  Stamboul's  diadem  ; 
If  for  each  hair  of  his  a  massy  mine 
Of  virgin  ore  should  supplicating  shine; 
If  all  our  Arab  tales  divulge  or  dream 


1  The    comboloio,    or    Mahometan    rosary;     the 
beads  are  in  number  ninety-nine. 


Of  wealth  were  here — that  gold  should  nol 

redeem ! 
It  had  not  now  redeemed  a  single  hour; 
But  that  I  know  him  fettered,  in  my  power; 
And,  thirsting  for  revenge,  I  ponder  still 
On  pangs  that  longest  rack,  and  latest  kill." 

"  Nay,  Seyd  !  —  I  seek  not  to  restrain  thy  rage, 
Too  justly  moved  for  mercy  to  assuage  ; 
My  thoughts  were  only  to  secure  for  thee 
His  riches  —  thus  released,  he  were  not  free: 
Disabled,  shorn  of  half  his  might  and  band, 
His  capture  could  but  wait  thy  first  command." 

"  His  capture  could!  —  and  shall  I  then  resign 
One  day  to  him  —  the  wretch  already  mine? 
Release  my  foe  !  —  at  whose  remonstrance  ?  — 

thine, 
Fair  suitor!  —  to  thy  virtuous  gratitude, 
That  thus  repays  this  Giaour's  relenting  mood, 
Which  thee  and  thine  alone  of  all  could  spare, 
No  doubt  —  regardless  if  the  prize  were  fair, 
My  thanks  and  praise  alike  are  due  —  now 

hear! 
I  have  a  counsel  for  thy  gentler  ear : 
I  do  mistrust  thee,  woman  !  and  each  word 
Of  thine  stamps  truth  on  all  Suspicion  heard. 
Borne   in    his   arms   through    fire  from    yon 

Serai  — - 
Say,  wert  thou  lingering  there  with  him  to  fly? 
Thou   need'st    not    answer  —  thy   confession 

speaks, 
Already  reddening  on  thy  guilty  cheeks  ; 
Then,  lovely  dame,  bethink  thee  !  and  beware  : 
'Tis  not  his  life  alone  may  claim  such  care ! 
Another  word  and  —  nay — ■  I  need  no  more. 
Accursed  was  the  moment  when  he  bore 
Thee  from  the  flames,  which  better  far  —  but 

—  no  — 
I  then  had  mourned  thee  with  a  lover's  woe  — 
Now  'tis  thy  lord  that  warns  —  deceitful  thing  ! 
Know'st  thou  that  I  can  clip  thy  wanton  wing? 
In  words  alone  I  am  not  wont  to  chafe  : 
Look   to   thyself — nor   deem   thy   falsehood 

safe !  " 

He  rose  —  and  slowly,  sternly  thence  withdrew, 

Rage  in  his  eye  and  threats  in  his  adieu : 

Ah  !  little  recked  that  chief  of  womanhood  — 

Which  frowns  ne'er  quelled,  nor  menaces  sub- 
dued ; 

And  little  deemed  he  what  thy  heart,  Gulnare ! 

When  soft  could  feel,  and  when  incensed 
could  dare. 

His  doubts  appeared  to  wrong — nor  yet  she 
knew 

How  deep  the  root  from  whence  compassion 
grew  — 

She  was  a  slave  —  from  such  may  captives 
claim 

A  fellow-feeling,  differing  but  in  name ; 

Still  half  unconscious  —  heedless  of  his  wrath, 


THE   CORSAIR. 


425 


Again  she  ventured  on  the  dangerous  path, 

Again  his  rage  repelled   --  until  arose 

That  strife  of  thousrht,  the  source  of  woman's 


Meanwhile  —  long  anxious  —  weary  —  still  — 

the  same 
Rolled  day  and  night  —  his  soul  could  never 

tame  — 
This  fearful  interval  of  doubt  and  dread, 
When  every  hour  might  doom  him  worse  than 

dead, 
When  every  step  that  echoed  by  the  gate 
Might   entering   lead  where   axe   and    stake 

await ; 
When  every  voice  that  grated  on  his  ear 
Might  be  the  last  that  he  could  ever  hear ; 
Could  terror  tame  —  that  spirit  stern  and  high 
Had  proved  unwilling  as  unfit  to  die ; 
'Twas  worn — perhaps   decayed  — yet   silent 

bore 
That  conflict,  deadlier  far  than  all  before  : 
The  heat  of  fight,  the  hurry  of  the  gale, 
Leave  scarce  one  thought   inert   enough   to 

quail ; 
But  bound  and  fixed  in  fettered  solitude, 
To  pine,  the  prey  of  every  changing  mood; 
To  gaze  on  thine  own  heart ;  and  meditate 
Irrevocable  faults,  and  coming  fate  — 
Too  late  the  last  to  shun  —  the  first  to  mend  — 
To  count  the  hours  that  struggle  to  thine  end, 
With  not  a  friend  to  animate,  and  tell 
To  other  ears  that  death  became  fhee  well : 
Around  thee  foes  to  forge  the  ready  lie, 
And  blot  life's  latest  scene  with  calumny ; 
Before  thee  tortures,  which  the  soul  can  dare, 
Yet  doubts  how  well  the  shrinking  flesh  may 

bear; 
But  deeply  feels  a  single  cry  would  shame, 
To  valor's  praise  thy  last  and  dearest  claim ; 
The  life  thou  leav'st  below,  denied  above 
By  kind  monopolists  of  heavenly  love ; 
And  more  than  doubtful  paradise  —  thy  heaven 
Of  earthly  hope  — thy  loved  one  from  thee 

riven. 
Such  were  the  thoughts  that  outlaw  must  sus- 
tain, 
A.nd  govern  pangs  surpassing  mortal  pain  : 
And  those  sustained  he  —  boots  it  well  or  ill  ? 
Since  not  to  sink  beneath,  is  something  still ! 

VII. 

The  first  day  passed  —  he  saw  not  her —  Gul- 

nare  — 
The  second  —  third  —  and  still  she  came  not 

there; 
But  what  her  words  avouched,  her  charms 

had  done, 
Or  else  he  had  not  seen  another  sun. 
The   fourth   day  rolled  along,  and  with  the 

night 


Came  storm  and  darkness  in  their  mingling 

might : 
Oh !  how  he  listened  to  the  rushing  deep. 
That  ne'er  till  now  so  broke  upon  his  sleep: 
And  his  wild  spirit  wilder  wishes  sent, 
Roused  by  the  roar  of  his  own  element  1 
Oft  had  he  ridden  on  that  winged  wave, 
And  loved  its  roughness  for  the  speed  it  gare  ; 
And  now  its  dashing  echoed  on  his  ear, 
A  long  known  voice  — alas  !  too  vainly  near! 
Loud  sung  the  wind  above  ;  and,  doubly  loud, 
Shook  o'er  his  turret  cell  the  thunder-cloud ; 
And  flashed  the  lightning  by  the  latticed  bar, 
To  him  more  genial  than  the  midnight  star: 
Close  to  the  glimmering  grate  he  dragged  his 

chain, 
And  hoped  that  peril  might  not  prove  in  vain. 
He  raised  his  iron  hand  to  Heaven,  and  prayed 
One  pitying  flash  to  mar  the  form  it  made  :  ! 
His  steel  and  impious  prayer  attract  alike  — 
The  storm  rolled  onward,  and  disdained  to 

strike ; 
Its  peal  waxed  fainter  —  ceased  — -he  felt  alone, 
As  if  some  faithless  friend  had  spurned  his 

groan ! 

VIII. 

The  midnight  passed  —  and  to  the  massy  door 
A  light  step  came  —  it  paused  —  it  moved  once 

more  ; 
Slow  turns  the  grating  bolt  and  sullen  key : 
'Tis  as  his  heart  foreboded  —  that  fair  she  ! 
Whate'er  her  sins,  to  him  a  guardian  saint, 
And   beauteous   still   as   hermit's    hope   can 

paint ; 
Yet  changed  since  last  within   that  cell  she 

came, 
More  pale  her  cheek,   more   tremulous   her 

frame : 
On  him  she  cast  her  dark  and  hurried  eye, 
Which   spoke  before   her    accents — "Thou 

must  die ! 


1  ["  By  the  way — I  have  a  charge  against  you. 
As  the  great  Mr.  Dennis  roared  out  on  a  similar 
occasion,  '  By  G— d,  that  is  my  thunder!  '  —  so  do 
I  exclaim,  '  This  is  my  lightning!  '  I  allude  to  a 
speech  of  Ivan's,  in  the  scene  with  Petrowna  and 
the  Empress,  where  the  thought  and  almost  expres- 
sion are  similar  to  Conrad's  in  the  third  canto  of 
the  '  Corsair.'  I,  however,  do  not  say  this  to  accuse 
you,  but  to  except  myself  from  suspicion;  as  there 
is  a  priority  of  six  months'  publication,  on  my 
part,  between  the  appearance  of  that  composition 
and  of  your  tragedies."  —  Lord  B.  to  Mr.  Sotheby, 
Sept.  25,  1815.  —  The  following  are  the  lines  in  Mr. 
Sotheby's  tragedy:  — 

"  And  I  have  leapt 

In  transport  from  my  flinty  couch,  to  welcome 

The  thunder  as  it  burst  upon  my  roof; 

And  beckoned  to  the  lightning,  as  it  flashed 

And  sparkled  on  these  fetters." 
Notwithstanding  Lord  Byron's  precaution,  the  coin- 
cidence in  question  was  cited  against  him,  some 
years  after,  in  a  periodical  journal.] 


426 


THE   CORSAIR. 


Yes,  thou  must  die  —  there  is  but  one  resource, 
The   last — the  worst — if  torture  were   not 

worse." 
"  Lady  !  I  look  to  none  —  my  lips  proclaim 
What  last  proclaimed  they  —  Conrad  still  the 

same : 
Why  should'st  thou  seek  an  outlaw's  life  to 

spare, 
And  change  the  sentence  I  deserve  to  bear  ? 
Well  have  I  earned  —  nor  here  alone  —  the 

meed 
Of  Seyd's  revenge,  by  many  a  lawless  deed." 

"  Why  should  I  seek?  because — Oh!  didst 

thou  not 
Redeem  my  life  from  worse  than  slavery's  lot  ? 
Why  should  I  seek  ? —  hath  misery  made  thee 

blind 
To  the  fond  workings  of  a  woman's  mind  ! 
And  must  I  say  ?  albeit  my  heart  rebel 
With  all  that  woman  feels,   but   should   not 

tell  — 
Because  —  despite  thy  crimes  —  that  heart  is 

moved : 
It  feared  thee  —  thanked  thee  —  pitied  —  mad- 
dened —  loved. 
Reply  not,  tell  not  now  thy  tale  again, 
Thou  lovest  another — and  I  love  in  vain; 
Though  fond  as  mine  her  bosom,  form  more 

fair, 
I  rush  through  peril  which  she  would  not  dare. 
If  that  thy  heart  to  hers  were  truly  dear, 
Were  I  thine  own  —  thou  wert  not  lonely  here  : 
An  outlaw's  spouse  —  and  leave  her  lord   to 

roam  ! 
What  hath  such  gentle  dame  to  do  with  home  ? 
But  speak  not  now  —  o'er  thine  and  o'er  my 

head 
Hangs  the  keen  sabre  by  a  single  thread ; 
If  thou  hast  courage  still,  and  wouldst  be  free, 
Receive  this  poniard  —  rise  —  and  follow  me!" 

"Ay  —  in   my  chains!   my  steps  will  gently 

tread, 
With  these  adornments,  o'er  each  slumbering 

head ! 
Thou  hast  forgot  —  is  this  a  garb  for  flight  ? 
Or  is  that  instrument  more  fit  for  fight  ?  " 

'Misdoubting   Corsair!    I   have  gained  the 

guard, 
Ripe  for  revolt,  and  greedy  for  reward. 
A  single  word  of  mine  removes  that  chain  : 
Without  some  aid  how  here  could  I  remain  ? 
Well,  since  we  met,  hath  sped  my  busy  time, 
If  in  aught  evil,  for  thy  sake  the  crime: 
The  crime —  'tis  none  to  punish  those  of  Seyd. 
That  hated  tyrant,  Conrad  —  he  must  bleed  ! 
I  see  thee  shudder  —  but  my  soul  is  changed  — 
Wronged,  spurned,  reviled  —  and  it  shall  be 

avenged  — 
Accused    of   what    till    now  my  heart    dis- 
dained— 


Too    faithful,    though    to    bitter    bondage 

chained. 
Yes,  smile !  —  but  he  had  little  cause  to  sneer, 
I  was   not  treacherous  then  —  nor  thou  too 

dear ; 
But  he  has  said  it  —  and  the  jealous  well, 
Those  tyrants,  teasing,  tempting  to  rebel, 
Deserve  the  fate  their  fretting  lips  foretell. 
I  never  loved  —  he  bought  me  —  somewhat 

high  — 
Since  with  me  came  a  heart  he  could  not  buy. 
I  was  a  slave  unmurmuring :  he  hath  said, 
But  for  his  rescue  I  with  thee  had  fled. 
'  Twas    false    thou    know'st  —  but    let  such 

augurs  rue, 
Their  words  are  omens  Insult  renders  true. 
Nor  was  thy  respite  granted  to  my  prayer; 
This  fleeting  grace  was  only  to  prepare 
New  torments  for  thy  life,  and  my  despair. 
Mine  too  he  threatens  ;  but  his  dotage  still 
Would  fain  reserve  me  for  his  lordly  will : 
When  wearier  of  these  fleeting  charms  and 

me, 
There  yawns  the  sack  —  and  yonder  rolls  the 

sea! 
What,  am  I  then  a  toy  for  dotard's  play, 
To  wear  but  till  the  gilding  frets  away  ? 
I    saw   thfie  —  loved    thee  —  owe   thee  all  — 

would  save, 
If  but  to  show  how  grateful  is  a  slave. 
But  had  he  n»t  thus  menaced  fame  and  life, 
(And  well  he  keeps  his  oaths  pronounced  in 

strife,). 
I  still  had  saved  thee  —  but  the  Pacha  spared. 
Now  I  am  all  thine  own  —  for  all  prepared  : 
Thou  lov'st  me  not  —  nor  know'st  —  or  but 

the  worst. 
Alas  !  this  love  —  that  hatred  are  the  first  — 
Oh !    couldst    thou    prove    my    truth,    thou 

wouldst  not  start, 
Nor  -fear  the  fire  that  lights  an  Eastern  heart ; 
'Tis  now  the  beacon  of  thy  safety —  now 
It  points  within  the  port  a  Mainote  prow : 
But  in  one  chamber,  where   our  path   must 

lead, 
There  sleeps  —  he  must  not  wake  —  the  op- 
pressor Seyd ! " 

"  Gulnare  —  Gulnare  —  I  never  felt  till  now 
My  abject  fortune,  withered  fame  so  low : 
Seyd  is  mine  enemy :  had  swept  my  band 
From  earth  with  ruthless  but  with  open  hand. 
And  therefore  came  I,  in  my  bark  of  war, 
To  smite  the  smiter  with  the  scimitar; 
Such  is  my  weapon  —  not  the  secret  knife  — 
Who  spares  a  woman's  seeks  not  slumber's 

life. 
Thine  saved  I  gladly,  Lady,  not  for  this  — 
Let  me  not  deem  that  mercy  shown  amiss. 
Now  fare  thee  well  —  more  peace  be  with  thy 

breast ! 
Night  wears  apace  —  my  last  of  earthly  rest ! " 


THE   CORSAIR. 


427 


"Rest!    rest!    by   sunrise    must  thy  sinews 

shake, 
And  thy  limbs  writhe  around  the  ready  stake. 
I  heard  the  order  —  saw  —  I  will  not  see  — 
If  thou  wilt  perish,  I  will  fall  with  thee. 
My  life  —  my  love  — ■  my  hatred  —  all  below 
Are  on  this  cast —  Corsair !  'tis  but  a  blow  ! 
Without  it  flight  were  idle  —  how  evade 
His  sure  pursuit  ?  my  wrongs  too  unrepaid, 
My  youth  disgraced — the  long,  long  wasted 

years, 
One  blow  shall  cancel  with  our  future  fears ; 
But  since  the  dagger  suits  thee  less  than  brand, 
I'll  try  the  firmness  of  a  female  hand. 
The  guards   are  gained  —  one   moment   all 

were  o'er  — 
Corsair  !  we  meet  in  safety  or  no  more ; 
If  errs  my  feeble  hand,  the  morning  cloud 
Will  hover  o'er  thy  scaffold,  and  my  shroud." 


She  turned,  and  vanished  ere  he  could  reply, 
But  his  glance  followed  far  with  eager  eye ; 
And  gathering,  as  he   could,   the   links   that 

bound 
His  form,  to  curl  their  length,  and  curb  their 

sound, 
Since  bar  and  bolt  no  more  his  steps  pre- 
clude, 
He,  fast  as  fettered  limbs  allow,  pursued. 
'Twas  dark  and  winding,  and  he   knew  not 

where 
That  passage  led ;  nor  lamp  nor  guard  were 

there : 
He  sees  a  dusky  glimmering  —  shall  he  seek 
Or  shun  that  ray  so  indistinct  and  weak  ? 
Chance  guides  his  steps  —  a  freshness  seems 

to  bear 
Full  on  his  brow,  as  if  from  morning  air  — 
He  reached  an  open  gallery  —  on  his  eye 
Gleamed  the  last  star  of  night,  the  clearing 

sky: 
Yet  scarcely  heeded  these  —  another  light 
From  a  lone  chamber  struck  upon  his  sight. 
Towards   it   he   moved;    a  scarcely   closing 

door 
Revealed  the  ray  within,  but  nothing  more. 
With  hasty  step  a  figure  outward  past, 
Then  paused  —  and  turned  —  and  paused  — 

'tis  She  at  last ! 
No  poniard  in  that  hand  —  nor  sign  of  ill  — 
"  Thanks  to  that  softening  heart  —  she  could 

not  kill !  " 
Again  he  looked,  the  wildness  of  her  eye 
Starts  from  the  day  abrupt  and  fearfully. 
3he  stopped  —  threw  back  her  dark  far-float- 
ing hair, 
That  nearly  veiled  her  face  and  bosom  fair : 
As  if  she  late  had  bent  her  leaning  head 
Above  some  object  of  her  doubt  or  dread. 
They  meet — upon   her  brow  —  unknown  — 
forgot  — 


Her  hurrying  hand  had  left  —  'twas  but   a 

spot  — 
Its  hue  was  all  he  saw,  and  scarce  withstood  — 
Oh  !  slight  but  certain  pledge  of  crime  —  'tis 

blood! 

X. 

He  had  seen  battle  —  he  had  brooded  lone 
O'er  promised  pangs  to  sentenced  guilt  fore- 
shown ; 
He  had  been  tempted —  chastened  —  and  the 

chain 
Yet  on  his  arms  might  ever  there  remain: 
But  ne'er  from  strife  —  captivity  —  remorse  — 
From  all  his  feelings  in  their  inmost  force  — 
So   thrilled  —  so   shuddered  every   creeping 

vein, 
As  now  they  froze  before  that  purple  stain. 
That  spot  of   blood,   that  light    but    guilty 

streak, 
Had  banished  all  the  beauty  from  her  cheek ! 
Blood  he  had  viewed  —  could  view  unmoved 

—  but  then 
It  flowed  in  combat,  or  was  shed  by  men ! 

XI. 

" 'Tis   done  —  he    nearly  waked  —  but   it   is 

done. 
Corsair !  he  perished  —  thou  art  dearly  won. 
All  words  would  now  be  vain  —  away  —  away ! 
Our  bark  is  tossing —  'tis  already  day. 
The  few  gained  over,  now  are  wholly  mine, 
And  these  thy  yet  surviving  band  shall  join  : 
Anon  my  voice  shall  vindicate  my  hand, 
When  once  our  sail  forsakes  this  liated  strand." 


She  clapped   her   hands  —  and  through   the 

gallery  pour, 
Equipped  for  flight,  her  vassals  —  Greek  and 

Moor ; 
Silent  but  quick  they  stoop,  his  chains  un- 
bind; 
Once  more  his  limbs  are  free  as  mountain 

wind ! 
But  on  his  heavy  heart  such  sadness  sate, 
As  if  they  there  transferred  that  iron  weight. 
No  words  are  uttered  —  at  her  sign  a  door 
Reveals  the  secret  passage  to  the  shore  ; 
The  city  lies  behind  —  they  speed,  they  reach 
The  glad  waves  dancing  on  the  yellow  beach  ; 
And  Conrad  following,  at  her  beck,  obeyed, 
Nor  cared  he  now  if  rescued  or  betrayed ; 
Resistance  were  as  useless  as  if  Seyd 
Yet  lived  to  view  the  doom  his  ire  decreed. 

XIII. 

Embarked,  the  sail  unfurled,  the  light  breeze 

blew  — 
How  much  had  Conrad's  memory  to  review! 
Sunk  he  in  Contemplation,  till  the  cape 
Where  last  he  anchored  reared  its  giant  shape. 


128 


THE   CORSAIR. 


Ah  I  — since  that  fatal  night,  though  brief  the 

time, 
Had  swept  an  age  of  terror,  grief,  and  crime. 
As  its  far  shadow  frowned  above  the  mast, 
He  veiled  his  face,  and  sorrowed  as  he  passed  ; 
He  thought  of  all — Gonsalvo  and  his  band, 
His  fleeting  triumph  and  his  failing  hand; 
He  thought  on  her  afar,  his  lonely  bride; : 
He  turned  and  saw —  Gulnare,  the  homicide  ! 

XIV. 

She  watched  his  features  till  she  could  not  bear 
Their  freezing  aspect  and  averted  air, 
And  that  strange  fierceness  foreign  to  her  eye, 
Fell  quenched  in  tears,  too  late  to  shed  or  dry. 
She  knelt  beside  him  and  his  hand  she  pressed, 
"  Thou  may'st  forgive  though  Allah's  self  de- 
test; 
But  for  that  deed  of  darkness  what  wert  thou  ? 
Reproach  me  —  but  not  yet  —  Oh!  spare  me 

now  ! 
1  am  not  what  I  seem  —  this  fearful  night 
My  brain  bewildered —  do  not  madden  quite  ! 
If  I  had  never  loved — though  less  my  guilt, 
Thou  hadst  not  lived  to  —  hate  me  —  if  thou 
wilt." 

XV. 
She  wrongs  his  thoughts,  they  more  himself 

upbraid 
Than  her,  though  undesigned,  the  wretch  he 

made 
But  speechless  all,  deep,  dark,  and  unexprest, 
They  bleed  within  that  silent  cell  —  his  breast. 
Still   onward,  fair  the  breeze,  nor  rough  the 

surge, 
The  blue  waves  sport  around  the  stern  they 

urge; 
Far  on  the  horizon's  verge  appears  a  speck, 
A  spot  —  a  mast  —  a  sail  —  an  armed  deck! 
Their  little  bark  her  men  of  watch  descry, 
And  ampler  canvas  woos  the  wind  from  high  ; 
She  bears  her  down  majestically  near, 
Speed  on  her  prow,  and  terror  in  her  tier; 
A  flash  is  seen  —  the  ball  beyond  her  bow 
Booms  harmless,  hissing  to  the  deep  below. 
Up  rose  keen  Conrad  from  his  silent  trance, 
%.  long,  long  absent  gladness  in  his  glance ; 
'  'Tis    mine  —  my    blood-red    flag !  again  — 

again  — 
I  am  not  all  deserted  on  the  main !  " 
They  own  the  signal,  answer  to  the  hail, 
Hoist  out  the  boat  at  once,  and  slacken  sail. 
"  'Tis  Conrad !  Conrad !  "  shouting  from  the 

deck, 
Command    nor   duty   could    their  transport 

check ! 
With  light  alacrity  and  gaze  of  pride, 
They  view  him  mount  once  more  his  vessel's 

side ; 
A  smile  relaxing  in  each  rugged  face, 
Their  arms  can  scarce  forbear  a  rough  em- 
brace. 


He,  half  forgetting  danger  and  defeat, 
Returns  their  greeting  as  a  chief  may  greet, 
Wrings  with  a  cordial  grasp  Anselmo's  hand, 
And  feels  he  yet  can  conquer  and  command! 

XVI. 

These  greetings  o'er,  the  feelings  that  o'erflow, 
Yet  grieve  to  win  him  back  without  a  blow ; 
They  sailed    prepared   for  vengeance  —  had 

they  known 
A  woman's  hand  secured  that  deed  her  own, 
She  were  their   queen  —  less  scrupulous  are 

they 
Than  haughty  Conrad  how  they  win  their  way. 
With  many  an  asking  smile,  and  wondering 

stare, 
They  whisper  round,  and  gaze  upon  Gulnare ; 
And  her,  at  once  above  —  beneath  her  sex, 
Whom  blood  appalled  not,  their  regards  per- 
plex. 
To  Conrad  turns  her  faint  imploring  eye, 
She  drops  her  veil,  and  stands  in  silence  by; 
Her  arms  are  meekly  folded  on  that  breast, 
Which  —  Conrad  safe  —  to  fate  resigned  the 

rest. 
Though  worse  than  frenzv  could  that  bosom 

fill, 
Extreme  in  love  or  hate,  in  good  or  ill, 
The  worst  of  crimes  had  left  her  woman  still! 

f  XVII. 

This  Conrad  marked,  and  felt  —  ah  !  could  he 

less?  — 1 
Hate  of  that  deed  —  but  grief  for  her  distress ; 
What  she  has  done  no  tears  can  wash  away, 
And  Heaven  must  punish  on  its  angry  day: 
But  —  it  was   done :  he   knew,  whate'er  her 

guilt, 
For  him  that  poinard  smote,  that  blood  was 

spilt; 
And  he  was  free  !  —  and  she  for  him  had  given 
Her  all  on  earth,  and  more  than  all  in  heaven  i 
And  now  he  turned   him  to   that   dark-eyed 

slave 
Whose  brow  was  bowed  beneath  the  glance 

he  gave, 
Who  now  seemed  changed  and  humbled:  — 

faint  and  meek, 
But  varying  oft  the  color  of  her  cheek 
To  deeper  shades  of  paleness  —  all  its  red 
That   fearful  spot  which  stained  it   from  the 

dead ! 
He  took  that   hand  —  it  trembled  — now  too 

late  — 
So  soft  in  love  —  so  wildly  nerved  in  hate  ; 
He  clasped  that  hand  —  it  trembled  —  and  his 

own 


1  ["  I  have  added  a  section  for  Gulnare,  to  fill 
up  the  parting,  and  dismiss  her  more  ceremoniously. 
If  Mr.  Gifford  or  you  dislike,  'tis  but  a  sponge  and 
another  midnight."  —  Lord  Byron  to  Mr.  M., 
January  n,  1814  ] 


THE   CORSAIR. 


429 


Had  lost  its  firmness,  and  his  voice  its  tone. 
"  Gulnare  !  "  —  but   she  replied   not  —  "dear 

Gulnare!  " 
She  raised  her  eye  —  her  only  answer  there  — 
At  once  she  sought  and  sunk  in  his  embrace  : 
If  he  had  driven  her  from  that  resting-place, 
His  had  been  more  or  less  than  mortal  heart, 
But — good  or  ill  —  it  bade  her  not  depart. 
Perchance,  but  for  the  bodings  of  his  breast, 
His  latest  virtue  then  had  joined  the  rest. 
Vet  even  Medora  might  forgive  the  kiss 
That  asked  from  form  so  fair  no  more  than 

this, 
The  first,  the  last  that  Frailtystole  from  Faith  — 
To  lips  where  Love  had  lavished  all  his  breath, 
To  lips  —  whose  broken  sighs  such  fragrance 

fling, 
As  he  had  fanned  them  freshly  with  his  wing ! 

XVIII. 
They  gain  by  twilight's  hour  their  lonely  isle, 
To  them  the  very  rocks  appear  to  smile ; 
The  haven  hums  with  many  a  cheering  sound, 
The  beacons  blaze  their  wonted  stations  round, 
The  boats  are  darting  o'er  the  curly  bay, 
And  sportive  dolphins  bend  them  through  the 

spray ; 
Even  the  hoarse  sea-bird's  shrill,  discordant 

shriek, 
Greets  like  the  welcome  of  his  tuneless  beak! 
Beneath   each   lamp   that  through  its  lattice 

gleams, 
Their  fancy  paints  the  friends  that  trim  the 

beams. 
Oh  !  what  can  sanctify  the  joys  of  home, 
Like  Hope's  gay  glance  from  Ocean's  troub- 
led foam  ? 

XIX. 

The  lights  are  high  on  beacon  and  from 
bower, 

And  'midst  them  Conrad  seeks  Medora's 
tower : 

He  looks  in  vain — 'tis  strange — and  all  re- 
mark, 

Amid  so  many,  hers  alone  is  dark. 

'Tis  strange  —  of  yore  its  welcome  never  failed, 

Nor  now,  perchance,  extinguished,  only  veiled. 

With  the  first  boat  descends  he  for  the  shore, 

And  looks  impatient  on  the  lingering  oar. 

Oh  !  for  a  wing  beyond  the  falcon's  flight, 

To  bear  him  like  an  arrow  to  that  height ! 

With  the  first  pause  the  resting  rowers  gave, 

He  waits  not  —  looks  not  —  leaps  into  the 
wave, 

Strives  through  the  surge,  bestrides  the  beach, 
and  high 

Ascends  the  path  familiar  to  his  eye. 

He  reached   his  turret  door  —  he   paused — - 

no  sound 
Broke  from  within  ;  and  all  was  night  around. 
He  knocked,  and  loudly —  footstep  nor  reply 


Announced  that  any  heard  or  deemed  him 

nigh; 
He  knocked  —  but  faintly  —  for  his  trembling 

hand 
Refused  to  aid  his  heavy  heart's  demand. 
The  portal  opens  —  'tis  a  well  known  face  — 
But  not  the  form  he  panted  to  embrace. 
Its  lips  are  silent  —  twice  his  own  essayed, 
And  failed  to  frame  the  question  they  delayed ; 
He  snatched  the  lamp  —  its  light  will  answer 

all  — 
It  quits  his  grasp,  expiring  in  the  fall. 
He  would  not  wait  for  that  reviving  ray  — 
As  soon  could  he  have  lingered  there  for  day ; 
But,  glimmering  through  the  dusky  corridore, 
Another  chequers  o'er  the  shadowed  floor ; 
His  steps  the  chamber  gain — -his  eyes  behold 
All  that  his  heart  believed  not  — yet  foretold  ! 

XX. 
He  turned  not  —  spoke  not  —  sunk  not  —  fixed 

his  look, 
And  set  the  anxious  frame  that  lately  shook  : 
He  gazed  —  how  long  we  gaze  despite  of  pain, 
And  know,  but  dare  not  own,  we  gaze  in  vain  ! 
In  life  itself  she  was  so  still  and  fair, 
That  death  with  gentler  aspect  withered  there  ; 
And  the  cold  flowers1  her  colder  hand  con- 
tained, 
In  that  last  grasp  as  tenderly  were  strained 
As  if  she  scarcely  felt,  but  feigned  a  sleep, 
And  made  it  almost  mockery  yet  to  weep  : 
The  long  dark  lashes  fringed  her  lids  of  snow, 
And  veiled  —  thought  shrinks  from  all  that 

lurked  below — ■ 
Oh  !  o'er  the  eye  Death  most  exerts  his  might, 
And  hurls  the  spirit  from  her  throne  of  light! 
Sinks  those  blue  orbs  in  that  long  last  eclipse. 
But  spares,  as  yet,  the  charm  around  her  lips  — 
Yet,  yet  they  seem  as  they  forbore  to  smile, 
And  wished  repose  —  but  only  for  a  while; 
But  the  white  shroud,  and  each  extended  tress, 
Long — fair  —  but  spread  in  utter  lifelessness, 
Which,  late  the  sport  of  every  summer  wind, 
Escaped  the  baffled  wreath  that  strove  to  bind  ; 
These  —  and  the  pale  pure  cheek,  became  the 

bier — - 
But  she  is  nothing  —  wherefore  is  he  here? 

XXI. 

He  asked   no   question  —  all  were  answered 

now 
By  the  first  glance  on  that  still  —  marble  brow. 
It  was   enough  —  she  died  —  what  recked  it 

how? 
The  love  of  youth,  the  hope  of  better  years, 
The  source  of  softest  wishes,  tenderest  fears, 
The  only  living  thing  he  could  not  hate, 


1  In  the  Levant  it  is  the  custom  to  strew  flowers 
on  the  bodies  of  the  dead,  and  in  the  hands  of  young 
nersons  to  place  a  nosegay. 


♦30 


THE   CORSAIR. 


Was  reft  at  once  —  and  he  deserved  his  fate, 
But  did  not  feel  it  less ;  —  the  good  explore, 
For  peace,  those  realms  where  guilt  can  never 

soar : 
The  proud— the  wayward  —  who  have  fixed 

below 
Their  joy,  and  find  this  earth  enough  for  woe, 
Lose  in  that  one  their  all  —  perchance  a  mite  — 
But  who  in  patience  parts  with  all  delight  ? 
Full  many  a  stoic  eye  and  aspect  stern 
Mask  hearts  where  grief  hath  little  left  to  learn, 
And  many  a  withering  thought  lies  hid,  not  lost, 
In  smiles  that  least  befit  who  wear  them  most. 

XXII. 
By  those,  that  deepest  feel,  is  ill  exprest 
The  indistinctness  of  the  suffering  breast; 
Where  thousand  thoughts  begin  to  end  in  one, 
Which  seeks  from  all  the  refuge  found  in  none  ; 
No  words  suffice  the  secret  soul  to  show, 
For  Truth  denies  all  eloquence  to  Woe. 
On  Conrad's  stricken  soul  exhaustion  prest, 
And  stupor  almost  lulled  it  into  rest; 
So  feeble  now — his  mother's  softness  crept 
To  those  wild  eyes,  which    like  an  infant's 

wept: 
It  was  the  very  weakness  of  his  brain, 
Which  thus  confessed  without  relieving  pain. 
None  saw  his  trickling  tears — perchance,  if 

seen. 
That  useless  flood  of  grief  had  never  been: 
Nor  long  they  flowed  —  he  dried  them  to  de- 
part, 
In  helpless  —  hopeless  —  brokenness  of  heart : 
The  sun  goes  forth  —  but  Conrad's  day  is  dim  ; 
And  the  night  cometh — ne'er  to  pass  from  him. 
There  is  no  darkness  like  the  cloud  of  mind, 
On  Griefs  vain  eye  —  the  blindest  of  the  blind  ! 
Which   may  not  —  dare  not  see  —  but  turns 

aside 
To  blackest  shade  —  nor  will  endure  a  guide ! 


His  heart  was  formed  for  softness  —  warped 

to  wrong ;  l 
Betrayed  too  early,  and  beguiled  too  long; 
E  i .ii  feeling  pure  —  as  falls  the  dropping  dew 
Within  the  grot ;  like  that  had  hardened  too  ; 
Less  clear,  perchance,  its  earthly  trials  passed, 
But  sunk,  and  chilled,  and  pertified  at  last. 
Yet  tempests  wear,  and  lightning  cleaves  the 

rock, 


1  [These  sixteen  lines  are  not  in  the  original  MS.] 


If  such  his  heart,  so  shattered  it  the  shock. 
There  grew  one  flower  beneath  its  rugged 

brow, 
Though  dark  the  shade  —  it  sheltered  —  saved 

till  now. 
The  thunder  came  —  that  bolt  hath  bl»6ted 

both, 
The  Granite's  firmness,  and  the  Lily's  growth : 
The  gentle  plant  hath  left  no  leaf  to  tell 
Its  tale,  but  shrunk  and  withered  where  it  fell 
And  of  its  cold  protector,  blacken  round 
But  shivered  fragments  on  the  barren  ground 


'Tis  morn  — to  venture  on  his  lonely  hour 
Few  dare :  though  now  Anselmo  sought  his 

tower. 
He  was  not  there  —  nor  seen  along  the  shore ; 
Ere  night,  alarmed,  their  isle  is  traversed  o'er : 
Another  morn  —  another  bids  them  seek, 
And  shout  his  name  till  echo  waxeth  weak ; 
Mount  —  grotto  —  cavern  —  valley  searched  in 

vain. 
They  find  on  shore  a  sea-boat's  broken  chain  : 
Their  hope  revives  —  they  follow  o'er  the  main. 
'Tis  idle  all  —  moons  roll  on  moons  away, 
And  Conrad  comes  not  —  came  not  since  that 

day: 
Nor  trace,  nor  tidings  of  his  doom  declare 
Where  lives  his^grief,  or  perished  his  despair! 
Long  mourned  his  band  whom  none  could 

mourn  beside ; 
And  fair  the  monument  they  gave  his  bride  : 
For  him  they  raise  not  the  recording  stone  — 
His    death   yet   dubious,   deeds   too    widely 

known ; 
He  left  a  Corsair's  name  to  other  times, 
Linked  with  one  virtue,  and  a  thousand  crimes.l 


1  [The  "Corsair"  is  written  in  the  regular 
heroic  couplet,  with  a  spirit,  freedom,  and  variety 
of  tone,  of  which,  notwithstanding  the  example  of 
Dryden,  we  scarcely  believed  that  measure  suscep- 
tible. It  was  yet  to  be  proved  that  this,  the  most 
ponderous  and  stately  verse  in  our  language,  could 
be  accommodated  to  the  variations  of  a  tale  of  pas- 
sion and  of  pity,  and  to  all  the  breaks,  starts,  and 
transitions  of  an  adventurous  and  dramatic  narra- 
tion. This  experiment  Lord  Byron  has  made,  with 
equal  boldness  and  success ;  and  has  satisfied  us, 
that  the  oldest  and  most  respectable  measure  that 
is  known  amongst  us,  is  at  least  as  flexible  as  any 
other,  and  capable,  in  the  hands  of  a  master,  of 
vibrations  as  strong  and  rapid  as  those  of  a  lighter 
structure.  —  Jeffrey ■] 


That  the  point  of  honor  which  is  represented  in  one  instance  of  Conrad's  character  has  not  bees 
carried  beyond  the  bounds  of  probability,  may  perhaps  be  in  some  degree  confirmed  by  the  following 
anecdote  of  a  brother  buccaneer  in  the  year  1814:  —  "  Our  readers  have  all  seen  the  account  of  the  enter- 
prise against  the  pirates  of  Barrataria;  but  few,  we  believe,  were  informed  of  the  situation,  history,  or 
nature  of  that  establishment.     For  the  information  of  such  as  were  unacquainted  with  it,  we  have  procurea 


THE   CORSAIR.  431 


from  a  friend  the  following  interesting  narrative  of  the  main  facts,  of  which  he  has  personal  knowledge, 
and  which  cannot  fail  to  interest  some  of  our  readers.  —  Barrataria  is  a  bay,  or  a  narrow  arm  of  the  GuK 
of  Mexico;  it  runs  through  a  rich  but  very  flat  country,  until  it  reaches  within  a  mile  of  the  Mississippi 
river,  fifteen  miles  below  the  city  of  New  Orleans.  The  bay  has  branches  almost  innumerable,  in  which 
persons  can  lie  concealed  from  the  severest  scrutiny.  It  communicates  with  three  lakes  which  lie  on  the 
south-west  side,  and  these,  with  the  lake  of  the  same  name,  and  which  lies  contiguous  to  the  sea,  where 
there  is  an  island  formed  by  the  two  arms  of  this  lake  and  the  sea.  The  east  and  west  points  of  this 
island  were  fortified,  in  the  year  i8n,by  a  band  of  pirates  under  the  command  of  one  Monsieur  La  Fitte. 
A  large  majority  of  these  outlaws  are  of  that  class  of  the  population  of  the  State  of  Louisiana  who  fled 
from  the  island  of  St.  Domingo  during  the  troubles  there,  and  took  refuge  in  the  island  of  Cuba;  and 
when  the  last  war  between  France  and  Spain  commenced,  they  were  compelled  to  leave  that  island  with 
the  short  notice  of  a  few  days.  Without  ceremony,  they  entered  the  United  States,  the  most  of  them  the 
State  of  Louisiana,  with  all  the  negroes  they  had  possessed  in  Cuba.  They  were  notified  by  the  Governor 
of  that  State  of  the  clause  in  the  constitution  which  forbade  the  importation  of  slaves;  but,  at  the  same 
time,  received  the  assurance  of  the  Governor  that  he  would  obtain,  if  possible,  the  approbation  of  the 
General  Government  for  their  retaining  this  property.  —  The  island  of  Barrataria  is  situated  about  lat.  29 
deg.  15  min.,  Ion.  92.  30. ;  and  is  as  remarkable  for  its  health  as  for  the  superior  scale  and  shell  fish  with 
which  its  waters  abound.  The  chief  of  this  horde,  like  Charles  de  Moor,  had  mixed  with  his  many  vices 
some  virtues.  In  the  year  1813,  this  party  had,  from  its  turpitude  and  boldness,  claimed  the  attention  of 
the  Governor  of  Louisiana;  and  to  break  up  the  establishment  he  thought  proper  to  strike  at  the  head. 
He  therefore  offered  a  reward  of  500  dollars  for  the  head  of  Monsieur  La  Fitte,  who  was  well  known  to 
the  inhabitants  of  the  city  of  New  Orleans,  from  his  immediate  connection,  and  his  once  having  been  a 
fencing-master  in  that  city  of  great  reputation,  which  art  he  learnt  in  Bonaparte's  army,  where  he  was  a 
captain.  The  reward  which  was  offered  by  the  Governor  for  the  head  of  La  Fitte  was  answered  by  the 
offer  of  a  reward  from  the  latter  of  15,000  for  the  head  of  the  Governor.  The  Governor  ordered  out  a 
company  to  march  from  the  city  to  La  Fitte's  island,  and  to  burn  and  destroy  all  the  property,  and  to 
bring  to  the  city  of  New  Orleans  all  his  banditti.  This  company,  under  the  command  of  a  man  who  had 
been  the  intimate  associate  of  this  bold  Captain,  approached  very  near  to  the  fortified  island,  before  he 
saw  a  man,  or  heard  a  sound,  until  he  heard  a  whistle,  not  unlike  a  boatswain's  call.  Then  it  was  he 
found  himself  surrounded  by  armed  men  who  had  emerged  from  the  secret  avenues  which  led  into  Bayou. 
Here  it  was  that  the  modern  Charles  de  Moor  developed  his  few  noble  traits;  for  to  this  man,  who  had 
come  to  destroy  his  life  and  all  that  was  dear  to  him,  he  not  only  spared  his  life,  but  offered  him  that 
which  would  have  made  the  honest  soldier  easy  for  the  remainder  of  his  days;  which  was  indignantly 
refused.  He  then,  with  the  approbation  of  his  captor,  returned  to  the  city.  This  circumstance,  and 
some  concomitant  events,  proved  that  this  band  of  pirates  was  not  to  be  taken  by  land.  Our  naval  force 
having  always  been  small  in  that  quarter,  exertions  for  the  destruction  of  this  illicit  establishment  could 
not  be  expected  from  them  until  augmented;  for  an  officer  of  the  navy,  with  most  of  the  gun-boats  on 
that  station,  had  to  retreat  from  an  overwhelming  force  of  La  Fitte's.  So  soon  as  the  augmentation  of 
the  navy  authorized  an  attack,  one  was  made;  the  overthrow  of  this  banditti  has  been  the  result;  and 
now  this  almost  invulnerable  point  and  key  to  New  Orleans  is  clear  of  an  enemy,  it  is  to  be  hoped  the 
government  will  hold  it  by  a  strong  military  force."  —  American  Newspaper. 

In  Noble's  continuation  of  Granger's  Biographical  History  there  is  a  singular  passage  in  his  account 
of  Archbishop  Blackbourne;  and  as  in  some  measure  connected  with  the  profession  of  the  hero  of  the 
foregoing  poem,  I  cannot  resist  the  temptation  of  extracting  it.  —  "  There  is  something  mysterious  in  the 
history  and  character  of  Dr.  Blackbourne.  The  former  is  but  imperfectly  known;  and  report  has  even 
asserted  he  was  a  buccaneer;  and  that  one  of  his  brethren  in  that  profession  having  asked,  on  his  arrivsl 
in  England,  what  had  become  of  his  old  chum,  Blackbourne,  was  answered,  he  is  Archbishop  of  York. 
We  are  informed  that  Blackbourne  was  installed  sub-dean  of  Exeter  in  1694,  which  office  he  resigned  in 
1702;  but  after  his  successor  Lewis  Barnet's  death,  in  1704,  he  regained  it.  In  the  following  year  he  be- 
came  dean;  and  in  1714  held  with  it  the  archdeanery  of  Cornwall.  He  was  consecrated  bishop  of  Exe- 
ter, February  24,  1716;  and  translated  to  York,  November  28,  1724,3s  a  reward,  according  to  court 
scandal,  for  uniting  George  I.  to  the  Duchess  of  Munster.  This,  however,  appears  to  have  been  an  un- 
founded calumny.  As  archbishop  he  behaved  with  great  prudence,  and  was  equally  respectable  as  the 
guardian  of  the  revenues  of  the  see.  Rumor  whispered  he  retained  the  vices  of  his  youth,  and  that  a 
passion  for  the  fair  sex  formed  an  item  in  the  list  of  his  weaknesses;  but  so  far  from  being  convicted  by 
seventy  witnesses,  he  does  not  appear  to  have  been  directly  criminated  by  one.  In  short,  I  look  upon 
these  aspersions  as  the  effects  of  mere  malice.  How  is  it  possible  a  buccaneer  should  have  been  so  good 
a  scholar  as  Blackbourne  certainly  was?  He  wJio  had  so  perfect  a  knowledge  of  the  classics  (particu- 
larly of  the  Greek  tragedians),  as  to  be  able  to  read  them  with  the  same  ease  as  he  could  Shakspeare, 
must  have  taken  great  pains  to  acquire  the  learned  languages;  and  have  had  both  leisure  and  good  mas- 
ters. But  he  was  undoubtedly  educated  at  Christ-church  College,  Oxford.  He  is  allowed  to  have  been 
a  pleasant  man;  this  however  was  turned  against  him,  by  its  being  said,  '  he  gained  more  hearts  than 
souls.'  " 

"  The  only  voice  that  could  soothe  the  passions  of  the  savage  (Alphonso  III.)  was  that  of  an  amiable 
and  virtuous  wife,  the  sole  object  of  his  love;  the  voice  of  Donna  Isabella,  the  daughter  of  the  Duke  oi 
Savoy,  and  the  grand-daughter  of  Philip  II.  King  of  Spain.  —  Her  dying  words  sunk  deep  into  his  mem- 
ory; his  fierce  spirit  melted  into  tears;  and  after  the  last  embrace,  Alphonso  retired  into  his  chamber  ta 
bewail  his  irreparable  loss,  and  to  meditate  on  the  vanity  of  human  life." —  Gibbon's  Miscellaneous 
Works,  vol.  iii,  p,  473. 


LARA:    A    TALE. 


INTRODUCTION. 


Lara  was  published  anonymously  in  August,  1814,  in  the  same  volume  with  the  "Jacqueline"  ol 
Rogers.  It  is  obviously  the  sequel  of  "  The  Corsair."  Lara  is  Conrad,  and  Kaled,  Gulnare.  Byron  in 
one  of  his  letters  says,  "  Lara  I  wrote  while  undressing,  after  coming  home  from  balls  and  masquerades, 
in  the  year  of  revelry,  1814." 


CANTO   THE   FIRST. 


THE  Serfs1  are  glad  through  Lara's  wide  do- 
main, 
And  Slavery  half  forgets  her  feudal  chain  ; 
He,  their  unhoped,  but  unforgotten  lord, 
The  long  self-exiled  chieftain,  is  restored : 
There  be  bright  faces  in  the  busy  hall, 
Bowls  on  the  board,  and  banners  on  the  wall ; 
Far  checkering  o'er  the  pictured  window,  plays 
The  unwonted  fagots'  hospitable  blaze ; 
And  gay  retainers  gather  round  the  hearth, 
With  tongues  all  loudness,  and  with  eyes  all 
mirth. 

II. 
The  chief  of  Lara  is  returned  again  : 
And  why  had   Lara  crossed  the  bounding 

main  ? 
Left  by  his  sire,  too  young  such  loss  to  know, 
Lord  of  himself;  — that  heritage  of  woe, 
That  fearful  empire  which  the  human  breast 
But  holds  to  rob  the  heart  within  of  rest !  — 
"With  none  to  check,  and  few  to  point  in  time 
The   thousand  paths   that  slope  the  way  to 

crime ; 
Then,  when  he  most  required  commandment, 
then 


1  The  reader  is  apprised,  that  the  name  of  Lara 
being  Spanish,  and  no  circumstance  of  local  and 
natural  description  fixing  the  scene  or  hero  of  the 
poem  to  any  country  or  age,  the  word  '  Serf,'  which 
could  not  be  correctly  applied  to  the  lower  classes 
in  Spain,  who  were  never  vassals  of  the  soil,  has 
nevertheless  been  employed  to  designate  the  follow- 
ers of  our  fictitious  chieftain.  —  [Byron  elsewhere 
intimates,  that  he  meant  Lara  for  a  chief  of  the 
Morea.] 


Had  Lara's  daring  boyhood  governed  men. 
It  skills  not,  boots  not  step  by  step  to  trace 
His  youth  through  all  the  mazes  of  its  race; 
Short  was  the  course  his  restlessness  bad  run, 
But  long  enough  to  leave  him  half  undone.2 
t 

III. 

And  Lara  left  in  youth  his  father-land  ; 
But  from  the  hour  he  waved  his  parting  hand 
Each  trace  waxed  fainter  of  his  course,  till  all 
Had  nearly  ceased  his  memory  to  recall. 
His  sire  was  dust,  his  vassals  could  declare, 
'Twas  all  they  knew,  that  Lara  was  not  there  ; 
Nor  sent,  nor  came  he,  till  conjecture  grew 
Cold  in  the  many,  anxious  in  the  few. 
His  hall  scarce  echoes  with  his  wonted  name, 
His  portrait  darkens  in  its  fading  frame, 
Another  chief  consoled  his  destined  bride, 
The  young  forgot  him,  and  the  old  had  died; 
"Yet  doth  he  live!"  exclaims  the  impatient 

heir, 
And  sighs  for  sables  which  he  must  not  wear. 
A   hundred    scutcheons    deck  with   gloomy 

grace 
The  Laras'  last  and  longest  dwelling-place ; 
But  one  is  absent  from  the  mouldering  file, 
That  now  were  welcome  in  that  Gothic  pile. 

IV. 
He  comes  at  last  in  sudden  loneliness, 
And  whence  they  know  not,  why  they  need 

not  guess ; 
They  more  might  marvel,  when  the  greeting's 

o'er. 


1  [Lord  Byron's  own  tale  is  partly  told  in  this 
section.  —  Sir  Walter  Scott.] 


LARA. 


433 


Not  that  he  came,  but  came  not  long  before  : 
No  train  is  his  beyond  a  single  page, 
Of  foreign  aspect,  and  of  tender  age. 
Years  had  rolled  on,  and  fast  they  speed  away 
To  those  that  wander  as  to  those  that  stay ; 
But  lack  of  tidings  from  another  clime 
Had  lent  a  flagging  wing  to  weaiy  Time. 
They  see,  they  recognize,  yet  almost  deem 
The  present  dubious,  or  the  past  a  dream. 

He  lives,  nor  yet  is  past  his  manhood's  prime, 
Though  seared  by  toil,  and  something  touched 

by  time ; 
His  faults,  whate'er  they  were,  if  scarce  forgot, 
Might  be  untaught  him  by  his  varied  lot ; 
Nor  good  nor  ill  of  late  were  known,  his  name 
Might  yet  uphold  his  patrimonial  fame : 
His  soul  in  youth  was  haughty,  but  his  sins 
No   more   than   pleasure  from  the   stripling 

wins ; 
And  such,  if  not  yet  hardened  in  their  course, 
Might  be  redeemed,  nor  ask  a  long  remorse. 

V. 
And  they  indeed  were  changed  —  'tis  quickly 

seen, 
Whate'er  he  be,  'twas  not  what  he  had  been  : 
That  brow  in  furrowed  lines  had  fixed  at  last, 
And  spake  of  passions,  but  of  passion  past : 
The  pride,  but  not  the  fire,  of  early  days, 
Coldness  of  mien,  and  carelessness  of  praise  ; 
A  high  demeanor,  and  a  glance  that  took 
Their  thoughts  from  others  by  a  single  look  ; 
And  that  sarcastic  levity  of  tongue, 
The  stinging  of  a  heart  the  world  hath  stung, 
That  darts  in  seeming  playfulness  around, 
And  makes  those  feel  that  will  not  own  the 

wound, 
All  these  seemed  his,  and  something  more 

beneath, 
Than  glance   could  well   reveal,   or    accent 

breathe. 
Ambition,  glory,  love,  the  common  aim, 
That  some  can  conquer,  and  that  all  would 

claim, 
Within  his  breast  appeared  no  more  to  strive, 
Yet  seemed  as  lately  they  had  been  alive ; 
And  some  deep  feeling  it  were  vain  to  trace 
At  moments  lightened  o'er  his  livid  face. 

VI. 

Not  much  he  loved  long  question  of  the  past, 
Nor  told  of  wondrous  wilds,  and  deserts  vast, 
In  those  far   lands  where  he  had  wandered 

lone, 
And  —  as  himself  would  have  it  seem  —  un- 
known : 
Yet  these  in  vain  his  eye  could  scarcely  scan, 
Nor  glean  experience  from  his  fellow  man ; 
But  what  he  had  beheld  he  shunned  to  show, 
As  hardly  worth  a  stranger's  care  to  know ; 
If  still  more  prying  such  inquiry  grew, 
His  brow  feli  darker,  and  his  words  more  few. 


Not  unrejoiced  to  see  him  once  again, 
Warm  was  his  welcome  to  the  haunts  of  men  ; 
Born   of  high   lineage,  linked  in  high   com- 
mand, 
He  mingled  with  the  Magnates  of  his  land  ; 
Joined  the  carousals  of  the  great  and  gay, 
And   saw    them   smile   or    sigh  their  hours 

away ; 1 
But  still  he  only  saw,  and  did  not  share, 
The  common  pleasure  or  the  general  care  ; 
He  did  not  follow  what  they  all  pursued 
With  hope  still  baffled  still  to  be  renewed ; 
Nor  shadowy  honor,  nor  substantial  gain, 
Nor  beauty's  preference,  and  the  rival's  pain  : 
Around  him  some  mysterious  circle  thrown 
Repelled    approach,   and    showed  him    still 

alone ; 
Upon  his  eye  sat  something  of  reproof, 
That  kept  at  least  frivolity  aloof; 
And  things  more  timid  that  beheld  him  near, 
In  silence  gazed,  or  whispered  mutual  fear; 
And  they  the  wiser,  friendlier  few  confessed 
They   deemed   him   better  than  his   air  ex- 
pressed. 

VIII. 
'Twas  strange  ■ —  in    youth  all  action  and  all 

life, 
Burning  for  pleasure,  not  averse  from  strife ; 
Woman  —  the   field  —  the   ocean  —  all   that 

gave 
Promise  of  gladness,  peril  of  a  grave, 
In  turn  he  tried  —  he  ransacked  all  below, 
And  found  his  recompense  in  joy  or  woe, 
No  tame,  trite  medium  ;  for  his  feelings  sought 
In  that  intenseness  an  escape  from  thought : 
The  tempest  of  his  heart  in  scorn  had  gazed 
On  that  the  feebler  elements  hath  raised ; 
The  rapture  of  his  heart  had  looked  on  high, 
And  asked  if  greater  dwelt  beyond  the  sky : 
Chained  to  excess,  the  slave  of  each  extreme, 
How  woke   he    from   the   wildness   of   that 

dream  ? 
Alas  !  he  told  not  — but  he  did  awake 
To  curse  the  withered  heart  that  would  not 
break. 

IX. 
Books,  for  his  volume  heretofore  was  Man, 
With  eye  more  curious  he  appeared  to  scan, 
And  oft,  in  sudden  mood,  for  many  a  day, 
From  all  communion  he  would  start  away : 
And  then,  his  rarely  called  attendants  said, 
Through  night's  long  hours  would  sound  his 
hurried  tread 


1  [This  description  of  Lara  suddenly  and  unex 
pectedly  returned  from  distant  travels,  and  reassum- 
ing  his  station  in  the  society  of  his  own  country, 
has  strong  points  of  resemblance  to  the  part  which 
the  author  himself  seemed  occasionally  to  bear  amid 
the  scenes  where  the  great  mingle  with  the  fair,  — - 
Sir  Wcilter  Scott. ] 


434 


LARA. 


O'er  the  dark  gallery,  where  his  fathers  frowned 
[n  rude  but  antique  portraiture  around: 
They  heard,  but  whispered  —  "  that  must  not 

be  known  — 
The  sound  of  words  less  earthly  than  his  own. 
Yes,  they  who  chose  might  smile,  but  some 

had  seen 
They  scarce  knew  what,  but  more  than  should 

have  been. 
Why  gazed  he  so  upon  the  ghastly  head 
Which  hands  profane  had  gathered  from  the 

dead, 
That  still  beside  his  opened  volume  lay, 
As  if  to  startle  all  save  him  away  ? 
Why  slept  he  not  when  others  were  at  rest  ? 
Why  heard  no  music,  and  received  no  guest  ? 
All  was  not  well,  they  deemed — but  where 

the  wrong  ? 
Some  knew  perchance  —  but  'twere  a  tale  too 

long; 
And  such  besides  were  too  discreetly  wise, 
To  more  than  hint  their  knowledge  in  sur- 
mise; 
But  if  they  would  —  they  could  "  —  around  the 

board, 
Thus  Lara's  vassals  prattled  of  their  lord. 

X. 

It  was  the  night  —  and  Lara's  glassy  stream 
The  stars   are   studding,  each  with   imaged 

beam ; 
So  calm,  the  waters  scarcely  seem  to  stray, 
And  yet  they  glide  like  happiness  away ; 
Reflecting  far  and  fairy-like  from  high 
The  immortal  lights  that  live  along  the  sky: 
Its  banks  are  fringed  with  many  a  goodly  tree, 
And  flowers  the  fairest  that  may  feast  the  bee  ; 
Such  in  her  chaplet  infant  Dian  wove, 
And  Innocence  would  offer  to  her  love. 
These  deck  the  shore ;  the  waves  their  chan- 
nel make 
In  windings  bright  and  mazy  like  the  snake. 
All  was  so  still,  so  soft  in  earth  and  air, 
You  scarce  would  start  to  meet  a  spirit  there ; 
Secure  thai  nought  of  evil  could  delight 
To  walk  in  such  a  scene,  on  such  a  night ! 
It  was  a  moment  only  for  the  good : 
So  Lara  deemed,  nor  longer  there  he  stood, 
But  turned  in  silence  to  his  castle-gate ; 
Such  scene  his  soul  no  more  could  contem- 
plate : 
Such  scene  reminded  him  of  other  days, 
Of  skies  more  cloudless,  moons  of  purer  blaze, 
Of  nights  more  soft  and  frequent,  hearts  that 

now  — 
No  —  no  —  the  storm  may  beat  upon  his  brow, 
Unfelt  —  unsparing  —  but  a  night  like  this, 
A  night  of  beauty,  mocked  such  breast  as  his. 


He  turned  within  his  solitary  hall, 

And  his  high  shadow  shot  along  the  wall : 


There  were  the  painted  forms  of  other  times, 
'Twas  all  they  left  of  virtues  or  of  crimes, 
Save  vague  tradition  ;  and  the  gloomy  vaults 
That  hid  their  dust,  their  foibles,  and  their 

faults ; 
And  half  a  column  of  the  pompous  page, 
That  speeds  the  specious  tale  from  age  to  age ; 
Where  history's  pen  its  praise  or  blame  sup- 
plies, 
And  lies  like  truth,  and  still  most  truly  lies. 
He  wandering  mused,  and  as  the  moonbeams 

shone 
■Through  the  dim  lattice  o'er  the  floor  of  stone. 
And  the  high  fretted  roof,  and  saints,  that  there 
O'er  Gothic  windows  knelt  in  pictured  prayer, 
Reflected  in  fantastic  figures  grew, 
Like  life,  but  not  like  mortal  life,  to  view ; 
His  bristling  locks  of  sable,  brow  of  gloom. 
And  the  wide  waving  of  his  shaken  plume, 
Glanced  like  a  spectre's  attributes,  and  gave 
His  aspect  all  that  terror  gives  the  grave. 

XII. 

'Twas  midnight — all  was  slumber;  the  Ions 

light 
Dimmed  in  the  lamp,  as  loath  to  break  the 

night. 
Hark !  there  be   murmurs  heard   in   Lara's 

hall  — 
A  sound  —  a  voice — a  shriek  —  a  fearful  call ! 
A  long,  loud  shriek  —  and  silence  —  did  they 

hear  f 

That  frantic  echo  burst  the  sleeping  ear  ? 
They  heard  and  rose,  and,  tremulously  brave, 
Rush  where  the  sound  invoked  their  aid  to 

save ; 
They  come  with  half-lit  tapers  in  their  hands, 
And   snatched    in    startled    haste    unbelted 

brands. 

XIII. 

Cold  as  the  marble  where  his  length  was  laid, 
Pale  as  the  beam  that  o'er  his  features  played, 
Was   Lara   stretched;    his  half-drawn  sabre 

near, 
Dropped  it  should  seem  in  more  than  nature's 

fear; 
Yet  he  was  firm,  or  had  been  firm  till  now, 
And  still  defiance  knit  his  gathered  brow; 
Though  mixed  with  terror,  senseless  as  he  lay, 
There  lived  upon  his  lip  the  wish  to  slay ; 
Some  half-formed  threat  in  utterance  there 

had  died, 
Some  imprecation  of  despairing  pride ; 
His  eye  was  almost  sealed,  but  not  forsook 
Even  in  its  trance  the  gladiator's  look, 
That  oft  awake  his  aspect  could  disclose, 
And  now  was  fixed  in  horrible  repose. 
They    raise    him  —  bear    him  ;  —  hush !    he 

breathes,  he  speaks, 
The  swarthy  blush  recolors  in  his  cheeks, 
His  lip  resumes  its  red,  his  eye,  though  dim. 


LARA. 


435 


Rolls  wide  and  wild,  each  slowly  quivering 

limb 
Recalls  its  function,  but  his  words  are  strung 
In  terms  that  seem  not  of  his  native  tongue; 
Distinct  but  strange,  enough  they  understand 
To  deem  them  accents  of  another  land  ; 
And  such  they  were,  and  meant  to  meet  an  ear 
That  hears  him  not  —  alas!  that  cannot  hear  1 


His  page  approached,  and  he  alone  appeared 
To  know  the  import  of  the  words  they  heard ; 
And,  by  the  changes  of  his  cheek  and  brow, 
They  were  not  such  as  Lara  should  avow, 
Nor  he  interpret, — yet  with  less  surprise 
Than  those  around  their  chieftain's  state  he 

eyes, 
But  Lara's  prostrate  form  he  bent  beside, 
And  in  that  tongue  which  seemed  his  own 

replied, 
And  Lara  heeds  those  tones  that  gently  seem 
To  soothe  away  the  horrors  of  his  dream  — 
If  dream  it  were,  that  thus  could  overthrow 
A  breast  that  needed  not  ideal  woe. 


Whate'er  his  frenzy  dreamed  or  eye  beheld, 
If  yet  remembered  ne'er  to  be  revealed, 
Rests  at  his   heart :   the   customed    morning 

came, 
And  breathed  new  vigor  in  his  shaken  frame; 
And  solace  sought  he  none  from  priest  nor 

leech, 
And  soon  the  same  in  movement  and  in  speech 
As  heretofore  he  filled  the  passing  hours,  — 
Nor  less  he  smiles,  not  more  his   forehead 

lowers, 
Than  these  were  wont;  and  if  the   coming 

night 
Appeared  less  welcome  now  to  Lara's  sight, 
He  to  his  marvelling  vassals  showed  it  not, 
Whose  shuddering  proved  their  fear  was  less 

forgot. 
In  trembling  pairs   (alone  they   dared  not) 

crawl 
The  astonished  slaves,  and  shun  the  fated  hall ; 
The  waving  banner,  and  the  clapping  door, 
The  rustling  tapestry,  and  the  echoing  floor ; 
The  long  dim  shadows  of  surrounding  trees, 
The  flapping  bat,  the  night  song  of  the  breeze  ; 
Aught   they   behold   or   hear    their    thought 

appalls, 
As  evening  saddens  o'er  the  dark  gray  walls. 

XVI. 

Vain  thought !  that  hour  of  ne'er  unravelled 

gloom 
Came  not  again,  or  Lara  could  assume 
A  seeming  of  forgetfulness,  that  made 
His  vassals  more  amazed  nor  less  afraid  — 
Had    memory    vanished    then    with    sense 

restored  ? 


Since  word,  nor  look,  nor  gesture  of  their  lord 
Betrayed  a  feeling  that  recalled  to  these 
That  fevered  moment  of  his  mind's  disease. 
Was  it  a  dream  ?  was  his  the  voice  that  spoke 
Those  strange  wild  accents ;  his  the  cry  that 

broke 
Their  slumber  ?  his  the  oppressed,  o'erlabored 

heart 
That  ceased  to  beat,  the  look  that  made  them 

start  ? 
Could  he  who  thus  had  suffered  so  forget, 
When  such  as  saw  that  suffering  shudder  yet  ? 
Or  did  that  silence  prove  his  memory  fixed 
Too  deep  for  words,  indelible,  unmixed 
In  that  corroding  secrecy  which  gnaws 
The  heart  to  show  the  effect,  but  not  the  cause  ? 
Not  so  in  him ;  his  breast  had  buried  both, 
Nor  common  gazers  could  discern  the  growth 
Of  thoughts  that  mortal  lips  must  leave  half 

told; 
They  choke  the  feeble  words  that  would  unfold. 

XVII. 
In  him  inexplicably  mixed  appeared 
Much  to  be   loved  and  hated,  sought   and 

feared ; 
Opinion  varying  o'er  his  hidden  lot, 
In  praise  or  railing  ne'er  his  name  forgot : 
His  silence  formed  a  theme  for  others'  prate  — 
They  guessed  —  they  gazed  —  they  fain  would 

know  his  fate. 
What  had  he  been  ?  what  .was  he,  thus  un- 
known, 
Who  walked  their  world,  his   lineage  only 

known  ? 
A  hater  of  his  kind  ?  yet  some  would  say, 
With  them  he  could  seem  gay  amidst  the  gay ; 
But  owned  that  smile,  if  oft  observed  and  near, 
Waned  in  its  mirth,  and  withered  to  a  sneer; 
That  smile  might  reach  his  lip,  but  passed  not 

by, 

None  e'er  could  trace  its  laughter  to  his  eye : 
Yet  there  was  softness  too  in  his  regard, 
At  times,  a  heart  as  not  by  nature  hard, 
But  once  perceived,  his  spirit  seemed  to  chide 
Such  weakness,  as  unworthy  of  its  pride, 
And  steeled  itself,  as  scorning  to  redeem 
One  doubt  from  others'  half  withheld  esteem ; 
In  self-inflicted  penance  of  a  breast 
Which  tenderness  might   once   have  wrung 

from  rest ; 
In  vigilance  of  grief  that  would  compel 
The  soul  to  hate  for  having  loved  too  well. 

XVIII. 

There  was  in  him  a  vital  scorn  of  all : 

As  if  the  worst  had  fallen  which  could  befall. 

He  stood  a  stranger  in  this  breathing  world, 

An  erring  spirit  from  another  hurled ; 

A  thing  of  dark  imaginings,  that  shaped 

By  choice  the  perils  he  by  chance  escaped ; 

But  'scaped  in  vain,  for  in  their  memory  yet 


436 


LARA. 


His  mind  would  half  exult  and  half  regret: 
With  more  capacity  for  love  than  earth 
Bestows  on  most  of  mortal  mould  and  birth, 
His  early  dreams  of  good  outstripped  the  truth, 
And  troubled  manhoodfollowedbaffied youth  ; 
With  thought  of  years  in  phantom  chase  mis- 
spent, 
And  wasted  powers  for  better  purpose  lent ; 
And  fiery  passions  that  had  poured  their  wrath 
In  hurried  desolation  o'er  his  path, 
A.nd  left  the  better  feelings  all  at  strife 
In  wild  reflection  o'er  his  stormy  life; 
But  haughty  still,  and  loth  himself  to  blame, 
He  called  on  Nature's  self  to  share  the  shame, 
And  charged  all  faults  upon  the  fleshly  form 
She  gave  to  clog  the  soul,  and  feast  the  worm  ; 
Till  he  at  last  confounded  good  and  ill, 
And  half  mistook  for  fate  the  acts  of  will: 
Too  high  for  common  selfishness,  he  could 
At  times  resign  his  own  for  others'  good, 
But  not  in  pity,  not  because  he  ought, 
Hut  in  some  strange  perversity  of  thought, 
That  swayed  him  onward  with  a  secret  pride 
To  do  what  few  or  none  would  do  beside ; 
And  this  same  impulse  would,  in  tempting  time, 
Mislead  his  spirit  equally  to  crime; 
So  much  he  soared  beyond,  or  sunk  beneath, 
The  men  with  whom   he  felt  condemned  to 

breathe, 
And  longed  by  good  or  ill  to  separate 
Himself  from  all  who  shared  his  mortal  state  ; 
His  mind  abhorring  this  had  fixed  her  throne 
Far  from  the  world,  in  regions  of  her  own  : 
Thus  coldly  passing  all  that  passed  below, 
His  blood  in  temperate  seeming  now  would 

flow : 
Ah  !  happier  if  it  ne'er  with  guilt  had  glowed, 
But  ever  in  that  icy  smoothness  flowed  ! 
'Tis  true,  with  other  men  their  path  he  walked, 
And  like  the  rest  in  seeming  did  and  talked, 
Nor  outraged  Reason's  rules  by  flaw  nor  start, 
His  madness  was  not  of  the  head,  but  heart; 
And  rarely  wandered  in  his  speech,  or  drew 
His  thoughts  so  forth  as  to  offend  the  view. 


With  all  that  chilling  mystery  of  mien, 
And  seeming  gladness  to  remain  unseen, 
He  had  (if  'twere  not  nature's  boon)  an  art 
Of  fixing  memory  on  another's  heart  : 
It  was  not  love  perchance  —  nor  hate  —  nor 

aught 
That  words  can  image  to  express  the  thought ; 
But  they  who  saw  him  did  not  see  in  vain, 
And  once  beheld,  would  ask  of  him  again  : 
And  those  to  whom  he  spake  remembered  well, 
And  on  the  words,  however  light,  would  dwell : 
None  knew,  nor  how,  nor  why,  but  he  entwined 
Himself  perforce  around  the  hearer's  mind  ; 
There  he  was  stamped,  in  liking,  or  in  hate, 
tf  greeted  once ;  however  brief  the  do*** 


That  friendship,  pity,  or  aversion  knew, 
Still  there  within  the  inmost  thought  he  grew. 
You  couid  not  penetrate  his  soul,  but  found, 
Despite  your  wonder,  to  your  own  he  wound  ; 
His  presence  haunted  sti'l;  and  from  the  breast 
He  forced  an  all  unwilling  interest: 
Vain  was  the  struggle  in  that  mental  net, 
His  spirit  seemed  to  dare  you  to  forget ! 

XX. 

There  is  a  festival,  where  knights  and  darner 
And  aught  that  wealth  or  lofty  lineage  claims, 
Appear —  a  highborn  and  a  welcome  guest 
To  Otho's  hall  came  Lara  with  the  rest. 
The  long  carousal  shakes  the  illumined  hall, 
Well  speeds  alike  the  banquet  and  the  ball ; 
And  the  gay  dance  of  bounding  Beauty's  train 
Links  grace  and  harmony  in  happiest  chain: 
Blest  are  the  early  hearts  and  gentle  hands 
That  mingle  there  in  well  according  bands ; 
It  is  a  sight  the  careful  brow  might  smooth, 
And  make  Age  smile,  and  dream  itself  to  youth, 
And  Youth  forget  such  hour  was  past  on  earth, 
So  springs  the  exulting  bosom  to  that  mirth ! 

XXI. 

And  Lara  gazed  on  these,  sedately  glad, 
His  brow  belied  him  if  his  soul  was  sad; 
And  his  glance  followed  fast  each  fluttering 

fair,  r 

Whose  steps  of  lightness  woke  no  echo  there  : 
He  leaned  against  the  lofty  pillar  nigh, 
With  folded  arms  and  long  attentive  eye, 
Nor  marked  a  glance  so  sternly  fixed  on  his  — 
111  brooked  high  Lara  scrutiny  like  this: 
At  length  he  caught  it,  'tis  a  face  unknown, 
But  seems  as  searching  his,  and  his  alone; 
Prying  and  dark,  a  stranger's  by  his  mien, 
Who  still  till  now  had  gazed  on  him  unseen 
At  length  encountering  meets  the  mutual  gaze 
Of  keen  inquiry,  and  of  mute  amaze; 
On  Lara's  glance  emotion  gathering  grew, 
As  if  distrusting  that  the  stranger  threw; 
Along  the  stranger's  aspect,  fixed  and  stern, 
Flashed  more  than  thence  the  vulgar  eye  could 

learn. 

XXII. 

"  'Tis  he !  "  the  stranger  cried,  and  those  that 

heard 
Reechoed  fast  and  far  the  whispered  word. 
"  'Tis  he!  "  —  "  'Tis  who  ?  "  they  question  far 

and  near, 
Till  louder  accents  rung  on  Lara's  ear; 
So  widely  spread,  few  bosoms  well  could  brook 
The  general  marvel,  or  that  single  look  : 
But  Lara  stirred  not,  changed  not,  the  surprise 
That  sprung  at  first  to  his  arrested  eyes 
Seemed  now  subsided,  neither  sunk  nor  raised, 
Glanced  his  eye  round,  though  still  the  stranger 

gazed ; 


LARA. 


437 


And  drawing  nigh,  exclaimed,  with  haughty 

sneer, 
" 'Tis   he! — how   came  he   thence? — what 

doth  he  here  ?  " 

XXIII. 

It  were  too  much  for  Lara  to  pass  by- 
Such  questions,  so  repeated  fierce  and  high  : 
With  look  collected,  but  with  accent  cold, 
More  mildly  firm  than  petulantly  bold, 
He  turned,  and  met  the  inquisitorial  tone — 
"  My  name  is   Lara !  —  when   thine  own   is 

known, 
Doubt  not  my  fitting  answer  to  requite 
The  unlooked  for  courtesy  of  such  a  knight. 
'Tis   Lara !  —  further  wouldst  thou  mark  or 

ask? 
I  shun  no  question,  and  I  wear  no  mask." 

"  Thou  shunn'st   no   question  !     Ponder  —  is 
there  none 

Thy  heart  must  answer,  though  thine  ear  would 
shun  ? 

And  deem'st  thou  me  unknown  too  ?    Gaze 
again ! 

At  least  thy  memory  was  not  given  in  vain. 

Oh  !  never  canst  thou  cancel  half  her  debt, 

Eternity  forbids  thee  to  forget." 

With  slow  and  searching  glance  upon  his  face 

Grew  Lara's  eyes,  but  nothing  there  could  trace 

They  knew,  or  chose  to  know  —  with  dubious 
look 

He  deigned  no  answer,  but  his  head  he  shook, 

And  half  contemptuous  turned  to  pass  away ; 

But  the  stern  stranger  motioned  him  to  stay. 

"  A  word !  —  I  charge  thee  stay,  and  answer 
here 

To  one,  who,  wert  thou  noble,  were  thy  peer, 

But  as  thou  wast  and  art  —  nay,  frown  not, 
lord, 

If  false,  'tis  easy  to  disprove  the  word  — 

But  as  thou  wast  and  art,  on  thee  looks  down, 

Distrusts  thy  smiles,  but  shakes  not  at  thy 
frown. 

Art  thou  not  he  ?  whose  deeds " 

"  Whate'er  I  be, 

Words  wild  as  these,  accusers  like  to  thee, 

I    list    no   further ;    those    with   whom   they 
weigh 

May  hear  the  rest,  nor  venture  to  gainsay 

The  wondrous  tale  no  doubt  thy  tongue  can 
tell, 

Which  thus  begins  so  courteously  and  well. 

Let  Otho  cherish  here  his  polished  guest, 

To  him  my  thanks  and  thoughts  shall  be  ex- 
pressed." 

And   here  their  wondering  host   hath  inter- 
posed — 

"  Whate'er  there  be  between  you  undisclosed. 

Tiiis  is  no  time  nor  fitting  place  to  mar 

The  mirthful  meeting  with  a  wordy  war. 

If  thou,  Sir  Ezzelin,  hast  aught  to  show 


Which  it  befits  Count  Lara's  ear  to  know, 
To-morrow,  here,  or  elsewhere,  as  may  best 
Beseem   your   mutual  judgment,   speak    the 

rest; 
I  pledge  myself  for  thee,  as  not  unknown, 
Though,  like  Count  Lara,  now  returned  alone 
From  other  lands,  almost  a  stranger  grown ; 
And  if  from  Lara's  blood  and  gentle  birth 
I  augur  right  of  courage  and  of  worth, 
He  will  not  that  untainted  line  belie, 
Nor  aught    that    knighthood    may    accord, 

deny." 

"  To-morrow  be  it,"  Ezzelin  replied, 

"And  here  our  several  worth  and  truth  be 

tried. 
I  gage  my  life,  my  falchion  to  attest 
My  words,  so  may  I  mingle  with  the  blest !  " 
What  answers  Lara  ?  to  its  centre  shrunk 
His  soul,  in  deep  abstraction  sudden  sunk ; 
The  words  of  many,  and  the  eyes  of  all 
That  there  were  gathered,  seemed  on  him  to 

fall; 
But  his  were  silent,  his  appeared  to  stray 
In  far  forgetfulness  away  —  away  — 
Alas  !  that  heedlessness  of  all  around 
Bespoke  remembrance  only  too  profound. 

XXIV. 
"  To-morrow ! — ay,  to-morrow !  "  further  word 
Than  those  repeated  none  from  Lara  "heard ; 
Upon  his  brow  no  outward  passion  spoke ; 
From  his  large  eye  no  flashing  anger  broke ; 
Yet  there  was  something  fixed  in  that   low 

tone, 
Which  showed  resolve,  determined,  though 

unknown. 
He  seized  his  cloak  —  his  head  he  slightly- 
bowed, 
And  passing  Ezzelin,  he  left  the  crowd ; 
And,   as   he    passed   him,   smiling   met    the 

frown 
With  which  that  chieftain's  brow  would  bear 

him  down : 
It  was  nor  smile  of  mirth,  nor  struggling 

pride 
That  curbs  to  scorn  the  wrath  it  cannot  hide; 
But  that  of  one  in  his  own  heart  secure 
Of  all  that  he  would  do,  or  could  endure. 
Could  this  mean  peace  ?  the  calmness  of  the 

good  ? 
Or  guilt  grown  old  in  desperate  hardihood  ? 
Alas !  too  like  in  confidence  are  each', 
For  man  to  trust  to  mortal  look  or  speech ; 
From  deeds,  and  deeds  alone,  may  he  discers 
Truths  which  it  wrings  the  unpractised  hear* 

to  learn. 

XXV. 

And  Lara  called  his  page,  and  went  his  way  — 
Well  could  that  stripling  word  or  sign  obey  : 
His  only  follower  from  those  climes  afar, 
Where  the  soul  glows  beneath  a  brighter  stars 


438 


LARA. 


For  Lara  left  the  shore  from  whence  he 
sprung, 

In  duty  patient,  and  sedate  though  young ; 

Silent  as  him  he  served,  his  faith  appears 

Above  his  station,  and  beyond  his  years. 

Though  not  unknown  the  tongue  of  Lara's 
land, 

In  such  from  him  he  rarely  heard  command ; 

But  fleet  his  step,  and  clear  his  tones  would 
come, 

When  Lara's  lip  breathed  forth  the  words  of 
home : 

Those  accents,  as  his  native  mountains  dear, 

Awake  their  absent  echoes  in  his  ear, 

Friends',  kindreds',  parents',  wonted  voice  re- 
call, 

Now  lost,  abjured,  for  one — his  friend,  his 
all: 

For  him  earth  now  disclosed  no  other  guide  ; 

What  marvel  then  he  rarely  left  his  side  ? 

XXVI. 

Light  was  his  form,  and  darkly  delicate 
That  brow  whereon  his  native  sun  had  sate, 
But  had  not  marred,  though  in  his  beams  he 

grew, 
The  cheek  where  oft  the  unbidden  blush  shone 

through ; 
Yet  not  such  blush  as  mounts  when  health 

would  show 
All  the  heart's  hue  in  that  delighted  glow ; 
But  'twas  a  hectic  tint  of  secret  care 
That  for  a  burning  moment  fevered  there ; 
And  the  wild  sparkle  of  his  eye  seemed  caught 
From  high,  and  lightened  with  electric  thought, 
Though  its  black  orb  those  long  low  lashes' 

fringe 
Had  tempered  with  a  melancholy  tinge  ; 
Vet  less  of  sorrow  than  of  pride  was  there, 
Or,  if  'twere  grief,  a  grief  that  none  should 

share  : 
And  pleased  not  him  the  sports  that  please 

his  age, 
The  tricks  of  youth,  the  frolics  of  the  page; 
For  hours  on  Lara  he  would  fix  his  glance, 
As  all-forgotten  in  that  watchful  trance  ; 
And  from  his  chief  withdrawn,  he  wandered 

lone, 
Brief  were   his   answers,   and    his   questions 

none ; 
Hiswalkthewood.hissportsomeforeignbook; 
His   resting-place   the  bank   that  curbs   the 

brook : 
He  seemed,  like  him  he  served,  to  live  apart 
From  all  that  lures  the  eye,  and  fills  the  heart ; 
To   know  no    brotherhood,   and    take    from 

earth 
No  gift  beyond  that  bitter  boon  —  our  birth. 

XXVII. 

If  aught  he  loved,  'twas  Lara ;  but  was  shown 
ftis  faith  in  reverence  and  in  deeds  alone ; 


In    mute    attention;    and    his    care,    which 

guessed 
Each   wish,   fulfilled  it   ere   the   tongue    ex- 
pressed. 
Still  there  was  haughtiness  in  all  he  did, 
A  spirit  deep  that  brooked  not  to  be  chid; 
His  zeal,  though  more  than  that  of  servila 

hands, 
In  act  alone  obeys,  his  air  commands ; 
As  if  'twas  Lara's  less  than  his  desire 
That  thus  he  served,  but  surely  not  for  hire. 
Slight  were   the  tasks   enjoined  him  by  his 

lord, 
To  hold  the  stirrup,  or  to  bear  the  sword ; 
To  tune  his  lute,  or,  if  he  willed  it  more, 
On  tomes  of  other  times  and  tongues  to  pore ; 
But  ne'er  to  mingle  with  the  menial  train, 
To  whom  he  showed  nor  deference  nor  dis- 
dain, 
But  that  well-worn  reserve  which  proved  he 

knew 
No  sympathy  with  that  familiar  crew: 
His  soul,  whate'er  his  station  or  his  stem. 
Could  bow  to  Lara,  not  descend  to  them. 
Of  higher  birth  he  seemed,  and  better  days, 
Nor  mark  of  vulgar  toil  that  hand  betrays, 
So  femininely  white  it  might  bespeak 
Another  sex,  when  matched  with  that  smooth 

cheek, 
But  for  his  garb,  and  something  in  his  gaze, 
More  wild  and  high  than  woman's  eye  be- 
trays ; 
A  latent  fierceness  that  far  more  became 
His  fiery  climate  than  his  tender  frame : 
True,  in  his  words  it  broke  not  from  his  breast, 
But  from   his  aspect   might    be   more   than 

guessed. 
Kaled  his  name,  though  rumor  said  he  bore 
Another  ere  he  left  his  mountain  shore ; 
For  sometimes  he  would  hear,  however  nigh. 
That  name  repeated  loud  without  reply, 
As  unfamiliar,  or,  if  roused  again, 
Start  to  the  sound  as  but  remembered  then ; 
Unless  'twas  Lara's  wonted  voice  that  spake. 
For  then,   ear,  eyes,  and    heart  would    all 
awake. 

XXVIII. 

He  had  looked  down  upon  the  festive  hall, 
And  marked  that  sudden  strife  so  marked  o: 

all; 
And  when  the  crowd  around  and  near  him 

told 
Their  wonder  at  the  calmness  of  the  bold, 
Their  marvel  how  the  high-born  Lara  bore 
Such  insults  from  a  stranger,  doubly  sore, 
The  color  of  young  Kaled  went  and  came, 
The  lip  of  ashes,  and  the  cheek  of  flame  ; 
And  o'er  his  brow  the  dampening  heart-drops 

threw 
The  sickening  iciness  of  that  cold  dew, 
That  rises  as  the  busv  bosom  sinks 


LAMA. 


439 


With  heavy  thoughts  from  which  reflection 

shrinks. 
Ves  —  there  be  things  which  we  must  dream 

and  dare, 
And  execute  ere  thought  be  half  aware : 
Whate'er  might  Kaled's  be,  it  was  enow 
To  seal  his  lip,  but  agonize  his  brow. 
He  gazed  on  Ezzelin  till  Lara  cast 
That  sidelong  smile  upon  the  knight  he  past ; 
When  Kaled  saw  that  smile  his  visage  fell, 
As  if  on  something  recognized  right  well ; 
His  memory  read  in  such  a  meaning  more 
Than  Lara's  aspect  unto  others  wore: 
Forward  he  sprung  —  a  moment,  both  were 

gone, 
And  all  within  that  hall  seemed  left  alone; 
Each  had  so  fixed  his  eye  on  Lara's  mien, 
All  had  so  mixed  their  feelings  with  that  scene, 
That  when  his  long  dark  shadow  through  the 

porch 
No  more  relieves  the  glare  of  yon  high  torch, 
Each  pulse  beats   quicker,  and   all   bosoms 

seem 
To  bound  as  doubting  from  too  black  a  dream, 
Such  as  we  know  is  false,  yet  dread  in  sooth, 
Because  the  worst  is  ever  nearest  truth. 
And  they  are  gone  — but  Ezzelin  is  there, 
With  thoughtful  visage  and  imperious  air ; 


But  long  remained  not ;  ere  an  hour  expired 
He  waved  his  hand  to  Otho,  and  retired. 


The  crowd  are  gone,  the  revellers  at  rest ; 
The  courteous  host,  and  all-approving  guest. 
Again  to  that  accustomed  couch  must  creep 
Where  joy  subsides,  and  sorrow  sighs  to  sleep^ 
And  man',  o'erlabored  with  his  being's  strife, 
Shrinks  to  that  sweet  forgetfulness  of  life : 
There  lie  love's  feverish  hope,  and  cunning's 

guile, 
Hate's  working  brain,  and  lulled  ambition's 

wile ; 
O'er  each  vain  eye  oblivion's  pinions  wave, 
And  quenched  existence  crouches  in  a  grave. 
What  better  name  may  slumber's  bed  become  ? 
Night's  sepulchre,  the  universal  home, 
Where  weakness,  strength,  vice,  virtue,  sunk 

supine, 
Alike  in  naked  helplessness  recline ; 
Glad  for  awhile  to  heave  unconscious  breath, 
Yet  wake  to  wrestle  with  the  dread  of  death, 
And  shun,  though  day  but  dawn  on  ills  in- 
creased, 
That  sleep,  the  loveliest,  since  it  dreams  the 
least. 


CANTO  THE   SECOND. 


NlGHT  wanes  —  the  vapors  round  the  moun- 
tains curled 
Melt  into  morn,  and  Light  awakes  the  world. 
Man  has  another  day  to  swell  the  past, 
And  lead  him  near  to  little,  but  his  last; 
But  mighty  Nature  bounds  as  from  her  birth, 
The  sun  is  in  the  heavens,  and  life  on  earth ; 
Flowers  in  the  valley,  splendor  in  the  beam, 
Health  on  the  gale,  and  freshness  in  the  stream. 
Immortal  man  !  behold  her  glories  shine, 
And  cry,  exulting  inly,  "  They  are  thine !  " 
Gaze  on,  while  yet  thy  gladdened  eye  may  see  ; 
A  morrow  comes  when  they  are  not  for  thee: 
And  grieve  what  may  above  thy  senseless  bier, 
Nor  earth  nor  sky  will  yield  a  single  tear ; 
Nor  cloud  shall  gather  more,  nor  leaf  shall  fall, 
Nor  gale  breathe  forth  one  sigh  for  thee,  for 

all; 
But  creeping  things  shall  revel  in  their  spoil, 
And  fit  thy  clay  to  fertilize  the  soil. 

II. 
'Tis  morn  — 'tis  noon  —  assembled  in  the  hall, 
The  gathered  chieftains  come  to  Otho's  call : 


'Tis  now  the  promised  hour,  that  must  pro- 
claim 

The  life  or  death  of  Lara's  future  fame ; 

When  Ezzelin  his  charge  may  here  unfold, 

And  whatsoe'er  the  tale,  it  must  be  told. 

His  faith  was  pledged,  and  Lara's  promise 
given, 

To  meet  it  in  the  eye  of  man  and  heaven. 

Why  comes  he  not  ?  Such  truths  to  be  di 
vulged, 

Methinks  the  accuser's  rest  is  long  indulged, 

III. 

The  hour  is  past,  and  Lara  too  is  there, 
With  self-confiding,  coldly  patient  air; 
Why  comes  not  Ezzelin  ?  The  hour  is  past, 
And  murmurs  rise,  and  Otho's  brow's  o'ercast. 
"  I  know  my  friend !  his  faith  I  cannot  fear, 
If  yet  he  be  on  earth,  expect  him  here; 
The  roof  that  held  him  in  the  valley  stands 
Between  my  own  and  noble  Lara's  lands ; 
My  halls  from  such  a  guest  had  honor  gained, 
Nor  had  Sir  Ezzelin  his  host  disdained, 
But  that  some  previous  proof  forbade  his  stay. 
And  urged  him  to  prepare  against  to-day; 


440 


LARA. 


The  word  I  pledged  for  his  I  pledge  again, 
Or  will  myself  redeem  his  knighthood's  slain." 

He    ceased  —  and    Lara    answered,   "  I    am 

here 
To  lend  at  thy  demand  a  listening  ear 
To  tales  of  evil  from  a  stranger's  tongue, 
Whose  words  already  might  my  heart  have 

wrung, 
But  that  I  deemed  him  scarcely  less  than  mad, 
Or,  at  the  worst,  a  foe  ignobly  bad. 
I  know  him  not  —  but  me  it  seems  he  knew 
In  lands  where—  but  I  must  not  trifle  too  : 
Produce  this  babbler —  or  redeem  the  pledge  ; 
Here  in  thy  hold,  and  with  thy  falchion's  edge." 

Proud  Otho  on  the  instant,  reddening,  threw 
His  glove  on  earth,  and  forth  his  sabre  flew. 
"  The  last  alternative  befits  me  best, 
And  thus  I  answer  for  mine  absent  guest." 

With  cheek  unchanging  from  its  sallow  gloom, 
However  near  his  own  or  other's  tomb; 
With  hand,  whose   almost  careless  coolness 

spoke 
Its  grasp  well-used  to  deal  the  sabre-stroke ; 
With  eye,  though  calm,  determined  not  to 

spare, 
Did  Lara  too  his  willing  weapon  bare. 
In  vain  the  circling   chieftains   round   them 

closed, 
For  Otho's  frenzy  would  not  be  opposed ; 
And  from  his  lip  those  words  of  insult  fell  — 
His  sword  is  good  who  can  maintain  them 

well. 

IV. 

Short  was  the  conflict;  furious,  blindly  rash, 

Vain  Otho  gave  his  bosom  to  the  gash : 

He    bled,    and    fell ;     but    not    with    deadly 

wound, 
Stretched   by   a  dextrous   sleight  along   the 

ground. 
"  Demand  thy  life !  "     He  answered  not :  and 

then 
From  that  red  floor  he  ne'er  had  risen  again, 
For  Lara's  brow  upon  the  moment  grew 
Almost  to  blackness  in  its  demon  hue; 
And  fiercer  shook  his  angry  falchion  now 
Than  when  his  foe's  was  levelled  at  his  brow ; 
Then  all  was  stern  collectedness  and  art, 
Now  rose  the  unleavened  hatred  of  his  heart ; 
So  little  sparing  to  the  foe  he  felled, 
That  when  the  approaching  crowd  his  arm 

withheld, 
He  almost  turned  the  thirsty  point  on  those 
Who  thus  for  mercy  dared  to  interpose  ; 
But  to  a  moment's  thought  that  purpose  bent ; 
Yet  looked  he  on  him  still  with  eye  intent, 
As  if  he  loathed  the  ineffectual  strife 
That  left  a  foe,  howe'er  o'erthrown,  with  life  ; 
As  if  to  search  how  far  the  wound  he  gave 
Had  sent  its  victim  onward  to  his  grave. 


They  raised  the  bleeding  Otho,  and  the  Leech 
Forbade    all    present    question,    sign,    and 

speech ; 
The  others  met  within  a  neighboring  hall, 
And  he,  incensed  and  heedless  of  them  all, 
The  cause  and  conqueror  in  this  sudden  fray 
In  haughty  silence  slowly  strode  away; 
He  backed  his  steed,  his  homeward  patli  he 

took, 
Nor  cast  on  Otho's  towers  a  single  look. 


But  where  was  he  ?  that  meteor  of  a  night, 
Who  menaced  but  to  disappear  with  light. 
Where  was  this  Ezzelin  ?  who  came  and  went 
To  leave  no  other  trace  of  his  intent, 
He  left  the  dome  of  Otho  long  ere  morn, 
In  darkness,  yet  so  well  the  path  was  worn 
He  could  not  miss  it :  near  his  dwelling  lay  ; 
Hut  there  he  was  not,  and  with  coming  day 
Came  fast  inquiry,  which  unfolded  nought 
Except  the  absence  of  the  chief  it  sought. 
A  chamber  tenantless,  a  steed  at  rest, 
His  host  alarmed,  his  murmuring  squires  dis- 
tressed 
Their  search  extends  along,  around  the  path. 
In  dread  to  meet  the  marks  of  prowlers'  wrath  : 
But  none  are  there,  and  not  a  brake  hath  borne 
Nor  gout  of  bipod,  nor  shred  of  mantle  torn; 
Nor  fall  nor  struggle  hath  defaced  the  grass, 
Which  still  retains  a  mark  where  murder  was ; 
Nor  dabbling  fingers  left  to  tell  the  tale, 
The  bitter  print  of  each  convulsive  nail, 
When  agonized  hands  that  ceased  to  guard, 
Wound  in  that  pang  the  smoothness  of  the 

sward. 
Some  such  had  been,  if  here  a  life  was  reft, 
But  these  were  not ;  and  doubting  hope  is  left ; 
And    strange    suspicion,   whispering    Lara's 

name, 
Now  daily  mutters  o'er  his  blackened  fame ; 
Then  sudden  silent  when  his  form  appeared. 
Awaits  the  absence  of  the  thing  it  feared  ; 
Again  its  wonted  wondering  to  renew, 
And  dye  conjecture  with  a  darker  hue. 


Days  roll  along,  and  Otho's  wounds  are  healed, 
But  not   his  pride;    and  hate  no  more  con- 
cealed : 
He  was  a  man  of  power,  and  Lara's  foe, 
The  friend  of  all  who  sought  to  work  him  woe, 
And  from  his  country's  justice  now  demands 
Account  of  Ezzelin  at  Lara's  hands. 
Who  else  than  Lara  could  have  cause  to  fear 
His  presence  ?  who  had  made  him  disappear, 
If  not  the  man  on  whom  his  menaced  charge 
Had  sate  too  deeply  were  he  left  at  large  ? 
The  general  rumor  ignorantly  loud, 
The  mystery  dearest  to  the  curious  crowd , 


LARA. 


441 


The  seeming  friendlessness  of  him  who  strove 
To  win  no  confidence,  and  wake  no  love ; 
The  sweeping  fierceness  which   his  soul  be- 
trayed, 
The  skill  with  which   he  wielded   his  keen 

blade ; 
Where  had  his  arm  unwarlike  caught  that  art  ? 
Where   had  that  fierceness  grown  upon   his 

heart  ? 
For  it  was  not  the  blind  capricious  rage 
A  word  can  kindle  and  a  word  assuage ; 
But  the  deep  working  of  a  soul  unmixed 
With  aught  of  pity  where  its  wrath  had  fixed  ; 
Such  as  long  power  and  overgorged  success 
Concentrates  into  all  that's  merciless  : 
These,  linked  with  that  desire  which  ever  sways 
Mankind,  the  rather  to  condemn  than  praise, 
'Gainst  Lara  gathering  raised  at  length  a  storm, 
Such  as  himself  might  fear,  and  foes  would 

form, 
And  he  must  answer  for  the  absent  head 
Of  one  that  haunts  him  still,  alive  or  dead. 

VIII. 

Within  that  land  was  many  a  malcontent, 
Who  cursed  the  tyranny  to  which  he  bent ; 
That  soil  full  many  a  wringing  despot  saw, 
Who  worked  his  wantonness  in  form  of  law; 
Long  war  without  and  frequent  broil  within 
Had  made  a  path  for  blood  and  giant  sin, 
That  waited  but  a  signal  to  begin 
New  havoc,  such  as  civil  discord  blends, 
Which  knows  no  neuter,  owns  but  foes  or 

friends ; 
Fixed  in  his  feudal  fortress  each  was  lord, 
In  word  and  deed  obeyed,  in  soul  abhorred. 
Thus  Lara  had  inherited  his  lands, 
And  with  them   pining  hearts  and  sluggish 

hands ; 
But  that  long  absence  from  his  native  clime 
Had  left  him  stainless  of  oppression's  crime, 
And  now,  diverted  by  his  milder  sway, 
All  dread  by  slow  degrees  had  worn  away. 
The  menials  felt  their  usual  awe  alone, 
But  more  for  him  than  them  that  fear  was 

grown ; 
They  deemed  him  now  unhappy,  though  at 

first 
Their  evil  judgment  augured  of  the  worst, 
And  each  long  restless  night,  and  silent  mood, 
Was  traced  to  sickness,  fed  by  solitude : 
And  though  his  lonely  habits  threw  of  late 
Gloom   o'er   his   chamber,  cheerful  was    his 

gate; 
For   thence    the   wretched   ne'er    unsoothed 

withdrew, 
For  them,  at  least,  his  soul  compassion  knew. 
Cold  to  the  great,  contemptuous  to  the  high, 
The  humble  passed  not  his  unheeding  eye ; 
Much  he  would  speak  not,  but  beneath  his 

roof 
They  found  asylum  oft,  and  ne'er  reproof. 


And  they  who  watched  might  mark  that,  day 

by  day, 
Some  new  retainers  gathered  to  his  sway ; 
But  most  of  late,  since  Ezzelin  was  lost, 
He  played  the  courteous  lord  and  bounteous 

host : 
Perchance   his   strife  with   Otho   made  him 

dread 
Some  snare  prepared  for  his  obnoxious  head  : 
Whate'er  his  view,  his  favor  more  obtains 
With  these,  the  people,  than  his  fellow  thanes. 
If  this  were  policy,  so  far  'twas  sound, 
The  million  judged  but  of  him  as  they  found-. 
From  him  by  sterner  chiefs  to  exile  driven 
They  but  required  a  shelter,  and  'twas  given. 
By  him  no  peasant  mourned  his  rifled  cot, 
And  scarce  the  Serf  could  murmur  o'er  his 

lot; 
With  him  old  avarice  found  its  hoard  secure, 
With  him  contempt  forbore  to  mock  the  poor ; 
Youth    present   cheer  and  promised  recom- 
pense 
Detained,  till  all  too  late  to  part  from  thence : 
To  hate  he  offered,  with  the  coming  change, 
The  deep  reversion  of  delayed  revenge  ; 
To  love,  long  baffled  by  the  unequal  match, 
The  well-won    charms  success  was  sure  to 

snatch. 
All  now  was  ripe,  he  waits  but  to  proclaim 
That  slavery  nothing  which  was  still  a  name. 
The    moment    came,   the   hour   when   Otho 

thought 
Secure  at  last  the  vengeance  which  he  sought : 
His  summons  found  the  destined  criminal 
Begirt  by  thousands  in  his  swarming  hall, 
Fresh  from  their  feudal  fetters  newly  riven, 
Defying  earth,  and  confident  of  heaven. 
That   morning   he  had  freed  the  soil-bound 

slaves 
Who  dig  no  land  for  tyrants  but  their  graves  ! 
Such  is  their  cry  —  some  watchword  for  the 

fight 
Must  vindicate  the  wrong,  and  warp  the  right ; 
Religion  —  freedom  —  vengeance  —  what  you 

will, 
A  word's  enough  to  raise  mankind  to  kill ; 
Some  factious  phrase  by  cunning  caught  and 

spread, 
That  guilt  may  reign,  and  wolves  and  worms 

be  fed ! 


Throughout  that  clime  the  feudal  chiefs  had 

gained 
Such    sway,    their    infant    monarch    hardly 

reigned ; 
Nor  was  the  hour  for  faction's  rebel  growth, 
The  Serfs  contemned  the  one,  and  hated  both  ; 
They  waited  but  a  leader,  and  they  found 
One  to  their  cause  inseparably  bound  ; 
By  circumstance  compelled  to  plunge  again, 
In  self-defence,  amidst  the  strife  of  men. 


442 


LARA. 


Cut  off  by  some  mysterious  fate  from  those 
Whom  birth  and  nature  meant  not  for  his  foes, 
Had  Lara  from  that  night  to  him  accurst, 
Prepared  to  meet,  but  not  alone,  the  worst : 
Some  reason  urged,  whate'er  it  was,  to  shun 
Inquiry  into  deeds  at  distance  done; 
By  mingling  with  his  own  the  cause  of  all, 
E'en  if  he  failed,  he  still  delayed  his  fall. 
The  sullen  calm  that  long  his  bosom  kept, 
The  storm   that  once   had  spent   itself  and 

slept, 
Roused  by  events  that  seemed  foredoomed  to 

urge 
His  gloomy  fortunes  to  their  utmost  verge, 
Burst  forth,  and  made  him  all  he  once  had 

been, 
And  is  again ;  he  only  changed  the  scene. 
Light  care  had  he  for  life,  and  less  for  fame, 
But  not  less  fitted  for  the  desperate  game : 
He   deemed   himself  marked  out  for  others' 

hate, 
And  mocked  at  ruin  so  they  shared  his  fate. 
What    cared    he    for    the    freedom    of    the 

crowd  ? 
He    raised    the    humble    but    to    bend    the 

proud. 
He  had  hoped  quiet  in  his  sullen  lair, 
But  man  and  destiny  beset  him  there  : 
Inured  to  hunters,  he  was  found  at  bay; 
And  they  must  kill,  they  cannot  snare  the  prey. 
Stern,  unambitious,  silent,  he  had  been 
Henceforth  a  calm  spectator  of  life's  scene  ; 
But  dragged  again  upon  the  arena,  stood 
A  leader  not  unequal  to  the  feud  ; 
In  voice  —  mien  —  gesture  —  savage   nature 

spoke, 
And  from  his  eye  the  gladiator  broke. 

X. 

What  boots  the  oft  repeated  tale  of  strife, 
The  feast  of  vultures,  and  the  waste  of  life  ? 
The  varying  fortune  of  each  separate  field, 
The  fierce  that  vanquish,  and  the  faint  that 

yield  ? 
The  smoking  ruin,  and  the  crumbled  wall  ? 
In  this  the  struggle  was  the  same  with  all ; 
Save    that   distempered   passions   lent    their 

force 
In  bitterness  that  banished  all  remorse. 
None  sued,  for  Mercy  knew  her  cry  was  vain, 
The  captive  died  upon  the  battle-slain : 
In  either  cause,  one  rage  alone  possessed 
The  empire  of  the  alternate  victor's  breast ; 
And  they  that  smote  for  freedom  or  for  sway, 
Deemed  few  were  slain,  while  more  remained 

to  slay. 
It  was  too  late  to  check  the  wasting  brand, 
And  Desolation  reaped  the  famished  land ; 
The  torch  was    lighted,  and  the   flame  was 

spread, 
And  Carnage  smiled  upon  her  daily  dead. 


XI. 

Fresh  with  the  nerve  the  new-born  impulse 

strung, 
The  first  success  to  Lara's  numbers  clung  • 
But  that  vain  victory  hath  ruined  all ; 
They  form  no  longer  to  their  leader's  call : 
In  blind  confusion  on  the  foe  they  press, 
And  think  to  snatch  is  to  secure  success. 
The  lust  of  booty,  and  the  thirst  of  hate, 
Lure  on  the  broken  brigands  to  their  fate : 
In  vain  he  doth  whate'er  a  chief  may  do, 
To  check  the  headlong  fury  of  that  crew ; 
In  vain  their  stubborn  ardor  he  would  tame, 
The   hand   that   kindles  cannot  quench   the 

flame; 
The  wary  foe  alone  hath  turned  their  mood, 
And    shown    their    rashness  to   that   erring 

brood  : 
The  feigned  retreat,  the  nightly  ambuscade, 
The  daily  harass,  and  the  fight  delayed, 
The  long  privation  of  the  hoped  supply, 
The  tentless  rest  beneath  the  humid  sky, 
The  stubborn  wall  that  mocks  the  leaguer's  art, 
And  palls  the  patience  of  his  baffled  heart, 
Of  these  they  had  not  deemed  :  the  battle-day 
They  could  encounter  as  a  veteran  may; 
But  more  preferred  the  fury  of  the  strife, 
And  present  death,  to  hourly  suffering  life: 
And  famine  wrings,  and  fever  sweeps  away 
His  numbers  melting  fast  from  their  array; 
Intemperate  triumph  fades  to  discontent. 
And  Lara's  soul  alone  seems  still  unbent : 
But  few  remain  to  aid  his  voice  and  hand, 
And  thousands  dwindled  to  a  scanty  band : 
Desperate,  though  few,  the  last  and  best  re- 

mained 
To  mourn  the  discipline  they  late  disdained. 
One  hope  survives,  the  frontier  is  not  far, 
And  thence  they  may  escape  from  native  war; 
And  bear  within  them  to  the  neighboring  state 
An  exile's  sorrows,  or  an  outlaw's  hate  : 
Hard  is  the  task  their  father-land  to  quit, 
But  harder  still  to  perish  or  submit. 

XII. 
It  is  resolved  —  they   march  —  consenting 

Night 
Guides  with  her  star  their  dim  and  torchless 

flight. 
Already  they  perceive  its  tranquil  beam 
Sleep  on  the  surface  of  the  barrier  stream  ; 
Already  they  descry  —  Is  yon  the  bank  ? 
Away !  'tis  lined  with  many  a  hostile  rank. 
Return  or  fly !  —  What  glitters  in  the  rear  ? 
'Tis  Otho's  banner  —  the  pursuer's  spear! 
Are    those    the    shepherds'    fires    upon    the 

height  ? 
Alas  !  they  blaze  too  widely  for  the  flight : 
Cut  off  from    hope,  and   compassed   in   the 

toil, 
Less  blood  perchance  hath  bought  a  richei 

spoil ! 


LARA. 


443 


A.  moment's  pause  —  'tis  but  to  breathe  their 

band, 
Or  shall  they  onward  press,  or  here  withstand  ? 
It  matters  little  —  if  they  charge  the  foes 
Who  by  their  border-stream  their  march  op- 
pose, 
Some  few,  perchance,  may  break   and   pass 

the  line, 
However  linked  to  baffle  such  design. 
"  The    charge    be   ours !    to   wait    for    their 

assault 
Were  fate  well  worthy  of  a  coward's  halt." 
Forth  flies  each  sabre,  reined  is  every  steed, 
And  the  next  word  shall  scarce  outstrip  the 

deed : 
[n  the  next  tone  of  Lara's  gathering  breath 
How  many  shall  but  hear  the  voice  of  death  ! 


His  blade  is  bared,  — in  him  there  is  an  air 
As  deep,  but  far  too  tranquil  for  despair; 
A  something  of  indifference  more  than  then 
Becomes  the  bravest,  if  they  feel  for  men. 
He  turned  his  eye  on  Kaled,  ever  near, 
And  still  too  faithful  to  betray  one  fear ; 
Perchance  'twas  but  the  moon's  dim  twilight 

threw  * 

Along  his  aspect  an  unwonted  hue 
Of  mournful  paleness,  whose   deep  tint  ex- 
pressed 
The  truth,  and  not  the  terror  of  his  breast. 
This  Lara  marked,  and  laid  his  hand  on  his : 
It  trembled  not  in  such  an  hour  as  this ; 
His  lip  was  silent,  scarcely  beat  his  heart, 
His  eye  alone  proclaimed,  "  We  will  not  part ! 
Thy  band  may  perish,   or  thy   friends   may 

flee, 
Farewell  to  life,  but  not  adieu  to  thee  !  " 

The  word  hath  passed  his  lips,  and  onward 

driven, 
Pours  the  linked  band  through  ranks  asunder 

riven ; 
Well  has  each  steed  obeyed  the  armed  heel, 
And  flash  the  scimitars,  and  rings  the  steel ; 
Outnumbered,  not  outbraved,  they  still  oppose 
Despair  to  daring,  and  a  front  to  foes ; 
And  blood  is  mingled  with  the  dashing  stream, 
Which  runs  all  redly  till  the  morning  beam. 

xv. 

Commanding,  aiding,  animating  all, 

Where  foe  appeared  to  press,  or  friend  to  fall, 

Cheers  Lara's  voice,  and  waves  or  strikes  his 

steel, 
Inspiring  hope  himself  had  ceased  to  feel. 
None  fled,  for  well  they  knew  that  flight  were 

vain 
But  those  that  waver  turn  to  smite  again, 
While  yet  they  find  the  firmest  of  the  foe 
Recoil  before  their  leader's  look  and  blow. 


Now  girt  with  numbers,  now  almost  alone, 
He  foils  their  ranks,  or  re-unites  his  own; 
Himself  he  spared  not  —  once  they  seemed 

to  fly  — 
Now  was  the  time,  he  waved   his   hand  on 

high, 
And    shook  —  Why    sudden    droops    that 

plumed   crest  ? 
The  shaft  is  sped — the  arrow's  in  his  breast! 
That  fatal  gesture  left  the  unguarded  side, 
And  Death  had  stricken  down  yon   arm   oi 

pride. 
The  word  of  triumph  fainted  from  his  tongue; 
That  hand,  so  raised,  how droopingly  it  hung! 
But  yet  the  sword  instinctively  retains, 
Though   from   its   fellow   shrink    the   falling 

reins ; 
These  Kaled  snatches :  dizzy  with  the  blow, 
And  senseless  bending  o'er  his  saddle-bow, 
Perceives  not  Lara  that  his  anxious  page 
Beguiles  his  charger  from  the  combat's  rage : 
Meantime  his  followers  charge,  and   charge 

again ; 
Too  mixed  the  slayers  now  to  heed  the  slain ! 


Day  glimmers  on  the  dying  and  the  dead, 
The  cloven  cuirass,  and  the  helmless  head ; 
The  war-horse  masterless  is  on  the  earth, 
And  that  last  gasp  hath  burst  his  bloody  girth  ; 
And   near,  yet   quivering  with  what   life  re- 
mained, 
The  heel  that  urged  him  and  the  hand  that 

reined ; 
And  some  too  near  that  rolling  torrent  lie, 
Whose  waters  mock  the  lip  of  those  that  die  ; 
That   panting   thirst  which   scorches    in   the 

breath 
Of  those  that  die  the  soldier's  fiery  death, 
In  vain  impels  the  burning  mouth  to  crave 
One  drop  —  the  last — to  cool  it  for  the  grave ; 
With  feeble  and  convulsive  effort  swept, 
Their  limbs  along  the  crimsoned   turf  have 

crept ; 
The  faint  remains  of  life  such  struggles  waste, 
But  yet  they  reach  the  stream  and  bend  to 

taste : 
They  feel  its  freshness,  and  almost  partake  — 
Why  pause  ?     No  further  thirst  have  they  to 

slake  — 
It  is  unquenched,  and  yet  they  feel  it  not ; 
It  was  an  agony — but  now  forgot ! 

XVII. 
Beneath  a  lime,  remoter  from  the  scene, 
Where  but  for  him  that  strife  had  never  been, 
A  breathing  but  devoted  warrior  lay  : 
'Twas  Lara  bleeding  fast  from  life  away. 
His  follower  once,  and  now  his  only  guide, 
Kneels  Kaled  watchful  o'er  his  welling  side, 
And  with  his  scarf  would  stanch  the  tides  thai 
rush, 


*44 


LARA. 


With  each  convulsion,  in  a  blacker  gush ; 

And  then,  as  his  faint  breathing  waxes  low, 

In  feebler,  not  less  fatal  tricklings  flow  : 

He  scarce  can  speak,  but  motions  him  'tis  vain, 

And  merely  adds  another  throb  to  pain. 

He  clasps  the  hand  that  pang  which  would 

assuage 
And  sadly  smiles  his  thanks  to  that  dark  page, 
Who  nothing  fears,  nor  feels,  nor  heeds,  nor 

sees, 
Save  that   damp  brow  which  rests  upon  his 

knees ; 
Save  that  pale  aspect,  where  the  eye,  though 

dim, 
Held  all  the  light  that  shone  on  earth  for  him. 

XVIII. 
The  foe  arrives,  who  long  had  searched  the 

field, 
Their   triumph  nought   till   Lara  too  should 

yield  ; 
They  would  remove  him,  but  they  see  'twere 

vain, 
And  he  regards  them  with  a  calm  disdain, 
That  rose  to  reconcile  him  with  his  fate, 
And  that  escape  to  death  from  living  hate : 
And  Otho  comes,  and  leaping  from  his  steed, 
Looks  on  the  bleeding  foe  that  made  him  bleed, 
And  questions  of  his  state  ;  he  answers  not, 
Scarce  glances  on  him  as  on  one  forgot, 
And  turns  to  Kaled  :  —  each  remaining  word 
They  understood  not,  if  distinctly  heard; 
His  dying  tones  are  in  that  other  tongue, 
To  which  some  strange  remembrance  wildly 

clung. 
They  spake   of  other  scenes,   but  what  —  is 

known 
To  Kaled,  whom  their  meaning  reached  alone  ; 
And  he  replied,  though  faintly,  to  their  sound, 
While  gazed   the  rest  in  dumb   amazement 

round : 
They  seemed  even  then  —  that  twain  —  unto 

the  last 
To  half  forget  the  present  in  the  past; 
To  share  between  themselves  some  separate 

fate, 
Whose  darkness  none  beside  should  penetrate. 


Their  words  though  faint  were  many  —  from 

the  tone 
Their  import   those  who  heard  could  judge 

alone ; 
From  this,  you  might  have   deemed  young 

Kaled's  death 
More  near  than  Lara's  by  his  voice  and  breath, 
So  sad,  so  deep,  and  hesitating  broke 
The  accents  his  scarce-moving  pale  lips  spoke  ; 
But  Lara's  voice,  though  low,  at  first  was  clear 
And     calm,   till    murmuring    death     gasped 

hoarsely  near: 
But  from  his  visage  little  could  we  guess, 


So  unrepentant,  dark,  and  passionless, 
Save  that  when  struggling  nearer  to  his  last, 
Upon  that  page  his  eye  was  kindly  cast ; 
And    once,  as    Kaled's  answering    accents 

ceased, 
Rose  Lara's  hand,  and  pointed  to  the  East : 
Whether  (as  then  the  breaking  sun  from  high 
Rolled  back  the  clouds)  the  morrow  caught 

his  eye, 
Or   that  'twas  chance,  or  some  remembered 

scene, 
That  raised  his  arm  to  point  where  such  had 

been, 
Scarce    Kaled  seemed   to  know,  but   turned 

away, 
As  if  his  heart  abhorred  that  coming  day, 
And  shrunk  his  glance  before  that  morning 

light, 
To   look   on   Lara's  brow  —  where  all  grew 

night. 
Yet  sense  seemed  left,  though  better  were  its 

loss; 
For  when  one  near  displayed  the  absolving 

cross, 
And  proffered  to  his  touch  the  holy  bead, 
Of  which  his  parting  soul  might  own  the  need, 
He  looked  upon  it  with  an  eye  profane, 
And  smiled — Heaven  pardon  !  if  'twere  with 

disdain  : 
And  Kaled,  though  he  spoke  not,  nor  with- 
drew 
From  Lara's  face  his  fixed  despairing  view, 
With  brow  repulsive,  and  with  gesture  Swift, 
Flung  back  the  hand  which  held  the  sacred 

gift, 
As  if  such  but  disturbed  the  expiring  man, 
Nor  seemed  to  know  his  life  but  then  began, 
That  life  of  Immortality,  secure 
To  none,  save  them  whose  faith  in  Christ  is 

sure. 

XX. 

But  gasping  heaved  the  breath  that  Lara  drew, 
And  dull  the  film  along  his  dim  eye  grew ; 
His  limbs  stretched  fluttering,  and  his  head 

drooped  o'er 
The  weak  yet  still  untiring  knee  that  bore ; 
He  pressed  the  hand  he  held  upon  his  heart  — 
It  beats  no  more,  but  Kaled  will  not  part 
With  the  cold  grasp,  but  feels,  and  feels  in 

vain, 
For  that  faint  throb  which  answers  not  again. 
"It   beats!" — Away,  thou   dreamer!    he   is 

gone  — 
It  once  was  Lara  which  thou  look'st  upon.1 


1  [The  death  of  Lara  is,  by  far,  the  finest  passage 
in  the  poem,  and  is  fully  equal  to  any  thing  else 
which  the  author  ever  wrote.  The  physical  horror 
of  the  event,  though  described  with  a  terrible  force 
and  fidelity,  is  both  relieved  and  enhanced  by  the 
beautiful  pictures  of  mental  energy  and  affection 
with  which  it  is  combined.  The  whole  sequel  of 
the  poem  is  written  with  equal  vigor  and  feeling, 


LARA. 


445 


XXI. 

He  gazed,  as  if  not  yet  had  passed  away 
The  haughty  spirit  of  that  humble  clay  ; 
And  those  around  have  roused  him  from  his 

trance, 
But  cannot  tear  from  thence  his  fixed  glance ; 
And  when,  in  raising  him  from  where  he  bore 
Within  his  arms  the  form  that  felt  no  more, 
He  saw  the  head  his  breast  would  still  sustain, 
Roll  down  like  earth  to  earth  upon  die  plain ; 
He  did  not  dash  himself  thereby,  nor  tear 
The  glossy  tendrils  of  his  raven  hair, 
But  strove  to  stand  and  gaze,  but  reeled  and 

fell, 
Scarce  breathing  more  than  that  he  loved  so 

well. 
Than  that  he  loved !     Oh  !  never  yet  beneath 
The   breast   of  man   such   trusty   love    may 

breathe ! 
That  trying  moment  hath  at  once  revealed 
The  secret  long  and  yet  but  half  concealed  ; 
In  baring  to  revive  that  lifeless  breast, 
Its  grief  seemed  ended,  but  the  sex  confessed  ; 
And  life  returned,  and  Kaled  felt  no  shame  — 
What  now  to  her  was  Womanhood  or  Fame  ? 

XXII. 

And  Lara  sleeps  not  where  his  fathers  sleep, 
But  where  he  died  his  grave  was  dug  as  deep  ; 
Nor  is  his  mortal  slumber  less  profound, 
Though  priest  nor  blessed  nor  marble  decked 

the  mound ; 
And  he  was  mourned  by  one  whose  quiet  grief, 
Less  loud,  outlasts  a  people's  for  their  chief. 
Vain  was  all  question  asked  her  of  the  past, 
And  vain  e'en  menace  —  silent  to  the  last ; 
She  told  nor  whence,  nor  why  she  left  behind 
Her  all  for  one  who  seemed  but  little  kind. 
Why  did  she  love  him  ?     Curious  fool !  —  be 

still  — 
Is  human  love  the  growth  of  human  will  ? 
To  her  he  might  be  gentleness  ;  the  stern 
Have  deeper  thoughts  than   your   dull   eyes 

discern, 
And  when  they  love,  your  smilers  guess  not 

how 
Beats  the  strong  heart,  though  less  the  lips 

avow. 
They  were  not  common    links,  that  formed 

the  chain 
That  bound  to  Lara  Kaled's  heart  and  brain  ; 
But  that  wild  tale  she  brooked  not  to  unfold, 
And  sealed  is  now  each  lip  that  could  have 

told. 

XXIII. 

They  laid  him  in  the  earth,  and  on  his  breast, 
Besides  the  wound  that  sent  his  soul  to  rest, 

and  may  be  put  in  competition  with  any  thing  that 
poetry  has  produced,  in  point  either  of  pathos  or 
energy.  —  Jeffrey.} 


They  found  the  scattered  dints  of  many  a  scar, 
Which  were  not  planted  there  in  recent  war ; 
Where'er  had  passed  his  summer  years  of  life, 
It  seems  they  vanished  in  a  land  of  strife  ; 
But  all  unknown  his  glory  or  his  guilt, 
These  only  told  that  somewhere   blood  was 

spilt, 
And  Ezzelin,  who  might  have  spoke  the  past, 
Returned  no  more  —  that  night  appeared  his 

last. 

XXIV. 

Upon  that  night  (a  peasant's  is  the  tale) 
A  Serf  that  crossed  the  intervening  vale,1 


1  The  event  in  this  section  was  suggested  by  the 
description  of  the  death,  or  rather  burial,  of  the 
Duke  of  Gandia.  The  most  interesting  and  partic- 
ular account  of  it  is  given  by  Burchard,  and  is  in 
substance  as  follows:  — "  On  the  eighth  day  of  June, 
the  Cardinal  of  Valenza  and  the  Duke  of  Gandia, 
sons  of  the  Pope,  supped  with  their  mother,  Vanozza, 
near  the  church  of  cT.  Pietro  ad  vinculo.;  several 
other  persons  being  present  at  the  entertainment. 
A  late  hour  approaching,  and  the  cardinal  having 
reminded  his  brother,  that  it  was  time  to  return  to 
the  apostolic  palace,  they  mounted  their  horses  or 
mules,  with  only  a  few  attendants,  and  proceeded 
together  as  far  as  the  palace  of  Cardinal  Ascanio 
Sforza,  when  the  duke  informed  the  cardinal  that, 
before  he  returned  home,  he  had  to  pay  a  visit  of 
pleasure.  Dismissing  therefore  all  his  attendants, 
excepting  his  staffiero,  or  footman,  and  a  person  in 
a  mask,  who  had  paid  him  a  visit  whilst  at  supper, 
and  who,  during  the  space  of  a  month  or  there- 
abouts, previous  to  this  time,  had  called  upon  him 
almost  daily,  at  the  apostolic  palace,  he  took  this 
person  behind  him  on  his  mule,  and  proceeded  to 
the  street  of  the  Jews,  where  he  quitted  his  servant, 
directing  him  to  remain  there  until  a  certain  hour; 
when,  if  he  did  not  return,  he  might  repair  to  the 
palace.  The  duke  then  seated  the  person  in  the 
mask  behind  him,  and  rode,  I  know  not  whither ; 
but  in  that  night  he  was  assassinated,  and  thrown 
into  the  river.  The  servant,  after  having  been  dis- 
missed, was  also  assaulted  and  mortally  wounded; 
and  although  he  was  attended  with  great  care,  yet 
such  was  his  situation,  that  he  could  give  no  intel- 
ligible account  of  what  had  befallen  his  master.  In 
the  morning,  the  duke  not  having  returned  to  the 
palace,  his  servants  began  to  be  alarmed;  and  one 
of  them  informed  the  pontiff  of  the  evening  excur- 
sion of  his  sons,  and  that  the  duke  had  not  yet  made 
his  appearance.  This  gave  the  pope  no  small  anxi, 
ety;  but  he  conjectured  that  the  duke  had  been  at- 
tracted by  some  courtesan  to  pass  the  night  with 
her,  and,  not  choosing  to  quit  the  house  in  open 
day,  had  waited  till  the  following  evening  to  return 
home.  When,  however,  the  evening  arrived,  and 
he  found  himself  disappointed  in  his  expectations, 
he  became  deeply  afflicted,  and  began  to  make  in- 
quiries from  different  persons,  whom  he  ordered  to 
attend  him  for  that  purpose.  Amongst  these  was  a 
man  named  Giorgio  Schiavoni,  who,  having  dis- 
charged some  timber  from  a  bark  in  the  river,  had 
remained  on  board  the  vessel  to  watch  it;  and  being 
interrogated  whether  he  had  seen  any  one  thrown 
into  the  river  on  the  night  preceding,  he  replied, 
that  he  saw  two  men  on  foot,  who  came  down  the 
street,   and    looked    diligently   about,    to    observ* 


446 


LARA. 


When  Cynthia's  light  almost  gave  way  to  morn, 
And  nearly  veiled  in  mist  her  waning  horn  ; 
A  Serf,  that  rose  betimes  to  thread  the  wood, 
And  hew  the  bough  that  bought  his  children's 

food, 
Passed  by  the  river  that  divides  the  plain 
Of  Otho's  lands  and  Lara's  broad  domain: 
He  heard  a  tramp  —  a  horse  and  horseman 

broke 
From  out  the  wood  —  before  him  was  a  cloak 
Wrapt  round  some  burden  at  his  saddle-bow, 
Bent  was  his  head,  and  hidden  was  his  brow. 
Roused  by  the  sudden  sight  at  such  a  time, 
And  some  foreboding  that  it  might  be  crime, 
Himself   unheeded  watched    the    stranger's 

course, 
Who   reached  the   river,  bounded  from  his 

horse, 


whether  any  person  was  passing.  That  seeing  no 
one,  they  returned,  and  a  short  time  afterwards  two 
others  came,  and  looked  around  in  the  same  manner 
as  the  former;  no  person  still  appearing,  they  gave 
a  sign  to  their  companions,  when  a  man  came, 
mounted  on  a  white  horse,  having  behind  him  a 
dead  body,  the  head  and  arms  of  which  hung  on 
one  side,  and  the  feet  on  the  other  side  of  the  horse; 
the  two  persons  on  foot  supporting  the  body,  to  pre- 
vent its  falling.  They  thus  proceeded  towards  that 
part  where  the  filth  of  the  city  is  usually  discharged 
into  the  river,  and  tvirning  the  horse,  with  his  tail 
towards  the  water,  the  two  persons  took  the  dead 
body  by  the  arms  and  feet,  and  with  all  their  strength 
flung  it  into  the  river.  The  person  on  horseback 
then  asked  if  they  had  thrown  it  in;  to  which  they 
replied,  Signor,  si  (yes,  sir).  He  then  looked  to- 
wards the  river,  and  seeing  a  mantle  floating  on  the 
stream,  he  inquired  what  it  was  that  appeared  black, 
to  which  they  answered,  it  was  a  mantle;  and  one 
of  them  threw  stones  upon  it,  in  consequence  of 
which  it  sunk.  The  attendants  of  the  pontiff"  then 
inquired  from  Giorgio,  why  he  had  not  revealed 
this  to  the  governor  of  the  city;  to  which  he  replied, 
that  he  had  seen  in  his  time  a  hundred  dead  bodies 
thrown  into  the  river  at  the  same  place,  without  any 
inquiry  being  made  respecting  them;  and  that  he 
had  not,  therefore,  considered  it  as  a  matter  of  any 
importance.  The  fishermen  and  seamen  were  then 
collected,  and  ordered  to  search  the  river,  where,  on 
the  following  evening,  they  found  the  body  of  the 
duke,  with  his  habit  entire,  and  thirty  ducats  in  his 
purse.  He  was  pierced  with  nine  wounds,  one  of 
which  was  in  his  throat,  the  others  in  his  head,  body, 
and  limbs.  No  sooner  was  the  pontiff"  informed  of  the 
death  of  his  son,  and  that  he  had  been  thrown,  like 
filth,  into  the  river,  than,  giving  way  to  his  grief,  he 
shut  himself  up  in  a  chamber,  and  wept  bitterly. 
The  Cardinal  of  Segovia,  and  other  attendants  on 
the  pope,  went  to  the  door,  and  after  many  hours 
spent  in  persuasions  and  exhortations,  prevailed 
upon  him  to  admit  them.  From  the  evening  of 
Wednesday  till  the  following  Saturday  the  pope  took 
no  food;  nor  did  he  sleep  from  Thursday  morning 
till  the  same  hour  on  the  ensuing  day.  At  length, 
however,  giving  way  to  the  entreaties  of  his  attend- 
ants, he  began  to  restrain  his  sorrow,  and  to  con- 
sider the  injury  which  his  own  health  might  sustain, 
by  the  further  indulgence  of  his  grief."  —  Roscoe's 
Leo  Tenth   vol.  i.  p.  265. 


And  lifting  thence  the  burden  which  he  bora, 
Heaved  up  the  bank,  and  dashed  it  from  the 

shore, 
Then  paused,  and  looked,  and   turned,  and 

seemed  to  watch, 
And  still  another  hurried  glance  would  snatch, 
And  follow  with  his  step  the  stream  that  flowed, 
As  if  even  yet  too  much  its  surface  showed: 
At  once  he  started,  stooped,  around  him  strown 
The  winter  floods  had  scattered  heaps  of  stone ; 
Of  these  the  heaviest  thence  he  gathered  there, 
And  slung  them  with  a  more  than  common 

care. 
Meantime  the  Serf  had  crept  to  where  unseen 
Himself  might  safely  mark  what  this  migh* 

mean ; 
He  caught  a  glimpse,  as  of  a  floating  breast, 
And  something  glittered  starlike  on  the  vest ; 
But   ere   he  well    could   mark  the   buoyant 

trunk, 
A  massy  fragment  smote  it,  and  it  sunk : 
It  rose  again,  but  indistinct  to  view, 
And  left  the  waters  of  a  purple  hue, 
Then  deeply  disappeared  :  the  horseman  gazed 
Till  ebbed  the  latest  eddy  it  had  raised; 
Then  turning,  vaulted  on  his  pawing  steed, 
An  instant  spurred  him  into  panting  speed. 
His  face  was  masked — the   features  of  tho 

dead, 
If  dead  it  were,  escaped  the  observer's  dread; 
But  if  in  sooth  a  star  its  bosom  bore, 
Such  is  the  badge  that  knighthood  ever  wore, 
And  such  'tis  known  Sir  Ezzelin  had  worn 
Upon  the  night  that  led  to  such  a  morn. 
If  thus  he  perished,  Heaven  receive  his  soull 
His  undiscovered  limbs  to  ocean  roll; 
And  charity  upon  the  hope  would  dwell 
It  was  not  Lara's  hand  by  which  he  fell. 

XXV. 

And  Kaled  —  Lara — Ezzelin,  are  gone, 
Alike  without  their  monumental  stone  ! 
The  first,  all  efforts  vainly  strove  to  wean 
From  lingering  where   her  chieftain's   blood 

had  been ; 
Grief  had  so  tamed  a  spirit  once  too  proud, 
Her  tears  were  few,  her  wailing  never  loud ; 
But  furious  would  you  tear  her  from  the  spot 
Where  yet  she  scarce  believed  that  he  was  not, 
Her  eye  shot  forth  with  all  the  living  fire 
That  haunts  the  tigress  in  her  whelpless  ire  ; 
But  left  to  waste  her  weary  moments  there, 
She  talked  all  idly  unto  shapes  of  air, 
Such  as  the  busy  brain  of  Sorrow  paints, 
And  woos  to  listen  to  her  fond  complaints : 
And  she  would  sit  beneath  the  very  tree 
Where  lay  his  drooping  head  upon  her  knee 
And  in  that  posture  where  she  saw  him  fall, 
His  words,  his  looks,  his  dying  grasp  recall ; 
And  she  had  shorn,  but  saved  her  raven  hair, 
And  oft  would  snatch  it  from  her  bosom  there, 
And  fold,  and  press  it  gently  to  the  ground, 


THE   SIEGE    OF  CORINTH. 


447 


As   if  she  stanched  anew  some  phantom's 

wound. 
Herself  would  question,  and  for  him  reply; 
Then  rising,  start,  and  beckon  him  to  fly 
From  some  imagined  spectre  in  pursuit ; 


Then  seat  her  down  upon  some  linden's  root, 
And  hide  her  visage  with  her  meagre  hand, 
Or  trace  strange  characters  along  the  sand  — 
This  could  not  last  —  she  lies  by  him  she  loved ; 
Her  tale  untold  —  her  truth  too  dearly  proved. 


THE  SIEGE   OF   CORINTH. 


TO  JOHN   HOBHOUSE,  ESQ., 

THIS   POEM   IS   INSCRIBED  BY  HIS 


January  22,  18 16. 


FRIEND. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 

"  The  grand  army  of  the  Turks  (in  1715),  under  the  Prime  Vizier,  to  open  to  themselves  a  way  into 
the  heart  of  the  Morea,  and  to  form  the  siege  of  Napoli  di  Romania,  the  most  considerable  place  in  all 
that  country,1  thought  it  best  in  the  first  place  to  attack  Corinth,  upon  which  they  made  several  storms. 
The  garrison  being  weakened,  and  the  governor  seeing  it  was  impossible  to  hold  out  against  so  mighty  a 
force  thought  it  fit  to  beat  a  parley :  but  while  they  were  treating  about  the  articles,  one  of  the  magazines 
in  the  Turkish  camp,  wherein  they  had  six  hundred  barrels  of  powder,  blew  up  by  accident,  whereby  six 
or  seven  hundred  men  were  killed;  which  so  enraged  the  infidels,  that  they  would  not  grant  any  capitu- 
lation, but  stormed  the  place  with  so  much  fury,  that  they  took  it,  and  put  most  of  the  garrison,  with 
Signior  Minotti,  the  governor,  to  the  sword.  The  rest,  with  Antonio  Bempo,  proveditor  extraordinary, 
were  made  prisoners  of  war." — History  of  the  Turks,  vol.  iii.  p.  151. 


INTRODUCTION. 


The  "  Siege  of  Corinth,"  which  appears,  by  the  original  MS.,  to  have  been  begun  in  July,  i8is» 
made  its  appearance  in  January,  1816.  Mr.  Murray  having  inclosed  Byron  a  thousand  guineas  for  the 
copyright  of  this  poem  and  of  "  Parisina,"  he  replied  —  "  Your  offer  is  liberal  in  the  extreme,  and  much 
more  than  the  two  poems  can  possibly  be  worth ;  but  I  cannot  accept  it,  nor  will  not.  You  are  most  wel- 
come to  them  as  additions  to  the  collected  volumes;  but  I  cannot  consent  to  their  separate  publication. 


1  Napoli  di  Romania  is  not  now  the  most  considerable  place  in  the  Morea,  but  Tripolitza,  where  the 
Pacha  resides,  and  maintains  his  government.  Napoli  is  near  Argos.  I  visited  all  three  in  1810-11; 
and,  in  the  course  of  journeying  through  the  country  from  my  first  arrival,  in  1809, 1  crossed  the  Isthmus 
eight  times  in  my  way  from  Attica  to  the  Morea,  over  the  mountains,  or  in  the  other  direction,  when  pas-  , 
sing  from  the  Gulf  of  Athens  to  that  of  Lepanto.  Both  the  routes  are  picturesque  and  beautiful,  though 
very  different:  that  by  sea  has  more  sameness:  but  the  voyage  being  always  within  sight  of  land,  and 
often  very  near  it,  presents  many  attractive  views  of  the  islands  Salamis,  JEgina,  Poros,  ect.,  and  the 
coast  of  the  Continent. 


44b 


THE  SIEGE    OF  CORINTH. 


I  do  not  like  to  risk  any  fame  (whether  merited  or  not)  which  I  have  been  favored  with  upon  composi- 
tions which  1  do  not  feel  to  be  at  all  equal  to  my  own  notions  of  what  they  should  be;  though  they  may 
do  very  well  as  things  without  pretension,  to  add  to  the  publication  with  the  lighter  pieces.  I  have  in- 
closed your  draft  torn,  for  fear  of  accidents  by  the  way  —  I  wish  you  would  not  throw  temptation  in  mine 
It  is  not  from  a  disdain  of  the  universal  idol,  nor  from  a  present  superfluity  of  his  treasures,  I  can  assure 
you,  that  I  refuse  to  worship  him;  but  what  is  right  is  right,  and  must  not  yield  to  circumstances.  I  am 
very  glad  that  the  handwriting  was  a  favorable  omen  of  the  morale  of  the  piece;  but  you  must  not 
trust  to  that,  for  my  copyist  would  write  out  any  thing  I  desired,  in  all  the  ignorance  of  innocence  —  I 
'hope,  however,  in  this  instance,  with  no  great  peril  to  either."  The  copyist  was  Lady  Byron.  Byron 
-gave  Mr.  Gifford  carte  blanche  to  strike  out  or  alter  any  thing  at  his  pleasure  in  this  poem,  as  it  was 


■passing  through  the  press;  and  the  reader  will  be  amused  with  the  varies  lectiones  which  had  their  ori- 
gin in  this  extraordinary  confidence. 


IN  the  year  since  Jesus  died  for  men, 
Eighteen  hundred  years  and  ten, 
We  were  a  gallant  company, 
Riding  o'er  land,  and  sailing  o'er  sea. 
Oh  !  but  we  went  merrily  ! 
We  forded  the  river.and  clomb  the  high  hill, 
Never  our  steeds  for  a  day  stood  still ; 
Whether  we  lay  in  the  cave  or  the  shed, 
Our  sleep  fell  soft  on  the  hardest  bed  ; 
Whether  we  couched  in  our  rough  capote,1 
On  the  rougher  plank  of  our  gliding  boat, 
Or  stretched  on  the  beach,  or  our  saddles 

spread 
As  a  pillow  beneath  the  resting  head, 
Fresh  we  woke  upon  the  morrow: 

All  our  thoughts  and  words  had  scope, 

We  had  health,  and  we  had  hope, 
Toil  and  travel,  but  no  sorrow. 
We  were  of  all  tongues  and  creeds  ;  — 
Some  were  those  who  counted  beads, 
Some  of  mosque,  and  some  of  church, 

And  some,  or  I  mis-say,  of  neither; 
Yet  through  the  wide  world  might  ye  search, 

Nor  find  a  mother  crew  nor  blither. 

But  some  are  dead,  and  some  are  gone, 
And  some  are  scattered  and  alone, 
And  some  are  rebels  on  the  hills2 


1  [In  one  of  his  sea  excursions,  Byron  was  nearly 
lost  in  a  Turkish  ship  of  war,  owing  to  the  igno- 
rance of  the  captain  and  crew.  "  Fletcher,"  he 
says,  "  yelled;  the  Greeks  called  on  all  the  saints; 
the  Mussulmans  on  Alia;  while  the  captain  burst 
into  tears,  and  ran  below  deck.  I  did  what  I  could 
to  console  Fletcher;  but  finding  -him  incorrigible, 
I  wrapped  myself  up  in  my  Albanian  capote,  and 
lay  down  to  wait  the  worst."  This  instance  of  the 
poet's  coolness  and  courage  is  thus  confirmed  by 
Mr.  Hobhouse: — "Finding  that,  from  his  lame- 
ness, he  was  unable  to  be  of  any  service  in  the  ex- 
ertions which  our  very  serious  danger  called  for, 
after  a  laugh  or  two  at  the  panic  of  his  valet,  he  not 
only  wrapped  himself  up  and  lay  down,  in  the 
manner  he  has  described,  but  when  our  difficulties 
were  terminated  was  found  fast  asleep. "1 

*  The  last  tidings  recently  heard  of  Dervish  (one 


That  look  along  Epirus"  valleys, 

Where  freedom  still  at  moments  rallies 
And  pays  in  blood  oppression's  ills ; 

And  some  are  in  a  tar  countree, 
And  some  all  restlessly  at  home ; 

But  never  more,  oh  !  never,  we 
Shall  meet  to  revel  and  to  roam. 

But  those  hardy  days  flew  cheerily, 

And  when  they  now  fall  drearily. 

My  thoughts,  like  swallows,  skim  the  main 

And  bear  my  spirit  back  again 

Oyer  the  earth,  and  through  the  air, 

A  wild  bird  and  a  wanderer. 

'Tis  this  thit  ever  wakes  my  strain, 

And  oft,  too  oft,  implores  again 

The  few  who  may  endure  my  lay, 

To  follow  me  so  far  away. 

Stranger  —  wilt  thou  follow  now, 

And  sit  with  me  on  Aero-Corinth's  brow  ? 


Many  a  vanished  year  and  age, 
And  tempest's  breath,  and  battle's  rage, 
Have  swept  o'er  Corinth;  yet  she  stands, 
A  fortress  formed  to  Freedom's  hands.3 
The   whirlwind's   wrath,   the    earthquake's 

shock, 
Have  left  untouched  her  hoary  rock, 
The  keystone  of  a  land,  which  still, 
Though  fall'n,  looks  proudly  on  that  hill, 
The  landmark  to  the  double  tide 
That  purpling  rolls  on  either  side, 
As  if  their  waters  chafed  to  meet, 
Yet  pause  and  crouch  beneath  her  feet. 
But  could  the  blood  before  her  shed 
Since  first  Timoleon's  brother  bled,4 

of  the  Amaouts  who  followed  me)  state  him  to  be 
in  revolt  upon  the  mountains,  at  the  head  of  some 
of  the  bands  common  in  that  country  in  times  of 
trouble. 

s  [In  the  original  MS. — 

"  A  marvel  from  her  Moslem  bands."] 

4  [Timolenn,    who    had    saved    the    life    of   his 
brother  Timophanes  in  battle,  afterwards  killed  him 


THE  SIEGE    OE  CORINTH. 


449 


Or  baffled  Persia's  despot  fled, 
Arise  from  out  the  earth  which  drank 
The  stream  of  slaughter  as  it  sank, 
That  sanguine  ocean  would  o'erflow 
Her  isthmus  idly  spread  below  : 
Or  could  the  bones  of  all  the  slain, 
Who  perished  there,  be  piled  again, 
That  rival  pyramid  would  rise 
More   mountain-like,  through   those   clear 

skies, 
Than  yon  tower-capped  Acropolis, 
Which  seems  the  very  clouds  to  kiss. 


On  dun  Cithoeron's  ridge  appears 
The  gleam  of  twice  ten  thousand  spears  ; 
And  downward  to  the  Isthmian  plain, 
From  shore  to  shore  of  either  main, 
The  tent  is  pitched,  the  crescent  shines 
Along  the  Moslem's  leaguering  lines; 
And  the  dusk  Spahi's  bands  J  advance 
Beneath  each  bearded  pacha's  glance; 
And  far  and  wide  as  eye  can  reach 
The  turbaned  cohorts  throng  the  beach;' 
And  there  the  Arab's  camel  kneels, 
And  there  his  steed  the  Tartar  wheels ; 
The  Turcoman  hath  left  his  herd,2 
The  sabre  round  his  loins  to  gird ; 
And  there  the  volleying  thunders  pour 
Till  waves  grow  smoother  to  the  roar. 
The  trench  is  dug,  the  cannon's  breath 
Wings  the  far  hissing  globe  of  death  ; 
Fast  whirl  the  fragments  from  the  wall, 
Which  crumbles  with  the  ponderous  ball; 
And  from  that  wall  the  foe  replies, 
O'er  dusty  plain  and  smoky  skies, 
With  fires  that  answer  fast  and  well 
The  summons  of  the  Infidel. 


But  near  and  nearest  to  the  wall 
Of  those  who  wish  and  work  its  fall, 
With  deeper  skill  in  war's  black  art, 
Than  Othman's  sons,  and  high  of  heart 
As  any  chief  that  ever  stood 
Triumphant  in  the  fields  of  blood; 
From  post  to  post,  and  deed  to  deed, 
Fast  spurring  on  his  reeking  steed. 
Where  sallying  ranks  the  trench  assail, 
And  make  the  foremost  Moslem  quail ; 
Or  where  the  battery,  guarded  well, 
Remains  as  yet  impregnable, 


for  aiming  at  the  supreme  power  in  Corinth,  pre- 
ferring his  duty  to  his  country  to  all  the  obligations 
of  blood.  Dr.  Warton  says,  that  Pope  once  in- 
tended to  write  an  epic  poem  on  the  story,  and  that 
Dr.  Akenside  had  the  same  design.] 

1  [Turkish  holders  of  military  fiefs,  which  oblige 
them  to  join  the  army,  mounted  at  their  own  ex- 
pense.] 

'  The  life  of  the  Turcomans  is  wandering  and 
patriarchal :  they  dwell  in  tents. 


Alighting  cheerly  to  inspire 

The  soldier  slackening  in  his  fire; 

The  first  and  freshest  of  the  host 

Which  Stamboul's  sultan  there  can  boast, 

To  guide  the  follower  o'er  the  field, 

To  point  the  tube,  the  lance  to  wield, 

Or  whirl  around  the  bickering  blade ;  — 

Was  Alp,  the  Adrian  renegade  ! 


From  Venice — once  a  race  of  worth 

His  gentle  sires  —  he  drew  his  birth  ; 

But  late  an  exile  from  her  shore, 

Against  his  countrymen  he  bore 

The  anr'S  they  taught  to  bear ;  and  now 

The  turban  girt  his  shaven  brow. 

Through  many  a  change  had  Corinth  passed 

With  Greece  to  Venice'  rule  at  last ; 

And  here,  before  her  walls,  with  those 

To  Greece  and  Venice  equal  foes, 

He  stood  a  foe,  with  all  the  zeal 

Which  young  and  fiery  converts  feel. 

Within  whose  heated  bosom  throngs 

The  memory  of  a  thousand  wrongs. 

To  him  had  Venice  ceased  to  be 

Her  ancient  civic  boast  —  "  the  Free  ;  " 

And  in  the  palace  of  St.  Mark 

Unnamed  accusers  in  the  dark 

Within  the  "  Lion's  mouth"  had  placed 

A  charge  against  him  uneffaced  : 

He  fled  in  time,  and  saved  his  life, 

To  waste  his  future  years  in  strife, 

That  taught  his  land  how  great  her  loss 

In  him  who  triumphed  o'er  the  Cross, 

'Gainst  which  he  reared  the  Crescent  high, 

And  battled  to  avenge  or  die. 

V. 
Coumourgi 8  —  he  whose  closing  scene 
Adorned  the  triumph  of  Eugene, 
When  on  Carlowitz'  bloody  plain, 
The  last  and  mightiest  of  the  slain, 
He  sank,  regretting  not  to  die, 
But  cursed  the  Christian's  victory  — 
Coumourgi  —  can  his  glory  cease, 
That  latest  conqueror  of  Greece, 
Till  Christian  hands  to  Greece  restore 


3  AH  Coumourgi,  the  favorite  of  three  sultans, 
and  Grand  Vizier  to  Achmet  III.,  after  recovering 
Peloponnesus  from  the  Venetians  in  one  campaign, 
was  mortally  wounded  in  the  next,  against  the 
Germans,  at  the  battle  of  Peterwaradin  (in  the 
plain  of  Carlowitz),  in  Hungary,  endeavoring  to 
rally  his  guards.  He  died  of  his  wounds  next  day. 
His  last  order  was  the  decapitation  of  General 
Breuner,  and  some  other  German  prisoners;  and 
his  last  words,  "  Oh  that  I  could  thus  serve  all  the 
Christian  dogs!  "  a  speech  and  act  not  unlike  one 
of  Caligula.  He  was  a  young  man  of  great  ambi- 
tion and  unbounded  presumption:  on  being  told 
that  Prince  Eugene,  then  opposed  to  him,  "  was  a 
great  general,"  he  said,  "  I  shi  1  become  a  greater, 
and  at  his  expense." 


450 


THE  SIEGE    OF  CORINTH. 


The  freedom  Venice  gave  of  yore? 
A  hundred  years  have  rolled  away 
Since  he  refixed  the  Moslem's  sway, 
And  now  he  led  the  Mussulman, 
And  gave  the  guidance  of  the  van 
To  Alp,  who  well  repaid  the  trust 
By  cities  levelled  with  the  dust; 
And  proved,  by  many  a  deed  of  death, 
How  firm  his  heart  in  novel  faith. 

VI. 
The  walls  grew  weak ;  and  fast  and  hot 
Against  them  poured  the  ceaseless  shot, 
With  unabating  fury  sent 
From  battery  to  battlement ; 
And  thunder-like  the  pealing  din 
Rose  from  each  heated  culverin ; 
And  here  and  there  some  crackling  dome 
Was  fired  before  the  exploding  bomb. 
And  as  the  fabric  sank  beneath 
The  shattering  shell's  volcanic  breath. 
In  red  and  wreathing  columns  flashed 
The  flame,  as  loud  the  ruin  crashed, 
Or  into  countless  meteors  driven, 
Its  earth-stars  melted  into  heaven ; 
Whose  clouds  that  day  grew  doubly  dun, 
Impervious  to  the  hidden  sun, 
With  volumed  smoke  that  slowly  grew 
To  one  wide  sky  of  sulphurous  hue. 


But  not  for  vengeance,  long  delayed, 
Alone,  did  Alp,  the  renegade, 
The  Moslem  warriors  sternly  teach 
His  skill  to  pierce  the  promised  breach  : 
Within  these  walls  a  maid  was  pent 
His  hope  would  win  without  consent 
Of  that  inexorable  sire, 
Whose  heart  refused  him  in  its  ire, 
When  Alp,  beneath  his  Christian  name, 
Her  virgin  hand  aspired  to  claim. 
In  happier  mood,  and  earlier  time, 
While  unimpeached  for  traitorous  crime, 
Gayest  in  gondola  or  hall, 
He  glittered  through  the  Carnival ; 
And  tuned  the  softest  serenade 
That  e'er  on  Adda's  waters  played 
At  midnight  to  Italian  maid.1 


And  many  deemed  her  heart  was  won ; 
For  sought  by  numbers,  given  to  none, 
Had  young  Francesca's  hand  remained 
Still  by  the  church's  bonds  unchained: 
And  when  the  Adriatic  bore 
Lanciotto  to  the  Paynim  shore, 
Her  wonted  smiles  were  seen  to  fail, 
And  pensive  waxed  the  maid  and  pale ; 
More  constant  at  confessional, 


i  [MS.— 
"  In  midnight  courtship  to  Italian  maid."] 


More  rare  at  masque  and  festival ; 
Or  seen  at  such,  with  downcast  eyes, 
Which   conquered   hearts  they  ceased  to 

prize : 
With  listless  look  she  seems  to  gaze: 
With  humbler  care  her  form  arrays; 
Her  voice  less  lively  in  the  song  ; 
Her  step,  though  light,  less  fleet  among 
The  pairs,  on  whom  the  Morning's  glance 
Breaks,  yet  unsated  with  the  dance. 

IX. 

Sent  by  the  state  to  guard  the  land, 
(Which,  wrested  from  the  Moslem's  hand 
While  Sobieski  tamed  his  pride 
By  Buda's  wall  and  Danube's  side, 
The  chiefs  of  Venice  wrung  away 
From  Patra  to  Eubcea's  bay,) 
Minotti  held  in  Corinth's  towers 
The  Doge's  delegated  powers, 
While  yet  the  pitying  eye  of  Peace 
Smiled  o'er  her  long  forgotten  Greece; 
And  ere  that  faithless  truce  was  broke 
Which  freed  her  from  the  unchristian  yokq 
With  him  his  gentle  daughter  came; 
Nor  there,  since  Menelaus'  dame 
Forsook  her  lord  and  land,  to  prove 
What  woes  await  on  lawless  love, 
Had  fairer  form  adorned  the  shore 
Than  she,  the  matchless  stranger,  bore. 


The  wall  is  rent,  the  ruins  yawn ; 
And,  with  to-morrow's  earliest  dawn,  • 
O'er  the  disjointed  mass  shall  vault 
The  foremost  of  the  fierce  assault. 
The  bands  are  ranked ;  the  chosen  van 
Of  Tartar  and  of  Mussulman, 
The  full  of  hope,  misnamed  "forlorn," 
Who  hold  the  thought  of  death  in  scorn, 
And  win  their  way  with  falchion's  force, 
Or  pave  the  path  with  many  a  i-orse, 
O'er  which  the  following  brave  may  rise, 
Their  stepping-stone  —  the  last  who  dies! 

XI. 

'Tis  midnight  :  on  the  mountains  brown 
The  cold,  round  moon  shines  deeply  down, 
Blue  roll  the  waters,  blue  the  sky 
Spreads  like  an  ocean  hung  on  high, 
Bespangled  with  those  isles  of  light, 
So  wildly,  spiritually  bright; 
Who  ever  gazed  upon  them  shining 
And  turned  to  earth  without  repining, 
Nor  wished  for  wings  to  flee  away, 
And  mix  with  their  eternal  ray  ? 
The  waves  on  either  shore  lay  there 
Calm,  clear,  and  azure  as  the  air ; 
And  scarce  their  foam  the  pebbles  shook 
But  murmured  meekly  as  the  brook. 
The  winds  were  pillowed  on  the  waves; 
The  banners  drooped  along  their  staves, 


THE  SIEGE    OP  CORINTH. 


451 


And,  as  they  fell  around  them  furling, 

Above  them  shone  the  crescent  curling; 

And  that  deep  silence  was  unbroke, 

Save  where  the  watch  his  signal  spoke, 

Save  where  the  steed  neighed  oft  and  shrill, 

And  echo  answered  from  the  hill, 

And  the  wide  hum  of  that  wild  host 

Rustled  like  leaves  from  coast  to  coast, 

As  rose  the  Muezzin's  voice  in  air 

In  midnight  call  to  wonted  prayer; 

It  rose,  that  chanted  mournful  strain, 

Like  some  lone  spirit's  o'er  the  plain : 

Tvvas  musical,  but  sadly  sweet, 

Such  as  when  winds  and  harp-strings  meet, 

And  take  a  long  unmeasured  tone, 

To  mortal  minstrelsy  unknown.1 

It  seemed  to  those  within  the  wall 

A  cry  prophetic  of  their  fall : 

It  struck  even  the  besieger's  ear 

With  something  ominous  and  drear, 

An  undefined  and  sudden  thrill, 

Which  makes  the  heart  a  moment  still, 

Then  beat  with  quicker  pulse,  ashamed 

Of  that  strange  sense  its  silence  framed ; 

Such  as  a  sudden  passing-bell 

Wakes,  though  but  for  a  stranger's  knell.2 

XII. 

The  tent  of  Alp  was  on  the  shore ; 

The  sound  was  hushed,  the  prayer  was  o'er ; 

The  watch  was  set,  the  night-round  made, 

All  mandates  issued  and  obeyed  : 

'Tis  but  another  anxious  night, 

His  pains  the  morrow  may  requite 

With  all  revenge  and  love  can  pay, 

In  guerdon  for  their  long  delay. 

Few  hours  remain,  and  he  hath  need 

Of  rest,  to  nerve  for  many  a  deed 

Of  slaughter ;  but  within  his  soul 

The  thoughts  like  troubled  waters  roll. 

He  stood  alone  among  the  host ; 

Not  his  the  loud  fanatic  boast 

To  plant  the  crescent  o'er  the  cross, 

Or  risk  a  life  with  little  loss, 

Secure  in  paradise  to  be 

By  Houris  loved  immortally: 

Nor  his,  what  burning  patriots  feel, 

The  stern  exaltedness  of  zeal, 

Profuse  of  blood,  untired  in  toil, 

When  battling  on  the  parent  soil. 

He  stood  alone —  a  renegade 

Against  the  country  he  betrayed ; 

He  stood  alone  amidst  his  band, 

Without  a  trusted  heart  or  hand  : 

They  followed  him,  for  he  was  brave, 

And  great  the  spoil  he  got  and  gave ; 

They  crouched  to  him,  for  he  had  skill 


1  [MS.  —  "  And  make  a  melancholy  moan, 

To  mortal  voice  and  ear  unknown."] 

s  [MS.  —  "Which  rings  a  deep,  internal  knell, 
A  visionary  passing-bell,"] 


To  warp  and  wield  the  vulgar  will : 

But  still  his  Christian  origin 

With  them  was  little  less  than  sin. 

They  envied  even  the  faithless  fame 

He  earned  beneath  a  Moslem  name; 

Since  he,  their  mightiest  chief,  had  been 

In  youth  a  bitter  Nazarene. 

They  did  not  know  how  pride  can  stoop, 

When  baffled  feelings  withering  droop; 

They  did  not  know  how  hate  can  burn 

In  hearts  once  changed  from  soft  to  stent. 

Nor  all  the  false  and  fatal  zeal 

The  convert  of  revenge  can  feel. 

He  ruled  them  —  man  may  rule  the  worst, 

By  ever  daring  to  be  first ; 

So  lions  o'er  the  jackal  sway; 

The  jackal  points,  he  fells  the  prey ,8 

Then  on  the  vulgar  yelling  press, 

To  gorge  the  relics  of  success. 

XIII. 
His  head  grows  fevered,  and  his  pulse 
The  quick  successive  throbs  convulse; 
In  vain  from  side  to  side  he  throws 
His  form,  in  courtship  of  repose ;  4 
Or  if  he  dozed,  a  sound,  a  start 
Awoke  him  with  a  sunken  heart. 
The  turban  on  his  hot  brow  pressed, 
The  mail  weighed  lead-like  on  his  breast, 
Though  oft  and  long  beneath  its  weight 
Upon  his  eyes  had  slumber  sale, 
Without  or  couch  or  canopy, 
Except  a  rougher  field  and  sky 
Than  now  might  yield  a  wairior's  bed, 
Than  now  along  the  heaven  was  spread. 
He  could  not  rest,  he  could  not  stay 
Within  his  tent  to  wait  for  day, 
But  walked  him  forth  along  the  sand, 
Where  thousand  sleepers  strewed  the  strand, 
What  pillowed  them  ?  and  why  should  he 
More  wakeful  than  the  humblest  be, 
Since  more  their  peril,  worse  their  toil? 
And  yet  they  fearless  dream  of  spoil ; 
While  he  alone,  where  thousands  passed 
A  night  of  sleep,  perchance  their  last, 
In  sickly  vigil  wandered  on, 
And  envied  all  he  gazed  upon. 


He  felt  his  soul  become  more  light 
Beneath  the  freshness  of  the  night. 
Cool  was  the  silent  sky,  though  calm, 
And  bathed  his  brow  with  airy  balm. 
Behind,  the  camp  —  before  him  lay, 
In  many  a  winding  creek  and  bay, 


8  [MS.  —  "  As  lions  o'er  the  jackal  sway 

By  springing  dauntless  on  the  prey, 
They  follow  on,  and  yelling  press 
To  gorge  the  fragments  of  success."] 

4  [MS.  —  "  He  vainly  turned  from  side  to  side. 
And  each  reposing  posture  tried."] 


452 


THE  SIEGE    OF  CORINTH. 


Lepanto's  gulf;  and,  on  the  brow 
Of  Delphi's  hill,  unshaken  snow, 
High  and  eternal,  such  as  shone 
Through  thousand  summers  brightly  gone, 
Along  the  gulf,  the  mount,  the  clime ; 
It  will  not  melt,  like  man,  to  time  : 
Tyrant  and  slave  are  swept  away, 
Less  formed  to  wear  before  the  ray ; 
But  that  white  veil,  the  lightest,  frailest, 
Which  on  the  mighty  mount  thou  hailest, 
While  tower  and  tree  are  torn  and  rent, 
Shines  o'er  its  craggy  battlement; 
In  form  a  peak,  in  height  a  cloud, 
In  texture  like  a  hovering  shroud, 
Thus  high  by  parting  Freedom  spread, 
As  from  her  fond  abode  she  fled, 
And  lingered  on  the  spot,  where  long 
Her  prophet  spirit  spake  in  song. 
Oh!  still  her  step  at  moments  falters 
O'er  withered  fields,  and  ruined  altars, 
And  fain  would  wake,  in  souls  too  broken, 
By  pointing  to  each  glorious  token : 
But  vain  her  voice,  till  better  days 
Dawn  in  those  yet  remembered  rays 
Which  shone  upon  the  Persian  flying, 
And  saw  the  Spartan  smile  in  dying. 


Not  mindless  of  these  mighty  times 
Was  Alp,  despite  his  flight  and  crimes ; 
And  through  this  night,  as  on  he  wandered 
And  o'er  the  past  and  present  pondered, 
And  thought  upon  the  glorious  dead 
Who  there  in  better  cause  had  bled, 
He  felt  how  faint  and  feebly  dim 
The  fame  that  could  accrue  to  him. 
Who  cheered  the   band,  and  waved   the 

sword, 
A  traitor  in  a  turbaned  horde; 
And  led  them  to  the  lawless  siege, 
Whose  best  success  were  sacrilege. 
Not  so  had  those  his  fancy  numbered, 
The  chiefs  whose  dust  around  him  slum- 
bered ; 
Their  phalanx  marshalled  on  the  plain, 
Whose  bulwarks  were  not  then  in  vain. 
They  fell  devoted,  but  undying; 
The  very  gale  their  names  seemed  sighing  : 
The  waters  murmured  of  their  name  ; 
The  woods  were  peopled  with  their  fame  ; 
The  silent  pillar,  lone  and  gray, 
Claimed  kindred  with  their  sacred  clay ; 
Their  spirits  wrapped  the  dusky  mountain, 
Their  memory  sparkled  o'er  the  fountain  : 
The  meanest  rill,  the  mightiest  river 
Rolled  mingling  with  their  fame  forever. 
Despite  of  every  yoke  she  bears, 
That  land  is  glory's  still  and  theirs ! 1 


[Here  follows,  in  MS.— 
"  Immortal  —  boundless  —  undecayed  — 
Their  souls  the  very  soil  pervade."] 


'Tis  still  a  watch-word  to  the  earth  : 
When  man  would  do  a  deed  of  worth 
He  points  to  Greece,  and  turns  to  tread, 
So  sanctioned,  on  the  tyrant's  head  : 
He  looks  to  her,  and  rushes  on 
Where  life  is  lost,  or  freedom  won.2 

xvr. 

Still  by  the  shore  Alp  mutely  mused, 

And  wooed  the  freshness  Night  diffused. 

There  shrinks  no  ebb  in  that  tideless  sea,3 

Which  changeless  rolls  eternally; 

So  that  wildest  of  waves,  in  their  angriest  mood, 

Scarce  break  on  the  bounds  of  the  land  for  a 

rood; 
And  the  powerless  moon  beholds  them  flow, 
Heedless  if  she  come  or  go: 
Calm  or  high,  in  main  or  bay 
On  their  course  she  hath  no  sway. 
The  rock  unworn  its  base  doth  bare, 
And  looks  o'er  the  surf,  but  it  comes  not  there ; 
And  the  fringe  of  the  foam  may  be  seen  below, 
On  the  line  that  it  left  long  ages  ago : 
A  smooth  short  space  of  yellow  sand 
Between  it  and  the  greener  land. 

He  wandered  on,  along  the  beach, 
Till  within  the  range  of  a  carbine's  reach 
Of  the  leaguered  wall ;  but  they  saw  him  not, 
Or  how  could  he 'scape  from  the  hostile  shot  ?  * 
Did  traitors  lujrk  in  the  Christians'  hold  ? 
Were  their  hands  grown  stiff,  or  their  hearts 

waxed  cold  ? 
I  know  not,  in  sooth ;  but  from  yonder  wall 
There   flashed  no   fire,  and  there  hissed  no 

ball, 
Though  he  stood  beneath  the  bastion's  frown, 
That  flanked  the  sea-ward  gate  of  the  town ; 
Though  he  heard  the  sound,  and  could  almost 

tell 
The  sullen  words  of  the  sentinel, 
As  his  measured  step  on  the  stone  below 
Clanked,  as  he  paced  it  to  and  fro ; 
And  he  saw  the  lean  dogs  beneath  the  wall 
Hold  o'er  the  dead  their  carnival,5 
Gorging  and  growling  o'er  carcass  and  limb; 
They  were  too  busy  to  bark  at  him ! 
From  a  Tartar's  skull  they  had  stripped  the 

flesh, 
As  ye  peel  the  fig  when  its  fruit  is  fresh  ; 
And  their  white  tusks  crunched  o'er  the  whiter 

skull.6 


2  [MS.— 

"  Where  Freedom  loveliest  may  be  won."] 

3  The  reader  need  hardly  be  reminded  that  there 
are  no  perceptible  tides  in  the  Mediterranean. 

4  [MS.  —  "  Or  would  not  waste  on  a  single  head 

The  ball  on  numbers  better  sped."] 
6  [Omit  the  rest  of  this  section.  —  Gifford.] 
6  This  spectacle  I  have  seen,  such  as  described, 
beneath  the  wall  of  the  Seraglio,  at  Constantinople, 
in  the  little  cavities  worn  by  the  Bosphorus  in  the 


THE  SIEGE    OF  CORINTH. 


453 


As  it  slipped  through  their  jaws,  when  their 

edge  grew  dull, 
As  they  lazily  mumbled  the  bones  of  the  dead, 
When  they  scarce  could  rise  from    the  spot 

where  they  fed ; 
So  well  had  they  broken  a  lingering  fast 
With  those  who  had  fallen  for  that  night's  re- 

past.l 
And  Alp  knew,  by  the  turbans  that  rolled  on 

the  sand, 
The  foremost  of  these  were  the  best  of  his  band  : 
Crimson  and  green  were  the  shawls  of  their 

wear, 
And  each  scalp  had  a  single  long  tuft  of  hair,2 
All  the  rest  was  shaven  and  bare. 
The  scalps  were  in  the  wild  dog's  maw, 
The  hair  was  tangled  round  his  jaw. 
But  close  by  the  shore,  on  the  edge  of  the  gulf, 
There  sat  a  vulture  flapping  a  wolf, 
Who  had  stolen  from  the  hills,  but  kept  away, 
Scared  by  the  dogs,  from  the  human  prey ; 
But  he  seized  on  his  share  of  a  steed  that  lay, 
Picked  by  the  birds,  on  the  sands  of  the  bay. 

XVII. 

Alp  turned  him  from  the  sickening  sight: 
Never  had  shaken  his  nerves  in  fight ; 
But  he  better  could  brook  to  behold  the  dying, 
Deep  in  the  tide  of  their  warm  blood  lying,3 
Scorched  with  the  death-thirst,  and  writhing 

in  vain, 
Than  the  perishing  dead  who  are  past   all 

pain.4 
There  is  something  of  pride  in  the  perilous 

hour, 
Whate'er  be  the  shape  in  which  death  may 

lower ; 
For  Fame  is  there  to  say  who  bleeds, 
And  Honor's  eye  on  daring  deeds ! 
But  when  all  is  past,  it  is  humbling  to  tread 
O'er  the  weltering  field  of  the  tombless  dead,5 
And  see  worms  of  the  earth,  and  fowls  of  the 

air, 


rock,  a  narrow  terrace  of  which  projects  between 
the  wall  and  the  water.  I  think  the  fact  is  also 
mentioned  in  Hobhouse's  Travels.  The  bodies 
were  probably  those  of  some  refractory  Janizaries. 

1  [This  passage  shows  the  force  of  Lord  Byron's 
pencil.  — Jeffrey.^ 

2  This  tuft,  or  long  lock,  is  left  from  a  supersti- 
tion, that  Mahomet  will  draw  them  into  Paradis? 
by  it. 

3  [Than  the  mangled  corpse  in  its  own  blood 
lying.  —  Gifford.} 

*  [Strike  out  — 
"  Scorched  with  the  death-thirst,  and  writhing  in 
vain, 

Than  the  perishing  dead  who  are  past  all  pain." 
What  is  a  "  perishing  dead?  "  —  Giffurd.\ 

5  [O'er  the  weltering  limbs  of  the  tombless  dead. 
>-  Gifford.\ 


Beasts  of  the  forest,  all  gathering  there; 
All  regarding  man  as  their  prey, 
All  rejoicing  in  his  decay.6 


There  is  a  temple  in  ruin  stands, 
Fashioned  by  long  forgotten  hands ; 
Two  or  three  columns,  and  many  a  stone, 
Marble  and  granite,  with  grass  o'ergrown ! 
Out  upon  Time !  it  will  leave  no  more 
Of  the  things  to  come  than  the  things  before  ! 
Out  upon  Time !  who  for  ever  will  leave 
But  enough  of  the  past  for  the  future  to  grieve 
O'er   that   which   hath   been,   and   o'er  that 

which  must  be : 
What  we  have  seen,  our  sons  shall  see ; 
Remnaats  of  things  that  have  passed  away, 
Fragments  of  stone,  reared   by  creatures   of 

clay ! 8 

XIX. 

He  sate  him  down  at  a  pillar's  base,9 

And  passed  his  hand  athwart  his  face; 

Like  one  in  dreary  musing  mood, 

Declining  was  his  attitude  ; 

His  head  was  drooping  on  his  breast, 

Fevered,  throbbing,  and  oppressed  ; 

And  o'er  his  brow,  so  downward  bent. 

Oft  his  beating  fingers  went, 

Hurriedly,  as  you  may  see 

Your  own -run  over  the  ivory  key 

Ere  the  measured  tone  is  taken 

By  the  chords  you  would  awaken. 

There  he  sate  all  heavily, 

As  he  heard  the  night-wind  sigh. 

Was  it  the  wind  through  some  hollow  stone, 

Sent  that  soft  and  tender  moan  ? 10 

«  [MS.— 

"  All  that  liveth  on  man  will  prey, 
All  rejoice  in  his  decay, 
All  that  can  kindle  dismay  and  disgust 
Follow  his  frame  from  the  bier  to  the  dust."] 

7  [Omit  this  couplet.  —  Gifford.} 

8  [After  this  follows  in  MS. — 

"  Monuments  that  the  coming  age 
Leaves  to  the  spoil  of  the  seasons'  rage  — 
Till  Ruin  makes  the  relics  scarce. 
Then  Learning  acts  her  solemn  farce, 
And,  roaming  through  the  marble  waste, 
Prates  of  beauty,  art,  and  taste. 

XIX. 

"  That  Temple  was  more  in  the  midst  of  the  plain 
What  of  that  shrine  did  yet  remain 
Lay  to  his  left "] 

9  [From  this,  all  is  beautiful  to  — 

"  He  saw  not,  he  knew  not;  but  nothing  is  there." 

Gzjford.] 
10  I  must  here  acknowledge  a  close,  though  unin 
tentional,  resemblance  in  these  twelve  lines  to  a 
passage  in  an  unpublished  poem  of  Mr.  Coleridee, 
called  "  Christabel."  It  was  not  till  after  these 
lines  were  written  that  I  heard  that  wild  and  singu- 


454 


THE   SIEGE    OF  CORINTH. 


He  lifted  his  head,  and  he  looked  on  the 

sea, 
But  it  was  unrippled  as  glass  may  be ; 
He  looked  on  the  long   grass  —  it  waved 

not  a  blade ; 
How  was  that  gentle  sound  conveyed  ? 
He  looked  to  the  banners  —  each  flag  lay 

still, 
So  did  the  leaves  on  Cithoeron's  hill, 
And  he  felt  not   a  breath  come  over  his 

cheek ; 
What  did  that  sudden  sound  bespeak  ? 
He  turned  to  the  left  —  is  he  sure  of  sight  ? 
There  sate  a  lady,  youthful  and  bright ! 

XX. 

He  started  up  with  more  of  fear 

Than  if  an  armed  foe  were  near. 

"  God  of  my  fathers  !  what  is  here  ? 

Who  art  thou,  and  wherefore  sent 

So  near  a  hostile  armament  ?  " 

His  trembling  hands  refused  to  sign 

The  cross  he  deemed  no  more  divine : 

He  had  resumed  it  in  that  hour, 

But  conscience  wrung  away  the  power. 

He  gazed,  he  saw :  he  knew  the  face 

Of  beauty,  and  the  form  of  grace  ; 

It  was  Francesca  by  his  side, 

The  maid  who  might  have  been  his  bride ! 

The  rose  was  yet  upon  her  cheek, 
But  mellowed  with  a  tenderer  streak  : 
Where  was  the  play  of  her  soft  lips  fled  ? 
Gone  was   the  smile  that  enlivened   their 

red. 
The  ocean's  calm  within  their  view, 
Beside  her  eye  had  less  of  blue  ; 
But  like  that  cold  wave  it  stood  still, 
And  its  glance,1  though  clear,  was  chill. 
Around  her  form  a  thin  robe  twining, 
Nought  concealed  her  bosom  shining; 

larly  original  and  beautiful  poem  recited;  and  the 
MS.  of  that  production  I  never  saw  till  very  recently, 
by  the  kindness  of  Mr.  Coleridge  himself,  who,  I 
hope,  is  convinced  that  I  have  not  been  a  wilful 
plagiarist.     The  original  idea  undoubtedly  pertains 
to  Mr.  Coleridge,  whose  poem  has  been  composed 
above  fourteen  years.     Let  me  conclude  by  a  hope 
diat  he  will  not  longer  delay  the  publication  of  a 
production,  of  which  I  can  only  add  my  mite  of 
approbation  to  the  applause  of  far  more  competent 
judges.  —  [The  lines  in  "  Christabel"  are  these:  — 
"The  night  is  chill,  the  forest  bare, 
Is  it  the  wind  that  moaneth  bleak? 
There  is  not  wind  enough  in  the  air 
To  move  away  the  ringlet  curl 
From  the  lovely  lady's  cheek  — 
There  is  not  wind  enough  to  twirl 
The  one  red  leaf,  the  last  of  its  clan, 
That  dances  as  often  as  dance  it  can, 
Hanging  so  light,  and  hanging  so  high, 
On  the  topmost  twig  that  looks  at  the  sky."] 
1  [And  its  thrilling  glance,  etc.  —  Gilford.] 


Through  the  parting  of  her  hair, 
Floating  darkly  downward  there, 
Her  rounded  arm  showed  white  and  bare: 
And  ere  yet  she  made  reply, 
Once  she  raised  her  hand  on  high ; 
It  was  so  wan,  and  transparent  of  hue, 
You   might    have    seen    the    moon   shine 
through. 

XXI. 

"  I  come  from  my  rest  to  him  I  love  best, 

That  I  may  be  happy,  and  he  may  be  blessed. 

I  have  passed  the  guards,  the  gate,  the  wall  ;    , 

Sought  thee  in  safety  through  foes  and  all. 

'Tis  said  the  lion  will  turn  and  flee 

From  a  maid  in  the  pride  of  her  purity; 

And  the  power  on  high,  that  can  shield  the  good 

Thus  from  the  tyrant  of  the  wood, 

Hath  extended  its  mercy  to  guard  me  as  well 

From  the  hands  of  the  leaguering  infidel. 

I  come  —  and  if  I  come  in  vain, 

Never,  oh  never,  we  meet  again  ! 

Thou  hast  done  a  fearful  deed 

In  filling  away  from  thy  father's  creed: 

But  dash  that  turban  to  earth,  and  sign 

The  sign  of  the  cross,  and  for  ever  be  mine ; 

Wring  the  black  drop  from  thy  heart, 

And  to-morrow  unites  us  no  more  to  part." 

"  And   where    should    our  bridal    couch   be 

spread  ? 
In  the  midst  erf  the  dying  and  the  dead  ? 
For  to-morrow  we  give  to  the  slaughter  and 

flame 
The  sons  and  the  shrines  of  the  Christian  name. 
None,  save  thou  and  thine,  I've  sworn, 
Shall  be  left  upon  the  morn  : 
But  thee  will  I  bear  to  a  lovely  spot, 
Where  our   hands  shall  be  joined,  and  our 

sorrow  forgot. 
There  thou  yet  shalt  be  my  bride, 
When  once  again  I've  quelled  the  pride 
Of  Venice  ;  and  her  hated  race 
Have  felt  the  arm  they  would  debase ; 
Scourge,  with  a  whip  of  scorpions,  those 
Whom  vice  and  envy  made  my  foes." 

Upon  his  hand  she  laid  her  own  — 

Light  was  the  touch,  but  it  thrilled  to  the  bone, 

And  shot  a  dullness  to  his  heart, 

Which  fixed  him  beyond  the  power  to  start. 

Though  slight  was  that  grasp  so  mortal  cold, 

He  could  not  loose  him  from  its  hold; 

But  never  did  clasp  of  one  so  dear 

Strike  on  the  pulse  with  such  feeling  of  fear, 

As  those  thin  fingers,  long  and  white, 

Froze  through  his  blood  by  their  touch  that 

night. 
The  feverish  glow  of  his  brow  was  gone, 
And   his   heart  sank  so  still  that  it  felt  like 

stone, 
As  he  looked  on  the  face,  and  beheld  its  hu^ 
So  deeply  changed  from  what  he  knew : 


THE  SIEGE    OE  CORINTH. 


455 


Fair  but  faint  —  without  the  ray 
Of  mind,  that  made  each  feature  play 
Like  sparkling  waves  on  a  sunny  day ; 
And  her  motionless  lips  lay  still  as  death, 
And  her  words  came  forth  without  her  breath, 
And  there  rose  not  a  heave  o'er  her  bosom's 

swell, 
And  there  seemed  not  a  pulse  in  her  veins  to 

dwell. 
Though  her  eye  shone  out,  yet  the  lids  were 

fixed, 
And  the   glance   that  it  gave  was   wild   and 

unmixed 
With  aught  of  change,  as  the  eyes  may  seem 
Of  the  restless  who  walk  in  a  troubled  dream  ; 
Like  the  figures  on  arras,  that  gloomily  glare, 
Stirred  by  the  breath  of  the  wintry  air,1 
So  seen  by  the  dying  lamp's  fitful  light, 
Lifeless,  but  life-like,  and  awful  to  sight ; 
As  they  seem,  through  the  dimness,  about  to 

come  down 
From  the  shadowy  wall  where  their   images 

frown ;  - 
Fearfully  flitting  to  and  fro, 
As  the  gusts  on  the  tapestry  come  and  go. 
"  If  not  for  love  of  me  be  given 
Thus  much,  then,  for  the  love  of  heaven, — 
Again  I  say  —  that  turban  tear 
From  off  thy  faithless  brow,  and  swear 
Thine  injured  country's  sons  to  spare, 
Or  thou  art  lost;  and  never  shalt  see  — 
Not  earth  —  that's  past  —  but  heaven  or  me. 
If  this  thou  dost  accord,  albeit 
A  heavy  doom  'tis  thine  to  meet, 
That  doom  shall  half  absolve  thy  sin, 
And  mercy's  gate  may  receive  thee  within  : 
But  pause  one  moment  more,  and  take 
The  curse  of  Him  thou  didst  forsake; 
And  look  once  more  to  heaven,  and  see 
Its  love  for  ever  shut  from  thee. 
There  is  a  light  cloud  by  the  moon  —  3 


1  [MS.— 

"  Like  a  picture,  that  magic  had  charmed  from  its 
frame, 
Lifeless  but  life-like,  and  ever  the  same."] 

2  [In  the  summer  of  1803,  when  in  his  sixteenth 
year,  Byron,  though  offered  a  bed  in  Annesley, 
used  at  first  to  return  every  night  to  sleep  at  New- 
stead;  alleging  as  a  reason,  that  he  was  afraid  of 
the  family  pictures  of  the  Chaworths ;  that  he  fan- 
cied "  they  had  taken  a  grudge  to  him  on  account 
of  the  duel."  Moore  thinks  this  passage  may  have 
been  suggested  by  the  recollection  of  these  pictures.] 

3  I  have  been  told  that  the  idea  expressed  in  this 
and  the  five  following  lines  has  been  admired  by 
those  whose  approbation  is  valuable.  I  am  glad  of 
it:  but  it  is  not  original  —  at  least  not  mine;  it  may 
be  found  much  better  expressed  in  pages  182-3-4  of 
the  English  version  of"  Vathek  "  (I  forget  the  pre- 
cise page  of  the  French) ,  a  work  to  which  I  have 
before  referred;  and  never  recur  to,  or  read,  with- 
out a  renewal  of  gratification. —  [The  following  is 
the  passage:  —  "  '  Deluded  prince!  '  said  the  Genius, 
addressing  the  Caliph,  '  to  whom  Providence  hath 


'Tis  passing,  and  will  pass  full  soon  — 
If,  by  the  time  its  vapory  sail 
Hath  cased  her  shaded  orb  to  veil, 
Thy  heart  within  thee  is  not  changed, 
Then  God  and  man  are  both  avenged ; 
Dark  will  thy  doom  be,  darker  still 
Thine  immortality  of  ill." 

Alp  looked  to  heaven,  and  saw  on  high 

The  sign  she  spake  of  in  the  sky ; 

But  his  heart  was  swollen,  and  turned  aside, 

By  deep  interminable  pride. 

This  first  false  passion  of  his  breast 

Rolled  like  a  torrent  o'er  the  rest. 

He  sue  for  mercy  !  He  dismayed 

By  wild  words  of  a  timid  maid  ! 

He,  wronged  by  Venice,  vow  to  save 

Her  sons,  devoted  to  the  grave ! 

No — though  that  cloud  were  thunder's  worst, 

And  charge  to  crush  him  —  let  it  burst! 

He  looked  upon  it  earnestly, 
Without  an  accent  of  reply ; 
He  watched  it  passing;  it  is  flown: 
Full  on  his  eye  the  clear  moon  shone, 
And  thus  he  spake  —  "  Whate'er  my  fate, 
I  am  no  changeling  —  'tis  too  late: 
The  reed  in  storms  may  bow  and  quiver, 
Then  rise  again  ;  the  tree  must  shiver. 
What  Venice  made  me,  I  must  be, 
Her  foe  in  all,  save  love  to  thee : 
But  thou  art  safe  :  oh,  fly  with  me !  " 
He  turned,  but  she  is  gone ! 
Nothing  is  there  but  the  column  stone. 
Hath  she  sunk  in  the  earth,  or  melted  in  air  ? 
He  saw  not  —  he  knew  not  —  but   nothing 
is  there. 


The  night  is  past,  and  shines  the  sun 
As  if  that  morn  were  a  jocund  one.4 
Lightly  and  brightly  breaks  away 
The  Morning  from  her  mantle  gray, 

confided  the  care  of  innumerable  subjects;  is  it  chus 
that  thou  fulfillest  thy  mission?  Thy  crimes  are 
already  completed ;  and  art  thou  now  hastening  to 
thy  punishment?  Thou  knowest  that  beyond  those 
mountains  Eblis  and  his  accursed  dives  hold  their 
infernal  empire;  and  seduced  by  a  malignant  phan- 
tom, thou  art  proceeding  to  surrender  thyself  to 
them !  This  moment  is  the  last  of  grace  allowed 
thee:  give  back  Nouronahar  to  her  father,  who  still 
retains  a  few  sparks  of  life;  destroy  thy  tower,  with 
all  its  abominations  :  drive  Carathis  from  thy  coun- 
cils: be  just  to  thy  subjects:  respect  the  ministers 
of  the  prophet:  compensate  for  thy  impieties  by  an 
exemplary  life;  and,  instead  of  squandering  thy 
days  in  voluptuous  indulgence,  lament  thy  crimes 
on  the  sepulchres  of  thy  ancestors.  Thou  behold- 
est  the  clouds  that  obscure  the  sun :  at  the  instant 
he  recovers  his  splendor,  if  thy  heart  be  not  changed, 
the  time  of  mercy  assigned  thee  will  be  past  for 
ever."] 

4  [Leave  out  this  couplet.  —  Gifford.] 


*56 


THE   SIEGE    OF  CORINTH. 


And  the  Noon  will  look  on  a  sultry  day.1 

Hark  to  the  trump  and  the  drum, 

And  the  mournful    sound  of  the  barbarous 

horn, 
And  the  flap  of  the  banners,  that  flit  as  they're 

borne, 
And  the  neigh  of  the  steed,  and  the  multi- 
tude's hum, 
And  the  clash,  and  the  shout, "  They  come ! 

they  come !  " 
The  horsetails2  are  plucked  from  the  ground, 

and  the  sword 
From  its  sheath;  and  they  form,  and  but  wait 

for  the  word. 
Tartar,  and  Spahi,  and  Turcoman, 
Strike  your  tents,  and  throng  to  the  van ; 
Mount  ye,  spur  ye,  skirr  the  plain, 
That  the  fugitive  may  flee  in  vain, 
When  he  breaks  from  the  town ;  and  none 

escape, 
Aged  or  young,  in  the  Christian  shape ; 
While  your  fellows  on  foot,  in  a  fiery  mass, 
Bloodstain   the  breach  through  which   they 

pass.3 
The  steeds  are  bridled,  and  snort  to  the  rein ; 
Curved  is  each  neck,  and  flowing  each  mane; 
White  is  the  foam  of  their  champ  on  the  bit ; 
The  spears  are  uplifted  ;  the  matches  are  lit ; 
The  cannon  are  pointed,  and  ready  to  roar, 
And  crush  the  wall  they  have  crumbled  be- 
fore : 4 
Forms  in  his  phalanx  each  Janizar; 
Alp  at  their  head ;  his  right  arm  is  bare, 
So  is  the  blade  of  his  scimitar ; 
The  khan  and  the  pachas  are  all  at  their  post ; 
The  vizier  himself  at  the  head  of  the  host. 
When  the  culverin's  signal  is  fired,  then  on ; 
Leave  not  in  Corinth  a  living  one  — 
A  priest  at  her  altars,  a  chief  in  her  halls, 
A  hearth  in  her  mansions,  a  stone  on   her 

walls. 
God  and  the  prophet  —  Alia  Hu! 
Up  to  the  skies  with  that  wild  halloo ! 
"There  the  breach  lies  for  passage, the  ladder 

to  scale ; 
And  your   hands  on  your  sabres,  and  how 

should  ye  fail  ? 
He  who  first  downs  with  the  red  cross  may 

crave5 


1  [Strike  out  — 

"  And  the  Noon  will  look  on  a  sultry  day."  —  C] 

2  [The  horsetails,  fixed  upon  a  lance,  a  pacha's 
standard.] 

3  [Omit  — 

"  While  your  fellows  on  foot,  in  a  fiery  mass, 
Bloodstain  the  breach  through  which  they  pass." 
Gifford.} 

4  T"  And  crush  the  wall  they  have  shaken  before." 

Gifford.\ 
6  ["  He  who  first  downs  with  the  red  cross  may 
crave,"  etc.]     What  vulgarism  is  this!  — 


His  heart's  dearest  wish  ;  let  him  ask  it,  and 

have ! " 
Thus     uttered    Coumourgi,    the     dauntless 

vizier ; 
The   reply  was   the  brandish   of  sabre  and 

spear, 
And  the  shout  of  fierce  thousands  in  joyous 

ire:  — 
Silence  —  hark  to  the  signal  —  fire! 

XXIII. 

As  the  wolves,  that  headlong  go 

On  the  stately  buffalo. 

Though  with  fiery  eyes,  and  angry  roar, 

And  hoofs  that  stamp,  and  horns  that  gore, 

He  tramples  on  earth,  or  tosses  on  high 

The  foremost,  who  rush  on  his  strength  but  to 

die 
Thus  against  the  wall  they  went, 
Thus  the  first  were  backward  bent ;  6 
Many  a  bosom,  sheathed  in  brass, 
Strewed  the  earth  like  broken  glass, 
Shivered  by  the  shot,  that  tore 
The  ground  whereon  they  moved  no  more : 
Even  as  they  fell,  in  files  they  lay, 
Like  the  mower's  grass  at  the  close  of  day, 
When  his  work  is  done  on  the  levelled  plain; 
Such  was  the  fall  of  the  foremost  slain.7 

XXIV. 

As  the  spring-Jides,  with  heavy  plash, 

From  the  cliffs  invading  dash 

Huge  fragments,  sapped  by  the  ceaseless  flow, 

Till  white  and  thundering  down  they  go, 

Like  the  avalanche's  snow 

On  the  Alpine  vales  below; 

Thus  at  length,  outbreathed  and  worn, 

Corinth's  sons  were  downward  borne 

By  the  long  and  oft  renewed 

Charge  of  the  Moslem  multitude. 

In  firmness  they  stood,  and  in  masses  they 

fell, 
Heaped  by  the  host  of  the  infidel, 
Hand  to  hand,  and  foot  to  foot : 
Nothing  there,  save  death,  was  mute; 
Stroke,  and  thrust,  and  flash,  and  cry 
For  quarter,  or  for  victory, 
Mingle  there  with  the  volleying  thunder, 
Which  makes  the  distant  cities  wonder 
How  the  sounding  battle  goes, 
If  with  them,  or  for  their  foes ; 
If  they  must  mourn,  or  may  rejoice 
In  that  annihilating  voice, 
Which   pierces   the  deep   hills  through  and 

through 
With  an  echo  dread  and  new : 


"  He  who  lowers,  —  or  plucks  down,"  etc.— 
Gifford.\ 

c  [Thus  against  the  wall  they  bent, 

Thus  the  first  were  backward  sent.  —  G.] 
7  [Such  was  the  fall  of  the  foremost  train.  —  G.\ 


THE   SIEGE    OF  CORINTH. 


457 


You  might  have  heard  it,  on  that  day, 
O'er  Salamis  and  Megara ; 
(We  have  heard  the  hearers  say,) 
Even  unto  Piraeus'  bay. 


From  the  point  of  encountering  blades  to  the 

hilt, 
Sabres  and  swords  with  blood  were  gilt ; 
But  the  rampart  is  won,  and  the  spoil  begun, 
And  all  but  the  after  carnage  done. 
Shriller  shrieks  now  mingling  come 
From  within  the  plundered  dome : 
Hark  to  the  haste  of  flying  feet, 
That  splash    in   the    blood  of    the  slippery 

street ; 
But  here  and  there,  where  'vantage  ground 
Against  the  foe  may  still  be  found, 
Desperate  groups,  of  twelve  or  ten, 
Make  a  pause,  and  turn  again  — 
With  banded  backs  against  the  wall, 
Fiercely  stand,  or  fighting  fall. 

There  stood  an  old  man1  —  his  hairs  were 

white, 
But  his  veteran  arm  was  full  of  might: 
So  gallantly  bore  he  the  brunt  of  the  fray, 
The  dead  before  him,  on  that  day, 
In  a  semicircle  lay ; 
Still  he  combated  unwounded, 
Though  retreating,  unsurrounded. 
Many  a  scar  of  former  fight 
Lurked  2  beneath  his  corslet  bright; 
But  of  every  wound  his  body  bore, 
Each  and  all  had  been  ta'en  before: 
Though  aged,  he  was  so  iron  of  limb, 
Few  of  our  youth  could  cope  with  him  ; 
And  the  foes,  whom  he  singly  kept  at  bay, 
Outnumbered    his    thin    hairs3    of    silver 

gray. 
From  right  to  left  his  sabre  swept : 
Many  an  Othman  mother  wept 
Sons  that  were  unborn,  when  dipped4 
His  weapon  first  in  Moslem  gore, 
Ere  his  years  could  count  a  score. 
Of  all  he  might  have  been  the  sire5 
Who  fell  that  day  beneath  his  ire : 
For,  sonless  left  long  years  ago, 
His  wrath  made  many  a  childless  foe ; 
And  since  the  day,  when  in  the  strait6 
His  only  boy  had  met  his  fate, 
His  parent's  iron  hand  did  doom 


1  [There  stood  a  man,  etc. —  Gifford.~\ 

2  ["  Lurked"  a  bad  word  —  say"  Was  hid." 
—  Giffcrd.\ 

3  [Outnumbered  his  hairs,  etc.  —  C] 

4  Sons  that  were  unborn,  when  he  dipped.  —  C] 
6  [Bravo !  —  this  is  better  than  King  Priam's  fifty 

sons. —  Gifford.~\ 

6  In  the  naval  battle  at  the  mouth  of  the  Darda- 
nelles, between  the  Venetians  and  Turks. 


More  than  a  human  hecatomb.7 

If  shades  by  carnage  be  appeased, 

Patroclus'  spirit  less  was  pleased 

Than  his,  Minotti's  son,  who  died  , 

Where  Asia's  bounds  and  ours  divide. 

Buried  he  lay,  where  thousands  before 

For  thousands  of  years  were  inhumed  on 

the  shore ; 
What  of  them  is  left,  to  tell 
Where  they  lie,  and  how  they  fell  ? 
Not  a  stone  on  their  turf,  nor  a  bone  in  their 

graves 
But  they  live   in  the  verse  that  immortally 

saves. 

XXVI. 

Hark  to  the  Allah  shout !  8  a  band 

Of  the  Mussulman  bravest  and  best  is  at 

hand : 
Their  leader's  nervous  arm  is  bare, 
Swifter  to  smite,  and  never  to  spare  — 
Unclothed  to  the  shoulder  it  waves  them 

on; 
Thus  in  the  fight  is  he  ever  known : 
Others  a  gaudier  garb  may  show, 
To  tempt  the  spoil  of  the  greedy  foe ; 
Many  a  hand's  on  a  richer  hilt, 
But  none  on  a  steel  more  ruddily  gilt; 
Many  a  loftier  turban  may  wear,  — 
Alp  is  but  known  by  the  white  arm  bare ; 
Look  through   the   thick   of  the  fight,  'tis 

there ! 
There  is  not  a  standard  on  that  shore 
So  well  advanced  the  ranks  before ; 
There  is  not  a  banner  in  Moslem  war 
Will  lure  the  Delhis  half  so  far ; 
It  glances  like  a  falling  starl 
Where'er  that  mighty  arm  is  seen, 
The  bravest  be,  or  late  have  been  ;9 
There  the  craven  cries  for  quarter 
Vainly  to  the  vengeful  Tartar ; 
Or  the  hero,  silent  lying, 
Scorns  to  yield  a  groan  in  dying; 
Mustering  his  last  feeble  blow 
"Gainst  the  nearest  levelled  foe, 
Though  faint  beneath  the  mutual  wound, 
Grappling  on  the  gory  ground. 

XXVII. 

Still  the  old  m?n  stood  erect, 
And  Alp's  career  a  moment  checked. 
"  Yield  thee,  Minotti ;  quarter  take, 
For  thine  own,  thy  daughter's  sake." 
"  Never,  renegado,  never! 
Though  the  life  of  thy  gift  would  last  for 
ever."  10 


7  [There  can  be  no  such  thing;  but  the  whole  of 
this  is  poor  and  spun  out.  —  G.] 

8  [Hark  to  the  Alia  Hu !  etc.  —  G.~\ 

9  [Omit  the  remainder  of  the  section.  —  Gifford.} 
10  [In  the  original  MS.  — 

"  Though  the  life  of  thy  giving  would  last  for  ever."] 


4.58 


THE  SIEGE    OF  CORINTH. 


"  Francesca !  —  Oh,  my  promised  bride ! 1 

Must  she  too  perish  by  thy  pride  ?  " 

'She  ir, safe."  —  "  Where  ?  where  ?  "  —  "  In 

heaven ; 
From  whence  thy  traitor  soul  is  driven  — 
Far  from  thee,  and  undefiled." 
Grimly  then  Minotti  smiled, 
As  he  saw  Alp  staggering  bow 
Before  his  words,  as  with  a  blow. 

"  Oh   God  !   when  died    she  ?  "  —  "  Yester- 
night— 
Nor  weep  I  for  her  spirit's  flight : 
None  of  my  pure  race  shall  be 
Slaves  to  Mahomet  and  thee  — 
Come  on  !  "  - — That  challenge  is  in  vain  — 
Alp's  already  with  the  slain  ! 
While  Minotti's  words  were  wreaking 
More  revenge  in  bitter  speaking 
Than  his  falchion's  point  had  found, 
Had  the  time  allowed  to  wound, 
From  within  the  neighboring  porch 
Of  a  long  defended  church, 
Where  the  last  and  desperate  few 
Would  the  failing  fight  renew, 
The  sharp  shot  dashed  Alp  to  the  ground  ; 
Ere  an  eye  could  view  the  wound 
That  crashed  through  the  brain  of  the  infi- 
del, 
Round  he  spun,  and  down  he  fell ; 
A  flash  like  fire  within  his  eyes 
Blazed,  as  he  bent  no  more  to  rise, 
And  then  eternal  darkness  sunk 
Through  all  the  palpitating  trunk;2 
Nought  of  life  left,  save  a  quivering 
Where  his  limbs  were  slightly  shivering: 
They  turned  him  on  his  back;  his  breast 
And  brow  were  stained  with  gore  and  dust, 
And  through  his  lips  the  life-blood  oozed, 
From  its  deep  veins  lately  loosed  ; 
But  in  his  pulse  there  was  no  throb, 
Nor  on  his  lips  one  dying  sob ; 
Sigh,  nor  word,  nor  struggling  breath 
Heralded  his  way  to  death  : 
Ere  his  very  thought  could  pray, 
Unanealed  he  passed  away, 
Without  a  hope  from  mercy's  aid, — 
To  the  last  —  a  Renegade. 


Fearfully  the  yell  arose 

Of  his  followers,  and  his  foes; 

These  in  joy,  in  fury  those  :  8 

Then  again  in  conflict  mixing, 

Clashing  swords,  and  spears  transfixing, 


i  [MS.— 

"  Where's  Francesca?  —  my  promised  bride!  "] 
*  [Here  follows  in  MS.— 

"  Twice  and  once  tie  rolled  a  space, 
Then  lead-like  lay  upon  his  face."] 
•  [MS. —  "  These  in  rage,  in  triumph  those."] 


Interchanged  the  blow  and  thrust, 

Hurling  warriors  in  the  dust. 

Street  by  street,  and  foot  by  foot, 

Still  Minotti  dares  dispute 

The  latest  portion  of  the  land 

Left  beneath  his  high  command; 

With  him,  aiding  heart  and  hand, 

The  remnant  of  his  gallant  band. 

Still  the  church  is  tenable, 

Whence  issued  late  the  fated  ball 
That  half  avenged  the  city's  fall, 

When  Alp,  her  fierce  assailant,  fell: 

Thither  bending  sternly  back, 

They  leave  before  a  bloody  track ; 

And,  with  their  faces  to  the  foe, 

Dealing  wounds  with  every  blow,4 

The  chief,  and  his  retreating  train, 

Join  to  those  within  the  fane ; 

There  they  yet  may  breathe  aw:hile, 

Sheltered  by  the  massy  pile. 

XXIX. 

Brief  breathing-time!  the  turbaned  host, 
With  adding  ranks  and  raging  boast, 
Press  onwards  with  such  strength  and  heat, 
Their  numbers  balk  their  own  retreat; 
For  narrow  the  way  that  led  to  the  spot 
Where  still  the  Christians  yielded  not ; 
And  the  foremost,  if  fearful,  may  vainly  try 
Through  the  massy  column  to  turn  and  fly ; 
They  perforce  must  do  or  die. 
They  die ;  bflt  ere  their  eyes  could  close, 
Avengers  o'er  their  bodies  rose ; 
Fresh  and  furious,  fast  they  fill 
The  ranks  un thinned,  though  slaughtered 

still ; 
And  faint  the  weary  Christians  wax 
Before  the  still  renewed  attacks  : 
And  now  the  Othmans  gain  the  gate ; 
Still  resists  its  iron  weight, 
And  still,  all  deadly  aimed  and  hot, 
From  every  crevice  comes  the  shot; 
From  every  shattered  window  pour 
The  volleys  of  the  sulphurous  shower  : 
But  the  portal  w-avering  grows  and  weak  — 
The  iron  yields,  the  hinges  creak  — 
It  bends  — •  it  falls  —  and  all  is  o'er ; 
Lost  Corinth  may  resist  no  more  1 

XXX. 

Darkly,  sternly,  and  all  alone, 
Minotti  stood  o'er  the  altar  stone : 
Madonna's  face  upon  him  shone, 
Painted  in  heavenly  hues  above, 
With  eyes  of  light  and  looks  of  love ; 
And  placed  upon  that  holy  shrine 
To  fix  our  thoughts  on  things  divine, 
When  pictured  there,  we  kneeling  see 
Her,  and  the  boy-God  on  her  knee, 
Smiling  sweetly  on  each  prayer 

*  [Dealing  death  with  every  blow.  —  Giffcrd.} 


THE   SIEGE    OF  CORINTH. 


459 


To  heaven,  as  if  to  waft  it  there, 

Still  she  smiled ;  even  now  she  smiles, 

Though  slaughter  streams  along  her  aisles  : 

Minotti  lifted  his  aged  eye, 

And  made  the  sign  of  a  cross  with  a  sigh, 

Then  seized  a  torch  which  blazed  thereby ; 

And  still   he  stood,  while,  with  steel  and 

flame, 
Inward  and  onward  the  Mussulman  came. 

XXXI. 

The  vaults  beneath  the  mosaic  stone 

Contained  the  dead  of  ages  gone ; 

Their  names  were  on  the  graven  floor, 

But  now  illegible  with  gore ; 

The  carved  crests,  and  curious  hues 

The  varied  marble's  veins  diffuse, 

Were  smeared,  and  slippery  —  stained,  and 

strown 
With  broken  swords,  and  helms  o'erthrown  : 
There  were  dead  above,  and  the  dead  below 
Lay  cold  in  many  a  coffined  row  ; 
You  might  see  them  piled  in  sable  state, 
By  a  pale  light  through  a  gloomy  grate ; 
But  War  had  entered  their  dark  caves, 
And  stored  along  the  vaulted  graves 
Her  sulphurous  treasures,  thickly  spread 
In  masses  by  the  fleshless  dead  : 
Here,  throughout  the  siege,  had  been 
The  Christians'  chiefest  magazine ; 
To  these  a  late  formed  train  now  led, 
Minotti's  last  and  stern  resource 
Against  the  foe's  o'erwhelming  force. 

XXXII. 

The  foe  came  on,  and  few  remain 

To  strive,  and  those  must  strive  in  vain  : 

For  lack  of  further  lives,  to  slake 

The  thirst  of  vengeance  now  awake, 

With  barbarous  blows  they  gash  the  dead, 

And  lop  the  already  lifeless  head, 

And  fell  the  statues  from  their  niche, 

And  spoil  the  shrines  of  offerings  rich, 

And  from  each  other's  rude  hands  wrest 

The  silver  vessels  saints  had  blessed. 

To  the  high  altar  on  they  go ; 

Oh,  but  it  made  a  glorious  show !  1 

On  its  table  still  behold 

The  cup  of  consecrated  gold  ; 

Massy  and  deep,  a  glittering  prize, 

Brightly  it  sparkles  to  plunderers'  eyes : 

That  morn  it  held  the  holy  wine, 

Converted  by  Christ  to  his  blood  so  divine, 

Which  his  worshippers  drank  at  the  break 

of  day 
To  shrive  their  souls  ere  they  joined  in  the 

fray. 
Still  a  few  drops  within  it  lay  ; 
And  round  the  sacred  table  glow 


]  [' Oh,  but  it  made  a  glorious  show! !  "    Out. — 
Gifford.\ 


Twelve  lofty  lamps,  in  splendid  row, 

From  the  purest  metal  cast ; 

A  spoil  — the  richest,  and  the  last. 


So  near  they  came,  the  nearest  stretched 
To  grasp  the  spoil  he  almost  reached, 

When  old  Minotti's  hand 
Touched  with  the  torch  the  train  — 

'Tis  fired ! 
Spire,  vaults,  the  shrine,  the  spoil,  the  slain, 
The  turbaned  victors,  the  Christian  band, 
All  that  of  living  or  dead  remain, 
Hurled  on  high  with  the  shivered  fane, 

In  one  wild  roar  expired  ! 
The    shattered    town  —  the    walls    thrown 

down  — 
The  waves  a  moment  backward  bent  — 
The  hills  that  shake,  although  unrent, 

As  if  an  earthquake  passed  — 
The  thousand  shapeless  things  all  driven 
In  cloud  and  flame  athwart  the  heaven, 

By  that  tremendous  blast  — 
Proclaimed  the  desperate  conflict  o'er 
On  that  too  long  afflicted  shore:2 
Up  to  the  sky  like  rockets  go 
All  that  mingled  there  below: 
Many  a  tall  and  goodly  man, 
Scorched  and  shrivelled  to  a  span, 
When  he  fell  to  earth  again 
Like  a  cinder  strewed  the  plain  : 
Down  the  ashes  shower  like  rain; 
Some  fell  in  the  gulf,  which   received  tha 

sprinkles 
With  a  thousand  circling  wrinkles; 
Some  fell  on  the  shore,  but,  far  away, 
Scattered  o'er  the  isthmus  lay ; 
Christian  or  Moslem,  which  be  they? 
Let  their  mothers  see  and  say ! 
When  in  cradled  rest  they  lay, 
And  each  nursing  mother  smiled 
On  the  sweet  sleep  of  her  child, 
Little  deemed  she  such  a  day 
Would  rend  those  tender  limbs  away 
Not  the  matrons  that  them  bore 
Could  discern  their  offspring  more: 
That  one  moment  left  no  trace 
More  of  human  form  or  face 
Save  a  scattered  scalp  or  bone : 
And  down  came  blazing  rafters,  strovr|\ 
Around,  and  many  a  falling  stone, 
Deeply  dinted  in  the  clay, 
All  blackened  there  and  reeking  lay. 
All  the  living  things  that  heard 
That  deadly  earth-shock  disappeared  : 
The  wild  birds  flew ;  the  wild  dogs  fled, 
And  howling  left  the  unburied  dead ;  3 

2  [Strike  out  from  "Up  to  the  sky,"  etc.  to  "AH 
blackened  there  and  reeking  lay."  Despicable 
stuff.  —  Gifford.\ 

3  [.Omit  the  next  six  lines.  —  GiJford.\ 


460 


PARISINA. 


The  camels  from  their  keepers  broke ; 
The  distant  steer  forsook  the  yoke  — 
The  nearer  steed  plunged  o'er  the  plain, 
And  burst  his  girth,  and  tore  his  rein ; 
The  bull-frog's  note,  from  out  the  marsh 
Deep-mouthed  arose,  and  doubly  harsh ; 
The  wolves  yelled  on  the  caverned  hill 
Where  echo  rolled  in  thunder  still ; 
The  jackal's  troop,  in  gathered  cry,1 
Bayed  from  afar  complainingly, 
With  a  mixed  and  mournful  sound, 
Like  crying  babe,  and  beaten  hound  :  2 


1  I  believe  I  have  taken  a  poetical  license  to 
transplant  the  jackal  from  Asia.  In  Greece  I  never 
saw  nor  heard  these  animals;  but  among  the  ruins 
of  Ephesus  I  have  heard  them  by  hundreds.  They 
haunt  ruins,  and  follow  armies. 

2  [Leave  out  this  couplet.  —  Gifford.\ 


With  sudden  wing,  and  ruffled  breast, 
The  eagle  left  his  rocky  nest, 
And  mounted  nearer  to  the  sun, 
The  clouds  beneath  him  seemed  so  dun; 
Their  smoke  assailed  his  startled  beak, 
And  made  him  higher  soar  and  shriek  — 
Thus  was  Corinth  lost  and  won !  3 


3  [The  "  Siege  of  Corinth,"  though  written,  per- 
haps, with  too  visible  an  effect,  and  not  very  well 
harmonized  in  all  its  parts,  cannot  but  be  regarded 
as  a  magnificent  composition.  There  is  less  misan- 
thropy in  it  than  in  any  of  the  rest;  and  the  interest 
is  made  up  of  alternate  representations  of  soft  and 
solemn  scenes  and  emotions,  and  of  the  tumult,  and 
terrors,  and  intoxication  of  war.  These  opposite 
pictures  are,  perhaps,  too  violently  contrasted,  and, 
in  some  parts,  too  harshly  colored;  but  they  are  in 
general  exquisitely  designed,  and  executed  with  the 
utmost  spirit  and  energy.  —  Jeffrey, .] 


PARISINA. 


TO   SCROPE   BERDMORE   DA  VIES,  ESQ. 

THE   FOLLOWING  POEM   IS   INSCRIBED 

BY  ONE  WHO   HAS  LONG  ADMIRED   HIS  TALENTS  AND  VALUED   HIS 

FRIENDSHIP. 


January  22, 1816. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 

The  following  poem  is  grounded  on  a  circumstance  mentioned  in  Gibbon's  "  Antiquities  .^  House 
of  Brunswick."  I  am  aware,  that  in  modern  times  the  delicacy  or  fastidiousness  of  the  reader  may  deem 
such  subjects  unfit  for  the  purposes  of  poetry.  The  Greek  dramatists,  and  some  of  the  best  of  our  old 
English  writers,  were  of  a  different  opinion:  as  Alfieri  and  Schiller  have  also  been,  more  recently,  upon 
the  Continent.  The  following  extract  will  explain  the  facts  on  which  the  story  is  founded.  The  name  of 
Azo  is  substituted  for  Nicholas,  as  more  metrical. 

"  Under  the  reign  of  Nicholas  III.  Ferrara  was  polluted  with  a  domestic  tragedy.  By  the  testimony  ol 
an  attendant,  and  his  own  observation,  the  Marquis  of  Este  discovered  the  incestuous  loves  of  his  wife 
Parisina,  and  Hugo  his  bastard  son,  a  beautiful  and  valiant  youth.  They  were  beheaded  in  the  castle 
by  the  sentence  of  a  father  and  husband,  who  published  his  shame,  and  survived  their  execution.1     H« 


1  ["  Ferrara  is  much  decayed  and  depopulated;  but  the  castle  still  exists  entire;   and  I  saw  the  court 
where  Parisina  and  Hugo  were  beheaded,  according  to  the  annal  of  Gibbon."  —  B.  Letters,  1817.] 


PARISINA.  461 


was  unfortunate,  if  they  were  guilty:  if  they  were  innocent,  he  was  still  more  unfortunate;  nor  is  there 
any  possible  situation  in  which  I  can  sincerely  approve  the  last  act  of  the  justice  of  a  parent."  —  Gib- 
ion's  Miscellaneous  Works,  vol.  iii.  p.  470. 


INTRODUCTION 

Parisina  was  written  in  London  in  the  autumn  of  1815,  and  published  in  February,  1816.  The  his- 
:orical  facts  on  which  it  was  founded  are  detailed  in  the  following  passage  in  Frizzi's  History  of 
t'errara. 

"  This  turned  out  a  calamitous  year  for  the  people  of  Ferrara;  for  there  occurred  a  very  tragical  event 
in  the  court  of  their  sovereign.  Our  annals,  both  printed  and  in  manuscript,  with  the  exception  of  the 
'jnpolished  and  negligent  work  of  Sardi,  and  one  other,  have  given  the  following  relation  of  it,  —  from 
which,  however,  are  rejected  many  details,  and  especially  the  narrative  of  Bandelli,  who  wrote  a  century 
afterwards,  and  who  does  not  accord  with  the  contemporary  historians. 

"  By  the  above-mentioned  Stella  dell'  Assassino,  the  Marquis,  in  the  year  1405,  had  a  son  called  Ugo, 
a  beautiful  and  ingenuous  youth.  Parisina  Malatesta,  second  wife  of  Niccolo,  like  the  generality  of  step- 
mothers, treated  him  with  little  kindness,  to  the  infinite  regret  of  the  Marquis,  who  regarded  him  with 
fond  partiality.  One  day  she  asked  leave  of  her  husband  to  undertake  a  certain  journey,  to  which  he 
consented,  but  upon  condition  that  Ugo  should  bear  her  company;  for  he  hoped  by  these  means  to  induce 
her,  in  the  end,  to  lay  aside  the  obstinate  aversion  which  she  had  conceived  against  him.  And  indeed 
his  intent  was  accomplished  but  too  well,  since,  during  the  journey,  she  not  only  divested  herself  of  all 
her  hatred,  but  fell  into  the  opposite  extreme.  After  their  return,  the  Marquis  had  no  longer  any  occa- 
sion to  renew  his  former  reproofs.  It  happened  one  day  that  a  servant  of  the  Marquis,  named  Zoese,  or, 
as  some  call  him,  Giorgio,  passing  before  the  apartments  of  Parisina,  saw  going  out  from  them  one  of  her 
chamber-maids,  all  terrified  and  in  tears.  Asking  the  reason,  she  told  him  that  her  mistress,  for  some 
slight  offence,  had  been  beating  her;  and,  giving  vent  to  her  rage,  she  added,  that  she  could  easily  be 
revenged,  if  she  chose  to  make  known  the  criminal  familiarity  which  subsisted  between  Parisina  and  her 
step-son.  The  servant  took  note  of  the  words,  and  related  them  to  his  master.  He  was  astounded 
thereat,  but,  scarcely  believing  his  ears,  he  assured  himself  of  the  fact,  alas!  too  clearly,  on  the  18th  of 
May,  by  looking  through  a  hole  made  in  the  ceiling  of  his  wife's  chamber.  Instantly  he  broke  into  a 
furious  rage,  and  arrested  both  of  them,  together  with  Aldobrandino  Rangoni,  of  Modena,  her  gentleman, 
and  also  as  some  say,  two  of  the  women  of  her  chamber,  as  abettors  of  this  sinful  act.  He  ordered  them 
to  be  brought  to  a  hasty  trial,  desiring  the  judges  to  pronounce  sentence,  in  the  accustomed  forms,  upon 
the  culprits.  This  sentence  was  death.  Some  there  were  that  bestirred  themselves  in  favor  of  the  delin- 
quents, and,  amongst  others,  Ugoccion  Contrario,  who  was  all  powerful  with  Niccolo,  and  also  his  aged 
and  much  deserving  minister  Alberto  dal  Sale.  Both  of  these,  their  tears  flowing  down  their  cheeks,  and 
upon  their  knees,  implored  him  for  mercy;  adducing  whatever  reasons  they  could  suggest  for  sparing 
the  offenders,  besides  those  motives  of  honor  and  decency  which  might  persuade  him  to  conceal  from  the 
public  so  scandalous  a  deed.  But  his  rage  made  him  inflexible,  and,  on  the  instant,  he  commanded  that 
the  sentence  should  be  put  in  execution. 

"  It  was,  then,  in  the  prisons  of  the  castle,  and  exactly  in  those  frightful  dungeons  which  are  seen  at 
;his  day  beneath  the  chamber  called  the  Aurora,  at  the  foot  of  the  Lion's  tower,  at  the  top  of  the  street 
Giovecca,  that  on  the  night  of  the  21st  of  May  were  beheaded,  first,  Ugo,  and  afterwards  Parisina. 
Zoese,  he  that  accused  her,  conducted  the  latter  under  his  arm  to  the  place  of  punishment.  She,  all 
along,  fancied  that  she  was  to  be  thrown  into  a  pit,  and  asked  at  every  step,  whether  she  was  yet  come 
to  the  spot?  She  was  told  that  her  punishment  was  the  axe.  She  inquired  what  was  become  of  Ugo,  and 
received  for  answer,  that  he  was  already  dead;  at  the  which,  sighing  grievously,  she  exclaimed, '  Now, 
then,  I  wish  not  myself  to  live;  '  and,  being  come  to  the  block,  she  stripped  herself  with  her  own  hands 
of  all  her  ornaments,  and  wrapping  a  cloth  round  her  head,  submitted  to  the  fatal  stroke,  which  termi- 
nated the  cruel  scene.     The  same  was  done  with  Rangoni,  who,  together  with  the  ethers,  according  tn 


462 


PARISINA. 


two  calendars  in  the  library  of  St.  Francesco,  was  buried  in  the  cemetery  nf  that  convent.  Nothing  else 
is  known  respecting  the  women. 

"  The  Marquis  kept  watch  the  whole  of  that  dreadful  night,  and,  as  he  was  walking  backwards  and 
tbrwards,  inquired  of  the  captain  of  the  castle  if  Ugo  was  dead  yet?  who  answered  him,  Yes.  He  then 
gave  himself  up  to  the  most  desperate  lamentations,  exclaiming,  '  Oh!  that  I  too  were  dead,  since  I  have 
been  hurried  on  to  resolve  thus  against  my  own  Ugo!  '  And  then  gnawing  with  his  teeth  a  cane  which  he 
h;vl  in  his  hand,  he  passed  the  rest  of  the  night  in  sighs  and  in  tears,  calling  frequently  upon  his  own 
dear  Ugo.  On  the  following  day,  calling  to  mind  that  it  would  be  necessary  to  make  public  his  justifica- 
tion, seeing  that  the  transaction  could  not  be  kept  secret,  he  ordered  the  narrative  to  be  drawn  out  upon 
paper,  and  sent  it  to  all  the  courts  of  Italy. 

"  On  receiving  this  advice,  the  Doge  of  Venice,  Francesco  Foscari,  gave  orders,  but  without  publishing 
his  reasons,  that  stop  should  be  put  to  the  preparations  for  a  tournament,  which,  under  the  auspices  ot 
the  Marquis,  and  at  the  expense  of  the  city  of  Padua,  was  about  to  take  place,  in  the  square  of  St.  Mark, 
in  order  to  celebrate  his  advancement  to  the  ducal  chair. 

"  The  Marquis,  in  addition  to  what  he  had  already  done,  from  some  unaccountable  burst  of  vengeance, 
commanded  that  as  many  of  the  married  women  as  were  well  known  to  him  to  be  faithless,  like  his  Pari- 
sina,  should,  like  her,  be  beheaded.  Amongst  others,  Barberina,  or,  as  some  call  her,  I.aodamia  Romei, 
wife  of  the  court  judge,  underwent  this  sentence,  at  tho  usual  place  of  execution;  that  is  to  say,  in  the 
quarter  of  St.  Giacomo,  opposite  the  present  fortress,  beyond  St.  Paul's.  It  cannot  be  told  how  strangt 
appeared  this  proceeding  in  a  prince,  who,  considering  his  own  disposition,  should,  as  it  seemed,  have 
been  in  such  cases  most  indulgent.     Some,  however,  there  were  who  did  not  fail  to  commend  him." 

The  above  passage  of  Frizzi  was  translated  by  Byron,  and  formed  a  closing  note  to  the  original  edition 
of  "  Parisina." 


IT  is  the  hour  when  from  the  boughs 
The  nightingale's  high  note  is  heard; 

It  is  the  hour  when  lovers'  vows 

Seem  sweet  in  every  whispered  word 

And  gentle  winds,  and  waters  near, 

Make  music  to  the  lonely  ear. 

Each  flower  the  dews  have  lightly  wet, 

And  in  the  sky  the  stars  are  met, 

And  on  the  wave  is  deeper  blue, 

And  on  the  leaf  a  browner  hue, 

And  in  the.  heaven  that  clear  obscure, 

So  softly  dark,  and  darkly  pure, 

Which  follows  the  decline  of  day, 

As  twilight  melts  beneath  the  moon  away.1 

II. 
But  it  is  not  to  list  to  the  waterfall 
That  Parisina  leaves  her  hall, 
And    it    is    not    to    gaze    on    the    heavenly 

light 
That  the  lady  walks  in  the  shadow  of  night ; 
And  if  she  sits  in  Este's  bower, 
'Tis  not  for  the  sake  of  its  full-blown  flower  — 
She  listens  —  but  not  for  the  nightingale  — 
Though  her  ear  expects  as  soft  a  tale. 


1  The  lines  contained  in  this  section  were  printed 
as  set  to  music  some  time  since,  but  belonged  to  the 
poem  where  they  now  appear:  the  greater  part  of 
which  was  composed  prior  to  "  Lara." 


There  glides  a,  step  through  the  foliage  thick, 
And  her  cheek  grows  pale  —  and  her  heart 

beats  quick. 
There  whispers  a  voice  through  the  rustling 

leaves, 
And    her   blush    returns,    and    her    bosom 

heaves : 
A  moment  more  —  and  they  shall  meet^ 
'Tis  past  — her  lover's  at  her  feet. 

III. 

And  what  unto  them  is  the  world  beside, 

With  all  its  change  of  time  and  tide  ? 

Its  living  things — its  earth  and  sky  — 

Are  nothing  to  their  mind  and  eye. 

And  heedless  as  the  dead  are  they 
Of  aught  around,  above,  beneath; 

As  if  all  else  had  passed  away, 
They  only  for  each  other  breathe ; 

Their  very  sighs  are  full  of  joy 
So  deep,  that  did  it  not  decay, 

That  happy  madness  would  destroy 
The  hearts  which  feel  its  fiery  sway : 
Of  guilt,  of  peril,  do  they  deem 
In  that  tumultuous  tender  dream  ? 
Who  that  have  felt  that  passion's  power 
Or  paused  or  feared  in  such  an  hour  ? 
Or  thought  how  brief  such  moments  last  ■ 
But  yet  —  they  are  already  past ! 
Alas  !  we  must  awake  before 
We  know  such  vision  comes  no  more. 


PARISINA. 


463 


With  many  a  lingering  look  they  leave 

The  spot  of  guilty  gladness  past ; 
And  though  they  hope,  and  vow,  they  grieve, 

As  if  that  parting  were  the  las'. 
The  frequent  sigh  —  the  long  embrace  — 

The  lip  that  there  would  cling  for  ever, 
While  gleams  on  Parisina's  face 

The  Heaven  she  fears  will  not  forgive  her, 
As  if  each  calmly  conscious  star 
Beheld  her  frailty  from  afar  — 
The  frequent  sigh,  the  long  embrace, 
Yet  binds  them  to  their  trysting-place. 
But  it  must  come,  and  they  must  part 
In  fearful  heaviness  of  heart, 
With  all  the  deep  and  shuddering  chill 
Which  follows  fast  the  deeds  of  ill. 


And  Hugo  is  gone  to  his  lonely  bed, 

To  covet  there  another's  bride ; 
But  she  must  lay  her  conscious  head 

A  husband's  trusting  heart  beside. 
But  fevered  in  her  sleep  she  seems, 
And  red  her  cheek  with  troubled  dreams, 

And  mutters  she  in  her  unrest 
A  name  she  dare  not  breathe  by  day, 

And  clasps  her  Lord  unto  the  breast 
Which  pants  for  one  away  : 
And  he  to  that  embrace  awakes. 
And,  happy  in  the  thought,  mistakes 
That  dreaming  sigh,  and  warm  caress, 
For  such  as  he  was  wont  to  bless; 
And  could  in  very  fondness  weep 
O'er  her  who  loves  him  even  in  sleep. 


He  clasped  her  sleeping  to  his  heart, 

And  listened  to  each  broken  word  : 
He  hears  —  Why  doth  Prince  Azo  start, 

As  if  the  Archangel's  voice  he  heard  ? 
And  well  he  may  —  a  deeper  doom 
Could  scarcely  thunder  o'er  his  tomb, 
When  he  shall  wake  to  sleep  no  more, 
And  stand  the  eternal  throne  before. 
And  well  he  may  —  his  earthly  peace 
Upon  that  sound  is  doomed  to  cease. 
That  sleeping  whisper  of  a  name 
Bespeaks  her  guilt  and  Azo's  shame. 
And  whose  that  name  ?  that  o'er  his  pillow 
Sounds  fearful  as  the  breaking  billow, 
Which  rolls  the  plank  upon  the  shore, 

And  dashes  on  the  pointed  rock 
The  wretch  who  sinks  to  rise  no  more, — 

So  came  upon  his  soul  the  shock. 
And  whose  that  name?  'tis  Hugo's,  —  his  — 
In  sooth  he  had  not  deemed  of  this !  — 
'Tis  Hugo's,  —  he,  the  child  of  one 
He  loved  —  his  own  all-evil  son  — 
The  offspring  of  his  wayward  youth, 
When  he  betrayed  Bianca's  truth, 


The  maid  whose  folly  could  confide 
In  him  who  made  her  not  his  bride. 


He  plucked  his  poniard  in  its  sheath, 
But  sheathed  it  ere  the  point  was  bare  — 

Howe'er  unworthy  now  to  breathe, 
He  could  not  slay  a  thing  so  fair  — 
At  least,  not  smiling — sleeping  —  there - 

Nay  more  :  —  he  did  not  wake  her  then, 
But  gazed  upon  her  with  a  glance 
Which,   had   she   roused   her  from   he' 
trance, 

Had  frozen  her  sense  to  sleep  again  — 

And  o'er  his  brow  the  burning  lamp 

Gleamed  on  the  dew-drops  big  and  damp. 

She  spake  no  more  —  but  still  she  slum 
bered  — 

While,  in  his  thought,  her  days  are  num- 
bered. 

VIII. 

And  with  the  morn  he  sought,  and  found, 
In  many  a  tale  from  those  around, 
The  proof  of  all  he  feared  to  know, 
Their  present  guilt,  his  future  woe ; 
The  long-conniving  damsels  seek 

To  save  themselves,  and  would  transfer 
The  guilt  —  the  shame  —  the  doom  —  to 
her: 
Concealment  is  no  more  —  they  speak 
All  circumstance  which  may  compel 
Full  credence  to  the  tale  they  tell : 
And  Azo's  tortured  heart  and  ear 
Have  nothing  more  to  feel  or  hear. 


He  was  not  one  who  brooked  delay : 

Within  the  chamber  of  his  state, 
The  chief  of  Este's  ancient  sway 

Upon  his  throne  of  judgment  sate; 
His  nobles  and  his  guards  are  there, — 
Before  him  is  the  sinful  pair ; 
Both  young,  —  and  one  how  passing  fair ! 
With  swordless  belt,  and  fettered  hand, 
Oh,  Christ!  that  thus  a  son  should  stand 

Before  a  father's  face  ! 
Yet  thus  must  Hugo  meet  his  sire, 
And  hear  the  sentence  of  his  ire, 

The  tale  of  his  disgrace! 
And  yet  he  seems  not  overcome, 
Although,  as  yet,  his  voice  be  dumb. 

X. 

And  still,  and  pale,  and  silently 

Did  Parisina  wait  her  doom  ; 
How  changed  since  last  her  speaking  eye 

Glanced  gladness    round   the    glittering 
room, 
Where  high-born  men  were  proud  to  wait- 
Where  Beauty  watched  to  imitate 

Her  gentle  voice  —  her  lovely  mien  — 
And  gather  from  her  air  and  gait 


464 


PAR  I  SIN  A. 


The  graces  of  its  queen  : 
Then,  — had  her  eye  in  sorrow  wept, 
A  thousand  warriors  forth  had  leapt, 
A  thousand  swords  had  sheathless  shone, 
And  made  her  quarrel  all  their  own. 
Now,  —  what  is  she  ?  and  what  are  they  ? 
Can  she  command,  or  these  obey  ? 
All  silent  and  unheeding  now, 
With  downcast  eyes  and  knitting  brow, 
And  tolded  arms,  and  freezing  air, 
And  lips  that  scarce  their  scorn  forbear, 
Her   knights,   and   dames,   her  court  —  i: 

tin.' re  : 
And  he,  the  chosen  one,  whose  lance 
Had  yet  been  couched  before  her  glance, 
Who  —  were  his  arm  a  moment  free  — 
Had  died  or  gained  her  liberty ; 
The  minion  of  his  father's  bride, — 
He,  too,  is  fettered  by  her  side ; 
Nor  sees  her  swoln  and  full  eye  swim 
Less  for  her  own  despair  than  him : 
Those  lids  —  o'er  which  the  violet  vein 
Wandering,  leaves  a  tender  stain, 
Shining  through  the  smoothest  white 
That  e'er  did  softest  kiss  invite  — 
Now  seemed  with  hot  and  livid  glow 
To  press,  not  shade,  the  orbs  below ; 
Which  glance  so  heavily,  and  fill, 
As  tear  on  tear  grows  gathering  still. 


And  he  for  her  had  also  wept, 

But  for  the  eyes  that  on  him  gazed : 
His  sorrow,  if  he  felt  it,  slept ; 

Stern  and  erect  his  brow  was  raised. 
Whate'er  the  grief  his  soul  avowed, 
He  would  not  shrink  before  the  crowd ; 
But  yet  he  dared  not  look  on  her : 
Remembrance  of  the  hours  that  were  — 
His  guilt  —  his  love  —  his  present  state  — 
His  father's  wrath  — all  good  men's  hate  — 
His  earthly,  his  eternal  fate  — 
And  hers,  —  oh,  hers  !  —  he  dared  not  throw 
One  look  upon  that  deathlike  brow ! 
Else  had  his  rising  heart  betrayed 
Remorse  for  all  the  wreck  it  made. 

XII. 

And  Azo  spake  :  —  "  But  yesterday 

I  gloried  in  a  wife  and  son  ; 
That  dream  this  morning  passed  away; 

Ere  day  declines,  I  shall  have  none. 
My  life  must  linger  on  alone ; 
Well, —  let  that  pass,  —  there  breathes  not 

one 
Who  would  not  do  as  I  have  done : 
Those  ties  are  broken  —  not  by  me  ; 

Let  that  too  pass  ;  —  the  doom's  prepared  '. 
Hugo,  the  priest  awaits  on  thee, 

And  then  —  thy  crime's  reward  ! 
Away !  address  thy  prayers  to  Heaven, 


Before  its  evening  stars  are  met  — 
Learn  if  thou  there  canst  be  forgiven; 

Its  mercy  may  absolve  thee  yet. 
But  here,  upon  the  earth  beneath, 

There  is  no  spot  where  thou  and  I 
Together,  for  an  hour,  could  breathe : 

Farewell !   I  will  not  see  thee  die  — 
But  thou,  frail  thing!  shalt  view  his  head  — 

Away  !   I  cannot  speak  the  rest : 

Go!  woman  of  the  wanton  breast; 
Not  I,  but  thou  his  blood  dost  shed: 
Go !  if  that  sight  thou  canst  outlive, 
And  joy  thee  in  the  life  I  give." 

XIII. 

And  here  stern  Azo  hid  his  face  — 
For  on  his  brow  the  swelling  vein 
Throbbed  as  if  back  upon  his  brain 
The  hot  blood  ebbed  and  flowed  again ; 

And  therefore  bowed  he  for  a  space, 

And  passed  his  shaking  hand  along 
His  eye,  to  veil  it  from  the  throng; 

While  Hugo  raised  his  chained  hands, 

And  for  a  brief  delay  demands 

His  father's  ear  :  the  silent  sire 

Forbids  not  what  his  words  require. 

"  It  is  not  that  I  dread  the  death  — 
For  thou  hast  seen  me  by  thy  side 
All  redly  through  the  battle  ride, 
And  that  not  once  a  useless  brand 
Thy  slaves  have  wrested  from  my  hand 
Hath  shed  more  blood  in  cause  of  thine, 
Than  e'er  can  stain  the  axe  of  mine : 

Thou  gav'st,  and  may 'st  resu me  my  breat' 
A  gift  for  which  I  thank  thee  not; 
Nor  are  my  mother's  wrongs  forgot, 
Her  slighted  love  and  ruined  name, 
Her  offspring's  heritage  of  shame; 
But  she  is  in  the  grave,  where  he, 
Her  son,  thy  rival,  soon  shall  be. 
Her  broken  heart —  my  severed  head  — 
Shall  witness  for  thee  from  the  dead 
How  trusty  and  how  tender  were 
Thy  youthful  love  —  paternal  care. 
'Tis  true  that  I  have  done  thee  wrong — 

But  wrong  for  wrong  :  —  this,  deemed  th, 
bride 

The  other  victim  of  thy  pride, 
Thou  knowest  for  me  was  destined  long. 
Thou  saw'st,  and  coveted'st  her  charms  — 

And  with  thy  very  crime  —  my  birth, 

Thou  taunted'st  me  —  as  little  worth ; 
A  match  ignoble  for  her  arms, 
Because,  forsooth,  I  could  not  claim 
The  lawful  heirship  of  thy  name, 
Nor  sit  on  Este's  lineal  throne : 
Yet,  were  a  few  short  summers  mine, 
My  name  should  more  than  Este's  shine 
With  honors  all  my  own. 
I  had  a  sword  —  and  have  a  breast 


PARISWA. 


465 


1'hat  should  have  won  as  haught  l  a  crest 

As  ever  waved  along  the  line 

Of  all  these  sovereign  sires  of  thine. 

Not  always  knightly  spurs  are  worn 

The  brightest  by  the  better  born  ; 

And  mine  have  lanced  my  courser's  flank 

Before  proud  chiefs  of  princely  rank, 

When  charging  to  the  cheering  cry 

Of  '  Este  and  of  Victory  !  ' 

I  will  not  plead  the  cause  of  crime, 

Nor  sue  thee  to  redeem  from  time 

A  few  brief  hours  or  clays  that  must 

At  length  roll  o'er  my  reckless  dust ;  — 

Such  maddening  moments  as  my  past, 

They  could  not,  and  they  did  not,  last. 

Albeit  my  birth  and  name  be  base, 

And  thy  nobility  of  race 

Disdained  to  deck  a  thing  like  me  — 

Yet  in  my  lineaments  they  trace 

Some  features  of  my  father's  face, 
And  in  my  spirit  —  all  of  thee. 
From  thee  —  this  tamelessness  of  heart  — 
From    thee  —  nay,  wherefore    dost    thou 

start  ?  — 
From  thee  in  all  their  vigor  came 
My  arm  of  strength,  my  soul  of  flame  — 
Thou  didst  not  give  me  life  alone, 
But  all  that  made  me  more  thine  own. 
See  what  thy  guilty  love  hath  done  ! 
Repaid  thee  with  too  like  a  son  ! 
I  am  no  bastard  in  my  soul, 
For  that,  like  thine,  abhorred  control: 
And  for  my  breath,  that  hasty  boon 
Thou  gav'st  and  wilt  resume  so  soon, 
I  valued  it  no  more  than  thou, 
When  rose  thy  casque  above  thy  brow, 
And  we,  all  side  by  side,  have  striven, 
And  o'er  the  dead  our  coursers  driven: 
The  past  is  nothing — and  at  last 
The  future  can  but  be  the  past ; 
Yet  would  I  that  I  then  had  died  : 

For  though  thou  work'dst  my  mother's  ill, 
And  made  thy  own  my  destined  bride, 

I  feel  thou  art  my  father  still ; 
And,  harsh  as  sounds  thy  hard  decree, 
'Tis  not  unjust,  although  from  thee. 
Begot  in  sin,  to  die  in  shame, 
My  life  begun  and  ends  the  same  : 
As  erred  the  sire,  so  erred  the  son, 
And  thou  must  punish  both  in  one. 
My  crime  seems  worse  to  human  view, 
But  God  must  judge  between  us  too !  " 

XIV. 

He  ceased  —  and  stood  with  folded  arms, 
On  which  the  circling  fetters  sounded ; 
And  not  an  ear  but  felt  as  wounded, 
Of  all  the  chiefs  that  there  were  ranked, 


1  Haught  —  haughty.  —  "Away,    haught    man, 
thou  art  insulting  me."  —  Shakspeare. 


When    those    dull    chains    in    meeting 
clanked : 
Till  Parisina's  fatal  charms  2 
Again  attracted  every  eye  — 
Would  she  thus  hear  him  doomed  to  die ! 
She  stood,  I  said,  all  pale  and  still, 
The  living  cause  of  Hugo's  ill : 
Her  eyes  unmoved,  but  full  and  wide, 
Not  once  had  turned  to  either  side  — 
Nor  once  did  those  sweet  eyelids  close 
Or  shade  the  glance  o'er  which  they  rose. 
But  round  their  orbs  of  deepest  blue 
The  circling  white  dilated  grew  — 
And  there  with  glassy  gaze  she  stood 
As  ice  were  in  her  curdled  blood ; 
But  every  now  and  then  a  tear 
So  large  and  slowly  gathered  slid 
From  the  long  dark  fringe  of  that  fair  lid, 
It  was  a  thing  to  see,  not  hear  ! 
And  those  who  saw,  it  did  surprise, 
Such  drops  could  fall  from  human  eyes. 
To  speak  she  thought. —  the  imperfect  note 
Was  choked  within  her  swelling  throat, 
Yet  seemed  in  that  low  hollow  groan 
Her  whole  heart  gushing  in  the  tone. 
It  ceased  —  again  she  thought  to  speak, 
Then  burst  her  voice  in  one  long  shriek, 
And  to  the  earth  she  fell  like  stone 
Or  statue  from  its  base  o'erthrown, 
More  like  a  thing  that  ne'er  had  life, — 
A  monument  of  Azo's  wife,  — 
Than  her,  that  living  guilty  thing, 
Whose  every  passion  was  a  sting, 
Which  urged  to  guilt,  but  could  not  bear 
That  guilt's  detection  and  despair. 
But  yet  she  lived  —  and  all  too  soon 
Recovered  from  that  death-like  swoon  — 
But  scarce  to  reason  —  every  sense 
Had  been  o'erstrung  by  pangs  intense ; 
And  each  frail  fibre  of  her  brain 


2  ["  I  sent  for  '  Marmion,'  because  it  occurred  to 
me,  there  might  be  a  resemblance  between  part  of 
'  Parisina,'  and  a  similar  scene  in  the  second  canto 
of  '  Marmion.'  I  fear  there  is,  though  I  never 
thought  of  it  before,  and  could  hardly  wish  to  imi- 
tate that  which  is  inimitable.  I  wish  you  would 
ask  Mr.  GiflTord  whether  I  ought  to  say  any  thing 
upon  it.  I  had  completed  the  story  on  the  passage 
from  Gibbon,  which  indeed  leads  to  a  like  scene 
naturally,  without  a  thought  of  the  kind:  but  it 
comes  upon  me  not  very  comfortably."  —  Lord 
Byron  to  Mr.  M.,  February  3,  1816.  —  The  scene 
referred  to  is  the  one  in  which  Constance  de  Bev- 
erley appears  before  the  conclave  — 

"  Her  look  composed,  and  steady  eye, 
Bespoke  a  matchless  constancy; 
And  there  she  stood  so  calm  and  pale. 
That,  but  her  breathing  did  not  fail, 
And  motion  slight  of  eye  and  head, 
And  of  her  bosom,  warranted, 
That  neither  sense  nor  pulse  she  lacks, 
You  must  have  thought  a  form  of  wax. 
Wrought  to  the  very  life,  was  there  — 
So  still  she  was,  so  pale,  so  fair."] 


466 


PARISINA. 


(As  bowstrings,  when  relaxed  by  rain, 

The  erring  arrow  launch  aside) 

Sent  forth  her  thoughts  all  wild  and  wide  — 

The  past  a  blank,  the  future  black, 

With  glimpses  of  a  dreary  track, 

Like  lightning  on  the  desert  path, 

When  midnight  storms  are  mustering  wrath. 

She  feared  —  she  felt  that  something  ill 

Lay  on  her  soul,  so  deep  and  chill  — 

That  there  was  sin  and  shame  she  knew; 

That  some  one  was  to  die  —  but  who  ? 

She  had  forgotten  :  —  did  she  breathe  ? 

Could  this  be  still  the  earth  beneath, 

The  sky  above,  and  men  around ; 

Or  were  they  fiends  who  now  so  frowned 

On  one,  before  whose  eyes  each  eye 

Till  then  had  smiled  in  sympathy  ? 

All  was  confused  and  undefined 

To  her  all  jarred  and  wandering  mind; 

A  chaos  of  wild  hopes  and  fears  : 

And  now  in  laughter,  now  in  tears, 

But  madly  still  in  each  extreme, 

She  strove  with  that  convulsive  dream; 

For  so  it  seemed  on  her  to  break: 

Oh  !  vainly  must  she  strive  to  wake ! 


The  Convent  bells  are  ringing, 

But  mournfully  and  slow; 
In  the  gray  square  turret  swinging, 

With  a  deep  sound,  to  and  fro. 

Heavily  to  the  heart  they  go ! 
Hark!  the  hymn  is  singing  — 

The  song  for  the  dead  below, 

Or  the  living  who  shortly  shall  be  so! 
For  a  departing  being's  soul 
The  death-hymn  peals  and  the  hollow  bells 

knoll: 
He  is  near  his  mortal  goal ; 
Kneeling  at  the  Friar's  knee : 
Sad  to  hear  —  and  piteous  to  see  — 
Kneeling  on  the  bare  cold  ground, 
With   the  block  before    and    the    guards 

around  — 
And  the  headsman  with  his  bare  arm  ready, 
That  the  blow  may  be  both  swift  and  steady, 
Feels  if  the  axe  be  sharp  and  true  — 
Since  he  set  its  edge  anew : 
While  the  crowd  in  a  speechless  circle  gather 
To  see  the  Son  fall  by  the  doom  of  the 
Father ! 

XVI. 

It  is  a  lovely  hour  as  yet 
Before  the  summer  sun  shall  set, 
Which  rose  upon  that  heavy  day, 
And  mocked  it  with  his  steadiest  ray; 
And  his  evening  beams  are  shed 
Full  on  Hugo's  fated  head, 
As  his  last  confession  pouring 
To  the  monk,  his  doom  deploring. 
In  penitential  holiness, 


He  bends  to  hear  his  accents  bless 
With  absolution  such  as  may 
Wipe  our  mortal  stains  away. 
That  high  sun  on  his  head  did  glisten 
As  he  there  did  bow  and  listen  — 
And  the  rings  of  chestnut  hair 
Curled  half  down  his  neck  so  bare; 
But  brighter  still  the  beam  was  thrown 
Upon  the  axe  which  near  him  shone 

With  a  clear  and  ghastly  glitter 

Oh  !  that  parting  hour  was  bitter! 
Even  the  stern  stood  chilled  with  awe: 
Dark  the  crime,  and  just  the  law  — 
Yet  they  shuddered  as  they  saw. 

XVII. 

The  parting  prayers  are  said  and  over 
Of  that  false  son  — and  daring  lover! 
His  beads  and  sins  are  all  recounted, 
His  hours  to  their  last  minute  mounted — • 
His  mantling  cloak  before  was  stripped, 
His  bright  brown  locks  must  now  be  clipped ; 
'Tis  done  —  all  closely  are  they  shorn  — 
The  vest  which  till  this  moment  worn  — 
The  scarf  which  Parisina  gave  — 
Must  not  adorn  him  to  the  grave. 
Even  that  must  now  be  thrown  aside, 
And  o'er  his  eyes  the  kerchief  tied ; 
But  no  —  that  last  indignity 
Shall  ne'er  approach  his  haughty  eye. 
All  feelings  Seemingly  subdued, 
In  deep  disdain  were  half  renewed, 
When  headsman's  hands  prepared  to  bind 
Those  eyes  which  would  not  brook  such 

blind: 
As  if  they  dared  not  look  on  death. 
"No  —  yours  my  forfeit  blood  and  breath  — 
These  hands  are  chained  —  but  let  me  die 
At  least  with  an  unshackled  eye  — 
Strike  :  "  —  and  as  the  word  he  said, 
Upon  the  block  he  bowed  his  head ; 
These  the  last  accents  Hugo  spoke: 
"  Strike"  — and  flashing  fell  the  stroke  — 
Rolled  the  head  —  and,  gushing,  sunk 
Back  the  stained  and  heaving  trunk, 
In  the  dust,  which  each  deep  vein 
Slaked  with  its  ensanguined  rain; 
His  eyes  and  lips  a  moment  quiver, 
Convulsed  and  quick  —  then  fix  for  ever 
He  died,  as  erring  man  should  die, 

Without  display,  without  parade ; 

Meekly  had  he  bowed  and  prayed, 

As  not  disdaining  priestly  aid, 
Nor  desperate  of  all  hope  on  high. 
And  while  before  the  Prior  kneeling, 
His  heart  was  weaned  from  earthly  feeling; 
His  wrathful  sire  —  his  paramour  — 
What  were  they  in  such  an  hour! 
No  more  reproach — -no  more  despair; 
No    thought    but    heaven  —  no  word    bxif 

prayer  — 
Save  the  few  which  from  him  broke. 


PARISINA. 


467 


vVhen,  bared    to    meet    the    headsman's 

stroke, 
lie  claimed  to  die  with  eyes  unbound, 
His  sole  adieu  to  those  around. 

xviii. 

Brill  as  the  lips  that  closed  in  death, 
Each  gazer's  bosom  held  his  bn  ath : 
But  yet,  afar,  from  man  to  man, 
A.  cold  electric  shiver  ran, 
As  down  the  deadly  blow  descended 
On  him  whose  iife  and  love  thus  ended ; 
And,  with  a  hushing  sound  compressed, 
A  sigh  shrunk  back  on  every  breast ; 
But  no  more  thrilling  noise  rose  there, 
Beyond  the  blow  that  to  the  block 
Pierced  through  with  forced  and  sullen 
shock, 
Save  one  :  —  what  cleaves  the  silent  air 
So  madly  shrill,  so  passing  wild  ? 
That,  as  a  mother's  o'er  her  child, 
Done  to  death  by  sudden  blow, 
To  the  sky  these  accents  go, 
Like  a  soul's  in  endless  woe. 
Through  Azo's  palace-lattice  driven, 
That  horrid  voice  ascends  to  heaven, 
And  every  eye  is  turned  thereon  ; 
But  sound  and  sight  alike  are  gone! 
It  was  a  woman's  shriek  —  and  ne'er 
In  madlier  accents  rose  despair; 
And  those  who  heard  it,  as  it  passed, 
In  mercy  wished  it  were  the  last. 

XIX. 

Hugo  is  fallen ;  and,  from  that  hour, 

No  more  in  palace,  hall,  or  bower, 

Was  Parisina  heard  or  seen  : 

Her  name — -as  if  she  ne'er  had  been  — 

Was  banished  from  each  lip  and  ear, 

Like  words  of  wantonness  or  fear ; 

And  from  Prince  Azo's  voice,  by  none 

Was  mention  heard  of  wife  or  son ; 

No  tomb  —  no  memory  had  they; 

Theirs  was  unconsecrated  clay ; 

At  least  the  knight's  who  died  that  day. 

But  Parisina's  fate  lies  hid 

Like  dust  beneath  the  coffin  lid : 

Whether  in  convent  she  abode, 

And  won  to  heaven  her  dreary  road, 

By  blighted  and  remorseful  years 

Or  scourge,  and  fast,  and  sleepless  tears  ; 

Or  if  she  fell  by  bowl  or  steel, 

For  that  dark  love  she  dared  to  feel ; 

Or  if,  upon  the  moment  smote, 

She  died  by  tortures  less  remote ; 

Like  him  she  saw  upon  the  block, 

With    heart   that   shared    the    headsman's 

shock, 
In  quickened  brokenness  that  came, 
In  pity,  o'er  her  shattered  frame, 
None  knew  —  and  none  can  ever  know  : 


But  whatsoe'er  its  end  below, 
Her  life  began  and  closed  in  woe  I 


An*.  Azo  found  another  bride, 

And  goodly  sons  grew  by  his  side ; 

But  none  so  lovely  and  so  brave 

As  him  who  withered  in  the  grave; 

Or  if  they  were  —  on  his  cold  eye 

Their  growth  but  glanced  unheeded  by, 

Or  noticed  with  a  smothered  sigh. 

But  never  tear  his  cheek  descended. 

And  never  smile  his  brow  unbended  ; 

And  o'er  that  fair  broad  brow  were  wrough' 

The  intersected  lines  of  thought ; 

Those  furrows  which  the  burning  share 

Of  Sorrow  ploughs  untimely  there  ; 

Scars  of  the  lacerating  mind 

Which  the  Soul's  war  doth  leave  behind. 

He  was  past  all  mirth  or  woe  : 

Nothing  more  remained  below 

But  sleepless  nights  and  heavy  days, 

A  mind  all  dead  to  scorn  or  praise, 

A  heart  which  shunned  itself —  and  yet 

That  would  not  yield  —  nor  could  forget 

Which,  when  it  least  appeared  to  melt, 

Intensely  thought  —  intensely  felt: 

The  deepest  ice  which  ever  froze 

Can  only  o'er  the  surface  close  — 

The  living  stream  lies  quick  below, 

And  flows  —  and  cannot  cease  to  flow. 

Still  was  his  sealed-up  bosom  haunted 

By    thoughts    which      Nature    hath    im« 

planted ; 
Too  deeply  rooted  thence  to  vanish, 
Howe'er  our  stifled  tears  we  banish  ; 
When,  struggling  as  they  rise  to  start, 
We  check  those  waters  of  the  heart, 
They  are  not  dried  —  those  tears  unshed 
But  flow  back  to  the  fountain  head, 
And  resting  in  their  spring  more  pure, 
For  ever  in  its  depth  endure. 
Unseen,  unwept,  but  uncongealed, 
And  cherished  most  where  least  revealed 
With  inward  starts  of  feeling  left, 
To  throb  o'er  those  of  life  bereft; 
Without  the  power  to  fill  again 
The  desert  gap  which  made  his  pain; 
Without  the  hope  to  meet  them  where 
United  souls  shall  gladness  share, 
With  all  the  consciousness  that  he 
Had  only  passed  a  just  decree  ; 
That  they  had  wrought  their  doom  of  ill ; 
Yet  Azo's  age  was  wretched  still. 
The  tainted  branches  of  the  tree, 

If   lopped  with    care,   a    strength    maj 
give, 

By  which  the  rest  shall  bloom  and  live 
All  greenly  fresh  and  wildly  free  : 
But  if  the  lightning,  in  its  wrath, 
The  waving  boughs  with  fury  scathe, 


+68  THE  PRISONER    OF  CHILL  ON. 


The  massy  trunk  the  ruin  feels, 
And  never  more  a  leaf  reveals.1 


1  [In  Parisina  there  is  no  tumult  or  stir.    It  is  all 
sadness,  and  pity,  and  terror.     There  is  too  much 


of  horror,  perhaps,  in  the  circumstances;  but  the 
wiiting  is  beautiful  throughout,  and  the  whole 
wrapped  in  a  rich  and  redundant  veil  of  poetry, 
where  every  thing  breathes  the  pu»e  essence  of 
genius  and  sensibility.  —  Jeffrey.} 


THE    PRISONER   OF   CHILLON:   A    FABLFJ 


SONNET   ON   CHILLON. 

ETERNAL  Spirit  of  the  chainless  Mind!2 
Brightest  in  dungeons,  Liberty!  thou  art, 
For  there  thy  habitation  is  the  heart  — 

The  heart  which  love  of  thee  alone  can  bind; 

And  when  thy  sons  to  fetters  are  consigned  — 
To  fetters,  and  the  damp  vault's  dayless  gloom, 
Their  country  conquers  with  their  martyrdom, 

And  Freedom's  fame  finds  wings  on  every  wind. 

Chillon !  thy  prison  is  a  holy  place, 

And  thy  sad  floor  an  altar  —  for  'twas  trod, 

Until  his  very  steps  have  left  a  trace 

Worn,  as  if  thy  <~o!d  pavement  were  a  sod. 

By  Bonnivard  !  —  May  none  those  marks  efface! 
For  they  appeal  from  tyranny  to  God. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 

When  this  poem  was  composed,  I  was  not  sufficiently  aware  of  the  history  of  Bonnivard,  or  I  should 
have  endeavored  to  dignify  the  subject  by  an  attempt  to  celebrate  his  courage  and  his  virtues.  With 
some  account  of  his  life  I  have  been  furnished,  by  the  kindness  of  a  citizen  of  that  republic,  which  is 
still  proud  of  the  memory  of  a  man  worthy  of  the  best  age  of  ancient  freedom:  — 

"  Francois  de  Bonnivard,  fils  de  Louis  de  Bonnivard,  originaire  de  Seyssel  et  Seigneur  de  Lunes, 
naquit  en  1496.  II  fit  ses  etudes  a  Turin  :  en  1510  Jean  Aimd  de  Bonnivard,  son  oncle,  lui  resigna  le 
Prieure  de  St.  Victor,  qui  aboutissoit  aux  murs  de  Geneve,  et  qui  formoit  un  benefice  considerable. 

1  [Byron  wrote  this  poem  at  a  small  inn,  in  the  little  village  of  Ouchy,  near  Lausanne,  where  re  hap- 
pened, in  June,  1816,  to  be  detained  two  days  by  stress  of  weather;  "  thereby  adding,"  says  Moor*,  ''one 
more  deathless  association  to  the  already  immortalized  localities  of  the  Lake."£ 

2  [In  the  first  draught,  the  sonnet  opens  thus  — 

"  Beloved  Goddess  of  the  chainless  mind! 

Brightest  in  dungeons,  Liberty!  thou  art, 

Thy  palace  is  within  the  Freeman's  heart, 
Whose  soul  the  love  of  thee  alone  can  bind; 
And  when  thy  sons  to  fetters  are  consigned  — 

To  fetters,  and  the  damp  vault's  dayless  gloom, 
Thy  jo\-  is  with  them  still,  and  unconfined, 

Their  country  conquers  with  their  martyrdom."] 


THE   PRISONER    OF   ChiZZ^:,, 


469 


"  Ce  grand  homme  —  (Bonnivard  merite  ce  titre  par  la  force  des  on  ame,  la  droiture  deson  cceur,  la 
L|esse  de  ses  intentions,  la  sagesse  de  ses  conseils,  le  courage  de  ses  demarches,  l'etendue  de  ses  con- 


r^-[ 


-sances  et  la  vivacite  de  son  esprit),  —  ce  grand  homme,  qui  excitera  l'admiration  de  tous  ceux  qu'une 
heroique  peut  encore  emouvoir,  inspirera  encore  la  plus  vive  reconnaissance  dans  les  coeurs  des 
vois  qui  aiment  Geneve.     Bonnivard  en  fut  toujours  un  des  plus  fermes  appuis :  pour  assurer  la 


Gene 
liberie 


de  notre  Republique,  il  ne  craignit  pas  de  perdre  souvent  la  sienne;  il  oublia  son  repos;  il 
"  'nrisa  ses  richesses ;  il  ne  negligea  rien  pour  affermir  le  bonheur  d'une  patrie  qu'il  honora  de  son  choix : 
ce  moment  il  la  cherit  comme  le  plus  zele  de  ses  citoyens;  il  la  servit  avec  l'intrepidite'  d'un  heros, 

il  ecrivit  son  Histoire  avec  la  naivete  d'un  philosophe  et  la  chaleur  d'un  patriote. 

ii  j|  jit  dans  le  commencement  de  son  Histoire  de  Geneve,  que,  des  qu'il  eut  commence  de  lire  Vhis- 

;re  des  nations,  il  se  entit  entraine  par  son  gout  pour  les  Republiques,  dont  il  epousa  toujours 
jHterets  :  e'est  ce  gout  oour  la  liberte  oui  lui  ff  sans  doute  adopter  Geneve  pour  sa  patrie. 

•i  Bonnivard,  encore  jeune,  s'annonca  hautement  comme  le  defenseur  de  Geneve  contre  le  Due  de 
Savoye  et  l'Eveque. 

"En  I5IQ>  Bonnivard  devient  le  martyr  de  sa  patrie:  Le  Due  de  Savoye  etant  entre  dans  Geneve 
vec  cinq  cent  hommes,  Bonnivard  craint  le  ressentiment  du  Due;  il  volut  se  retirer  a  Fnbourg  pour 
n  eviter  les  suites;  mais  il  fut  trahi  par  deux  hommes  qui  l'accompagnoient,  et  conduit  par  ordre  du 
Prince  aGrolee,  oil  il  resta  prisonnier  pendant  deux  ans.  Bonnivard  etoit  malheureux  dans  ses  voyages: 
ornme  ses  malheurs  n'avoient  point  ralenti  son  zele  pour  Geneve,  il  dtoit  toujours  un  ennemi  redout- 
able  pour  ceux  qui  la  mena^oient,  et  par  consequent  il  devoit  etre  exposd  aleurs  coups.     II  fut  rencontre' 

1530  sur  le  Jura  par  des  voleurs,  qui  le  depouillerent,  et  qui  le  mirent  encore  entre  les  main  du  Due 
it  Savoye :  ce  prince  le  fit  en  fermer  dans  le  Chateau  de  Chillon,  oil  il  resta  sans  etre  interroge  jusques 
en  1536 ;  il  fut  alors  delivre  par  les  Bernois,  qui  s'emparerent  du  Pays  de  Vaud. 

"Bonnivard,  en  soitant  de  sa  captivite,  eut  le  plaisir  de  trouver  Geneve  libre  et  reformee:  la  Repub- 
lique s'empressa  de  lui  temoigner  sa  reconnaissance,  et  de  le  dedommager  des  maux  qu'il  avoit  soufferts; 
elle  le  regut  Bourgeois  de  la  ville  au  mois  de  Juin,  1536;  elle  lui  donna  la  maison  habitee  autrefois  par 
|e  Vicaire-General,  et  elle  lui  assigna  une  pension  de  deux  cent  ecus  d'or  tant  qu'il  sejourneroit  a 
Geneve.     II  fut  admis  dans  le  Conseil  de  Deux-Cent  en  1537. 

"  Bonnivard  n'a  pas  fini  d'etre  utile :  apres  avoir  travaille  a  rendre  Geneve  libre,  il  reussit  a  la  rendre 
lolerante.  Bcnnivard  engagea  le  Conseil  a  accorder  aux  ecclesiastiques  et  aux  paysans  un  terns  suffi- 
sant  pour  examiner  les  propositions  qu'on  leur  faisoit;  il  reussit  par  sa  douceur:  on  preche  toujours  le 
Christianisme  avec  succes  quand  on  le  preche  avec  charite. 

"  Bonnivard  fut  savant :  ses  manuscrits,  qui  son t  dans  la  Bibliotheque  publique,  prouvent  qu'il  avoit 
bien  lu  les  auteurs  classiques  latins,  et  qu'il  avoir  approfondi  la  theologie  et  l'histoire.  Ce  grand  homme 
ainioit  les  sciences,  et  il  croyoit  qu'elles  pouvoient  faire  la  gloire  de  Geneve;  aussi  il  ne  negligea  rien 
pour  les  fixer  dans  cette  ville  naissante;  en  1551  il  donna  sa  bibliotheque  au  publique;  elle  fut  le  com- 
mencement de  notre  bibliotheque  publique;  et  ces  livres  sont  en  partie  les  rares  et  belles  editions  du 
quinzieme  siecle  qu'on  voit  dans  notre  collection.  Enfin,  pendant  la  meme  ann^e,  ce  bon  patriote  insti- 
tua  la  Republique  son  heritiere,  a  condition  qu'elle  employeroit  ses  biens  a  entretenir  le  college  dont  on 
projettoit  la  fondation. 

"II  paroit  que  Bonnivard  mourut  en  1570;  mais  on  ne  peut  l'assurer,  parcsqu'il  y  a  une  lacune  dans 
leNecrologe  depuis  le  mois  de  Juillet,  1570,  jusques  en  1571." 


MY  hair  is  gray,  but  not  with  years, 

Nor  grew  it  white 

In  a  single  night,1 
As  men's  have  grown  from  sudden  fears. 


J  Ludovico  Sforza,  and  others.  —  The  same  is 
asserted  of  Marie  Antoinette's,  the  wife  of  Louis  the 
Sixteenth,  though  not  in  quite  so  short  a  period. 


My  limbs  are  bowed,  though  not  with  toil, 

But  rusted  with  a  vile  repose,2 
For  they  have  been  a  dungeon's  spoil, 

And  mine  has  been  the  fate  of  those 

Grief  is  said  to  have  the  same  effect:    to  such,  and 
not  to  fear,  this  change  in  hers  was  to  be  attributed. 
2  [Original  MS.— 

"  But  with  the  inward  waste  of  gTief."] 


470 


THE  PRISONER    OF  CHILLON. 


To  whom  the  goodly  earth  and  air 

Are  banned,  and  barred  —  forbidden  fare  ; 

But  this  was  for  my  father's  faith 

I  suffered  chains  and  courted  death ; 

That  father  perished  at  the  stake 

For  tenets  he  would  not  forsake ; 

And  for  the  same  his  lineal  race 

In  darkness  found  a  dwelling-place; 

We  were  seven  —  who  now  are  one, 

Six  in  youth  and  one  in  age, 
Finished  as  they  had  begun, 

Proud  of  Persecution's  rage  ;  * 
One  in  fire,  and  two  in  field, 
Their  belief  with  blood  have  sealei : 
Dying  as  their  father  died, 
For  the  God  their  foes  denied ;  — 
Three  were  in  a  dungeon  cast, 
Of  whom  this  wreck  is  left  the  last. 


There  are  seven  pillars  of  Gothic  mould, 
In  Chillon's  dungeons  deep  and  old, 
There  are  seven  columns  massy  and  gray, 
Dim  with  a  dull  imprisoned  ray, 
A  sunbeam  which  hath  lost  its  way, 
And  through  the  crevice  and  the  cleft 
Of  the  thick  wall  is  fallen  and  left : 
Creeping  o'er  the  floor  so  damp, 
Like  a  marsh's  meteor  lamp  : 
And  in  each  pillar  there  is  a  ring, 

And  in  each  ring  there  is  a  chain  ; 
That  iron  is  a  cankering  thing, 

For  in  these  limbs  its  teeth  remain, 
With  marks  that  will  not  wear  away, 
Till  I  have  done  with  this  new  day, 
Which  now  is  painful  to  these  eyes, 
Which  have  not  seen  the  sun  so  rise 
For  years —  I  cannot  count  them  o'er, 
I  lost  their  long  and  heavy  score 
When  my  last  brother  drooped  and  died, 
And  I  lay  living  by  his  side. 

III. 
They  chained  us  each  to  a  column  stone, 
And  we  were  three  —  yet,  each  alone  : 
We  could  not  move  a  single  pace, 
We  could  not  see  each  other's  face, 
But  with  that  pale  and  livid  light 
That  made  us  strangers  in  our  sight: 
And  thus  together  —  yet  apart, 
Fettered  in  hand,  but  joined  in  heart; 
'Twas  still  some  solace,  in  the  dearth 
Of  the  pure  elements  of  earth, 
To  harken  to  each  other's  speech, 
And  each  turn  comforter  to  each 
With  some  new  hope  or  legend  old, 
Or  song  heroically  bold  ; 
But  even  these  at  length  grew  cold. 
Our  voices  took  a  dreary  tone, 

i  [MS.— 

"  Braving  rancour  —  chains  —  and  rage."  J 


An  echo  of  the  dungeon  stone, 
A  grating  sound  —  not  full  and  free 
As  they  of  yore  were  wont  to  be; 
It  might  be  fancy  —  but  to  me 

They  never  sounded  like  our  own. 


I  was  the  eldest  of  the  three, 
And  to  uphold  and  cheer  the  rest 
I  ought  to  do  —  and  did  my  best  — 
And  each  did  well  in  his  degree. 

The  youngest,  whom  my  father  loved 
Because  our  mother's  brow  was  given 
T?  hir-.  —  with  eyes  as  blre  as  heaven, 
For  him  my  soul  was  sorely  moved : 
And  truly  might  it  be  distressed 
To  see  such  bird  in  such  a  nest; 
For  he  was  beautiful  as  day  — 
(When  day  was  beautiful  to  me 
As  to  young  eagles  being  free)  — 
A  polar  day,  which  will  not  see 
A  sunset  till  its  summer's  gone, 

Its  sleepless  summer  of  long  light, 
The  snow-clad  offspring  of  the  sun  : 

And  thus  he  was  as  pure  and  bright, 
And  in  his  natural  spirit  gay, 
With  tears  for  nought  but  others'  ills, 
And  then  they  flowed  like  mountain  rills, 
Unless  he  could  assuage  the  woe 
Which  he  abhorred  to  view  below. 


The  other  was  as  pure  of  mind, 
But  formed  to  combat  with  his  kind  ; 
Strong  in  his  frame,  and  of  a  mood 
Which  'gainst  the  world  in  war  had  stood, 
And  perished  in  the  foremost  rank 

With  joy  :  —  but  not  in  chains  to  pine: 
His  spirit  withered  with  their  clank, 

I  saw  it  silently  decline  — 

And  so  perchance  in  sooth  did  mine: 
But  yet  I  forced  it  on  to  cheer 
Those  relics  of  a  home  so  dear. 
He  was  a  hunter  of  the  hills, 

Had  followed  there  the  deer  and  wolf; 

To  him  this  dungeon  was  a  gulf, 
And  fettered  feet  the  worst  of  ills. 


Lake  Leman  lies  by  Chillon's  walls. 
A  thousand  feet  in  depth  below 
Its  massy  waters  meet  and  flow ; 
Thus  much  the  fathom-line  was  sent 
From  Chillon's  snow-white  battlement,2 


2  The  Chateau  de  Chillon  is  situated  between 
Clarens  and  Villenenve,  which  last  is  atone  extrem- 
ity of  the  Lake  of  Geneva.  On  its  left  are  the  en- 
trances of  the  Rhone,  and  opposite  are  the  heights 
of  Meillerie  and  the  range  of  Alps  ahove  Boveret 
and  St.  Gingo.  Near  it,  on  a  hill  behind,  is  a 
torrent:  below  it,  washing  its  walls,  the  lake  has 
been  fathomed   to  the   depth  of  8oo   feet,  French 


THE  PRISONER    OF  CHILLON. 


471 


Which  round  about  the  wave  inthrals : 
A  double  dungeon  wall  and  wave 
Have  made  —  and  like  a  living  grave. 
Below  the  surface  of  the  lake 
f  he  dark  vault  lies  wherein  we  lay, 
We  heard  it  ripple  night  and  day; 

Sounding  o'er  our  heads  it  knocked 
And  I  have  felt  the  winter's  spray 
Wash  through  the  bars  when  winds  were  high 
And  wanton  in  the  happy  sky; 

And  then  the  very  rock  hath  rocked, 

And  I  have  felt  it  shake,  unshocked, 
gecause  I  could  have  smiled  to  see 
The  death  that  wouid  have  set  me  free. 


I  said  my  nearer  brother  pined, 
t  said  his  mighty  heart  declined, 
He  loathed  and  put  away  his  food; 
It  was  not  that  'twas  coarse  and  rude, 
for  we  were  used  to  hunter's  fare, 
A.nd  for  the  like  had  little  care  : 
The  milk  drawn  from  the  mountain  goat 
Was  changed  for  water  from  the  moat, 
Our  bread  was  such  as  captive's  tears 
Have  moistened  many  a  thousand  years, 
Since  man  first  pent  his  fellow  men 
Like  brutes  within  an  iron  den ; 
gut  what  were  these  to  us  or  him  ? 
These  wasted  not  his  heart  or  limb; 
My  brother's  soul  was  of  that  mould 
Which  in  a  palace  had  grown  cold, 
Had  his  free  breathing  been  denied 
The  range  of  the  steep  mountain's  side; 
But  why  delay  the  truth  ?  — he  died.1 
1  saw,  and  could  not  hold  his  head, 
Nor  reach  his  dying  hand  —  nor  dead,  — 
Though  hard  I  strove,  but  strove  in  vain, 
To  rend  and  gnash  2  my  bonds  in  twain. 
He  died  —  and  they  unlocked  his  chain, 
And  scooped  for  him  a  shallow  grave 
Even  from  the  cold  earth  of  our  cave. 
I  begged  them,  as  a  boon,  to  lay 
His  corse  in  dust  whereon  the  day 


measure:  within  it  are  a  range  of  dungeons,  in  which 
the  early  reformers,  and  subsequently  prisoners  of 
state,  were  confined.  Across  one  of  the  vaults  is  a 
beam  black  with  age,  on  which  we  were  informed 
that  the  condemned  were  formerly  executed.  In 
the  cells  are  seven  pillars,  or,  rather,  eight,  one 
being  half  merged  in  the  wall;  in  some  of  these  are 
rings  for  the  fetters  and  the  fettered :  in  the  pave- 
ment the  steps  of  Bonnivard  have  left  their  traces. 
He  was  confined  here  several  years.  It  is  by  this 
castle  that  Rousseau  has  fixed  the  catastrophe  of 
his  Helo'ise,  in  the  rescue  of  one  of  her  children  by 
Julie  from  the  water;  the  shock  of  which,  and  the 
illness  produced  by  the  immersion,  is  the  cause  of 
ber  death.  The  chateau  is  large,  and  seen  along 
the  lake  for  a  great  distance.     The  walls  are  white. 

'[MS.— 
"  But  why  withhold  the  blow?  —  he  died."] 

1  [MS.  —  "  To  break  or  bite."] 


Might  shine  — it  was  a  foolish  thought, 

But  then  within  my  brain  it  wrought, 

That  even  in  death  his  freeborn  breast 

In  such  a  dungeon  could  not  rest. 

I  might  have  spared  my  idle  prayer  — 

They  coldly  laughed  —  and  laid  him  there  : 

The  flat  and  turfless  earth  above 

The  being  we  so  much  did  love; 

His  empty  chain  above  it  leant, 

Such  murder's  fitting  monument! 


But  he,  the  favorite  and  the  flower, 

Mos*  cherished  since  his  natal  hour, 

His  mother's  image  in  fair  face, 

The  infant  love  of  all  his  race, 

His  martyred  father's  dearest  thought, 

My  latest  care,  for  whom  I  sought 

To  hoard  my  life,  that  his  might  be 

Less  wretched  now,  and  one  day  free; 

He,  too,  who  yet  had  held  untired 

A  spirit  natural  or  inspired  — 

He,  too,  was  struck,  and  day  by  day 

Was  withered  on  the  stalk  away. 

Oh,  God  !  it  is  a  fearful  thing 

To  see  the  human  soul  take  wing 

In  any  shape,  in  any  mood  :  — 

I've  seen  it  rushing  forth  in  blood, 

I've  seen  it  on  the  breaking  ocean 

Strive  with  a  swoln  convulsive  motion, 

I've  seen  the  sick  and  ghastly  bed 

Of  Sin  delirious  with  its  dread  : 

But  these  were  horrors  —  this  was  woe 

Unmixed  with  such  —  but  sure  and  slow: 

He  faded,  and  so  calm  and  meek, 

So  softly  worn,  so  sweetly  weak, 

So  teariess,  yet  so  tender  —  kind, 

And  grieved  for  those  he  left  behind  ; 

With  all  the  while  a  cheek  whose  bloom 

Was  as  a  mockery  of  the  tomb, 

Whose  tints  as  gently  sunk  away 

As  a  departing  rainbow's  ray  — 

An  eye  of  most  transparent  light, 

That  almost  made  the  dungeon  bright, 

And  not  a  word  of  murmur —  not 

A  groan  o'er  his  untimely  lot, — 

A  little  talk  of  better  days, 

A  little  hope  my  own  to  raise, 

For  I  was  sunk  in  silence  —  lost 

In  this  last  loss,  of  all  the  most ; 

And  then  the  sighs  he  would  suppress 

Of  fainting  nature's  feebleness, 

More  slowly  drawn,  grew  less  and  less: 

I  listened,  but  I  could  not  hear — ■ 

I  called,  for  I  was  wild  with  fear ; 

I  knew  'twas  hopeless,  but  my  dread 

Would  not  be  thus  admonished; 

I  called,  and  thought  I  heard  a  sound  — 

I  burst  my  chain  with  one  strong  bound, 

And  rushed  to  him  :  —  I  found  him  not, 

/  only  stirred  in  this  black  spot, 

/  only  lived —  /  only  drew 


472 


THE   PRISON bk    OF   CHILLON. 


The  accursed  breath  of  dungeon-dew  ; 

The  last  —  the  sole  —  the  dearest  link 

Between  me  and  the  eternal  brink, 

Which  bound  me  to  my  failing  race, 

Was  broken  in  this  fatal  place.1 

One  on  the  earth,  and  one  beneath  — 

My  brothers  —  both  had  ceased  to  breathe: 

I  took  that  hand  which  lay  so  still, 

Alas  !  my  own  was  full  as  chill ; 

I  had  not  strength  to  stir,  or  strive, 

But  felt  that  I  was  still  alive  — 

A  frantic  feeling,  when  we  know 

That  what  we  love  shall  ne'er  be  so. 

I  know  not  whv 

I  could  not  die, 
I  had  no  earthly  hope  —  but  faith, 
And  that  forbade  a  selfish  death. 

IX. 

What  next  befell  me  then  and  there 

I. know  not  well  —  I  never  knew  — 
First  came  the  loss  of  light,  and  air, 

And  then  of  darkness  too  : 
I  had  no  thought,  no  feeling —  none  — 
Among  the  stones  I  stood  a  stone, 
And  was,  scarce  conscious  what  I  wist, 
As  shrubless  crags  within  the  mist; 
For  all  was  blank,  and  bleak,  and  gray, 
It  was  not  night —  it  was  not  day, 
It  was  not  even  the  dungeon-light, 
So  hateful  to  my  heavy  sight, 
But  vacancy  absorbing  space, 
And  fixedness  —  without  a  place; 
There  were  no  stars — no  earth  —  no  time  — 
No      check  —  no    change  —  no     good  —  no 

crime  — 
But  silence,  and  a  stirless  breath 
Which  neither  was  of  life  nor  death  ; 
A  sea  of  stagnant  idleness, 
Blind,  boundless,  mute,  and  motionless! 


A  light  broke  in  upon  my  brain, — 

It  was  the  carol  of  a  bird  ; 
It  ceased,  and  then  it  came  again, 

The  sweetest  song  ear  ever  heard, 
And  mine  was  thankful  till  my  eyes 
Ran  over  with  the  glad  surprise, 
And  they  that  moment  could  not  see 
I  was  the  mate  of  misery ; 
But  then  by  dull  degrees  came  back 
My  senses  to  their  wonted  track, 
1  saw  the  dungeon  walls  and  floor 
Close  slowly  round  me  as  before, 
I  saw  the  glimmer  of  the  sun 
Creeping  as  it  before  had  done, 
But  through  the  crevice  where  it  came 
That  bird  was  perched,  as  fond  and  tame, 

And  tamer  than  upon  the  tree  ; 


1  [The  gentle  decay  and  gradual  extinction  of  the 
youngest  life  is  the  most  tender  and  beautiful  pas- 
sage in  the  poem.  —  Jeffrey.} 


A  lovely  bird,  with  azure  wings, 
And  song  that  said  a  thousand  things, 

And  seemed  to  say  them  all  for  me! 
I  never  saw  its  like  before, 
I  ne'er  shall  see  its  likeness  more : 
It  seemed  like  me  to  want  a  mate, 
But  was  not  half  so  desolate, 
And  it  was  come  to  love  me  when 
None  lived  to  love  me  so  again, 
And  cheering  from  my  dungeon's  brink 
Had  brought  me  back  to  feel  and  think.' 
I  know  not  if  it  late  were  free, 

Or  broke  its  cage  to  perch  on  mine, 
But  knowing  well  captivity, 

Sweet  bird!   1  could  not  wish  for  thine! 
Or  if  it  were,  in  winged  guise, 
A  visitant  from  Paradise; 
For  —  Heaven  forgive  that  thought !  the  while 
Which  made  me  both  to  weep  and  smile- 
I  sometimes  deemed  that  it  might  be 
My  brother's  soul  come  down  to  me; 
But  then  at  last  away  it  flew, 
And  then  'twas  mortal  —  well  I  knew, 
For  he  would  never  thus  have  flown, 
And  left  me  twice  so  doubly  lone,  — 
Lone  —  as  the  corse  within  its  shroud, 
Lone  —  as  a-solitary  cloud, 

A  single  ekiud  on  a  sunny  day, 
While  all  the  rest  of  heaven  is  clear, 
A  frown  upon  the  atmosphere, 
That  hath  no  business  to  appear 

When  skies  are  blue,  and  earth  is  gay. 


A  kind  of  change  came  in  my  fate, 
My  keepers  grew  compassionate  ; 
I  know  not  what  had  made  them  so, 
They  were  inured  to  sights  of  woe, 
But  so  it  was  :  — my  broken  chain 
With  links  unfastened  did  remain, 
And  it  was  liberty  to  stride 
Along  my  cell  from  side  to  side, 
And  up  and  down,  and  then  athwart, 
And  tread  it  over  every  part ; 
And  round  the  pillars  one  by  one, 
Returning  where  my  walk  begun, 
Avoiding  only,  as  I  trod, 
My  brothers'  graves  without  a  sod  ; 
For  if  I  thought  with  heedless  tread 
My  step  profaned  their  lowly  bed, 
My  breath  came  gaspingly  and  thick, 
And  my  crushed  heart  fell  blind  and  sick. 

XII. 

I  made  a  footing  in  the  wall, 
It  was  not  therefrom  to  escape, 

For  I  had  buried  one  and  all 

Who  loved  me  in  a  human  shape; 

And  the  whole  earth  would  henceforth  be 

A  wider  prison  unto  me  : 

No  child  —  no  sire  —  no  kin  had  I, 

No  partner  in  my  misery ; 


THE   PRISONER    OF   CHILLON. 


473 


i  thought  of  this,  and  I  was  glad, 

jr0r  thought  of  them  had  made  me  mad 

gut  I  was  curious  to  ascend 

To  my  barred  windows,  and  to  bend 

Once  more,  upon  the  mountains  high 

The  quiet  of  a  loving  eye. 


r  saw  them  —  and  they  were  the  same, 
They  were  not  changed  like  me  in  frame; 
j  sa\v  their  thousand  years  of  snow 
On  high  —  their  wide  long  lake  below,1 
And  the  blue  Rhone  in  fullest  flow; 
I  heard  the  torments  leap  and  gush 
Q'er  channelled  rock  and  broken  bush  ; 
r  saw  the  white-walled  distant  town, 
And  whiter  sails  go  skimming  down; 
And  then  there  was  a  little  isle,'2 
Which  in  my  very  face  did  smile, 

The  only  one  in  view ; 
A  small  green  isle,  it  seemed  no  more, 
Sc.irce  broader  than  my  dungeon  floor, 
gut  in  it  there  were  three  tall  trees, 
And  o'er  it  blew  the  mountain  breeze, 
And  by  it  there  were  waters  flowing, 
And  on  it  there  were  young  flowers  growing 

Of  gentle  breath  and  hue. 
The  fish  ~\vam  by  the  castle  wall, 
And  tl     .  seemed  joyous  each  and  all ; 
The  ea^i>   rode  the  rising  blast, 
Rethought  he  never  flew  so  fast 
As  then  to  me  he  seemed  to  fly, 
And  then  new  tears  came  in  my  eye, 
And  I  felt  troubled — and  would  fain 
I  had  not  left  my  recent  chain ; 
And  when  I  did  descend  again, 
The  darkness  of  my  dim  abode 
Fell  on  me  as  a  heavy  load ; 
It  was  as  is  a  new-dug  grave, 


i[MS.— 

"  I  saw  them  with  their  lake  below, 
And  their  three  thousand  years  of  snow. "J 
2  Between  the  entrances  of  the  Rhone  and  Ville- 
neuve,  not  far  from  Chillon,  is  a  very  small  island; 
the  only  one  I  could  perceive,  in  my  voyage  round 
and  over  the  lake,  within  its  circumference.  It 
contains  a  few  trees  (I  think  not  above  three),  and 
from  its  singleness  and  diminutive  size  has  a  pecu- 
liar effect  upon  the  view. 


Closing  o'er  one  we  sought  to  save, — 
And  yet  my  glance,  too  much  oppressed, 
Had  almost  need  of  such  a  rest. 

XIV. 

It  might  De  months,  or  years,  or  days, 

I  kept  no  count —  I  took  no  note, 
I  had  no  hope  my  eyes  to  raise, 

And  clear  them  of  their  dreary  mote ; 
At  last  men  came  to  set  me  free, 

I  asked  not  why,  and  recked  not  where, 
It  was  at  length  the  same  to  me, 
Fettered  or  fetterless  to  be, 

I  leariied  iO  love  despair. 
And  thus  when  they  appeared  at  last, 
And  all  my  bonds  aside  were  cast, 
These  heavy  walls  to  me  had  grown 
A  hermitage  —  and  all  my  own! 
And  half  I  feit  as  they  were  come 
To  tear  me  from  a  second  home: 
With  spiders  I  had  friendship  made, 
And  watched  them  in  their  sullen  trade, 
Had  seen  the  mice  by  moonlight  play, 
And  why  should  I  feel  less  than  they? 
We  were  all  inmates  of  one  place, 
And  I,  the  monarch  of  each  race, 
Had  power  to  kill  —  yet,  strange  to  tell ! 
In  quiet  we  had  learned  to  dwell — -3 
My  very  chains  and  I  grew  friends, 
So  much  a  long  communion  tends 
To  make  us  what  we  are  :  —  even  I 
Regained  mv  freedom  with  a  si^h.4 


3  [Here  follow  in  MS. — 

"  Nor  slew  I  of  my  subjects  one  — 

What  sovereign    !    '".       „     ,         hathdone?"! 
°      I  yet  so  much   )  ■> 

4  [It  will  readily  be  allowed  that  this  singular 
poem  is  more  powerful  than  pleasing.  The  dun- 
geon of  Bonnivard  is,  like  that  of  Ugolino,  a  sub- 
ject too  dismal  for  even  the  power  of  the  painter  or 
poet  to  counteract  its  horrors.  It  is  the  more  dis- 
agreeable as  affording  human  hope  no  anchor  to  rest 
upon,  and  describing  the  sufferer,  though  a  man  of 
talents  and  virtues,  as  altogether  inert  and  power- 
less under  his  accumulated  sufferings;  yet,  as  a 
picture,  however  gloomy  the  coloring,  it  may  rival 
any  which  Lord  Byron  has  drawn;  nor  is  it  possible 
to  read  it  without  a  sinking  of  the  heart,  corre- 
sponding with  that  which  he  describes  the  victim  to 
have  suffered.  —  Sir  Walter  Scott.] 


MAZEPPA. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 

"Celui  qui  remplissait  alors  cette  place  etait  un  gentilhomme  Polonais,  nomme  Mazeppa,  ne  dans  le 
palatinat  de  Padohe:  il  avait  ete  eleve  page  de  jean  Casimir,  et  avait  piis  a  sa  cour  quelque  teinture  des 
belles-lettres.  Une  intrigue  qu'il  eut  dans  sa  jeunesse  avec  la  femme  d'un  gentilhomme  Polonais  ayant 
dte  decouverte,  le  mari  le  fit  lier  tout  nu  sur  un  cheval  farouche,  et  le  laissa  aller  en  cet  etat.  Le  cheval 
qui  etait  du  pays  de  l'Ukraine,  y  retourna,  et  y  porta  Mazeppa,  demi-mort  de  fatigue  et  de  faim.  Quel- 
ques  paysans  le  secoururent :  il  resta  longtems  parmi  eu.x,  et  se  signala  dans  plusieurs  courses  contre  les 
Tartares.  La  superiority  de  ses  lumieres  lui  donna  une  grande  consideration  parmi  les  Cosaques:  sa 
reputation  s'augmentant  de  jour  en  jour,  obligea  le  Czar  a  le  faire  Prince  de  l'Ukraine."  —  Voltaire 
Hist,  de  Charles  XII.  p.  196. 

"  Le  roi  fuyant,  et  poursuivi,  eut  son  cheval  tu<*  sous  lui;  le  Colonel  Gieta,  blessed  et  perdant  tout 
son  sang,  lui  donna  le  sien.  Ainsi  on  remit  deux  fois  a  cheval,  dans  la  fuite,  ce  conquerant  qui  n'avait 
pu  y  monter  pendant  la  bataille."  —  p.  216. 

"  Le  roi  alia  par  un  autre  chemin  avec  quelques  cavaliers.  Le  carrosse,  oil  il  etait,  rompit  dans  la 
marche;  on  le  remit  a  cheval.  Pour  comble  de  disgrace,  il  s'egara  pendant  la  nuit  dans  un  bois;  la  son 
courage  ne  pouvant  plus  suppleer  a  ses  forces  epuisees,  les  douleurs  fle  sa  blessur;  devenues  plus  insup- 
portables  par  la  fatigue,  son  cheval  etant  tombe  de  lassitude,  il  se  coucha  quelques  heures  au  pied  d'un 

arbre,  en  danger  d'etre  surpris  a  tout  moment  par  les  vainqueurs,  qui  le  cherchaient  de  tous  cotes." n, 

ai8. 


INTRODUCTION. 


Mazeppa  was  written  at  Venice  and  Ravenna  in  the  autumn  of  1818.  Mr.  Gifford  terms  it  on  the 
margin  of  the  MS.,  a  "  lively,  spirited,  and  pleasant  tale;  "  and  M.  Villemain,  the  eminent  French  critic, 
declares  that  sublime  in  its  substance  and  finishing  with  a  joke,  it  is  at  once  the  master-piece  and  symbol 
of  Byron.  An  English  reviewer  says:  —  "  Mazeppa  is  a  very  fine  and  spirited  sketch  of  a  very  noble 
story,  and  is  every  way  worthy  of  its  author.  The  story  is  a  well-known  one;  namely,  that  of  the  young 
Pole,  who,  being  bound  naked  on  the  back  of  a  wild  horse,  on  account  of  an  intrigue  with  the  lady  of  a 
certain  great  noble  of  his  country,  was  carried  by  his  steed  into  the  heart  of  the  Ukraine,  and  being  there 
picked  up  by  some  Cossacks,  in  a  state  apparently  of  utter  hopelessness  and  exhaustion,  recovered,  and 
lived  to  be  long  after  the  prince  and  leader  of  the  nation  among  whom  he  had  arrived  in  this  extraordi- 
nary manner.  Lord  Byron  has  represented  the  strange  and  wild  incidents  of  this  adventure,  as  being 
related  in  a  half  serious,  half  sportive  way,  by  Mazeppa  himself,  to  no  less  a  person  than  Charles  the 
Twelfth  of  Sweden,  in  some  of  whose  last  campaigns,  the  Cossack  Hetman  took  a  distinguished  part. 
He  tells  it  during  the  desolate  bivouack  of  Charles  and  the  few  friends  who  fled  with  him  towards  Tur- 
key, after  the  bloody  overthrow  of  Pultowa.  There  is  not  a  little  of  beauty  and  gracefulness  in  this  way 
of  setting  the  picture; — the  age  of  Mazeppa — the  calm,  practised  indifference  with  which  he  now  sub- 
mits to  the  worst  of  fortune's  deeds  —  the  heroic,  unthinking  coldness  of  the  royal  madman  to  whom  ha 
speaks — the  dreary  and  perilous  accompaniments  of  the  scene  around  th3  speaker  and  the  audience,— 
ill  contribute  to  throw  a  very  striking  charm  both  of  preparation  and  of  contrast  over  the  wild  story  ol 
ihe  Hetman.  Nothing  can  be  more  beautiful,  in  like  manner,  than  the  account  of  the  love  —  the  guiltj 
Jove  —  the  fruits  of  which  had  been  so  miraculous." 


1 


MAZEPPA. 


475 


I. 
'TWAS  after  dread  Pultowa's  day, 

When  fortune  left  the  royal  Swede, 
Around  a  slaughtered  army  lay, 

No  more  to  combat  and  to  bleed. 
The  power  and  glory  of  the  war, 

Faithless  as  their  vain  votaries,  men, 
Had  passed  to  the  triumphant  Czar, 

And  Moscow's  walls  were  safe  again, 
Until  a  day  more  dark  and  drear, 
And  a  more  memorable  year, 
Should  give  to  slaughter  and  to  shame 
A  mightier  host  and  haughtier  name  ; 
A  greater  wreck,  a  deeper  fall, 
A  shock  to  one  —  a  thunderbolt  to  all. 


Such  was  the  hazard  of  the  die  ; 

The  wounded  Charles  was  taught  to  fly 

By  day  and  night  through  field  and  flood, 

Stained  with  his  own  and  subjects'  blood  ; 

For  thousands  fell  that  flight  to  aid : 

And  not  a  voice  was  heard  t'  upbraid 

Ambition  in  his  humbled  hour, 

When  truth  had  nought  to  dread  from  power. 

His  horse  was  slain,  and  Gieta  gave 

His  own  —  and  died  the  Russians'  slave. 

This  too  sinks  after  many  a  league 

Of  well  sustained,  but  vain  fatigue; 

And  in  t'     depth  of  forests,  darkling 

The  wai     -fires  in  the  distance  sparkling — • 

The  beacons  of  surrounding  foes  — 
A  king  must  lay  his  limbs  at  length. 

Are  these  the  laurels  and  repose 
For  which  the  nations  strain  their  strength  ? 
They  laid  him  by  a  savage  tree, 
In  outworn  nature's  agony; 
His  wounds  were  stiff — his  limbs  were  stark — 
The  heavy  hour  was  chill  and  dark  ; 
The  fever  in  his  blood  forbade 
A  transient  slumber's  fitful  aid: 
And  thus  it  was  ;  but  yet  through  all, 
Kinglike  the  monarch  bore  his  fall, 
And  made,  in  this  extreme  of  ill, 
His  pangs  the  vassals  of  his  will: 
All  silent  and  subdued  were  they, 
As  once  the  nations  round  him  lay. 

III. 
A  band  of  chiefs  !  —  alas  !  how  few, 

Since  but  the  fleeting  of  a  day 
Had  thinned  it ;  but  this  wreck  was  true 

And  chivalrous :  upon  the  clay 
Each  sate  him  down,  all  sad  and  mute, 

Beside  his  monarch  and  his  steed, 
For  danger  levels  man  and  brute, 

And  all  arj  fellows  in  their  need. 
Among  the  rest,  Mazeppa  made 
His  pillow  in  an  old  oak's  shade  — 
Himself  as  rough,  and  scarce  less  old, 
The  Ukraine's  hetman,  calm  and  bold; 
But  first,  outspent  with  this  long  course, 


The  Cossack  prince  rubbed  down  his  horse, 

And  made  for  him  a  leafy  bed, 
And  smoothed  his  fetlocks  and  his  mane, 
And  slacked  his  girth,  and  stripped  his  rein, 

And  joyed  to  see  how  well  he  fed  ; 

For  until  now  he  had  the  dread 

His  wearied  courser  might  refuse 

To  browse  beneath  the  midnight  dews : 

But  he  was  hardy  as  his  lord, 

And  little  cared  for  bed  and  board ; 

But  spirited  and  docile  too  ; 

Whate'er  was  to  be  done,  would  do. 

Shaggy  and  swift,  and  strong  of  limb. 

All  Tartar-like  he  carried  him ; 

Obeyed  his  voice,  and  came  to  call, 

And  knew  him  in  the  midst  of  all: 

Though  thousands  were  around, — and  Night, 

Without  a  star,  pursued  her  flight,  — 

That  steed  from  sunset  until  dawn 

His  chief  would  follow  like  a  fawn. 


1  his  done,  Mazeppa  spread  his  cloak, 

And  laid  his  lance  beneath  his  oak, 

Felt  if  his  arms  in  order  good 

The  long  day's  march  had  well  withstood  — 

If  still  the  powder  filled  the  pan, 

And  flints  unloosened  kept  their  lock  — 
His  sabre's  hilt  and  scabbard  felt, 
And  whether  they  had  chafed  his  belt  — 
And  next  the  venerable  man, 
From  out  his  haversack  and  can, 

Prepared  and  spread  his  slender  stock  ; 
And  to  the  monarch  and  his  men 
The  whole  or  portion  offered  then 
With  far  less  of  inquietude 
Than  courtiers  at  a  banquet  would. 
And  Charles  of  this  his  slender  share 
With  smiles  partook  a  moment  there, 
To  force  of  cheer  a  greater  show, 
And  seem  above  both  wounds  and  woe,  — 
And  then  he  said  —  "  Of  all  our  band, 
Though  firm  of  heart  and  strong  of  hand, 
In  skirmish,  march,  or  forage,  none 
Can  less  have  said  or  more  have  done 
Than  thee,  Mazeppa  !     On  the  earth 
So  fit  a  pair  had  never  birth, 
Since  Alexander's  days  till  now, 
As  thy  Bucephalus  and  thou  : 
All  Scythia's  fame  to  thine  should  yield 
For  pricking  on  o'er  flood  and  field." 
Mazeppa  answered  —  "  111  betide 
The  school  wherein  I  learned  to  ride  !  " 
Quoth  Charles  —  "  Old  Hetman,  wherefores^ 
Since  thou  hast  learned  the  art  so  well  ?  " 
Mazeppa  said — "  'Twere  long  to  tell; 
And  we  have  many  a  league  to  go, 
With  every  now  and  then  a  blow, 
And  ten  to  one  at  least  the  foe, 
Before  our  steeds  may  graze  at  ease, 
Beyond  the  swift  Borysthenes  : 
And,  sire,  your  limbs  have  need  of  rest, 


476 


MAZEPPA. 


And  I  will  be  the  sentinel 
Of  this  your  troop." — "  But  I  request," 
Said  Sweden's  monarch,  "  thou  wilt  tell 
This  tale  of  thine,  and  I  may  reap, 
Perchance,  from  this  the  boon  of  sleep; 
For  at  this  moment  from  my  eyes 
The  hope  of  present  slumber  flies." 

"  Well,  sire,  with  such  a  hope,  I'll  track 
My  seventy  years  of  memory  back  : 
I  think  'twas  in  my  twentieth  spring, — 
Ay,  'twas, — when  Casimir  was  king  — 
John  Casimir,  —  I  was  his  page 
Six  summers,  in  my  earlier  age : 
A  learned  monarch,  faith !  was  he, 
And  most  unlike  your  majesty  : 
He  made  no  wars,  and  did  not  gain 
New  realms  to  lose  them  back  again ; 
And  (save  debates  in  Warsaw's  diet) 
He  reigned  in  most  unseemly  quiet ; 
Not  that  he  had  no  cares  to  vex, 
He  loved  the  muses  and  the  sex ; 
And  sometimes  these  so  froward  are, 
They  made  him  wish  himself  at  war; 
But  soon  his  wrath  being  o'er,  he  took 
Another  mistress,  or  new  book  : 
And  then  he  gave  prodigious  ftkes  — 
All  Warsaw  gathered  round  his  gates 
To  gaze  upon  his  splendid  court, 
And  dames,  and  chiefs,  of  princely  port: 
He  was  the  Polish  Solomon, 
So  sung  his  poets,  all  but  one, 
Who,  being  unpensioned,  made  a  satire, 
And  boasted  that  he  could  not  flatter. 
It  was  a  court  of  jousts  and  mimes, 
Where  every  courtier  tried  at  rhymes; 
Even  I  for  once  produced  some  verses, 
And  signed  my  odes  '  Despairing  Thyrsis.' 
There  was  a  certain  Palatine, 

A  count  of  far  and  high  descent, 
Rich  as  a  salt  or  silver  mine ;  * 
And  he  was  proud,  ye  may  divine, 

As  if  from  heaven  he  had  been  sent : 
He  had  such  wealth  in  blood  and  ore 

As  few  could  match  beneath  the  throne; 
And  he  would  gaze  upon  his  store. 
And  o'er  his  pedigree  would  pore, 
Until  by  some  confusion  led, 
Which  almost  looked  like  want  of  head, 

He  thought  their  merits  were    is  own. 
His  wife  was  not  of  his  opinion  — 

His  junior  she  by  thirty  years  — 
Grew  daily  tired  of  his  dominion ; 

And,  after  wishes,  hope_,  ;.nd  fears, 

To  virtue  a  few  farewell  tears, 
A  restless  dream  or  two,  some  glances 
At  Warsaw's  youth,  some  songs,  and  dances 
Awaited  but  the  usual  chances, 


'■  This  comparison  of  a  "  sail  mine "  may,  per- 
haps, be  permitted  to  a  Pole,  as  the  wealth  of  the 
country  consists  greatly  in  the  salt  mines. 


Those  happy  accidents  which  render 
The  coldest  dames  so  very  tender, 
To  deck  her  Count  with  titles  given, 
'Tis  said,  as  passports  into  heaven  ; 
But,  strange  to  say,  they  rarely  boast 
Of  these,  who  have  deserved  them  most. 


"  I  was  a  goodly  stripling  then ; 

At  seventy  years  I  so  may  say, 
That  there  were  tew,  or  boys  or  men, 

Who,  in  my  dawning  time  of  day. 
Of  vassal  or  of  knight's  degree, 
Could  vie  in  vanities  with  me; 
For  I  had  strength,  youth,  gaiety, 
A  port,  not  like  to  this  ye  see, 
But  smooth,  as  all  is  rugged  now; 

For  time,  and  care,  and  war,  have  ploughed 
My  very  soul  from  out  my  brow  ; 

And  thus  I  should  be  disavowed 
By  all  my  kind  and  kin,  could  they 
Compare  my  day  and  yesterday; 
This  change  was  wrought,  too,  long  ere  age 
Had  ta'en  my  features  for  his  page  : 
With  years,  ye  know,  have  not  declined 
My  strength,  my  courage,  or  my  mind, 
Or  at  this  hour  I  should  not  be 
Telling  old  tales  beneath  a  tree, 
With  starless  skies  my  canopy. 
But  let  me  on :  Theresa's  form  — 
Methinks  it  glides  before  me  now, 
Between  me  and  yon  chestnut's  bough, 
The  memory  is  so  quick  and  warm ; 
And  yet  I  find  no  words  to  tell 
The  shape  of  her  I  loved  so  well : 
She  had  the  Asiatic  eye, 

Such  as  our  Turkish  neighborhood, 

Hath  mingled  with  our  Polish  blood, 
Dark  as  above  us  is  the  sky; 
But  through  it  stole  a  tender  light, 
Like  the  first  moonrise  of  midnight; 
Large,  dark,  and  swimming  in  the  stream,, 
Which  seemed  to  melt  to  its  own  beam; 
All  love,  half  languor,  and  half  fire, 
Like  saints  that  at  the  stake  expire, 
And  lift  their  raptured  looks  on  high, 
As  though  it  were  a  joy  to  die.2 
A  brow  like  a  midsummer  lake, 

Transparent  with  the  sun  therein, 
When  waves  no  murmur  dare  to  make, 

And  heaven  beholds  her  face  within. 
A  cheek  and  lip  —  but  why  proceed? 

I  loved  her  then  —  I  love  her  still; 
And  such  as  I  am,  love  indeed 

In  fierce  extremes  —  in  good  and  ill. 
But  still  we  love  even  in  our  rage, 
And  haunted  to  our  very  age 
With  the  vain  shadow  of  the  past, 
As  is  Mazeppa  to  the  last. 

'-'  [MS.  —  "  Until  it  proves  a  joy  to  die.wj 


MAZEPPA. 


477 


"We  met  —  we  gazed — I  saw,  and  sighed, 

She  did  not  speak,  and  yet  replied ; 

There  are  ten  thousand  tones  and  signs 

We  hear  and  see,  but  none  defines  — 

Involuntary  sparks  of  thought, 

Which  strike  from  out  the  heart  o'erwrought, 

And  form  a  strange  intelligence, 

Alike  mysterious  and  intense, 

Which  fink  the  burning  chain  that  binds, 

Without  their  will,  young  hearts  and  minds  ; 

Conveying,  as  the  electric  wire, 

We  know  not  how,  the  absorbing  fire. — 

I  saw,  and  sighed — in  silence  wept, 

And  still  reluctant  distance  kept, 

Until  I  was  made  known  to  her, 

And  we  might  then  and  there  confer 

Without  suspicion  —  then,  even  then, 

I  longed,  and  was  resolved  to  speak; 
But  on  my  lips  they  died  again, 

The  accents  tremulous  and  weak, 
Until  one  hour.  —  There  is  a  game, 

A  frivolous  and  foolish  play, 

Wherewith  we  while  away  the  day; 
It  is  —  I  he  e  forgot  the  name  — 
And  we        ,iis,  it  seems,  were  set, 
By  some  aa  inge  chance,  which  I  forget: 
I  recked  not  if  I  won  or  lost, 

It  was  enough  for  me  to  be 

So  near  to  hear,  and  oh  !  to  see 
The  being  whom  I  loved  the  most. — 
I  watched  her  as  a  sentinel, 
(May  ours  this  dark  night  watch  as  well !) 
Until  I  saw,  and  thus  it  was, 
That  she  was  pensive,  nor  perceived 
Her  occupation,  nor  was  grieved 
Nor  glad  to  lose  or  gain ;  but  still 
Played  on  for  hours,  as  if  her  will 
Yet  bound  her  to  the  place,  though  not 
That  hers  might  be  the  winning  lot.1 
Then  through  my  brain  the  thought  did  pass 
Even  as  a  flash  of  lightning  there, 
That  there  was  something  in  her  air 
Which  would  not  doom  me  to  despair; 
And  on  the  thought  my  words  broke  forth, 

All  incoherent  as  they  were  — 
Their  eloquence  was  little  worth, 
But  yet  she  listened —  'tis  enough  — 

Who  listens  once  will  listen  twice  ^ 

Her  heart.be  sure,  is  not  of  ice, 
And  one  refusal  no  rebuff. 

VII. 

"  I  loved,  and  was  beloved  again — ■ 
They  tell  me,  Sire,  you  never  knew 
Those  gentle  frailties  ;  if  'tis  true, 

I  shorten  all  my  joy  or  pain ; 

To  you  'twould  seem  absurd  as  vain ; 


[MS.—  "but  not 

For  that  which  wc  had  both  forgot."] 


But  all  men  are  not  born  to  reign, 
Or  o'er  their  passions,  or  as  you 
Thus  o'er  themselves  and  nations  too. 
I  am  —  or  rather  was  —  a  prince, 

A  chief  of  thousands,  and  could  lead 

Them    cm    where    each    would    foremost 
bleed 
Cut  could  not  ^'er  myself  evince 
The  like  control — But  to  resume: 

I  oved  ..nd  was  beloved  again ; 
In  sooth,  it  is  a  happy  doom, 

But  yet  where  happiest  ends  in  pain.— - 
We  met  in  secret,  and  the  hour 
Which  led  me  to  that  lady's  bower 
Was  fiery  expectation's  dower. 
My  days  and  nights  wero  nothing — all 
Except  that  hour  which  doth  recall 
In  the  long  lapse  from  youth  to  age 

No  other  like  itself —  I'd  give 

The  Ukraine  back  again  to  live 
It  o'er  once  more  —  and  be  a  page, 
The  happy  page,  who  was  the  lord 
Of  one  soft  heart,  and  his  own  sword, 
And  had  no  other  gem  nor  wealth 
Save  nature's  gift  of  youth  and  health. — 
We  met  in  secret  —  doubly  sweet, 
Some  sav,  they  find  it  so  to  meet ; 
I  know  not  that  —  I  would  have  given 

My  life  but  to  have  called  her  mine 
In  the  full  view  of  earth  and  heaven; 

For  I  did  oft  and  long  repine 
That  we  could  only  meet  by  stealth. 

VIII. 

"  For  lovers  there  are  many  eyes, 

And  such  there  were  on  us ;  —  the  devil 

On  such  occasions  should  be  civil  — 
The  devil !  —  I'm  loth  to  do  him  wrong, 

It  might  be  some  untoward  saint, 
Who  would  not  be  at  rest  too  long, 

But  to  his  pious  bile  gave  vent  — 
But  one  fair  night,  some  lurking  spies 
Surprised  and  seized  us  both. 
The  Count  was  something  more  than  wroth - 
I  was  unarmed ;  but  if  in  steel, 
All  cap-a-pie  from  head  to  heel, 
What  'gainst  their  numbers  could  I  do?  — 
'Twas  near  his  castle,  far  away 

From  city  or  from  succor  near, 
And  almost  on  the  break  of  day; 
I  did  not  think  to  see  another, 

My  moments  seemed  reduced  to  few; 
And  with  one  prayer  to  Mary  Mother, 

And,  it  may  be,  a  saint  or  two, 
As  I  resigned  me  to  my  fate, 
They  led  me  to  the  castle  gate : 

Theresa's  doom  I  never  knew, 
Our  lot  was  henceforth  separate. — 
An  angry  man,  ye  may  opine, 
Was  he,  the  proud  Count  Palatine; 
And  he  had  reason  good  to  be, 


478 


MAZEPPA. 


But  he  was  most  enraged  lest  such 
An  accident  should  chance  to  touch 

Upon  his  future  pedigree ; 

Nor  less  amazed,  that  such  a  blot 

His  noble  'scutcheon  should  have  got, 

While  he  was  highest  of  his  line; 
Because  unto  himself  he  seemed 
The  first  of  men,  nor  less  he  deemed 

In  others'  eyes,  and  most  in  mine. 

'Sdeathl  with  a.  page  —  perchance  a  king 

Had  reconciled  him  to  the  thing; 

But  with  a  stripling  of  a  page  — 

1  felt  —  but  cannot  paint  his  rage. 

IX. 
" '  Bring  forth  the    horse ! ' —  the    horse  was 
brought 

In  truth  he  was  a  noble  steed, 

A  Tartar  of  the  Ukraine  breed, 
Who  looked  as  though  the  speed  of  thought 
Where  in  his  limbs  ;  but  he  was  wild, 

Wild  as  the  wild  deer,  and  untaught, 
With  spur  and  bridle  undefiled  — 
'Twas  but  a  day  he  had  been  caught ; 
And  snorting;,  with  erected  mane, 
And  struggling  fiercely,  but  in  vain. 
In  the  full  foam  of  wrath  and  dread 
To  me  the  desert -born  was  led: 
They  bound  me  on,  that  menial  throng, 
Upon  his  back  with  many  a  thong; 
Then  loosed  him  with  a  sudden  lash  — 
Away !  — away !  — and  on  we  dash !  — 
Torrents  less  rapid  and  less  rash. 


"  Away !  —  away !  —  My  breath  was  gone  — 
I  saw  not  where  he  hurried  on : 
'Twas  scarcely  yet  the  break  of  day, 
And  on  he  foamed  —  away!  —  away!  — 
The  last  of  human  sounds  which  rose, 
As  I  was  darted  from  my  foes, 
W.is  the  wild  shout  of  savage  laughter, 
Which  on  the  wind  came  roaring  after 
A  moment  from  that  rabble  rout : 
With  sudden  wrath  I  wrenched  my  head, 
And  snapped  the  cord,  which  to  the  mane 
Had  bound  my  neck  in  lieu  of  rein, 
And,  writhing  half  my  form  about, 
Howled  back  my  curse;  but  'midst  the  tread, 
The  thunder  of  my  courser's  speed, 
Perchance  they  did  not  hear  nor  heed: 
It  vexes  me  —  for  I  would  fain 
Have  paid  their  insult  back  again. 
I  paid  it  well  in  after  days: 
There  is  not  of  that  castle  gate, 
Its  drawbridge  and  portcullis'  weight, 
Stone,  bar,  moat,  bridge,  or  barrier  left; 
Nor  of  its  fields  a  blade  of  grass, 
Save  what  grows  on  a  ridge  of  wall, 
Where  stood  the  hearth-stone  of  the  hall ; 
And  many  a  time  ye  there  might  pass, 
Nor  dream  that  e'er  that  fortress  was: 


I  saw  its  turrets  in  a  blaze, 

Their  crackling  battlements  all  cleft. 

And  the  hot  lead  pour  down  like  rain 
From  off  the  scorched  and  blackening  roof, 
Whose  thickness  was  not  vengeance-proof. 

They  little  thought  that  day  of  pain, 
When  launched,  as  on  the  lightning's  flash, 
They  bade  me  to  destruction  da 

That  one  day  I  should  come  again, 
With  twice  five  thousand  horse,  to  thank 

The  Count  for  his  uncourteous  ride. 
They  played  me  then  a  bitter  prank, 

When,  with  the  wild  horse  for  my  guide. 
They  bound  me  to  his  foaming  flank: 
At  length  I  played  them  one  as  frank  — 
For  time  at  last  sets  all  things  even  — 

And  if  we  do  but  watch  the  hour, 

There  never  yet  was  human  power 
Which  could  evade,  if  unforgiven, 
The  patient  search  and  vigil  long 
Of  him  who  treasures  up  a  wrong. 


"Away,  away,  my  steed  and  I, 

Upon  the  pinions  of  the  wind, 

All  human  dwellings  left  behind; 
We  sped  like  meteors  through  the  sky, 
When  with  its  crackling  sound  the  night 
Is  chequered  with  the  northern  light : 
Town  —  village  —  none  were  on  our  track, 

But  a  wild  r^)ain  of  far  extent, 
And  bounded  by  a  forest  black  ; 

And,  save  the  scarce  seen  b.  ttlement 
On  distant  heights  of  some  strong  hold, 
Against  the  Tartars  built  of  old, 
No  trace  of  man.    The  year  before 
A  Turkish  army  had  marched  o'er; 
And  where  the  Spahi's  hoof  hath  trod, 
The  verdure  flies  the  bloody  sod:  — 
The  sky  was  dull,  and  dim,  and  gray, 

And  a  low  breeze  crept  moaning  by  — 

I  could  have  answered  with  a  sigh  — 
But  fast  we  fled,  away,  away  — 
And  I  could  neither  sigh  nor  pray; 
And  my  cold  sweat-drops  fell  like  rain 
Upon  the  courser's  bristling  mane; 
But,  snorting  still  with  rage  and  fear, 
He  flew  upon  his  far  career: 
At  times  I  almost  thought,  indeed, 
He  must  have  slackened  in  his  speed; 
But  no—  my  bound  and  slender  frame 

Was  nothing  to  his  angry  might. 
And  merely  like  a  spur  became  : 
Each  motion  which  I  made  to  free 
My  swoln  limbs  from  their  agony 

Increased  his  fury  and  affright: 
I  tried  my  voice,  —  'twas  faint  and  low, 
But  yet  he  swerved  as  from  a  blow; 
And,  starting  to  each  accent,  sprang 
As  from  a  sudden  trumpet's  clang : 
Meantime  my  cords  were  wet  with  gore, 
Which,  oozing  through  my  limbs,  ran  o'er; 


MAZEPPA. 


179 


knd  in  my  tongue  the  thirst  became 
A  something  fierier  far  than  flame. 

XII. 

M  We  neared  the  wild  wood  —  'twas  so  wide, 

Z  saw  no  bounds  on  either  side ; 

'Twas  studded  with  old  sturdy  trees, 

That  bent  not  to  the  roughest  breeze 

Which  howls  down  from  Siberia's  waste, 

And  strips  the  forest  in  its  haste, — 

But  these  were  few,  and  far  between 

Set  thick  with  shrubs  more  young  and  green, 

Luxuriant  with  their  annual  leaves, 

Ere  strown  by  those  autumnal  eves 

That  nip  the  forest's  foliage  dead, 

Discolored  with  a  lifeless  red, 

Which  stands  thereon  like  stiffened  gore 

Upon  the  slain  when  battle's  o'er, 

And  some  long  winter's  night  hath  shed 

Its  frost  o'er  every  tombless  head, 

So  cold  and  -,tark  the  raven's  beak 

May  peck      .pierced  each  frozen  cheek: 

'Twas  a  w.it,  waste  of  underwood, 

And  here  and  there  a  chestnut  stood, 

The  strong  oak  and  the  hardy  pine ; 

But  far  apart  —  and  well  it  were, 
Or  else  a  different  lot  were  mint-  — 

The  boughs  gave  way,  and  did  not  tear 
My  limbs;  and  I  found  strength  to  bear 
My  wounds,  already  scarred  with  cold  — 
My  bonds  forbade  to  loose  my  hold. 
We  rustled  through  the  leaves  like  wind. 
Left  shrubs,  and  trees,  and  wolves  behind  ; 
By  night  I  heard  them  on  the  track, 
Their  troop  came  hard  upon  our  back, 
With  their  long  gallop,  which  can  tire 
The  hound's  deep  hate,  and  hunter's  fire: 
Where'er  we  flew  they  followed  on, 
Nor  left  us  with  the  morning  sun; 
Behind  I  saw  them,  scarce  a  rood, 
At  day-break  winding  through  the  wood, 
And  through  the  night  had  heard  their  feet 
Their  stealing,  rustling  step  repeat. 
Oh  !  how  I  wished  for  spear  or  sword, 
At  least  to  die  amidst  the  horde, 
And  perish  —  if  it  must  be  so  — 
At  bay,  destroying  many  a  foe. 
When  first  my  courser's  race  begun, 
I  wished  the  goal  already  won  ; 
But  now  I  doubted  strength  and  speed. 
Vain  doubt !  his  swift  and  savage  breed 
Had  nerved  him  like  the  mountain-roe; 
Nor  faster  falls  the  blinding  snow 
Which  whelms  the  peasant  near  the  door 
Whose  threshold  he  shall  cross  no  more, 
Bewildered  with  the  dazzling  blast, 
Than  through  the  forest-paths  he  past  — 
Untired,  untamed,  and  worse  than  wild; 
AH  furious  as  a  favored  child 
Balked  of  i*s  wish  ;  or  fiercer  still  — 
A.  woman  piqued  —  who  has  her  will. 


XIII. 

"  The  wood  was  past ;  'twas  more  than  noon, 

But  chill  the  air,  although  in  June; 

Or  it  might  be  my  veins  ran  cold  — 

Prolonged  endurance  tames  the  bold ; 

And  I  was  then  not  what  I  seem, 

But  headlong  as  a  wintry  stream, 

And  wore  my  feelings  out  before 

I  well  could  count  their  causes  o'er: 

And  what  with  fury,  fear,  and  wrath, 

The  tortures  which  beset  my  path, 

Cold,  hunger,  sorrow,  shame,  distress, 

Thus  bound  in  nature's  nakedness; 

Sprung  from  a  race  whose  rising  blood 

When  stirred  beyond  its  calmer  mood, 

And  trodden  hard  upon,  is  like 

The  rattle-snake's,  in  act  to  strike, 

What  marvel  if  this  worn-out  trunk 

Beneath  its  woes  a  moment  sunk  ? 

The  earth  gave  way,  the  skies  rolled  round 

I  seemed  to  sink  upon  the  ground ; 

But  erred,  for  I  was  fastly  bound. 

My  heart  turned  sick,  my  brain  grew  sore, 

And  throbbed  awhile,  then  beat  no  more: 

The  skies  spun  like  a  mighty  wheel ; 

I  saw  the  trees  like  drunkards  reel, 

And  a  slight  flash  sprang  o'er  my  eyes, 

Which  saw  no  farther  :  he  who  dies 

Can  die  no  more  than  then  I  died. 

O'ertortured  by  that  ghastly  ride, 

I  felt  the  blackness  come  and  go, 

And  strove  to  wake;  but  could  not  make 
My  senses  climb  up  from  below: 
I  felt  as  on  a  plank  at  sea, 
When  all  the  waves  that  dash  o'er  thee, 
At  the  same  time  upheave  and  whelm, 
And  hurl  thee  towards  a  desert  realm. 
My  undulating  life  was  as 
The  fancied  lights  that  flitting  pass 
Our  shut  eyes  in  deep  midnight,  when 
Fever  begins  upon  the  brain  ; 
But  soon  it  passed,  with  little  pain, 
But  a  confusion  worse  than  such: 
I  own  that  I  should  deem  it  much, 
Dying,  to  feel  the  same  again  ; 
And  yet  I  do  suppose  we  must 
Feel  far  more  ere  we  turn  to  dust: 
No  matter;  I  have  bared  my  brow 
Full  in  Death's  face  —  before  —  and  now. 


"  My  thoughts  came  back ;    where  was   I 
Cold, 

And  numb,  and  giddy:  pulse  by  pulse 
Life  reassumed  its  lingering  hold, 
And  throb  by  throb :  till  grown  a  pang 

Which  for  a  moment  would  convulse, 

My  blood  reflowed,  though  thick  and  chill; 
My  ear  with  uncouth  noises  rang, 

My  heart  began  once  more  to  thrill; 
My  sight  returned,  though  dim;  alas  I 


480 


MAZRPPA. 


And  thickened,  as  it  were,  with  glass. 
Methought  the  dash  of  waves  was  nigh  ; 
There  was  a  gleam  too  of  the  sky, 
Studded  with  stars ;  —  it  is  no  dream  ; 
The  wild  horse  swims  the  wilder  stream! 
The  bright  broad  river's  gushing  tide 
Sweeps,  winding  onward,  far  and  wide. 
And  we  are  half-way,  struggling  o'er 
To  yon  unknown  and  silent  shore. 
The  waters  broke  my  hollow  trance, 
And  with  a  temporary  strength 

';     Mv  stiffened  limbs  were  rebaptized. 

iMy  courser's  broad  breast  proudly  braves, 
And  dashes  off  the  ascending  waves, 
And  onward  we  advance  ! 
We  reach  the  slippery  shore  at  length, 

A  haven  I  but  little  prized, 
For  all  behind  was  dark  and  drear 
And  all  before  was  night  and  fear. 
How  many  hours  of  night  or  day 
In  those  suspended  pangs  I  lay, 
I  could  not  tell ;   I  scarcely  knew 
If  this  were  human  breath  I  drew. 


"  With  glossy  skin,  and  dripping  mane, 

And  reeling  limbs,  and  reeking  flank, 
The  wild  steed's  sinewy  nerves  still  strain 

Up  the  repelling  bank. 
We  gain  the  top:  a  boundless  plain 
Spreads  through  the  shadow  of  the  night, 

And  onward,  onward,  onward,  seems, 

Like  precipices  in  our  dreams, 
To  stretch  beyond  the  sight ; 
And  here  and  there  a  speck  of  white, 

Or  scattered  spot  of  dusky  green, 
In  masses  broke  into  the  light, 
As  rose  the  moon  upon  my  right. 

But  nought  distinctly  seen 
In  the  dim  waste  would  indicate 
The  omen  of  a  cottage  gate ; 
No  twinkling  taper  from  afar 
Stood  like  a  hospitable  star; 
Not  even  an  ignis-fatuus  rose 
To  make  him  merry  with  my  woes : 

That  very  cheat  had  cheered  me  then ! 
Although  detected,  welcome  still, 
Reminding  me  through  every  ill, 

Of  the  abodes  of  men. 


'  Onward  we  went  —  but  slack  and  slow ; 

His  savage  force  at  length  o'erspent, 
The  drooping  courser,  faint  and  low, 

All  feebly  foaming  went. 
A  sickly  infant  had  had  power 
To  guide  him  forward  in  that  hour; 

But  useless  all  to  me. 
His  new-born  tameness  nought  availed  — 
My  limbs  were  bound ;  my  force  had  failed, 

Perchance,  had  they  been  free. 
With  feeble  effort  still  I  tried 


To  rend  the  bonds  so  starkly  tied  — 

But  still  it  was  in  vain ; 
My  limbs  were  only  wrung  the  more, 
And  soon  the  idle  strife  gave  o'er, 

Which  but  prolonged  their  pain  : 
The  dizzy  race  seemed  almost  done, 
Although  no  goal  was  nearly  won  : 
Some  streaks  announced  the  coming  sun  - 

How  slow,  alas !  he  came  ! 
Methought  that  mist  of  dawning  gray 
Would  never  dapple  into  day; 
How  heavily  it  rolled  away  — 

Before  the  eastern  flame 
Rose  crimson,  and  deposed  the  stars, 
And  called  the  radiance  from  their  cars,1 
And  filled  the  earth,  from  his  deep  throne. 
With  lonely  lustre,  all  his  own. 

XVII. 

"  Up  rose  the  sun ;  the  mists  were  curled 
Back  from  the  solitary  world 
Which  lay  around  —  behind  —  before; 
What  booted  it  to  traverse  o'er 
Plain,  forest,  river?     Man  nor  brute, 
Nor  dint  of  hoof,  nor  print  of  foot, 
Lay  in  the  wild  luxuriant  soil; 
No  sign  of  travel  —  none  of  toil; 
The  very  air  was  mute  ; 
And  not  an  insect's  shrill  small  horn, 
Nor  matin  bird's  new  voice  was  borne 
From  herb  nor  thicket.     Many  a  w  erst, 
Panting  as  if  his  heart  would  burst, 
The  weary  brute  still  staggered  on  ; 
And  still  we  were  —  or  seemed  —  alone : 
At  length,  while  reeling  on  our  way, 
Methought  I  heard  a  courser  neigh, 
From  out  yon  tuft  of  blackening  firs. 
Is  it  the  wind  those  branches  stirs  ? 
No,  no !  from  out  the  forest  prance 

A  trampling  troop;  I  see  them  come! 
In  one  vast  squadron  they  advance  ! 

I  strove  to  cry — my  lips  were  dumb. 
The  steeds  rush  on  in  plunging  pride ; 
But  where  are  they  the  reins  to  guide  ? 
A  thousand  horse —  and  none  to  ride  ! 
With  flowing  tail,  and  flying  mane, 
Wide  nostrils  —  never  stretched  by  pain 
Mouths  bloodless  to  the  bit  or  rein, 
And  feet  that  iron  never  shod, 
And  flanks  unscarred  by  spur  or  rod, 
A  thousand  horse,  the  wild,  the  free, 
Like  waves  that  follow  o'er  the  sea, 

Came  thickly  thundering  on, 
As  if  our  faint  approach  to  meet ; 
The  sight  re-nerved  my  courser's  feet, 
A  moment  staggering,  feebly  fleet, 
A  moment,  with  a  faint  low  neigh, 

He  answered,  and  then  fell; 
With  gasps  and  glazing  eyes  he  lay, 


1  [MS.  —  "  Rose  crimson,  and  forbad  the  stars 
To  sparkle  in  their  radiant  cars."] 


MAZEPPA. 


481 


And  recking  limbs  immovable, 

His  first  and  last  career  is  done ! 
On  came  the  troop  —  they  saw  him  stoop, 

They  saw  me  strangely  bound  along 

His  back  with  many  a  bloody  thong: 
They  stop  —  they  start — they  snuff  the  air, 
Gallop  a  moment  here  and  there, 
Approach,  retire,  wheel  round  and  round, 
Then  plunging  back  with  sudden  bound, 
Headed  by  one  black  mighty  steed, 
Who  seemed  the  patriarch  of  his  breed, 

Without  a  single  speck  or  hair 
Of  white  upon  his  shaggy  hide; 
They     snort  —  they     foam  —  neigh  —  swerve 

aside, 
And  backward  to  the  forest  fly, 
By  instinct,  from  a  human  eye. — 

They  left  me  there  to  my  despair, 
Linked  to  the  dead  and  stiffening  wretch, 
Whose  lifeless  limbs  beneath  me  stretch, 
Relieved  from  that  unwonted  weight, 
From  whence  I  could  not  extricate 
Nor  him  nor  me  —  and  there  we  lay 

The  dying  on  the  dead  ! 
I  little  deemed  another  day 

Would  see  my  houseless,  helpless  head. 

"  And  there  from  morn  till  twilight  bound, 

I  felt  the  heavy  hours  toil  round, 

With  just  enough  of  life  to  see 

My  last  of  suns  go  down  on  me, 

In  hopeless  certainty  of  mind, 

That  makes  us  feel  at  length  resigned 

To  that  which  our  forboding  years 

Presents  the  worst  and  last  of  fears 

Inevitable  —  even  a  boon, 

Nor  more  unkind  for  coming  soon ; 

Yet  shunned  and  dreaded  with  such  care, 

As  if  it  only  were  a  snare 

That  prudence  might  escape  : 
At  times  both  wished  for  and  implored, 
At  times  sought  with  self-pointed  sword, 
Yet  still  a  dark  and  hideous  close 
To  even  intolerable  woes, 

And  welcome  in  no  shape. 
And,  strange  to  say,  the  sons  of  pleasure, 
They  who  have  revelled  beyond  measure 
In  beauty,  wassail,  wine,  and  treasure, 
Die  calm,  or  calmer,  oft  than  he 
Whose  heritage  was  misery : 
For  he  who  hath  in  turn  run  through 
All  that  was  beautiful  and  new, 

Hath  nought  to  hope,  and  nought  to  leave ; 
And,  save  the  future,  (which  is  viewed 
Not  quite  as  men  are  base  or  good, 
But  as  their  nerves  may  be  endued,) 

With  nought  perhaps  to  grieve :  — 
The  wretch  still  hopes  his  woes  must  end, 
And  Death,  whom  he  should  deem  his  friend, 
Appears,  to  his  distempered  eyes, 
Arrive-d  to  rob  him  of  his  prize, 
The  tree  of  his  new  Paradise. 


To-morrow  would  have  given  him  all, 
Repaid  his  pangs,  repaired  his  fall ; 
To-morrow  would  have  been  the  first 
Of  days  no  more  deplored  or  curst, 
But  bright,  and  long,  and  beckoning  years, 
Seen  dazzling  through  the  mist  of  tears, 
Guerdon  of  many  a  painful  hour  ; 
To-morrow  would  have  given  him  power 
To  rule,  to  shine,  to  smite,  to  save  — 
And  must  it  dawn  upon  his  grave  ? 

XVIII. 

"The  sun  was  sinking — still  I  lay 

Chained  to  the  chill  and  stiffening  steed, 
I  thought  to  mingle  there  our  clay ; 

And  my  dim  eyes  of  death  had  need, 

No  hope  arose  of  being  freed  : 
I  cast  my  last  looks  up  the  sky, 

And  there  between  me  and  the  sun 

I  saw  the  expecting  raven  fly, 
Who  scarce  would  wait  till  both  should  die, 

Ere  his  repast  begun  ; 
He  flew,  and  perched,  then  flew  once  more, 
And  each  time  nearer  than  before ; 
I  saw  his  wing  through  twilight  flit, 
And  once  so  near  me  he  alit 

I  could  have  smote,  but  lacked  the  strength  ; 

But  the  slight  motion  of  my  hand, 
And  feeble  scratching  of  the  sand 
The  exerted  throat's  faint  struggling  noise, 
Which  scarcely  could  be  called  a  voice, 

Together  scared  him  off  at  length.- — 
I  know  no  more  —  my  latest  dream 

Is  something  of  a  lovely  star 

Which  fixed  my  dull  eyes  from  afar, 
And  went  and  came  with  wandering  beam. 
And  of  the  cold,  dull,  swimming,  dense 
Sensation  of  recurring  sense, 
And  then  subsiding  back  to  death, 
And  then  again  a  little  breath, 
A  little  thrill,  a  short  suspense, 

An  icy  sickness  curdling  o'er 
My  heart,  and  sparks  that  crossed  my  brain  — 
A  gasp,  a  throb,  a  start  of  pain, 

A  sigh,  and  nothing  more. 


"  I  woke  —  Where  was  I  ?  —  Do  I  see 
A  human  face  look  down  on  me  ? 
And  doth  a  roof  above  me  close  f 
Do  these  limbs  on  a  couch  repose  t 
Is  this  a  chamber  where  I  lie  ? 
And  is  it  mortal  yon  bright  eye, 
That  watches  me  with  gentle  glance  ? 

I  closed  my  own  again  once  more, 
As  doubtful  that  the  former  trance 

Could  not  as  yet  be  o'er. 
A  slender  girl,  long-haired,  and  tali, 
Sate  watching  by  the  cottage  wall  : 
The  sparkle  of  her  eye  I  caught, 
Even  with  my  first  return  of  thought  \ 
For  ever  and  anon  she  threw 


482 


THE  ISLAND. 


A  prying,  pitying  glance  on  me 
With  her  black  eyes  so  wild  and  free : 
I  gazed,  and  gazed,  until  I  knew 

No  vision  it  could  be, — 
But  that  I  lived,  and  was  released 
From  adding  to  the  vulture's  feast: 
And  when  the  Cossack  maid  beheld 
My  heavy  eyes  at  length  unsealed, 
She  smiled  — and  I  essayed  to  speak, 

But  failed  — and  she  approached,  and  made 

With  lip  and  finger  signs  that  said, 
I  must  not  strive  as  yet  to  break 
The  silence,  till  my  strength  should  be 
Enough  to  leave  my  accents  free ; 
And  then  her  hand  on  mine  she  laid, 
And  smoothed  the  pillow  for  my  head, 
And  stole  along  on  tiptoe  tread, 

And  gently  oped  the  door,  and  spake 
In  whispers —  ne'er  was  voice  so  sweet! 
Even  music  followed  her  light  feet ;  — 

But  those  she  called  were  not  awake, 
And  she  went  forth ;  but,  ere  she  passed, 
Another  look  on  me  she  cast, 

Another  sign  she  made,  to  say, 
That  I  had  nought  to  fear,  that  all 
Were  near,  at  my  command  or  call, 

And  she  would  not  delay 
Her  due  return  :  —  while  she  was  gone, 
Methought  I  felt  too  much  alone. 

xx. 

"  She  came  with  mother  and  with  sire  — 
What  need  of  more  ?  —  I  will  not  tire 
With  long  recital  of  the  rest, 
Since  I  became  the  Cossack's  guest. 
They  found  me  senseless  on  the  plain  — 

They  bore  me  to  the  nearest  hut  — 
They  brought  me  into  life  again  — 
Me  —  one  day  o'er  their  realm  to  reign! 


Thus  the  vain  fool  who  strove  to  glut 
His  rage,  refining  on  my  pain, 

Sent  me  forth  to  the  wilderness, 
Bound,  naked,  bleeding,  and  alone, 
To  pass  the  desert  to  a  throne, — 

What  mortal  his  own  doom  may  guess  1  — 

Let  none  despond,  let  none  despair! 
To-morrow  the  Borysthenes 
May  see  our  coursers  graze  at  ease 
Upon  his  Turkish  bank,  —  and  never 
Had  I  such  welcome  for  a  river 

As  I  shall  yield  when  safely  there.1 
Comrades,    good     night!"  —  tho     Hetman 
threw 

His  length  beneath  the  oak-tree  shade, 

With  leafy  couch  already  made, 
A  bed  nor  comfortless  nor  new 
To  him,  who  took  his  rest  whene'er 
The  hour  arrived,  no  matter  where : 

His  eyes  the  hastening  slumbers  steep. 
And  if  ye  marvel  Charles  forgot 
To  thank  his  tale,  he  wondered  not, — 

The  king  had  been  an  hour  asleep. 


1  ["  Charles,  having  perceived  that  the  day  was 
lost,  and  that  his  only  chance  of  safety  was  to  retire 
with  the  utmobt  precipitation,  suffered  himself  to  be 
mounted  on  horseback,  and  with  the  remains  of  his 
army  fled  to  a  place  called  Perewolochna,  situated 
in  the  angle  formed  by  the  junction  of  the  Vorskla 
and  the  Borysthenes.  Here,  accompanied  by  Ma- 
zeppa  and  a  few  hundreds  of  his  followers,  Charles 
swam  over  the  latter  great  river,  and  proceeding 
over  a  desolate  country,  in  danger  of  perishing  with 
hunger,  at  length  reached  the  Bog,  where  he  was 
kindly  received  by  the  Turkish  pacha.  The  Rus- 
sian envoy  at  the  Sublime  Porte  demanded  that 
Mazeppa  should  be  delivered  up  to  Peter,  but  the 
old  Hetman  of  the  Cossacks  escaped  this  fate  by 
taking  a  disease  which  hastened  his  death."  — 
Barrow's  Peter  the  Great,  pp.  196-203.] 


THE    ISLAND; 

OR, 

CHRISTIAN   AND   HIS   COMRADES. 


The  foundation  of  the  following  story  will  be  found  partly  in  Lieutenant  Bligh's  "  Narrative  of  th* 
Mutiny  and  Seizure  of  the  Bounty,  in  the  South  Seas,  in  1789;  "  and  partly  in  "  Mariner's  Account  at 
the  Tonga  Islands." 

Genoa,  1823. 


THE  ISLAND. 


483 


INTRODUCTION. 

On  the  28th  of  April,  1789,  the  Bounty  was  on  its  way  from  Otaheite  with  a  cargo  of  bread  fruit  trees, 
which  the  English  Government  wished  to  naturalize  in  the  West  Indies,  when  the  larger  part  of  the  crew, 
headed  by  Christian  the  mate,  seized  the  commander,  Captain  Bligh,  and  launched  him,  together  with 
eighteen  others  who  remained  faithful  to  their  duty,  in  an  open  boat  upon  the  wide  ocean.  The  remainder, 
twenty-eight  in  number,  of  whom  four  were  detained  against  their  will,  set  sail  for  Toobonai,  one  of  the 
Friendly  Islands;  thence  they  returned  to  Otaheite,  where  Christian  landed  the  majority  of  the  mutineers, 
while  himself  and  eight  of  his  comrades  went  back  to  Toobonai,  with  the  intention  of  settling  there.  The 
aatives  regarding  them  as  intruders,  Christian  and  his  company  again  put  to  sea,  and  established  them- 
selves, in  1790,  npon  Pitcairn's  Island,  which  was  then  uninhabited.  Captain  Bligh,  with  twelve  of  his 
men,  got  safe  to  England,  and  the  Pandora  was  despatched  to  Otaheite,  to  apprehend  the  mutineers. 
Fourteen  were  captured,  and  of  these  four  were  drowned  on  the  voyage,  and  three  executed  in  England. 
It  was  in  anticipation  of  the  search  for  them  at  Otaheite  that  Christian  and  his  party  sought  a  securer 
home,  and  they  took  the  further  precaution  to  burn  the  ship  as  soon  as  they  were  settled  upon  Pitcairn's 
Island.  No  one  guessed  what  had  become  of  them  till  the  captain  of  an  American  vessel  chanced,  in 
1809,  to  stop  at  their  place  of  retreat,  and  learnt  their  curious  story. 

They  had  carried  with  them  from  Otaheite  six  Tahitian  men  and  twelve  women.  Quarrels  broke  out, 
a  war  of  races  commenced,  and  ultimately  the  nine  Englishmen  were  killed  or  died,  with  the  exception 
of  one  Smith,  who  assumed  the  name  of  Adams,  and  was  the  patriarch  of  the  colony,  which  amounted 
in  all  to  thirty-five.  Adams,  touched  by  the  tragedies  he  had  witnessed,  had  trained  up  the  half-caste 
children  of  himself  and  his  countrymen  in  the  way  they  should  go,  and  they  presented  the  singular  spec- 
tacle of  a  moral,  a  united,  and  a  happy  family  sprung  from  a  colony  of  ferocious  mutineers. 

Such  was  the  romance  upon  which  the  poet  founded  the  tale  of  "  The  Island,"  though  he  has  inter, 
woven  with  the  central  narrative  a  marvellous  incident  from  Mariner,  which  relates  to  an  entirely  differ- 
ent adventure. 

The  Island  was  written  at  Genoa,  early  in  1823,  and  published  in  June  of  that  year. 


CANTO  THE   FIRST. 


THE  morning  watch  was  come ;  the  vessel  lay 
Her  course,  and  gently  made  her  liquid  way; 
The  cloven  billow  flashed  from  off  her  prow 
In  furrows  formed  by  that  majestic  plough  ; 
The  waters  with  their  world  were  all  before ; 
Behind,  the  South  Sea's  many  an  islet  shore. 
The  quiet  night,  now  dappling,  'gan  to  wane, 
Dividing  darkness  from  the  dawning  main  ; 
The  dolphins,  not  unconscious  of  the  day, 
Swam  high,  as  eager  of  the  coming  ray; 
The  stars  from  broader  beams  began  to  creep, 
And  lift  their  shining  eyelids  from  the  deep ; 
The  sail  resumed  its  lately  shadowed  white, 
And    the   wind   fluttered  with   a   freshening 

flight; 
The  purpling  ocean  owns  the  coming  sun, 
But  ere  he  break  —  a  deed  is  to  be  done. 


The  gallant  chief  within  his  cabin  slept, 
Secure  in  those  by  whom  the  watch  was  kept : 


His  dreams  were  of  Old  England's  welcome 

shore, 
Of  toils  rewarded,  and  of  dangers  o'er ; 
His  name  was  added  to  the  glorious  roll 
Of  those  who  search  the  storm-surrounded 

Pole. 
The  worst  was  over,  and  the  rest  seemed  sure,1 
And  why  should  not  his  slumber  be  secure  ? 
Alas  !  his  deck  was  trod  by  unwilling  feet, 
And  wilder  hands  would  hold  the   vessel's 

sheet : 
Young  hearts,  which  languish  for  some  sunny 

isle, 
Where  summer  years   and   summer  women 

smile ; 


1  ["  A  few  hours  before,  my  situation  had  been 
peculiarly  flattering.  I  had  a  ship  in  the  most  per- 
fect order,  stored  with  every  necessary,  both  for 
health  and  service;  the  object  of  the  voyage  was 
attained,  and  two  thirds  of  it  now  completed.  The 
remaining  part  had  every  prospect  of  success."  — 
Bligh.] 


484 


THE   ISLAND. 


Men  without  country,  who,  too  long  estranged, 
Had  found   no    native    home,   or    found    it 

changed, 
And,  half  uncivilized,  preferred  the  cave 
Of  some  soft  savage  to  the  uncertain  wave  — 
The  gushing  fruits  that  nature  gave  unfilled  ; 
The  wood  without   a   path    but   where   they 

willed ; 
The    field    o'er  which  promiscuous    Plenty 

poured 
Her  horn  ;  the  equal  land  without  a  lord  ; 
The  wish  —  which  ages  have  not  yet  subdued 
In  man  —  to  have  no  master  save  his  mood  ;  l 
The  earth,  whose  mine  was  on  its  face,  unsold, 
The  glowing  sun  and  produce  all  its  gold ; 
The  freedom  which  can  call  each  grot  a  home ; 
The  general  garden,  where  all  steps  may  roam, 
Where  Nature  owns  a  nation  as  her  child, 
Exulting  in  the  enjoyment  of  the  wild  ; 
Their  shells,  their  fruits,  the  only  wealth  they 

know 
Their  unexploring  navy,  the  canoe ; 
Their   sport,  the   dashing  breakers   and  the 

chase; 
Their  strangest  sight,  an  European  face  :  — 
Such  was  the  country  which  these  strangers 

yearned 
To  see  again ;  a  sight  they  dearly  earned. 

ill. 
Awake,  bold  Bligh  !  the  foe  is  at  the  gate ! 

Awake  !  Awake  ! Alas  !  it  is  too  late ! 

Fiercely  beside  thy  cot  the  mutineer 

Stands,  and  proclaims  the  reign  of  rage  and 

fear. 
Thy   limbs  are  bound,  the  bayonet   at   thy 

breast ; 
The  hands,  which  trembled  at  thy  voice  arrest ; 
Dragged  o'er  the  deck,  no  more  at  thy  com- 
mand 
The  obedient  helm  shall  veer,  the  sail  expand  ; 
That  savage  spirit,  which  would  lull  by  wrath 
Its  desperate  escape  from  duty's  path, 
Glares  round  thee,  in  the  scarce  believing  eyes 
Of  those  who  fear  the  chief  they  sacrifice  : 
For  ne'er  can  man  his  conscience  all  assuage, 
Unless  he  drain  the  wine  of  passion  —  rage. 


In  vain,  not  silenced  by  the  eye  of  death, 
Thou   call'st    the    loyal  with    thy    menaced 

breath  :  — 
They  come  not ;  they  are  few,  and,  overawed, 
Must  acquiesce,  while  sterner  hearts  applaud. 


1  ["  The  women  of  Otaheite  are  handsome,  mild, 
and  cheerful  in  manners  and  conversation,  pos- 
sessed of  great  sensibility  and  have  sufficient  deli- 
cacy to  make  them  be  admired  and  beloved. 
The  chiefs  were  so  much  attached  to  our  people, 
that  they  rather  encouraged  their  stay  among  them 
than  otherwise,  and  even  made  them  promises  of 
large  possessions.     Under  these   and  many  other 


In  vain  thou  dost  demand  the  cause  :  a  curse 
Is  all  the  answer,  with  the  threat  of  worse. 
Full  in  thine  eyes  is  waved  the  glittering  blade, 
Close  to  thy  throat  the  pointed  bayonet  laid. 
The  levelled  muskets  circle  round  thy  breast 
In  hands  as  steeled  to  do  the  deadly  rest. 
Thou  darest  them  to  their  worst,  exclaiming  — 

"Fire!" 
But  they  who  pitied  not  could  yet  admire; 
Some  lurking  remnant  of  their  former  awe 
Restrained  them  longer  than  their  broken  law  ; 
They  would  not  dip  their  souls  at  once   in 

blood, 
But  left  thee  to  the  mercies  of  the  flood.2 


"  Hoist  out  the  boat !  "  was  now  the  leader's 

cry; 
And  who  dare  answer  "  No !  "  to  Mutiny, 
In  the  first  dawning  of  the  drunken  hour, 
The  Saturnalia  of  unhoped-for  power  ? 
The  boat  is  lowered  with  all  the  haste  of  hate, 
With  its  slight  plank  between  thee  and  thy  fate : 
Her  only  cargo  such  a  scant  supply 
As  promises  the  death  their  hands  deny; 
And  just  enough  of  water  and  of  bread 
To  keep,  some  days,  the  dying  from  the  dead  : 
Some  cordage,  canvas,  sails,  and  lines,  and 

twine, 
But  treasures  all  to  hermits  of  the  brine, 
Were  added  after,  to  the  earnest  prayer 


concomitant  circumstances,  it  ought  hardly  to  be 
the  subject  of  surprise  that  a  set  of  sailors,  most  of 
them  void  of  connections,  should  be  led  away, 
where  they  had  the  power  of  fixing  themselves,  in 
the  midst  of  plenty,  in  one  of  the  finest  islands  in 
the  world,  where  there  was  no  necessity  to  labor, 
and  where  the  allurements  of  dissipation  are  be- 
yond any  conception  that  can  be  formed  of  it."  — 
Bligh.] 

-  ["Just  before  sunrise,  while  I  was  yet  asleep, 
Mr.  Christian,  with  the  master-at-arms,  gunner's 
mate,  and  Thomas  Burkitt,  seaman,  came  into  my 
cabin,  and,  seizing  me,  tied  my  hands  with  a  cord 
behind  my  back,  threatening  me  with  instant  death, 
if  I  spoke  or  made  the  least  noise.  I  nevertheless 
called  out  as  loud  as  I  could,  in  hopes  of  assistance; 
but  the  officers  not  of  their  party  were  already  se- 
cured by  sentinels  at  their  doors.  At  my  own  cabin 
door  were  three  men,  besides  the  four  within:  all 
except  Christian  had  muskets  and  bayonets;  he  had 
only  a  cutlass.  I  was  dragged  out  of  bed,  and 
forced  on  deck  in  my  shirt.  On  demanding  the 
reason  of  such  violence,  the  only  answer  was  abuse 
for  not  holding  my  tongue.  The  boatswain  was 
then  ordered  to  hoist  out  the  launch,  accompanied 
by  a  threat,  if  he  did  not  do  it  instantly,  to  take 
care  of  himself.  The  boat  being  hoisted  out,  Mr. 
Heyward  and  Mr.  Hallett,  two  of  the  midshipmen, 
and  Mr.  Samuel,  the  clerk,  were  ordered  into  it. 
I  demanded  the  intention  of  giving  this  ordar,  and 
endeavored  to  persuade  the  people  near  me  not  to 
persist  in  such  acts  of  violence;  but  it  was  to  no 
effect;  for  the  constant  answer  was,  'Hold  yout 
tongue,  or  you  are  dead  this  moment !  '"  —  Bligh.] 


THE   ISLAND. 


485 


Of  those  who  saw  no  hope,  save  sea  and  air ; 
And  last,  that  trembling  vassal  of  the  Pole  — 
I'he  feeling  compass —  Navigation's  soul.1 

VI. 

And  now  the  self-elected  chief  finds  time 

To  stun  the  first  sensation  of  his  crime, 

And   raise   it   in    his   followers  —  "Ho!    the 

bowl !  "  2 
Lest  passion  should  return  to  reason's  shoal. 
"  Brandy  for  heroes  !  "  3     Burke  could  once 

exclaim — ■ 
No  doubt  a  liquid  path  to  epic  fame  ; 
And  such  the  new-born  heroes  found  it  here, 
And  drained  the  draught  with  an  applauding 

cheer. 
"  Huzza  !  for  Otaheite  !  "  was  the  cry. 
How  strange  such  shouts  from  sons  of  Mutiny  ! 
The  gentle  island,  and  the  genial  soil, 
The  friendly  hearts,  the  feasts  without  a  toil, 
The    courteous    manners    but    from    nature 

caught, 
The   wealth   unhoarded,   and   the    love    un- 

bought ; 
Could  these  have  charms  for  rudest  sea-boys, 

driven 
Before  the  mast  by  every  wind  of  heaven  ? 
And  now,  even  now  prepared  with  others'  woes 
To  earn  mild  virtue's  vain  desire,  repose  ? 
Alas  !  such  is  our  nature  !  all  but  aim 
At  the  same  end  by  pathways  not  the  same ; 
Our  means,  our  birth,  our  nation,  and  our 

name, 
Our  fortune,  temper,  even  our  outward  frame, 
Are  far  more  potent  o'er  our  yielding  clay 
Than  aught  we  know  beyond  our  little  day. 
Yet  still  there  whispers  the  small  voice  within, 
Heard  through  Gain's  silence,  and  o'er  Glory's 

din: 
Whatever  creed  be  taught  or  land  be  trod, 
Man's  conscience  is  the  oracle  of  God. 

VII. 

The  launch  is  crowded  with  the  faithful  few 
Who  wait  their  chief,  a  melancholy  crew : 
But  some  remained   reluctant  on  the  deck 


1  ["  The  boatswain  and  those  seamen  who  were 
to  be  put  into  the  boat  were  allowed  to  collect 
twine,  canvas,  lines,  sails,  cordage,  an  eight-and- 
twenty -gallon  cask  of  water;  and  Mr.  Samuel  got 
one  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  of  bread,  with  a  small 
quantity  of  rum  and  wine:  also  a  quadrant  and 
compass."  —  Bligh.~\ 

2  [The  mutineers  having  thus  forced  those  of  the 
seamen  whom  they  wished  to  get  rid  of  into  the 
boat,  Christian  directed  a  dram  to  be  served  to  each 
of  his  crew." —  Bligh.} 

3  [It  was  Dr.  Johnson  who  thus  gave  honor  to 
Cognac.  "  He  was  persuaded,"  says  Boswell,  "  to 
take  one  glass  of  claret.  He  shook  his  head,  and 
said,  '  Poor  stuff!  No,  Sir,  claret  is  the  liquor  for 
boys ;  port  for  men ;  but  he  who  aspires  to  be  a 
hero  (smiling)  must  drink  brandy."'] 


Of  that  proud  vessel  —  now  a  moral  wreck  — 
And  viewed  their  captain's  fate  with  piteous 

eyes ; 
While  others  scoffed  his  augured  miseries, 
Sneered  at  the  prospect  of  his  pigmy  sail, 
And  the  slight  bark  so  laden  and  so  frail. 
The  tender  nautilus,  who  steers  his  prow, 
The  sea-born  sailor  of  his  shell  canoe, 
The  ocean  Mab,  the  fairy  of  the  sea, 
Seems  far  less  fragile,  and,  alas  !  more  free. 
He,   when    the   lightning-winged    tornadoes 

sweep 
The  surge,  is  safe  — his  port  is  in  the  deep  — 
And  triumphs  o'er  the  armadas  of  mankind, 
Which  shake  the  world,  yet  crumble  in  the 

wind. 

VIII. 

When  all  was  now  prepared,  the  vessel  clear, 
Which  hailed  her  master  in  the  mutineer  — 
A  seaman,  less  obdurate  than  his  mates, 
Showed  the  vain  pity  which  but  irritates ; 
Watched  his  late  chieftain  with  exploring  eye, 
And  told,  in  signs,  repentant  sympathy; 
Held   the   moist    shaddock  to   his    parched 

mouth, 
Which    felt    exhaustion's    deep    and    bitter 

drouth. 
But  soon  observed,  this  guardian  was  with- 
drawn, 
Nor  further  mercy  clouds  rebellion's  dawn.4 
Then  forward  stepped  the  bold  and  froward 

boy 
His  chief  had  cherished  only  to  destroy, 
And,  pointing  to  the  helpless  prow  beneath, 
Exclaimed,     "Depart      at   once!     delay     is 

death ! " 
Yet  then,  even  then,  his  feelings  ceased  not  all : 
In  that  last  moment  could  a  word  recall 
Remorse  for  the  black  deed  as  yet  half  done, 
And  what  he  hid  from  many  he  showed  to 

one: 
When   Bligh   in  stern    reproach    demanded 

where 
Was  now  his  grateful  sense  of  former  care  ? 
Where  all  his  hopes  to  see  his  name  aspire, 
And  blazon  Britain's  thousand  glories  higher  ? 
His  feverish   lips   thus    broke   their  gloomy 

spell, 
"  'Tis  that !  'tis  that !  I  am  in  hell !  in  hell !  "  6 


4  ["  Isaac  Martin,  I  saw,  had  an  inclination  to 
assist  me;  and  as  he  fed  me  with  shaddock,  my  lips 
being  quite  parched,  we  explained  each  other's  sen- 
timents by  looks.  But  this  was  observed,  and  he 
was  removed.  He  then  got  into  the  boat,  but  was 
compelled  to  return."  —  Bligh.} 

5  ["  Christian  then  said,  '  Come,  Captain  Bligh, 
your  officers  and  men  are  now  in  the  boat:  and  you 
must  go  with  them:  if  you  attempt  to  make  the 
least  resistance,  you  will  instantly  be  put  to  death, 
and,  without  further  ceremony,  I  was  forced  over 
the  side  by  a  tribe  of  armed  ruffians,  where  they 
untied  my  hands.  Being  in  the  boat  we  were 
veered   astern  by  a  rope.     A  few  pieces  of   pork 


486 


THE  ISLAND. 


No  more  he  said ;  but  urging  to  the  bark 
His  chief,  commits  him  to  his  fragile  ark ; 
These  the  sole  accents  from  his  tongue  that 

fell, 
But  volumes  lurked  below  his  fierce  farewell. 

IX. 
The  arctic  sun  rose  broad  above  the  wave ; 
The  breeze  now  sank,  now  whispered  from 

his  cave ; 
As  on  the  /Eolian  harp,  his  fitful  wings 
Now   swelled,  now  fluttered   o'er  his   ocean 

strings. 
With   slow,   despairing  oar,  the  abandoned 

skiff 
Ploughs  its  drear  progress  to  the  scarce-seen 

cliff, 
Which  lifts  its  peak  a  cloud  above  the  main. 
That  boat  and  ship  shall  never  meet  again ! 
But  'tis  not  mine  to  tell  their  tale  of  grief, 
Their  constant  peril,  and  their  scant  relief; 
Their  days   of  danger,   and  their  nights  of 

pain ; 
Their  manly  courage  even  when  deemed  in 

vain; 
The  sapping  famine,  rendering  scarce  a  son 
Known  to  his  mother  in  the  skeleton  ; 
The  ills  thai  lessened  still  their  little  store, 
rtnd  starved  even  Hunger  till  he  wrung  no 

more ; 
The  varying  frowns  and  favors  of  the  deep, 
That  now  almost  ingulfs,  then  leaves  to  creep 
'With  crazy  oar  and  shattered  strength  along 
The  tide  that  yields  reluctant  to  the  strong ; 
The  incessant  fever  of  that  arid  thirst 
Which  welcomes,  as  a  well,  the  ciouds  that 

burst 
Above  their  naked  bones,  and  feels  delight 
In  the  cold  drenching  of  the  stormy  night, 
\nd  from  the  outspread  canvas  gladly  wrings 
A  drop  to  moisten  life's  all-gasping  springs ; 
The  savage  foe  escaped,  to  seek  again 
More  hospitable  shelter  from  the  main ; 
The  ghastly  spectres  which  were  doomed  at 

last 
To  tell  as  true  a  tale  of  dangers  past, 


were  thrown  to  us,  also  the  four  cutlasses.  After 
having  been  kept  some  time  to  make  sport  for  these 
unfeeling  wretches,  and  having  undergone  much 
ridicule,  we  were  at  length  cast  adrift  in  the  open 
ocean.  Eighteen  persons  were  with  me  in  the  boat. 
When  we  were  sent  away,  '  Huzza  for  Otaheite!  ' 
was  frequently  heard  among  the  mutineers.  Chris- 
tian, the  chief  of  them,  was  of  a  respectable  family 
tn  the  north  of  England.  While  they  were  forcing 
me  out  of  the  ship,  I  asked  him  whether  this  was  a 
proper  return  for  the  many  instances  he  had  expe- 
rienced of  my  friendship?  He  appeared  disturbed 
3t  the  question,  and  answered,  with  much  emotion, 


As  ever  the  dark  annals  of  the  deep 
Disclosed  for  man  to  dread  or  woman  weep. 


We  leave  them    to  their  fate,  but    not  un- 
known 
Nor  unredressed.     Revenge   may  have  her 

own : 
Roused    discipline    aloud    proclaims     their 

cause, 
And  injured  navies  urge  their  broken  laws. 
Pursue  we  on  his  track  the  mutineer, 
Whom  distant  vengeance  had  not  taught  to 

fear. 
Wide  o'er  the  wave  — away  !  away  !  away  ! 
Once  more  his  eyes  shall  hail   the  welcome 

bay; 
Once  more  the  happy  shores  without  a  law 
Receive  the  outlaws  whom  they  lately  saw ; 
Nature,   and    Nature's    goddess  —  woman-- 

woos 
To  lands  where,  save  their  conscience,  none 

accuse ; 
Where  all  partake  the  earth  without  dispute, 
And  bread  itself  is  gathered  as  a  fruit ;  > 
Where  none  contest  the  fields,  the  woods,  the 

streams :  — 
The   goldless   age,   where  gold   disturbs   no 

dreams, 
Inhabits  or  inhabited  the  shore, 
Till-Europe  taught  them  better  than  before  : 
Bestowed  her  customs,  and  amended  theirs, 
But  left  her  vices  also  to  their  heirs. 
Away  with  this !  behold  them  as  they  were, 
Do  good  with  Nature,  or  with  Nature  err. 
"  Huzza !  for  Otaheite !  "  was  the  cry, 
As  stately  swept  the  gallant  vessel  by. 
The  breeze  springs  up ;    the  lately  flapping 

sail 
Extends  its  arch  before  the  growing  gale ; 
In  swifter  ripples  stream  aside  the  seas, 
Which  her  bold  bow  flings  off  with  dashing 

ease. 
Thus  Argo2  ploughed  the   Euxine's   virgin 

foam; 
But   those  she  wafted  still   looked   back  to 

home  — 
These   spurn  their  country  with  their  rebel 

bark, 
And  fly  her  as  the  raven  fled  the  ark ; 
And  yet  they  seem  to  nestle  with  the  dove, 
And  tame  their  fiery  spirits  down  to  love. 


'That  —  Captain  Bligh — that  is  the  thing  —  lam 
in  hell  —  I  am  in  hell !  '  "  —  Bligh.} 

1  The  now  celebrated  bread-fruit,  to  transplant 
which  Captain  Bligh's  expedition  was  undertaken. 

2  [The  vessel  in  which  Jason  embarked  in  quest 
of  the  golden  fleece.] 


THE  ISLAND. 


487 


CANTO  THE  SECOND. 


How  pleasant  were  the  songs  of  Toobonai,1 
When  summer's  sun  went  down  the  coral  bay ! 
Come,  let  us  to  the  islet's  softest  shade, 
And    hear  the  warbling  birds !  the   damsels 

said : 
The  wood-dove  from  the  forest  depth  shall  coo, 
Like  voices  of  the  gods  from  Bolotoo  ; 
We'll  cull   the  flowers  that  grow  above  the 

dead, 
For  these  most  bloom  where  rests  the  warrior's 

head; 
And  we  will  sit  in  twilight's  face,  and  see 
The  sweet  moon  glancing  through  the  tooa 

tree, 
The  lofty  accents  of  whose  sighing  bough 
Shall  sadly  please  us  as  we  lean  below ; 
Or  climb  the  steep,  and  view  the  surf  in  vain 
Wrestle  with  rocky  giants  o'er  the  main, 
Which   spurn  in  columns   back    the   baffled 

spray. 
How  beautiful  are  these  !  how  happy  they, 
Who,  from  the  toil  and  tumult  of  their  lives, 
Steal  to  look  down  where  nought  but  ocean 

strives ! 
Even  he  too  loves  at  times  the  blue  lagoon, 
And  smoothes  his  ruffled  mane  beneath  the 

moon. 

II. 
Yes  —  from  the  sepulchre  we'll  gather  flowers, 
Then  feast  like  spirits  in  their  promised  bow- 
ers, 
Then  plunge  and  revel  in  the  rolling  surf, 
Then  lay  our  limbs  along  the  tender  turf, 
And,  wet  and  shining  from  the  sportive  toil, 
Anoint  our  bodies  with  the  fragrant  oil, 
And   plait  our  garlands  gathered    from   the 

grave, 
And  wear  the  wreaths  that  sprung  from  out 

the  brave. 
,  But  lo  !  night  comes,  the  Mooa  woos  us  back, 
I  The  sound  of  mats  are  heard  along  our  track  ; 
Anon  the  torchlight  dance  shall  fling  its  sheen 
In  flashing  mazes  o'er  the  Marly's  green  ; 
And  we  too  will  be  there ;  we  too  recall 
The  memory  bright  with  many  a  festival, 
Ere  Fiji  blew  the  shell  of  war,  when  foes 
For  the  first  time  were  wafted  in  canoes. 
Alas  !  for  them  the  flower  of  mankind  bleeds ; 


1  The  first  three  sections  are  taken  from  an 
actual  song  of  the  Tonga  Islanders,  of  which  a 
prose  translation  is  given  in  "  Mariner's  Account 
of  the  Tonga  Islands."  Toobonai  is  not  however 
one  of  them;  but  was  one  of  those  where  Christian 
and  the  mutineers  took  refuge.  I  have  altered  and 
added,  but  have  retained  as  much  as  possible  of  the 
original. 


Alas !  for  them  our  fields  are  rank  with  weeds : 
Forgotten  is  the  rapture,  or  unknown, 
Of  wandering  with  the  moon  and  love  alone. 
But  be  it  so  :  — they  taught  us  how  to  wield 
The  club,  and  rain  our  arrows  o'er  the  field : 
Now  let  them  reap  the  harvest  of  their  art ! 
But  feast  to-night !  to-morrow  we  depart. 
Strike  up  the  dance  !  the  cava  bowl  fill  high  ! 
Drain  every  drop!  ■ — -to-morrow  we  may  die. 
In  summer  garments  be  our  limbs  arrayed; 
Around  our  waists  the  tappa's  w^hite  displayed  ; 
Thick  wreaths  shall    form  our    coronal,  like 

spring's, 
And  round  our  necks  shall  glance  the  hooni 

strings; 
So  shall  their  brighter  hues  contrast  the  glow 
Of  the  dusk  bosoms  that  beat  high  below. 

III. 
But  now  the  dance  is  o'er  —  yet  stay  awhile-, 
Ah,  pause !  nor  yet  put  out  the  social  smile. 
To-morrow  for  the  Mooa  we  depart, 
But  not  to-night  —  to-night  is  for  the  heart. 
Again  bestow  the  wreaths  we  gently  woo, 
Ye  young  enchantresses  of  gay  Licoo  ! 
How  lovely  are  your  forms  !  how  every  sense 
Bows  to  your  beauties,  softened,  but  intense, 
Like  to  the  flowers  on  Mataloco's  steep, 
Which  fling  their  fragrance  far  athwart  the 

deep ! — 
We  too  will  see  Licoo  ;  but  —  oh  !  my  heart ! — 
What  do  I  say  ?  —  to-morrow  we  depart ! 

IV. 
Thus  rose  a  song  —  the  harmony  of  times 
Before  the  winds  blew  Europe  o'er  these  climes. 
True,   they   had  vices  —  such    are    Nature's 

growth  — 
But  only  the  barbarian's — we  have  both  : 
The  sordor  of  civilization,  mixed 
With   all   the  savage  which  man's   fall   hatb 

fixed. 
Who  hath  not  seen  Dissimulation's  reign, 
The  prayers  of  Abel  linked  to  deeds  of  Cain  ? 
Who  such  would  see  may  from  his  lattice  view 
The   Old   World    more'  degraded   than   the 

New,  — 
Now  new  no  more,  save  where  Columbia  rears 
Twin  giants,  born  by  Freedom  to  her  spheres, 
Where  Chimborazo,  over  air,  earth,  wave, 
Glares  with  his  Titan  eye,  and  sees  no  slave. 


Such  was  this  ditty  of  Tradition's  days, 
Which  to  the  dead  a  lingering  fame  conveys : 
In  song,  where  fame  as  yet  hath  left  no  sign 
Beyond  the  sound  whose  charm  is  half  divine 


488 


THE  ISLAND. 


Which  leaves  no  record  to  the  sceptic  eye, 
But  yields  young  history  all  to  harmony; 
A  boy  Achilles,  with  the  centaur's  lyre 
In  hand,  to  teach  him  to  surpass  his  sire. 
For  one  long-cherished  ballad's  simple  stave, 
Rung   from   the   rock,  or   mingled   with   the 

wave, 
Or  from  the  bubbling  streamlet's  grassy  side, 
Or  gathering  mountain  echoes  as  they  glide, 
Hath  greater  power  o'er  each  true  heart  and 

ear, 
Than  all  the  columns  Conquest's  minions  rear ; 
Invites,  when  hieroglyphics  are  a  theme 
For  the  sages'  labors  or  the  student's  dream  ; 
Attracts,  when  History's  volumes  are  a  toil, — 
The  first,  the  freshest  bud  of  Feeling's  soil. 
Such  was  this  rude  rhyme  —  rhyme  is  of  the 

rude — ■ 
But  such  inspired  the  Norseman's  solitude, 
Who  came  and  conquered ;  such,  wherever 

rise, 
Lands  which  no  foes  destroy  or  civilize, 
Exist :  and  what  can  our  accomplished  art 
Of  verse  do  more  than  reach  the  awakened 

heart  ? 

VI. 

And  sweetly  now  those  untaught  melodies 

Broke  the  luxurious  silence  of  the  skies, 

The  sweet  siesta  of  a  summer  day, 

The  tropic  afternoon  of  Toobonai, 

When  every  flower  was  bloom,  and  air  was 

balm. 
And  the  first  breath  began  to  stir  the  palm, 
The  first  yet  voiceless  wind  to  urge  the  wave 
All  gently  to  refresh  the  thirsty  cave, 
Where  sat  the  songstress  with  the  stranger  boy, 
Who  taught  her  passion's  desolating  joy, 
Too  powerful  over  every  heart,  but  most 
O'er  those  who  know  not  how  it  may  be  iost ; 
O'er  those  who,  burning  in  the  new-born  fire, 
Like  martyrs  revel  in  their  funeral  pyre, 
With  such  devotion  to  their  ecstasy, 
That  life  knows  no  such  rapture  as  to  die: 
And  die  they  do ;  for  earthly  life  has  nought 
Matched  with  that  burst  of  nature,  even  in 

thought, 
And  all  our  dreams  of  better  life  above 
But  close  in  one  eternal  gush  of  love. 


There  sat  the  gentle  savage  of  the  wild, 
In  growth  a  woman,  though  in  years  a  child, 
As  childhood  dates  within  our  colder  clime, 
Where  nought  is  ripened  rapidly  save  crime; 
The  infant  of  an  infant  world,  as  pure 
From  nature  —  lovely,  warm,  and  premature; 
Dusky  like  night,  but  night  with  all  her  stars; 
Or  cavern  sparkling  with  its  native  spars ; 
With  eyes  that  were  a  language  and  a  spell, 
A  form  like  Aphrodite's  in  her  shell, 
With  all  her  loves  around  her  on  the  deep. 


Voluptuous  as  the  first  approach  of  sleep; 
Yet  full  of  life  —  for  through  her  tropic  cheek 
The  blush  would  make  its  way,  and  all  but 

speak ; 
The  sun-born  blood  suffused  her  neck,  and 

threw 
O'er  her  clear  nut-brown  skin  a  lucid  hue, 
Like  coral  reddening  through  the  darkened 

wave, 
Which  draws  the  diver  to  the  crimson  cave. 
Such  was  this  daughter  of  the  southern  seas, 
Herself  a  billow  in  her  energies, 
To  bear  the  bark  of  others'  happiness, 
Nor  feel  a  sorrow  till  their  joy  grew  less  : 
Her  wild  and  warm  yet  faithful  bosom  knew 
No  joy  like  what  it  gave  ;  her  hopes  ne'er  drew 
Aught  from  experience,  that  chill  touchstone, 

whose 
Sad  proof  reduces  all  things  from  their  hues  " 
She  feared  no  ill,  because  she  knew  it  not, 
Or   what  she  knew  was   soon  —  too   soon  — 

forgot : 
Her  smiles  and  tears   had   passed,  as   light 

winds  pass 
O'er  lakes  to  ruffle,  not  destroy,  their  glass, 
Whose  depths  unsearched,  and  fountains  from 

the   hill, 
Restore  their  surface,  in  itself  so  still, 
Until  the  earthquake  tear  the  naiad's  cave, 
Root  up  the  spring,  and  trample  on  the  wave, 
And  crush  the  fiving  waters  to  a  mass, 
The  amphibious  desert  of  the  dank  morass! 
And   must  their  fate  be  hers  ?     The   eternal 

change 
But  grasps  humanity  with  quicker  range; 
And  they  who  fall  but  fall  as  worlds  will  fall, 
To  rise,  if  just,  a  spirit  o'er  them  all. 

VIII. 

And  who  is  he  ?  the  blue-eyed  northern  child1 
Of  isles  more  known  to  man,  but  scarce  less 

wild ; 
The  fair-haired  offspring  of  the  Hebrides, 
Where  roars  the  Pentland  with  its   whirling 

seas ; 
Rocked  in  his  cradle  by  the  roaring  wind, 
The  tempest-born  in  body  and  in  mind, 
His  young  eyes  opening  on  the  ocean-foam, 
Had  from  that  moment  deemed  the  deep  his 

home, 
The  giant  comrade  of  his  pensive  moods, 
The  sharer  of  his  craggy  solitudes, 
The  only  Mentor  of  his  youth,  where'er 
His  baik  was  borne;  the  sport  of  wave  and  air; 


1  [George  Stewart.  "  He  was,"  says  Bligh,  "a 
young  man  of  creditable  parents  in  the  Orkneys; 
at  which  place,  on  the  return  of  the  Resolution 
from  the  South  Seas,  in  1780,  we  received  so  many 
civilities,  that,  on  that  account  only,  I  should 
gladly  have  taken  him  with  me;  but,  independent 
of  this  recommendation,  he  was  a  seaman,  and  had 
always  borne  a  good  character." 


THE  ISLAND. 


489 


A   careless  thing,  who  placed  his   choice  in 

chance, 
Nursed  by  the  legends  of  his  land's  romance; 
Eager  to  hope,  but  not  less  firm  to  bear, 
Acquainted  with  all  feelings  save  despair. 
Placed  in  the  Arab's  clime,  he  would  have  been 
As  bold  a  rover  as  the  sands  have  seen, 
And  braved  their  thirst  with  as  enduring  lip 
As  Ishmael,  wafted  on  his  desert-ship  ; 1 
Fixed  upon  Chili's  shore,  a  proud  cacique; 
On  Hellas'  mountains,  a  rebellious  Greek  ; 
Born  in  a  tent,  perhaps  a  Tamerlane  ; 
Bred  to  a  throne,  perhaps  unfit  to  reign. 
For  the  same  soul  that  rends  its  path  to  sway, 
If  reared  to  such,  can  find  no  further  prey 
Beyond  itself,  and  must  retrace  its  way  2 
Plunging  for  pleasure  into  pain  :  the  same 
Spirit  which    made  a  Nero,   Rome's    worst 

shame, 
A  humbler  state  and  discipline  of  heart, 
Had  formed  his  glorious  namesake's  counter- 
part ; 3 
But  grant  his  vices,  grant  them  all  his  own, 
How  small  their  theatre  without  a  throne ! 

IX. 

Thou  smilest ;  — these  comparisons  seem  high 
To  those  who  scan  all  things  with  dazzled  eye  ; 
Linked  with  the  unkown  name  of  one  whose 

doom 
Has  nought  to  do  with  glory  or  with  Rome, 
With  Chili,  Hellas,  or  with  Araby  ;  — 
Thou  smilest? — Smile;  'tis  better  thus  than 

sigh; 
Yet  such  he  might  have  been ;  he  was  a  man, 
A  soaring  spirit,  ever  in  the  van, 
A  patriot  hero  or  despotic  chief, 
To  form  a  nation's  glory  or  its  grief, 
Born  under  auspices  which  make  us  more 
Or  less  than  we  delight  to  ponder  o'er. 
But  these  are  visions  ;  say,  what  was  he  here  ? 


1  The  "  ship  of  the  desert  "  is  the  oriental  figure 
for  the  camel  or  dromedary ;  and  they  deserve  the 
metaphor  well,  —  the  former  for  his  endurance, 
the  latter  for  his  swiftness. 

2  "  Lucullus,  when  frugality  could  charm, 

Had  roasted  turnips  in  the  Sabine  farm." 

Pope. 

3  The  consul  Nero,  who  made  the  unequalled 
march  which  deceived  Hannibal,  and  defeated 
Asdrubal;  thereby  accomplishing  an  achievement 
almost  unrivalled  in  military  annals.  The  first 
intelligence  of  his  return,  to  Hannibal,  was  the 
sight  of  Asdrubal's  head,  thrown't*mto  his  camp. 
When  Hannibal  saw  this,  he  exclaimed  with  a 
sigh,  that  "  Rome  would  now  be  the  mistress  of 
the  world."  And  yet  to  this  victory  of  Nero's 
it  might  be  owing  that  his  imperial  namesake 
reigned  at  all.  But  the  infamy  of  the  one  has 
eclipsed  the  glory  of  the  other.  When  the  name  of 
"  Nero"  is  heard,  who  thinks  of  the  consul? —  But 
such  are  human  things. 


A  blooming  boy,  a  truant  mutineer. 

The  fair-haired  Torquil,  free  as  ocean's  spray, 

The  husband  of  the  bride  of  Toboonai. 


By  Neuha's  side  he  sate,  and  watched   the 

waters,  — 
Neuha,  the  sun-flower  of  the  island  daughters 
High-born,  (a  birth  at  which  the  herald  smiles, 
Without  a  scutcheon  for  these  secret  isles,) 
Of  a  long  race,  the  valiant  and  the  free, 
The  naked  knights  of  savage  chivalry, 
Whose  grassy  cairns  ascend  along  the  shore; 
And  thine —  I've  seen — Achilles!  do  no  more. 
She,  when  the  thunder-bearing  strangers  came, 
In  vast  canoes,  begirt  with  bolts  of  flame, 
Topped  with  tall  trees,  which,  loftier  than  the 

palm, 
Seemed  rooted  in  the  deep  amidst  its  calm  : 
But  when   the  winds  awakened,   shot   forth 

wings 
Broad  as  the  cloud  along  the  horizon  flings, 
And  swayed  the  waves,  like  cities  of  the  sea, 
Making  the  very  billows  look  less  free  ;  — 
She,  with  her  paddling  oar  and  dancing  prow, 
Shot  through  the  surf,  like  reindeer  through 

the  snow, 
Swift-gliding  o'er  the  breaker's  whitening  edge, 
Light  as  a  nereid  in  her  ocean  sledge, 
And  gazed  and  wondered  at  the  giant  hulk, 
Which  heaved  from  wave  to  wave  its  tramp- 
ling bulk. 
The  anchor  dropped;  it  lay  along  the  deep, 
Like  a  huge  lion  in  the  sun  asleep, 
While  round  it  swarmed  the  proas'  flitting 

chain, 
Like  summer  bees  that  hum  around  his  mane. 

XI. 

The  white   man  landed  !  —  need  the  rest  be 

told? 
The  New  World  stretched  its  dusk  hand  to 

the  Old. 
Each  was  to  each  a  marvel,  and  the  tie 
Of  wonder  warmed  to  better  sympathy. 
Kind  was  the  welcome  of  the  sun-born  sires. 
And  kinder  still  their  daughters'  gentler  fires. 
Their  union  grew  :  the  children  of  the  storm 
Found  beauty  linked  with  many  a  dusky  form  ; 
While  these  in  turn  admired  the  paler  glow, 
Which  seemed  so  white  in  climes  that  knew 

no  snow. 
The  chase,  the  race,  the  liberty  to  roam, 
The  soil  where  every  cottage  showed  a  home  ; 
The    sea -spread    net,    the   lightly -launched 

canoe, 
Which  stemmed  the  studded  archipelago, 
O'er  whose  blue  bosom  rose  the  starry  isles ; 
The  healthy  slumber,  earned  by  sportive  toils' 
The  palm,  the  loftiest  dryad  of  the  woods, 
Within  whose  bosom  infant  Bacchus  broods, 


♦90 


THE  ISLAND. 


While  eagles  scarce  build  higher  than  the 

crest 
Which   shadows  o'er  the   vineyard    in    her 

breast ; 
The  cava  feast,  the  yam,  the  cocoa's  root, 
Which  bears  at  once  the  cup,  and  milk,  and 

fruit ; 
The  bread-tree,  which,  without  the  plough- 
share, yields 
The  unreaped  harvest  of  unfurrowed  fields, 
And  bakes  its  unadulterated  loaves 
Without  a  furnace  in  unpurchased  groves, 
And  flings  off  famine  from  its  fertile  breast, 
A  priceless  market  for  the  gathering  guest ;  — 
These,  with  the  luxuries  of  seas  and  woods, 
The  airy  joys  of  social  solitudes, 
Tamed  each  rude  wanderer  to  the  sympathies 
Of  those  who  were  more  happy,  if  less  wise, 
Did  more  than  Europe's  discipline  had  done, 
And  civilized  Civilization's  sonl 

XII. 
Of  these,  and  there  was  many  a  willing  pair, 
Neuha  and  Torquil  were  not  the  least  fair : 
Both  children  of  the  isles,  though  distant  far; 
Both  born  beneath  a  sea-presiding  star; 
Both  nourished  amidst  nature's  native  scenes, 
Loved  to  the  last,  whatever  intervenes 
Between  us  and  our  childhood's  sympathy, 
Which  still  reverts  to  what  first  caught  the  eye. 
He  who  first  met  the  Highland's  swelling  blue 
Will  love  each  peak  that  shows  a  kindred  hue, 
Hail  in  each  crag  a  friend's  familiar  face, 
And  clasp  the  mountain  in  his  mind's  embrace. 
Long  have  I  roamed  through  lands  which  are 

not  mine, 
Adored  the  Alp,  and  loved  the  Apennine, 
Revered  Parnassus,  and  beheld  the  steep 
Jove's  Ida  and  Olympus  crown  the  deep: 
But  'twas  not  all  long  ages'  lore,  nor  all 
Their  nature  held  me  in  their  thrilling  thrall; 
The  infant  rapture  still  survived  the  boy, 
And  Loch-na-gar  with  Ida  looked  o'er  Troy,1 
Mixed  Celtic   memories  with   the    Phrygian 

mount, 
And  Highland  linns  with  Castalie's  clear  fount. 
Forgive  me,  Homer's  universal  shade! 
Forgive  me,  Phoebus  !  that  my  fancy  strayed ; 
The  north  and  nature  taught  me  to  adore 
Your  scenes  sublime,  from  those  beloved  be- 
fore. 

XIII. 

The  love  which  maketh  all  things  fond  and 

fair, 
The  youth  which  makes  one  rainbow  of  the  air, 
The  dangers  past,  that  make  even  man  enjoy 
The  pause  in  which  he  ceases  to  destroy, 


1  When  very  young,  about  eight  years  of  age, 
after  an  attack  of  the  scarlet  fever  at  Aberdeen,  I 
ivas  removed  by  medical  advice  into  the  High- 
Jfcnds.     Here  I  passed  occasionally  some  summers. 


The  mutual  beauty,  which  the  sternest  feel 
Strike  to  their  hearts  like  lightning  to  the  sto»I, 
United  the  half  savage  and  the  whole, 
The  maid  and  boy,  in  one  absorbing  soul. 
No  more  the  thundering  memory  of  the  fight 
Wrapped  his  weaned  bosom  in  its  dark  delight  • 
No  more  the  irksome  restlessness  of  rest 
Disturbed  him  like  the  eagle  in  her  nest, 
Whose  whetted  beak  and  far-pervading  eye 
Darts  for  a  victim  over  all  the  sky ; 
His  heart  was  tamed  to  that  voluptuous  statr 
At  once  Elysian  and  effeminate, 
Which  leaves  no  laurels  o'er  the  hero's  urn  ;  — 
These  wither  when  for  aught  save  blood  they 

burn ; 
Yet  when  their  ashes  in  their  nook  are  laid, 
Doth  not  the  myrtle  leave  as  sweet  a  shade  ? 
Had  Caesar  known  but  Cleopatra's  kiss, 
Rome  had  been  free,  the  world  had  not  been 

his; 
And  what  have  Caesar's  deeds  and  Caesar's 

fame 
Done  for  the  earth  ?    We  feel   them  in  our 

shame 
The  gory  sanction  of  his  glory  stains 
The  rust  which  tyrants  cherish  on  our  chains. 
Though  Glory,  Nature,  Reason,  Freedom,  bid 
Roused  millions  do  what  single  Brutus  did — ■ 
Sweep  these  mere  mock-birds  of  the  despot's 

song 
From  the  tall  bough  where  they  have  perched 

so  long,  — 
Still  are  we  hawked  at  by  such  mousing  owls. 
And  take  for  falcons  those  ignoble  fowls, 
When  but  a  word  of  freedom  would  dispel 
These  bugbears,  as  their  terrors  show  too  w»  1 

XIV. 

Rapt  in  the  fond  forgetfuiness  of  life, 
Neuha,  the  South  Sea  girl,  was  all  a  wife. 
With  no  distracting  world  to  call  her  off 
From  love ;  with  no  society  to  scoff 
At  the  new  transient  flame  ;  no  babbling  crowd 
Of  coxcombry  in  admiration  loud, 
Or  with  adulterous  whisper  to  alloy 
Her  duty,  and  her  glory,  and  her  joy: 
With  faith  and  feelings  naked  as  her  form 
She  stood  as  stands  a  rainbow  in  a  storm, 
Changing  its  hues  with  bright  variety, 
But  still  expanding  lovelier  o'er  the  sky, 
Howe'er  its  arch  may  swell,  its  colors  move- 
The  cloud-compelling  harbinger  of  love. 


and  from  this  period  I  date  my  love  of  mountainou* 
countries.  I  can  never  forget  the  effect,  a  few 
years  afterwards,  in  England,  of  the  only  thing  I 
had  long  seen,  even  in  miniature,  of  a  mountain, 
in  the  Malvern  Hills.  After  I  returned  to  Chel- 
tenham, I  used  to  watch  them  every  afternoon,  a« 
sunset,  with  a  sensation,  which  I  cannot  describe. 
This  was  boyish  enough,  but  I  was  then  only  thir 
teen  years  of  age,  and  it  was  in  the  holidays. 


THE  ISLAND. 


491 


xv. 

Here,  in  this  grotto  of  the  wave-worn  shore, 
They  passed  the  tropic's  red  meridian  o'er ; 
Nor  long  the  hours— they  never  paused  o'er 

time, 
Unbroken  by  the  clock's  funereal  chime, 
Which  deals  the  daily  pittance  of  our  span. 
And  points  and  mocks  with  iron  laugh  at  man. 
What  deemed  they  of  the  future  or  the  past  ? 
The  present,  like  a  tyrant,  held  them  fast : 
Their  hour-glass  was  the  sea-sand,  and  the  tide, 
Like  her  smooth  billow,  saw  their  moments 

glide ; 
Their  clock  the  sun,  in  his  unbounded  tower; 
They  reckoned  not,  whose  day  was   but  an 

hour; 
The  nightingale,  their  only  vesper-bell, 
Sung  sweetly  to  the  rose  the  day's  farewell ; l 
The  broad  sun  set,  but  not  with  lingering 

sweep, 
As  in  the  north  he  mellows  o'er  the  deep ; 
But  fiery,  full,  and  fierce,  as  if  he  left 
The  world  for  ever,  earth  of  light  bereft, 
Plunged  with  red  forehead  down  along   the 

wave, 
As  dives  a  hero  headlong  to  his  grave. 
Then  rose  they,  looking  first  along  the  skies, 
And  then  for  light  into  each  other's  eyes, 
Wondering  thatsummershowed  so  brief  a  sun, 
And  asking  if  indeed  the  day  were  done. 

XVI. 
And  let  not  this  seem  strange:  the  devotee 
Lives  not  in  earth,  but  in  his  ecstasy; 
Around  him  days  and  worlds  are  heedless 

driven, 
His  soul  is  gone  before  his  dust  to  heaven. 
Is  loveless  potent  ?     No  —  his  path  is  trod, 
Aiike  uplifted  gloriously  to  God; 
Or  linked  to  all  we  know  of  heaven  below, 
The  other  better  self,  whose  joy  or  woe 
Is  more  than  ours ;  the  all-absorbing  flame 
Which,  kindled  by  another,  grows  the  same, 
Wrapt  in  one  blaze  ;  the  pure,  yet  funeral  pile, 
Where   gentle   hearts,  like  Bramins,  sit   and 

smile. 
How  often  we  forget  all  time,  when  lone, 
Admiring  Nature's  universal  throne, 
Her  woods,  her  wilds,  her  waters,  the  intense 
Reply  of  hers  to  our  intelligence  ! 
Live  not  the  stars  and  mountains?     Are  the 

waves 
Without  a  spirit  ?     Are  the  dropping  caves 
Without  a  feeling  in  their  silent  tears  ? 
No.no;  —  they  woo   and   clasp   us   to   their 

spheres, 
Dissolve  this  clog  and  clod  of  clay  before 


1  The  now  well-known  story  of  the  loves  of  the 
eightingale  and  rose  need  not  be  more  than  alluded 
lo,  being  sufficiently  familiar  to  the  Western  as  to 
tfie  Eastern  reader. 


Its  hour,  and  merge  our  soul  in  the  great  shore. 
Strip  off  this  fond  and  false  identity  1  — 
Who  thinks  of  self,  when  gazing  on  the  sky  ? 
And  who,  though  gazing  lower,  ever  thought, 
In  the  young  moments  ere  the  heart  is  taught 
Time's  lesson,  of  man's  baseness  or  his  own  ? 
All  nature  is  his  realm,  and  love  his  throne. 


Neuha  arose,  and  Torquil:  twilight's  hour 
Came  sad  and  softly  to  their  rocky  bower, 
Which,  kindling  by  degrees  its  dewy  spars, 
Echoed  their  dim  light  to  the  mustering  stars. 
Slowly  the  pair,  partaking  nature's  calm, 
Sought   out   their  cottage,  built  beneath  the 

palm ; 
Now  smiling  and  now  silent,  as  the  scene ; 
Lovely  as  Love  —  the  spirit! — when  serene. 
The   Ocean  scarce    spoke  louder  with    his 

swell, 
Than  breathes  his  mimic  murmurer  in  the 

shell,2 
As,  far  divided  from  his  parent  deep, 
The  sea-born  infant  cries,  and  will  not  sleep, 
Raising  his  little  plaint  in  vain,  to  rave 
For  the  broad  bosom  of  his  nursing  wave: 


2  If  the  reader  will  apply  to  his  ear  the  seashell 
on  his  chimney-piece,  he  will  be  aware  of  what  is 
alluded  to.  If  the  text  should  appear  obscure,  he 
will  find  in  "  Gebir  "  the  same  idea  better  expressed 
in  two  lines.  The  poem  I  never  read,  but  have 
heard  the  lines  quoted  by  a  more  recondite  reader 
—  who  seems  to  be  of  a  different  opinion  from  the 
editor  of  the  Quarterly  Review,  who  qualified  it,  in 
his  answer  to  the  Critical  Reviewer  of  his  Juvenal, 
as  trash  of  the  worst  and  most  insane  description. 
It  is  to  Mr.  Landor,  the  author  of  "  Gebir,"  so 
qualified,  and  of  some  Latin  poems,  which  vie  with 
Martial  or  Catullus  in  obscenity,  that  the  immacu- 
late Mr.  Southey  addresses  his  declamation  against 
impurity ! 

[Mr.  Landor's  lines  above  alluded  to  are  — 
"  For  I  have  often  seen  her  with  both  hands 
Shake  a  dry  crocodile  of  equal  height, 
And  listen  to  the  shells  within  the  scales, 
And  fancy  there  was  life,  and  yet  apply 
The  jagged  jaws  wide  open  to  the  ear." 
In  the  "  Excursion  "  of  Wordsworth  occurs  the 
following  exquisite  passage:  — 

"  I  have  seen 

A  curious  child,  applying  to  his  ear 

The  convolutions  of  a  smooth-lipped  shell. 

To  which,  in  silence  hushed,  his  very  soul, 

Listened  intensely,  and  his  countenance  soon 

Brightened  with  joy;   for  murmuring  from  withiu 

Were  heard  sonorous  cadences!  whereby, 

To  his  belief,  the  monitor  expressed 

Mysterious  union  with  its  native  sea. 

Even  such  a  shell  the  universe  itself 

Is  to  the  ear  of  faith:   and  doth  impart 

Authentic  tidings  of  invisible  things: 

Of  ebb  and  flow,  and  ever-during  power; 

And  central  peace  subsisting  at  the  heart 

Of  endless  agitation."] 


492 


THE  ISL4ND. 


The  woods  drooped   darkly,  as   inclined   to 

rest, 
The    tropic   bird   wheeled   rockward    to   his 

nest, 
And  the  blue  sky  spread  round  them   like  a 

lake 
Of  peace,  where  Piety  her  thirst  might  slake. 

XVIII. 
But  through  the  palm  and  plantain,  hark,  a 

voice ! 
Not  such  as  would  have  been  a  lover's  choice, 
In  such  an  hour,  to  break  the  air  so  still; 
No  dying  night-breeze,  harping  o'er  the  hill, 
Striking  the  strings  of  nature,  rock  and  tree, 
Those  best  and  earliest  lyres  of  harmony, 
With  Echo  for  their  chorus  ;  nor  the  alarm 
Of  the  loud  war-whoop  to  dispel  the  charm; 
Nor  the  soliloquy  of  the  hermit  owl, 
Exhaling  all  his  solitary  soul, 
The  dim  though  large-eyed  winged  anchorite, 
Who  peals  his  dreary  paean  o'er  the  night;  — 
But  a  loud,  long,  and  naval  whistle,  shrill 
As  ever  started  through  a  sea-bird's  bill ; 
And  then  a  pause,  and  then  a  hoarse  "  Hillo  ! 
Torquil !  my  bov  !  what  cheer  ?  Ho  !  brother, 

ho!" 
"Who  hails?"  cried  Torquil,  following  with 

his  eye 
The  sound.     "  Here's  one,"  was  all  the  brief 

reply. 

XIX. 
But  here  the  herald  of  the  self-same  mouth, 
Came  breathing  o'er  the  aromatic  south, 
Not  like  a  "  bed  of  violets  "  on  the  gale, 
But  such  as  wafts  its  cloud  o'er  grog  or  ale, 
Borne  from  a  short  frail  pipe,  which  yet  had 

blown 
Its  gentle  odors  over  either  zone, 
And,  puffed   where'er  winds   rise  or  waters 

roll, 
Had  wafted  smoke  from  Portsmouth  to  the 

Pole, 
Opposed  its  vapor  as  the  lightning  flashed, 
And   reeked,   'midst    mountain-billows   una- 
bashed, 
To  ^Eolus  a  constant  sacrifice, 
Through  every  change  of  all  the  varying  skies. 
And  what  was'  he  who  bore  if  ?  —  I  may  err, 
But  deem  him  sailor  or  philospher.1 
Sublime  tobacco  !  which  from  east  to  west 
Cheers  the  tar's  labor  or  the  Turkman's  rest, 
Which  on  the  Moslem's  ottoman  divides 
His  hours,  and  rivals  opium  and  his  brides ; 


1  Hobbes,  the  father  of  Locke's  and  other  phil- 
osophy, was  an  inveterate  smoker,  —  even  to  pipes 
beyond  computation. 

[Soon  after  dinner  Mr.  Hobbes  retired  to  his 
study,  and  had  hi?  candle,  with  ten  or  twelve  pipes 
of  tobacco  laid  by  him;  then,  shutting  the  door,  he 
fell  to  smoking,  thinking,  and  writing  for  several 
hours.] 


Magnificent  in  Stamboul,  but  less  grand, 
Though  not  less  loved,  in  Wapping  or  the 

Strand; 
Divine  in  hookas,  glorious  in  a  pipe, 
When  tipped  with  amber,  mellow,  rich,  and 

ripe; 
Like  other  charmers,  wooing  the  caress 
More  dazzlingly  when  daring  in  full  dress; 
Yet  thy  true  lovers  more  admire  by  far 
Thy  naked  beauties  —  Give  me  a  cigar  !  - 


Through    the   approaching   darkness   of  tho 

wood 
A  human  figure  broke  the  solitude, 
Fantastically,  it  may  be,  arrayed, 
A  seaman  in  a  savage  masquerade ; 
Such  as  appears  to  rise  out  from  the  deep 
When  o'er  the  line  the  merry  vessels  sweep, 
And  the  rough  saturnalia  of  the  tar 
Flock  o'er  the  deck,  in  Neptune's  borrowed 

car ;  3 
And,  pleased,  the  god  of  ocean  sees  his  name 
Revive    once   more,   though   but    in    mimic 

game 
Of  his  true  sons,  who  riot  in  the  breeze 
Undreamt  of  in  his  native  Cvclades. 
Still  the  old  god  delights,  from  out  the  main, 
To  snatch  some  glimpses  of  his  ancient  reign. 
Our  sailor's  jacket,  though  in  ragged  trim, 
His  constant  pipe,  which  never  yet  burned 

dim, 
His  foremast  air,  and  somewhat  rolling  gait, 
Like  his  dear  vessel,  spoke  his  former  state; 
But  then  a  sort  of  kerchief  round  his  head, 
Not  over-tightly  bound,  nor  nicely  spread; 
And,  'stead  of  trousers  (ah  !  too  early  torn  ! 
For  even  the  mildest  woods  will  have  their 

thorn) 
A  curious  sort  of  somewhat  scanty  mat 
Now  served  for  inexpressibles  and  hat; 

2  [We  talked  of  change  of  manners  (1773).  Dr. 
Johnson  observed,  that  our  drinking  less  than  out 
ancestors  was  owing  to  the  change  from  ale  to  wine. 
"  I  remember,"  said  he,  "  when  all  the  decent  peo- 
ple in  Litchfield  got  drunk  every  night,  and  were 
not  the  worse  thought  of.  Smoking  has  gone  out. 
To  be  sure,  it  is  a  shocking  thing,  blowing  smoke 
out  of  our  mouths  into  other  people's  mouths,  eyes, 
and  noses,  and  having  the  same  thing  done  to  us. 
Yet  I  cannot  account,  why  a  thing  which  requires 
so  little  exertion,  and  yet  preserves  the  mind  from 
total  vacuity,  should  have  gone  out." — Bosivell. 
As  an  item  in  the  history  of  manners,  it  may  be 
observed,  that  drinking  to  excess  has  diminished 

1  greatly  in  the  memory  even  of  those  who  can 
I  remember  forty  or  fifty  years.  The  taste  for  smok- 
'  ing,  however,  has  revived,  probably  from  the  mil- 
itary habits  of  Europe  during  the  French  wars; 
but,  instead  of  the  sober  sedentary  pifre  the  ainbu- 
I  latory  segar  is  now  chiefly  used.  —  Croker,  1830.] 

3  This  rough  but  jovial  ceremony,  used  in  cross- 
ing the  line,  has  been  so  often  and  so  well  described, 

'  that  it  need  not  be  more  than  alluded  to. 


THE  ISLAND. 


493 


His  naked  feet  and  neck,  and  sunburnt  face, 
Perchance  might  suit  alike  with  either  race. 
His   arms  were   all   his   own,   our   Europe's 

growth, 
Which  two  worlds  bless  for  civilizing  both ; 
The    musket   swung    behind    his   shoulders 

broad, 
And  somewhat  stooped  by  his  marine  abode, 
But  brawny  as  the  boar's  ;  and  hung  beneath, 
His  cutlass  drooped,  unconscious  of  a  sheath, 
Or  lost  or  worn  away ;  his  pistols  were 
Linked  to  his  belt,  a  matrimonial  pair — 
(Let  not  this  metaphor  appear  a  scoff, 
Though  one  missed  fire,  the  other  would  go 

off); 
These,  with  a  bayonet,  not  so  free  from  rust 
As  when  the  arm-chest  held  its  brighter  trust, 
Completed  his  accoutrements,  as  Night 
Surveyed  him  in  his  garb  heteroclite. 

XXI. 
"  What  cheer,  Ben  Bunting  ?  "  cried  (when  in 

full  view 
Our  new  acquaintance)  Torquil.     "  Aught  of 

new  ?  " 
"  Ey,  ey!"  quoth  Ben,  "not  new,  but  news 

enow ; 
A-strange   sail   in   the   offing." — "Sail!  and 

how  ? 
What!  could  you  make  her  out  ?  It  cannot 

be; 
I've  seen  no  rag  of  canvas  on  the  sea." 
"  Belike,"  said  Ben,  "  you  might  not  from  the 

bay, 
But  from  the  bluff-head,  where  I  watched  to- 
day, 
1  saw  her  in  the  doldrums ;  for  the  wind 


Was  light  and  baffling."  —When  the  sun  de- 
clined 
Where  lay  she  ?  had  she  anchored  ?  "  —  "  No, 

but  still 
She  bore  down  on  us,  till  the  wind  grew  still." 
"  Her  flag  ?  "  —  "I  had  no  glass  :  but  fore  and 

aft, 
Egad  !  she  seemed  a  wicked-looking  craft." 
"Armed?"  —  "I    expect   so; — -sent   on   the 

look-out : 
'Tis  time,  belike,  to  put  our  helm  about. " 
"About?  —  Whate'er   may  have   us   now   in 

chase, 
We'll  make  no  running  fight,  for  that   were 

base ; 
We  will  die  at  our  quarters,  like  true  men." 
"  Ey,  ey  !  for  that  'tis  all  the  same  to  Ben.  " 
"  Does  Christian  know  this  ?  "  —  "  Ay  ;  he  has 

piped  all  hands 
To  quarters.     They  are  furbishing  the  stands 
Of  arms  ;  and  we  have  got  some  guns  to  bear, 
And  scaled  them:  You  are  wanted."  —  "  That's 

but  fair ; 
And  if  it  were  not,  mine  is  not  the  soul 
To  leave  my  comrades  helpless  on  the  shoal. 
My  Neuha  !  ah  !  and  must  my  fate  pursue 
Not  me  alone,  but  one  so  sweet  and  true  ? 
But  whatsoe'er  betide,  ah,  Neuha  !  now 
Unman  me  not;  the  hour  will  not  allow 
A  tear ;  I  am  thine  whatever  intervenes  !  " 
"  Right,"  quoth   Ben,   "  that  will   do   for  the 

marines."  1 

1  "  That  will  do  for  the  marines,  but  the  sailors 
won't  believe  it,"  is  an  old  saying;  and  one  of  the 
few  fragments  of  former  jealousies  which  still  sur- 
vive (in  jest  only)  between  these  gallant  services. 


CANTO  THE  THIRD. 


I. 

The  fight  was  o'er;  the  flashing  through  the 

gloom 
Which  robes  the  cannon  as  he  wings  a  tomb, 
Had  ceased ;  and   sulphury  vapors   upward 

driven 
Had  left  the  earth,  and  but  polluted  heaven  : 
The  rattling  roar  which  rung  in  every  volley 
Had  left  the  echoes  to  their  melancholy ; 
No  more  they  shrieked   their   horror,  boom 

for  boom ; 
The  strife  was  done,  the  vanquished  had  their 

doom ; 
The  mutineers  were  crushed,   dispersed,   or 

ta'en, 
Or  lived  to  deem  the  happiest  were  the  slain. 


Few,  few  escaped,  and  these  were  hunted  o'er 
The  isle  they  loved  beyond  their  native  shore. 
No  further  home  was  theirs,  it  seemed,  on  earth, 
Once  renegades  to  that  which  gave  them  birth  ; 
Tracked  like  wild  beasts,  like  them  they  sought 

the  wild, 
As  to  a  mother's  bosom  flies  the  child; 
But  vainly  wolves  and  lions  seek  their  den, 
And  still  more  vainly  men  escape  from  men. 

II. 

Beneath  a  rock  whose  jutting  base  protrudes 
Far  over  ocean  in  his  fiercest  moods, 
When  scaling  his  enormous  cra^the  wave 
Is  hurled  down  headlong,  like  the  foremost 
brave, 


494 


THE   ISLAND. 


And  foils  back  on  the  foaming  crowd  behind, 
Which  fight  beneath  the  banners  of  the  wind, 
But  now  at  rest,  a  little  remnant  drew 
Together,  bleeding,  thirsty,  faint,  and  few; 
But  siiil  their  weapons  in  their  hands,  and  still 
With  something  of  the  pride  of  former  will, 
As  men  not  all  unused  to  meditate, 
And  strive  much  more  than  wonder  at  their 

fate. 
Their  present  lot  was  what  they  had  foreseen, 
And  dared  as  what  was  likely  to  have  been ; 
Yet  still   the   lingering  hope,  which   deemed 

their  lot 
Not  pardoned,  but  unsought  for  or  forgot, 
Or  trusted  that,  if  sought,  their  distant  caves 
Might  still  be  missed  amidst  the  world  of  waves, 
Had  weaned  their  thoughts  in  part  from  what 

they  saw 
And  felt,  the  vengeance  of  their  country's  law. 
Their  sea-green  isle,  their  guilt-won  paradise, 
No  more  could  shield  their  virtue  or  their  vice  : 
Their  better  feelings,  if  such  were,  were  thrown 
Back   on   themselves,  —  their  sins   remained 

alone. 
Proscribed  even  in  their  second  country,  they 
Were  lost ;  in  vain  the  world  before  them  lay  ; 
All  outlets  seemed  secured.    Their  new  allies 
Had  fought  and  bled  in  mutual  sacrifice; 
But  what  availed  the  club  and  spear,  and  arm 
Of  Hercules,  against  the  sulphury  charm. 
The  magic  of  the  thunder,  which  destroyed 
The  warrior   ere  his  strength  could  be   em- 
ployed ? 
Dug,  like  a  spreading  pestilence,  the  grave 
No  less  of  human  bravery  than  the  brave  !  J 
Their  own  scant  numbers  acted  all  the  few 
Against  the  many  oft  will  dare  and  do ; 
But  though  the  choice  seems  native  to  die  free, 
Even  Greece  can  boast  but  one  Thermopylas, 
Till  now,  when  she  has   forged   her   broken 

chain 
Back  to  a  sword,  and  dies  and  lives  again ! 


Beside  the  jutting  rock  the  few  appeared, 
Like  the  last  remnant  of  the  red-deer's  herd; 
Their  eyes  were  feverish,  and  their  aspect  worn, 
But  still  the  hunter's  blood  was  on  their  horn, 
A  little  stream  came  tumbling  from  the  height, 
And  straggling  into  ocean  as  it  might, 
Its  bounding  crystal  frolicked  in  the  ray, 
And  gushed  from  cliff  to  crag  with  saltless 

spray ; 
Close  on  the  wild,  wide  ocean,  yet  as  pure 
And  fresh  as  innocence,  and  more  secure, 
Its  silver  torrent  glittered  o'er  the  deep, 


1  Archidamus,  King  of  Sparta,  and  son  of  Age- 
silaus,  when  he  saw  a  machine  invented  for  the 
casting  of  stones  and  darts,  exclaimed  that  it  was 
the  "grave  of  valor."  The  same  story  has  been 
tcld  of  some  knights  on  the  first  application  of  gun- 
powder but  the  original  anecdote  is  in  Plutarch. 


As  the  shy  chamois'  eye  o'erlooks  the  steep, 
While  far  below  the  vast  and  sullen  swell 
Of  ocean's  alpine  azure  rose  and  fell. 
To  this  young  spring  they  rushed,  —  all  feel- 
ings first 
Absorbed  in  passion's  and  in  nature's  thirst, — 
Drank  as  they  do  who  drink  their  last,  and 

threw 
Their  arms  aside  to  revel  in  its  dew ; 
Cooled  their  scorched  throats,  and  washed 

the  gory  stains 
From  wounds  whose  only  bandage  might  be 

chains; 
Then,   when   their    drought  was    quenched, 

looked  sadly  round, 
As  wondering  how  so  many  still  were  found 
Alive  and  fetterless  :  —  but  silent  all, 
Each  sought  his  fellow's  eyes,  as  if  to  call 
On  him  for  language  which  his  lips  denied, 
As  though  their  voices  with  their  cause  had 
died. 

IV. 

Stern,  and  aloof  a  little  from  the  rest, 

Stood   Christian,   with   his   arms   across   his 

chest. 
The    ruddy,   reckless,   dauntless    hue    once 

spread 
Along  his  cheek  was  livid  now  as  lead ; 
His   light-brown   locks,  so  graceful   in   their 

flow,        ' 
Now  rose  like  startled  vipers  o'er  his  brow. 
Still  as  a  statue,  with  his  lips  comprest 
To  stifle  even  the  breath  within  his  breast, 
Fast  by  the  rock,  all  menacing,  but  mute, 
He  stood ;  and,  save  a  slight  beat  of  his  foot, 
Which   deepened  now  and   then  the  sandy 

dint 
Beneath  his  heel,  his  form  seemed  turned  to 

flint. 
Some  paces  further  Torquil  leaned  his  head 
Against  a  bank,  and  spoke  not,  but  he  bled,  — 
Not  mortally ;  —  his  worst  wound  was  within  : 
His  brow  was  pale,  his  blue  eyes  sunken  in, 
And  blood-drops,  sprinkled  o'er  his  yellow  hair, 
Showed   that   his   faintness   came    not  from 

despair 
But  nature's  ebb.     Beside  him  was  another, 
Rough  as  a  bear,  but  willing  as  a  brother, — 
Ben  Bunting,  who  essayed  to  wash,  and  wipe, 
Ami   bind   his  wound  —  then   calmly  lit    his 

pipe, 
A  trophy  which  survived  a  hundred  fights, 
A  beacon  which  had  cheered  ten  thousand 

nights. 
The  fourth  and  last  of  this  deserted  group 
Walked  up  and  down —  at  times  would  stand 

then  stoop 
To  pick  a  pebble  up  —  then  let  it  drop  — 
Then  hurry  as  in  haste  —  then  quickly  stop — ■ 
Then  cast  his  eyes  on  his  companions  —  then 
Half  whistle  half  a  tune,  and  pause  again  — 


THE  ISLAND. 


495 


'And  then  his  former  movements  would   re- 
double, 
With   something  between    carelessness  and 

trouble. 
This  is  a  long  description,  but  applies 
To  scarce  five  minutes  passed  before  the  eyes ; 
But  yet  what  minutes  !   Moments  like  to  these 
|  Rend  men's  lives  into  immortalities. 

v. 
At  length  Jack  Skyscrape,  a  mercurial  man, 
Who  fluttered  over  all  things  like  a  fan, 
More  brave  than  firm  and  more  disposed  to 

dare 
And  die  at  once  than  wrestle  with  despair, 
Exclaimed,  "  G — d  damn!"  —  those  syllables 

intense, — 
Nucleus  of  England's  native  eloquence, 
As    the   Turk's    "Allah!"   or   the   Roman's 

more 
I  Pagan  "  Proh  Jupiter!  "  was  wont  of  yore 
To  give  their  first  impressions  such  a  vent, 
By  way  of  echo  to  embarrassment. 
Jack  was  embarrassed,  —  never  hero  more, 
And  as  he  knew  not  what  to  say,  he  swore : 
Nor  swore  in  vain ;  the  long  congemal  sound 
Revived  Ben  Bunting  from  his  pipe  profound  ; 
He  drew  it  from   his  mouth,  and  looked  full 

wise, 
But  merely  added  to  the  oath  his  eyes  ; 
Thus  rendering  the  imperfect  phrase  complete, 
A  peroration  I  need  not  repeat. 

VI. 

But  Christian,  of  a  higher  order,  stood 

Like  an  extinct  volcano  in  his  mood ; 

Silent,  and  sad,  and  savage,  —  with  the  trace 

Of  passion  reeking  from  his  clouded  face ; 

Till  lifting  up  again  his  sombre  eye, 

It  glanced  on  Torquil,  who  leaned  faintly  by. 

"  And  is  it  thus  ?  "  he  cried,  "  unhappy  boy  ! 

And  thee,  too,  thee — my  madness  must  de- 
stroy !  " 
I  He  said,  and  strode  to  where  young  Torquil 

stood, 
1  Yet  dabbled  with  his  lately  flowing  blood ; 

Seized  his  hand  wistfully,  but  did  not  press, 

And  shrunk  as  fearful  of  his  own  caress ; 

Inquired  into  his  state;  and  when  he  heard 

The  wound  was  slighter  than  he  deemed  or 
feared, 

A.  moment's  brightness  passed  along  his  brow, 

As  much  as  such  a  moment  would  allow. 

"  Yes,"  he  exclaimed,  "  we  are  taken  in  the 
toil, 

But  not  a  coward  or  a  common  spoil ; 

Dearly  they  have  bought  us  —  dearly  still  may 
buy, — 

And   I   must  fall;  but  have  you  strength  to 
fly? 

Twould  be  some  comfort  still,  could  you  sur- 
vive; 


Our  dwindled  band  is  now  too  few  to  strive. 
Oh  !  for  a  sole  canoe  !  though  but  a  shell, 
To  bear  you  hence  to  where  a  hope   may 

dwell ! 
For  me,  my  lot  is  what  I  sought ;  to  be, 
In  life  or  death,  the  fearless  and  the  free." 

VII. 

Even  as  he  spoke,  around  the  promontory, 
Which   nodded  o'er  the  billows    high   and 

hoary, 
A  dark  speck  dotted  ocean :  on  it  flew 
Like  to  the  shadow  of  a  roused  sea-mew ; 
Onward   it  came  —  and,   lo!    a  second  fol- 
lowed — 
Now  seen  —  now  hid  —  where  ocean's  vale 

was  hollowed ; 
And  near,  and  nearer,  till  their  dusky  crew 
Presented  well-known  aspects  to  the  view, 
Till  on  the  surf  their  skimming  paddles  play, 
Buoyant  as  wings,  and   flitting  through   the 

spray ; — 
Now  perching  on  the  wave's  high  curl,  and 

now 
Dashed  downward   in   the  thundering  foam 

below, 
Which  flings  it  broad  and  boiling  sheet  on 

sheet, 
And  slings  its  high  flakes,  shivered  into  sleet: 
But  floating  still  through  surf  and  swell,  drew 

nigh 
The  barks,  like  small  birds  through  a  lower- 
ing sky ; 
Their  art  seemed  nature  —  such  the  skill  to 

sweep 
The  wave   of  these  born   playmates   of  the 
deep. 

VIII. 

And  who  the  first  that,  springing  on  the  strand, 
Leaped  like  a  nereid  from  her  shell  to  land, 
With  dark  but  brilliant  skin,  and  dewy  eye 
Shining  with  love,  and  hope,  and  constancy? 
Neuha  —  the  fond,  the  faithful,  the  adored  — 
Her  heart  on  Torquil's  like  a  torrent  poured; 
And  smiled,  and  wept,  and  near,  and  nearer 

clasped, 
As  if  to  be  assured  'twas  him  she  grasped ; 
Shuddered  to  see  his  yet  warm  wound,  and 

then, 
To  find  it  trivial,  smiled  and  wept  again. 
She  was  a  warrior's  daughter,  and  could  bear 
Such   sights,  and  feel,  and   mourn,  but   not 

despair. 
Her  lover  lived,  —  nor  foes  nor  fears  could 

blight 
That  full-blown  moment  in  its  all  delight: 
Joy  trickled  in  her  tears,  joy  filled  the  sob 
That  rocked  her  heart  till  almost  HEARD  to 

throb ; 
And  paradise  was  breathing  in  the  sigh 
Of  nature's  child  in  nature's  ecstasy. 


496 


THE  ISLAND. 


IX. 

The  sterner  spirits  who  beheld  that  meeting 
Were  not  unmoved ;  who  are,  when  hearts 

are  greeting  ? 
Even   Christian  gazed   upon   the   maid   and 

boy 
With  tearless  eye,  but  yet  a  gloomy  joy 
Mixed   with   those  bitter  thoughts  the  soul 

arrays 
In  hopeless  visions  of  our  better  days, 
When  all's  gone  —  to  the  rainbow's  latest  ray. 
'  And  but   for   me ! "    he    said,   and   turned 

away ; 
Then  gazed  upon  the  pair,  as  in  his  den 
A  lion  looks  upon  his  cubs  again ; 
Arid  then  relapsed  into  his  sullen  guise, 
As  heedless  of  his  further  destinies. 


But  brief  their  time  for  good  or  evil  thought ; 
The  billows  round  the  promontory  brought 
The  plash  of  hostile  oars.  —  Alas  !  who  made 
That    sound    a    dread  ?      All    round     them 

seemed  arrayed 
Against  them,  save  the  bride  of  Toobonai : 
She,  as  she  caught  the  first  glimpse  o'er  the 

bay 


Of  the  armed  boats,  which  hurried   to  com- 
plete 
The  remnant's  ruin  with  their  flying  feet, 
Beckoned   the   natives   round    her  to    their 

prows, 
Embarked   their  guests   and   launched  their 

light  canoes ; 
In   one  placed   Christian  and  his  comrades 

twain  ; 
But  she  and  Torquil  must  not  part  again. 
She  fixed  him  in  her  own. —  Away!  away! 
They  clear  the  breakers,  dart  along  the  bay, 
And  towards  a  group  of  islets,  such  as  bear 
The  sea-bird's  nest  and  seal's  surf-hollowed 

lair, 
They  skim  the  blue  tops  of  the  billows ;  fast 
They  flew,  and    fast    their    fierce    pursuers 

chased. 
They  gain  upon  them — now  they  lose  again, — 
Again  make  way  and  menace  o'er  the  main ; 
And  now  the  two  canoes  in  chase  divide, 
And  follow  different  courses  o'er  the  tide, 
To  baffle  the  pursuit.  —  Away!  away! 
As  life  is  on  each  paddle's  flight  to-day, 
And  more  than  life  or  lives  to  Neuha :  Love 
Freights  the  frail  bark  and  urges  to  the  cove  — 
And  now  the  refuge  and  the  foe  are  nigh  — 
Yet,  yet  a  moment !  —  Fly,  thou  light  ark,  fly! 


CANTO  THE   FOURTH. 


r. 

White  as  a  white  sail  on  a  dusky  sea, 
When  half  the  horizon's  clouded  and   half 

free, 
Fluttering  between  the  dun  wave  and  the  sky, 
Is  hope's  last  gleam  in  man's  extremity. 
Her  anchor  parts ;  but  still  her  snowy  sail 
Attracts  our  eye  amidst  the  rudest  gale : 
Though   every  wave   she   climbs  divides  us 

more, 
The    heart    still  follows  from    the   loneliest 

shore. 

II. 

Not  distant  from  the  isle  of  Toobonai, 

A  black  rock  rears  its  bosom  o'er  the  spray, 

The  haunt  of  birds,  a  desert  to  mankind, 

Where  the  rough  seal  reposes  from  the  wind, 

And  sleeps  unwieldy  in  his  cavern  dun, 

Or  gambols  with  huge  frolic  in  the  sun  : 

There  shrilly  to  the  passing  oar  is  heard 

The  startled  echo  of  the  ocean  bird, 

Who  rears  on  its  bare  breast  her  callow  brood, 

The  feathered  fishers  of  the  solitude. 

A  narrow  segment  of  the  yellow  sand 

On  one  side  forms  the  outline  of  a  strand ; 


Here  the  young  turtle,  crawling  from  his  shell, 
Steals  to  the  deep  wherein  his  parents  dwell, 
Chipped  by  the  beam,  a  nursling  of  the  day, 
But  hatched  for  ocean  by  the  fostering  ray ; 
The  rest  was  one  bleak  precipice,  as  e'er 
Gave  mariners  a  shelter  and  despair; 
A  spot  to  make  the  saved  regret  the  deck 
Which  late  went  down,  and  envy  the  lost  wreck. 
Such  was  the  stern  asylum  Neuha  chose 
To  shield  her  lover  from  his  following  foes; 
But  all  its  secret  was  not  told ;  she  knew 
In  this  a  treasure  hidden  from  the  view. 


Ere  the  canoes  divided,  near  the  spot, 

The  men  that  manned  what  held  her  Torquil's 

lot, 
By  her  command  removed,  to  strengthen  more 
The  skiff  which  wafted  Christian  from  the  shore. 
This  he  would  have  opposed  ;  but  with  a  smile 
She  pointed  calmly  to  the  craggy  isle, 
And  bade  him  "  speed  and  prosper."  .S'/fccwould 

take 
The  rest  upon  herself  for  Torquil's  sake. 
They  parted  with  this  added  aid;  afar 
The  proa  darted  like  a  shooting  star, 


THE  ISLAND. 


49? 


And  gained  on  the  pursuers,  who  now  steered 
Right  on  the  rock  which  she  and    Torquil 

neared. 
They  pulled;   her  arm,  though  delicate,  was 

free 
And  firm  as  ever  grappled  with  the  sea, 
And    yielded    scarce    to    Torquil's    manlier 

strength. 
The  prow  now  almost  lay  within  its  length 
Of  the  crag's  steep,  inexorable  face, 
With  nought  but  soundless  waters  for  its  base ; 
Within  a  hundred  boats'  lengths  was  the  foe, 
And  now  what  refuge  but  their  frail  canoe  ? 
This  Torquil  asked  with  half  upbraiding  eye, 
Which  said — "  Has  Neuha  brought  me  here 

to  die  ? 
Is  this  a  place  of  safety,  or  a  grave, 
And  yon  huge  rock  the  tombstone  of  the  wave?" 

IV. 
They  rested  on  their  paddles,  and  uprose 
Neuha,  and  pointing  to  the  approaching  foes, 
Cried,"Torquil,  follow  me,  and  fearless  follow  !" 
Then  plunged  at  once  into  the  ocean's  hollow. 
There  was  no  time  to  pause  —  the  foes  were 

near  — 
Chains  in  his  eye,  and  menace  in  his  ear; 
With  vigor  thev  pulled  on,  and  as  they  came, 
Hailed  him  to  yield,  and  by  his  forfeit  name. 
Headlong  he  leapt — to  him  the  swimmer's  skill 
Was  native,  and  now  all  his  hope  from  ill : 
But  how,  or  where?     He  dived,  and  rose  no 

more ; 
The  boat's  crew  looked  amazed  o'er  sea  and 

shore. 
There  was  no  landing  on  that  precipice, 
Steep,  harsh,  and  slippery  as  a  berg  of  ice. 
They  watched  awhile  to  see  him  float  again, 
But  not  a  trace  rebubbled  from  the  main  : 
The  wave  rolled  on,  no  ripple  on  its  face, 
Since  their  first  plunge  recalled  a  single  trace  ; 
The  little  whirl  which  eddied,  and  slight  foam, 
That  whitened  o'er  what  seemed  their  latest 

home, 
White  as  a  sepulchre  above  the  pair 
Who  left  no  marble  (mournful  as  an  heir) 
The  quiet  proa  wavering  o'er  the  tide 
Was  all  that  told  of  Torquil  and  his  bride ; 
And  but  for  this  alone  the  whole  might  seem 
The  vanished  phantom  of  a  seaman's  dream. 
They  paused    and   searched    in   vain,  then 

pulled  away ; 
Even  superstition  now  forbade  their  stay. 
Some  said  he  had  not  plunged  into  the  wave, 
But  vanished  like  a  corpse-light  from  a  grave  ; 
Others,  that  something  supernatural 
Glared  in  his  figure,  more  than  mortal  tall; 
While  all  agreed  that  in  his  cheek  and  eye 
There  was  a  dead  hue  of  eternity. 
Still  as  thf  jt  oars  receded  from  the  crag, 
Round  every  weed  a  moment  would  they  lag. 
Expectant  of  some  token  of  their  prey ; 


But  no  —  he  had  melted  from  them  like  the 

spray. 

V. 
And  where  was  he  the  pilgrim  of  the  deep, 
Following  the  nereid  ?    Had  they  ceased  to 

weep 
For  ever  ?  or,  received  in  coral  caves, 
Wrung  life  and  pity  from  the  softening  waves? 
Did  they  with  ocean's  hidden  sovereigns  dwell, 
And  sound  with  mermen  the  fantastic  shell  ? 
Did  Neuha  with  the  mermaids  comb  her  hail 
Flowing  o'er  ocean  as  it  streamed  in  air  ? 
Or  had  they  perished,  and  in  silence  slept 
Beneath  the  gulf  wherein  they  boldly  leapt  ? 


Young  Neuha  plunged  into  the  deep,  and  he 
Followed  :  her  track  beneath  her  native  sea 
Was  as  a  native's  of  the  element, 
So  smoothly,  bravely,  brilliantly  she  went, 
Leaving  a  streak  of  light  behind  her  heel. 
Which  struck  and  flashed  like  an  amphibious 

steel. 
Closely,  and  scarcely  less  expert  to  trace 
The  depths  where  divers   held  the  pearl  in 

chase, 
Torquil,  the  nursling  of  the  northern  seas, 
Pursued  her  liquid  steps  with  heart  and  ease. 
Deep  —  deeper  for  an  instant  Neuha  led 
The  way  —  then  upward  soared  —  and  as  she 

spread 
Her  arms,  and  flung  the  foam  from  off  her 

locks, 
Laughed,  and  the  sound  was  answered  by  the 

rocks. 
They  had  gained  a  central  realm  of  earth 

again, 
But  looked  for  tree,  and  field,  and  sky,  in  vain. 
Around  she  pointed  to  a  spacious  cave, 
Whose  only  portal  was  the  keyless  wave.1 
(A  hollow  archway  by  the  sun  unseen, 
Save  through  the  billows'  glassy  veil  of  green, 
In  some  transparent  ocean  holiday, 
When  all  the  finny  pedple  are  at  play,) 
Wiped  with  her  hair  the  brine  from  Torquil's 

eyes, 
And  clapped  her  hands  with  joy  at  his  sur- 
prise : 
Led  him  to  where  the  rock  appeared  to  jut 
And  form  a  something  like  a  Triton's  hut ; 
For  all  was  darkness  for  a  space,  till  day, 
Through  clefts  above  let  in  a  sobered  ray; 
As  in  some  old  cathedral's  glimmering  aiale 
The  dusty  monuments  from  light  recoil, 
Thus  sadly  in  their  refuge  submarine 
The  vault  drew  half  her  shadow  from  the  scene. 


1  Of  this  cave  (which  is  no  fiction)  the  original 
will  be  found  in  the  ninth  chapter  of  "  Mariner's 
Account  of  the  Tonga  Islands."  I  have  taken  the 
poetical  liberty  to  transplant  it  to  Toobonai,  the 
last  island  where  any  distinct  account  is  left  o" 
Christian  and  his  comrades. 


THE  ISLAND. 


Forth  from  her  bosom  the  young  savage  drew 
A  pine  torch,  strongly  girded  with  gnatoo ; 
A  plantain-leaf  o'er  all,  the  more  to  keep 
Its  latent  sparkle  from  the  sapping  deep. 
This  mantle  kept  it  dry;  then  from  a  nook 
Of  the  same  plantain- leaf  a  flint  she  took, 
A  few  shrunk  withered  twigs,  and   from  the 

blade 
Of  Torquil's  knife  struck  fire,  and  thus  ar- 
rayed 
The  grot  with  torchlight.    Wide  it  was  and 

high, 
And  showed  a  self-born  Gothic  canopy ; 
The  arch  upreared  by  nature's  architect, 
The  architrave  some  earthquake  might  erect ; 
Tire  buttress  from  some  mountain's  bosom 

hurled, 
When  the  Poles  crashed,  and  water  was  the 

world ; 
Or  hardened  from  some  earth-absorbing  fire, 
While  yet  the  globe  reeked  from  its  funeral 

pyre ; 
The  fretted  pinnacle,  the  aisle,  the  nave,1 
Were  there,  all  scooped  by  Darkness  from 

her  cave. 
There,  with  a  little  tinge  of  phantasy, 
Fantastic  faces  moped  and  mowed  on  high, 
And  then  a  mitre  or  a  shrine  would  fix 
The  eye  upon  its  seeming  crucifix. 
Thus  Nature  played  with  the  stalactites, 
And  built  herself  a  chapel  of  the  seas. 


And  Neuha  took  her  Torquil  by  the  hand, 
And  waved  along  the  vault  her  kindled  brand, 
And  led  him  into  each  recess,  and  showed 
The  secret  places  of  their  new  abode. 
Nor  these  alone,  for  all  had  been  prepared 
Before,  to  soothe  the  lover's  lot  she  shared : 
The  mat  for  rest ;  for  dress  the  fresh  gnatoo, 
And  sandal  oil  to  fence  against  the  dew; 
For  food  the  cocoa-nut,  the  yam,  the  bread 
Borne  of  the  fruit ;   for  board  the  plantain 

spread 
With  its  broad  leaf,  or  turtle-shell  which  bore 
A  banquet  in  the  flesh  it  covered  o'er  ; 
The  gourd  with  water  recent  from  the  rill, 
The  ripe  banana  from  the  mellow  hill ; 
A  pine-torch  pile  to  keep  undying  light, 
And  she  herself,  as  beautiful  as  night, 
To  fling  her  shadowy  spirit  o'er  the  scene, 
And  make  their  subterranean  world  serene. 


1  This  may  seem  too  minute  for  the  general  out- 
line (in  Mariner's  Account)  from  which  it  is  taken. 
But  few  men  have  travelled  without  seeing  some- 
thing of  the  kind  —  on  land,  that  is.  Without  ad- 
verting to  Ellora,  in  Mungo  Park's  last  journal,  he 
mentions  having  met  with  a  rock  or  mountain  so 
exactly  resembling  a  Gothic  cathedral,  that  only 
minute  inspection  could  convince  him  that  it  was  a 
work  of  nature. 


She  had  foreseen,  since  first  the  stranger's 

sail 
Drew  to  their  isle,  that  force  or  flight  might 

fail, 
And  formed  a  refuge  of  the  rocky  den 
For  Torquil's  safety  from  his  countrymen. 
Each  dawn  had  wafted  there  her  light  canoe. 
Laden  with  all  the  golden  fruits  that  grew; 
Each  eve  had  seen  her  gliding  through  thp 

hour 
With  all  could  cheer  or  deck  their  sparry 

bower ; 
And  now  she   spread   her   little   store  with 

smiles. 
The  happiest  daughter  of  the  loving  isles. 


She,  as  he  gazed  with  grateful  wonder,  pressed 
Her  sheltered  love  to  her  impassioned  breast ; 
And  suited  to  her  soft  caresses,  told 
An  olden  tale  of  love,  —  for  love  is  old, 
Old  as  eternity,  but  not  outworn 
With  each  new  being  born  or  to  be  born  :  s 
How  a  young  chief,  a  thousand  moons  agq, 
Diving  for  turtle  in  the  depths  below, 
Had  risen,  in  tracking  fast  his  ocean  prey, 
Into  the  cave  which  round  and  o'er  them  lay; 
How  in  some  desperate  feud  of  after-time 
He  sheltered  there  a  daughter  of  the  clime, 
A  foe  beloved,  and  offspring  of  a  foe, 
Saved  by  his  Vibe  but  for  a  captive's  woe ; 
How,  when  the  storm  of  war  was  stilled,  he 

led 
His  island  clan  to  where  the  waters  spread 
Their  deep-green  shadow  o'er  the  rocky  door. 
Then  dived —  it  seemed  as  if  to  rise  no  more . 
His  wondering  mates,  amazed  within   their 

bark, 
Or  deemed  him  mad,  or  prey  to  the  blue 

shark ; 
Rowed  round  in  sorrow  the  sea-girded  rock, 
Then  paused  upon  their  paddles  from  the 

shock ; 
When,  fresh  and  springing  from  the  deep, 

they  saw 
A  goddess  rise — so  deemed  they  in  their  awe 
And  their  companion,  glorious  by  her  side, 
Proud  and  exulting  in  his  mermaid  bride ; 
And   how,  when  undeceived,  the   pair  they 

bore 
With  sounding  conchs  and  joyous  shouts  tc 

shore ; 
How  they  had  gladly  lived  and  calmly  died,— 
And  why  not  also  Torquil  and  his  bride  ? 
Not  mine  to  tell  the  rapturous  caress 
Which  followed  wildly  in  that  wild  recess 

2  The  reader  will  recollect  the  epigram  of  th» 
Greek  anthology,  or  its  translation  into  most  of  thr 
modern  languages:  — 

"  Whoe'er  thou  art,  thy  master  see  — 
He  was,  or  is,  or  is  to  b<"  " 


THE  ISLAND. 


499 


This  tale ;  enough  that  all  within  that  cave 
Was  love,  though  buried  strong  as   in   the 

grave 
Where  Abelard, through  twenty  years  of  death, 
When  Eloisa's  form  was  lowered  beneath 
Their  nuptial  vault,  his  arms  outstretched,  and 

pressed 
The  kindling  ashes  to  his  kindled  breast.1 
The  waves  without  sang  round  their  couch, 

their  roar 
As  much  unheeded  as  if  life  were  o'er; 
Within,  their  hearts  made  all  their  harmony, 
Love's  broken  murmur  and  more  broken  sigh. 

x. 

And  they,  the  cause  and  sharers  of  the  shock 
Which  left  them  exiles  of  the  hollow  rock, 
Where  were  they  ?     O'er  the  sea  for  life  they 

plied, 
To  seek  from  Heaven  the  shelter  men  denied. 
Another  course  had  been  their  choice  —  but 

where  ? 
The  wave  which  bore  them  still  their  foes 

would  bear, 
Who,  disappointed  of  their  former  chase, 
In  search  of  Christian  now  renewed  their  race. 
Eager  with  anger,  their  strong  arms  made  way, 
Like  vultures  baffled  of  their  previous  prey. 
They  gained  upon  them,  all  whose  safety  lay 
In  some  bleak  crag  or  deeply-hidden  bay : 
No  further  chance  or  choice  remained ;  and 

right 
For  the  first  further  rock  which  met  their  sight 
They  steered,  to  take  their  latest  view  of  land, 
And  yield  as  victims,  or  die  sword  in  hand; 
Dismissed  the  natives  and  their  shallop,  who 
Would  still  have  battled  for  that  scanty  crew  ; 
But    Christian  bade    them  seek  their  shore 

again, 
Nor  add  a  sacrifice  which  were  in  vain ; 
For  what  were  simple  bow  and  savage  spear 
Against  the  arms  which  must  be  wielded  here  ? 


They  landed  on  a  wild  but  narrow  scene, 
Where  few  but  Nature's  footsteps  yet  had  been  ; 
Prepared  their  arms,  and  with  that  gloomy  eye, 
Stern  and  sustained,  of  man's  extremity, 
When  hope  is  gone,  nor  glory's  self  remains 
To  cheer  resistance  against  death  or  chains, — 
They  stood,  the  three,  as  the   three  hundred 

stood 
Who  dyed  Thermopylae  with  holy  blood. 
But,  ah!  how  different!  'tis  the  cause  makes 

all, 
Degrades  or  hallows  courage  in  its  fall. 
O'er  them  no  fame,  eternal  and  intense, 

1  The  tradition  is  attached  to  the  story  of  Elo'i'sa, 
that  when  her  body  was  lowered  into  the  grave  of 
Abelard,  (who  had  been  buried  twenty  years,)  he 
opened  his  arms  to  receive  her. 


Blazed  through  the  clouds  of  death  and  beck- 
oned hence ; 
No  grateful  country,  smiling  through  her  tears, 
Begun  the  praises  of  a  thousand  years  ; 
No   nation's   eyes  would  on  their  tomb  be 

bent, 
No  heroes  envy  them  their  monument ; 
However  boldly  their  warm  blood  was  spilt, 
Their  life  was  shame,  their  epitaph  was  guilt. 
And  this  they  knew  and  felt,  at  least  the  one, 
The  leader  of  the  band  he  had  undone  ; 
Who,  born  perchance  for  better  things,  had 

set 
His  life  upon  a  cast  which  lingered  yet. 
But  now  the  die  was  to  be  thrown,  and  all 
The  chances  were  in  favor  of  his  fall : 
And  such  a  fall !     But  still  he  faced  the  shock, 
Obdurate  as  a  portion  of  the  rock 
Whereon  he  stood,  and  fixed  his  levelled  gun, 
Dark  as  a  sullen  cloud  before  the  sun. 


The  boat  drew  nigh,  well  armed,  and  firm  the 

crew 
To  act  whatever  duty  bade  them  do ; 
Careless  of  danger,  as  the  onward  wind 
Is  of  the  leaves  it  strews,  nor  looks  behind. 
And  yet  perhaps  they  rather  wished  to  go 
Against  a  nation's  than  a  native  foe, 
And  felt  that  this  poor  victim  of  self-will, 
Briton  no  more,  had  once  been  Britain's  still. 
They  hailed  him  to  surrender — no  reply; 
Their  arms  were  poised,  and  glittered  in  the 

sky. 
They  hailed    again  —  no  answer;   yet   once 

more 
They  offered  quarter  louder  than  before. 
The  echoes  only,  from  the  rock's  rebound, 
Took  their  last  farewell  of  the  dying  sound. 
Then  flashed  the  flint,  and  blazed  the  volley 

ing  flame, 
And  the  smoke  rose  between  them  and  their 

aim, 
While  the  rock  rattled  with  the  bullets'  knell, 
Which  pealed  in  vain,  and  flattened  as  thev 

fell; 
Then  flew  the  only  answer  to  be  given 
By  those  who  had  lost  all  hope  in  earth  ot 

heaven ; 
After  the  first  fierce  peal,  as  they  pulled  nigher. 
They   heard    the  voice  of   Christian   shout, 

"  Now,  fire! " 
And  ere  the  word  upon  the  echo  died, 
Two  fell;  the  rest  assailed  the  rock's  rough 

side, 
And,  furious  at  the  madness  of  their  foes. 
Disdained  all  further  efforts,  save  to  close. 
But  steep  the  crag,  and  all  without  a  path, 
Each  step  opposed  a  bastion  to  their  wrath, 
While,  placed  midst  clefts  the  least  accesfible. 
Which  Christian's  eye  was  trained   to  mark 

full  well. 


500 


THE  ISLAND. 


The  three  maintained  a  strife  which  must  not 

yield, 
In  spots  where  eagles  might  have  chosen  to 

build. 
Their  every  shot  told  ;  while  the  assailant  fell, 
Dashed  on  the  shingles  like  the  limpet  shell ; 
But  still  enough  survived,  and  mounted  still, 
Scattering  their  numbers  here  and  there,  until 
Surrounded  and  commanded,  though  not  nigh 
,  Enough  for  seizure,  near  enough  to  die, 
The  desperate  trio  held  aloof  their  fate 
But  by  a  thread,  like  sharks  who  have  gorged 

the  bait ; 
Yet  to  the  very  last  they  battled  well, 
And  not  a  groan  informed  their  foes  who  fell. 
Christian    died    last  —  twice  wounded;    and 

once  more 
Mercy  was  offered  when  they  saw  his  gore ; 
Too  late  for  life,  but  not  too  late  to  die, 
With,  though  a  hostile  hand,  to  close  his  eye. 
A  limb  was  broken,  and  he  drooped  along 
The  crag,  as  doth  a  falcon  reft  of  young. 
The  sound  revived  him,  or  appeared  to  wake 
Some  passion  which  a  weakly  gesture  spake  : 
He  beckoned  to  the  foremost,  who  drew  nigh, 
But,  as   they  neared,  he  reared   his  weapon 

high  — 
His  tast  ball  had  been  aimed,  but  from  his 

breast 
He  tore  the  topmost  button  from  his  vest,1 
Down  the  tube  dashed  it,  levelled,  fired,  and 

<=miied 
As  his  foe  fell ;  then,  like  a  serpent,  coiled 
His  wounded,  weary  form,  to  where  the  steep 
Looked  desperate  as  himself  along  the  deep ; 
Cast  one  glance  back,  and  clenched  his  hand, 

and  shook 
His  last  rage  'gainst  the  earth  which  he  for- 
sook ; 
Then  plunged :  the  rock  below  received  like 

glass 
His  body  crushed  into  one  gory  mass, 
With  scarce  a  shred  to  tell  of  human  form, 
Or  fragment  for  the  sea-bird  or  the  worm ; 
A  fair-haired  scalp,  besmeared  with  blood  and 

weeds. 
Yet  reeked,  the  remnant  of  himself  and  deeds  ; 


1  In  Thibault's  account  of  Frederic  the  Second 
of  Prussia,  there  is  a  singular  relation  of  a  young 
Frenchman,  who  with  his  mistress  appeared  to  be  of 
some  rank.  He  enlisted  and  deserted  at  Schweid- 
nitz;  and  after  a  desperate  resistance  was  retaken, 
having  killed  an  officer,  who  attempted  to  seize  him 
after  he  was  wounded,  by  the  discharge  of  his  mus- 
ket loaded  with  a  button  of  his  uniform.  Some 
circumstances  on  his  court  martial  raised  a  great 
interest  amongst  his  judges,  who  wished  to  discover 
his  real  situation  in  life,  which  he  offered  to  dis- 
close, but  to  the  king  only,  to  whom  he  requested 
permission  to  write.  This  was  refused,  and  Frede- 
ric was  filled  with  the  greatest  indignation,  from 
baffled  curiosity  or  some  other  motive,  when  he  un- 
derstood that  his  request  had  been  denied. 


Some  splinters  of  his  weapons  (to  the  last, 
As  long  as  hand  could  hold,  he  held  them  fast) 
Yet  glittered,  but  at  distance  — hurled  away 
To  rust  beneath  the  dew  and  dashing  spray. 
The  rest  was  nothing — save  a  life  mis-spent, 
And   soul  —  but  who   shall   answer  where   it 

went  ? 
'Tis  ours  to  bear,  not  judge  the  dead ;  and 

they 
Who  doom  to  hell,  themselves  are  on  the  way, 
Unless  these  bullies  of  eternal  pains 
Are  pardoned  their  bad  hearts  for  their  worse 

brains. 

XIII. 

The  deed  was  over !     All  were  gone  or  ta'en, 
The  fugitive,  the  captive,  or  the  slain. 
Chained  on  the  deck,  where  once,  a  gallant 

crew, 
They  stood  with  honor,  were  the  wretched  few 
Survivors  of  the  skirmish  on  the  isle; 
But  the  last  rock  left  no  surviving  spoil. 
Cold  lay  they  where  they  fell,  and  weltering, 
While  o'er  them  flapped  the  sea-birds'  dewy 

wing, 
Now  wheeling   nearer  from  the  neighboring 

surge, 
And  screaming  high  their  harsh  and  hungry 

dirge : 
But  calm  and  careless  heaved  the  wave  below, 
Eternal  with  unsympathetic  flow ; 
Far  o'er  its  face  the  dolphins  sported  on, 
And  sprung  the  flying  fish  against  the  sun, 
Till  its  dried  wing  relapsed  from  its  brief  height, 
To  gather  moisture  for  another  flight. 


'Twas  morn  ;  and  Neuha,  who  by  dawn  of  day 
Swam  smoothly  forth  to  catch  the  rising  ray, 
And  watch  if  aught  approach  the  amphibious 

lair  * 

Where  lay  her  lover,  saw  a  sail  in  air : 
It  flapped,  it  filled,  and  to  the  growing  gale 
Bent  its  broad  arch  :  her  breath  began  to  fail. 
With  fluttering  fear,  her  heart  beat  thick  and 

high, 
While  yet  a  doubt  sprung  where  its  course 

might  lie. 
But  no  !  it  came  not ;  fast  and  far  away 
The  shadow  lessened  as  it  cleared  the  bay. 
She  gazed,  and  flung  the  sea-foam  from  her 

eyes, 
To  watch  as  for  a  rainbow  in  the  skies. 
On  the  horizon  verged  the  distant  deck, 
Diminished,  dwindled  to  a  very  speck  — 
Then  vanished.     All  was  ocean,  all  was  joy  ! 
Down  plunged  she  through  the  cave  to  rouse 

her  boy ; 
Told  all  she  had  seen,  and  all  she  hoped,  and  all 
That  happy  love  could  augur  or  recall ; 
Sprung  forth  again,  with  Torquil  following  free 
His  bounding nereid  over  the  broad  sea; 


MANFRED. 


501 


Swam  round  the  rock,  to  where  a  shallow  cleft 
Hid  the  canoe  that  Neuha  there  had  left 
Drifting  along  the  tide,  without  an  oar, 
That  eve  the  strangers  chased  them  from  the 

shore ; 
But  when  these  vanished,  she  pursued  her 

prow, 
Regained,  and  urged  to  where  they  found  it 

now: 
Nor  ever  did  more  love  and  joy  embark, 
Than  now  were  wafted  in  that  slender  ark. 

XV. 

Again  their  own  shore  rises  on  the  view, 
No  more  polluted  with  a  hostile  hue ; 
No  sullen  ship  lay  bristling  o'er  the  foam, 
A  floating  dungeon  : — ail  was  hope  and  home  ! 
A  thousand  proas  darted  o'er  the  bay, 


With  sounding  shells,  and  heralded  their  way , 
The  chiefs   came   down,  around   the  people 

poured, 
And  welcomed  Torquil  as  a  son  restored ; 
The  women  thronged,  embracing   and  enj. 

braced 
By  Neuha,  asking  where  they  had  been  chased 
And  how  escaped  ?     The  tale  was  told ;  ar*3 

then 
One  acclamation  rent  the  sky  again ; 
And  from  that  hour  a  new  tradition  gave 
Their  sanctuary  the  name  of  "  Neuha's  Cave. 
A  hundred  fires,  far  flickering  from  the  height 
Blazed  o'er  the  general  revel  of  the  night, 
The  feast  in  honor  of  the  guest,  returned 
To  peace  and  pleasure,  perilously  earned ; 
A  night  succeeded  by  such  happy  days 
As  only  the  yet  infant  world  displays. 


MANFRED:    A    DRAMATIC    POEM. 


"  There  are  more  things  in  heaven  and  earth,  Horatio, 
Than  are  dreamt  of  in  your  philosophy." 


[The  following  extracts  from  Byron's  letters  to  Mr.  Murray  will  sufficiently  explain  the  history  of  the 

composition  of  Manfred:  — 

Venice,  February  15,  1817.  — "  I  forgot  to  mention  to  you,  that  a  kind  of  Poem  in  dialogue  (in  blank 
verse)  or  Drama,  from  which  '  the  Incantation '  is  an  extract,  begun  last  summer  in  Switzerland,  is  fin- 
ished: it  is  in  three  acts,  but  of  a  very  wild,  metaphysical,  and  inexplicable  kind.  Almost  all  the  persons 
—  but  two  or  three  —  are  Spirits  of  the  earth  and  air,  or  the  waters;  the  scene  is  in  the  Alps;  the  hero 
a  kind  of  magician,  who  is  tormented  by  a  species  of  remorse,  the  cause  of  which  is  left  half  unexplained- 
He  wanders  about  invoking  these  Spirits,  which  appear  to  him,  and  are  of  no  use;  he  at  last  goes  to  the 
very  abode  of  the  Evil  Principle,  in  propriA  persona,  to  evocate  a  ghost,  which  appears,  and  gives  him 
an  ambiguous  and  disagreeable  answer;  and,  in  the  third  act,  he  is  found  by  his  attendants  dying  in  a 
<r,Wer  where  he  had  studied  his  art.  You  may  perceive,  by  tots  outline,  mat  I  have  no  great  opinion  oi 
({Ms  piece  of  fantasy;  but  I  have  at  least  rendered  it  quite  impossible  for  the  stage,  for  whfch  my  inter- 
course with  Drury  Lane  has  given  me  the  greatest  contempt.  I  have  not  even  copied  it  off,  and  feel  too 
lazy  at  present  to  attempt  the  whole;  but  when  I  have,  I  will  send  it  you,  and  you  may  either  throw  it 
into  the  fire  or  not." 

March  3.  —  "I  sent  you  the  other  day,  in  two  covers,  the  first  act  of  '  Manfred,'  a  drama  as  mad  as 
Nat.  Lee's  Bedlam  tragedy,  which  was  in  twenty-five  acts  and  some  odd  scenes:  mine  is  but  in  three  acts  " 

March  9.  —  "  In  remitting  the  third  act  of  the  sort  of  dramatic  poem  of  which  you  will  by  this  time 
have  received  the  two  first,  I  have  little  to  observe,  except  that  you  must  not  publish  it  (if  it  ever  is 

Eublished)  without  giving  me  previous  notice.  I  have  really  and  truly  no  notion  whether  it  is  good  or 
ad;  and  as  this  was  not  the  case  with  the  principal  of  my  former  publications,  I  am,  therefore,  inclined 
to  rank  it  very  humbly.  You  will  submit  it  to  Mr.  Gilford,  and  to  whomsoever  you  please  besides.  The 
thing  you  will  see  at  a  glimpse,  could  never  be  attempted  or  thought  of  for  the  stage;  I  much  doubt  if 
for  publication  even.  It  is  too  much  in  my  old  style;  but  I  composed  it  actually  with  a  horror  of  the 
stage,  and  with  a  view  to  render  the  thought  of  it  impracticable,  knowing  the  zeal  of  my  friends  that  I 
should  try  that  for  which  I  have  an  invincible  repugnance,  viz.,  a  representation.  I, certainly  am  a  devil 
of  a  mannerist,  and  must  leave  off;  but  what  could  I  do  t  Without  exertion  of  some  kind,  I  should  have 
sunk  under  my  imagination  and  reality." 


>02  MANFRED. 


March  25.  — "  With  regard  to  the '  Witch  Drama,'  I  repeat,  that  I  have  not  an  idea  if  it  is  good  or  bad. 
If  bad,  it  must,  on  no  account,  be  risked  in  publication;  if  good,  it  is  at  your  service.  I  value  it  at  three 
hundred  guineas,  or  less,  if  you  like  it.  Perhaps,  if  published,  the  best  way  will  be  to  add  it  to  your 
winter  volume,  and  not  publish  separately.  The  price  will  show  you  I  don't  pique  myself  upon  it;  so 
speak  out.     You  may  put  it  into  the  fire,  if  you  like,  and  Gifford  don't  like." 

April  9.  — "  As  for  '  Manfred,'  the  two  first  acts  are  the  best;  the  third  so  so;  but  I  was  blown  with 
the  first  and  second  heats.  You  may  call  it  '  a  Poem,'  for  it  is  no  Drama,  and  I  do  not  choose  to  have 
it  called  by  so  d — d  a  name,  — '  a  Poem  in  dialogue,'  or —  Pantomime,  if  you  will;  any  thing  but  a  green- 
room  synonyme;  and  this  is  your  motto  — 

*  There  are  more  things  in  heaven  and  earth,  Horatio, 
Than  are  dreamt  of  in  your  philosophy.' " 

The  following  passages  are  extracts  from  the  ablest  contemporary  critiques  upon  Manfred:  — 

"  In  Manfred,  we  recognize  at  once  the  gloom  and  potency  of  that  soul  which  burned  and  blasted  and 
fed  upon  itself,  in  Harold,  and  Conrad,  and  Lara  —  and  which  comes  again  in  this  piece,  more  in  sorrow 
than  in  anger  —  more  proud,  perhaps,  and  more  awful  than  ever  —  but  with  the  fiercer  traits  of  its  misan- 
thropy subdued,  as  it  were,  and  quenched  in  the  gloom  of  a  deeper  despondency.  Manfred  does  not, 
like  Conrad  and  Lara,  wreak  the  anguish  of  his  burning  heart  in  the  dangers  and  daring  of  desperate  and 
predatory  war  —  nor  seek  to  drown  bitter  thoughts  in  the  tumult  of  perpetual  contention;  nor  yet,  like 
Harold,  does  he  sweep  over  the  peopled  scenes  of  the  earth  with  high  disdain  and  aversion,  and  make 
his  survey  of  the  business,  and  pleasures,  and  studies  of  man  an  occasion  for  taunts  and  sarcasms,  and 
the  food  of  an  unmeasurable  spleen.  He  is  fixed  by  the  genius  of  the  poet  in  the  majestic  solitudes  of 
the  central  Alps  —  where,  from  his  youth  up,  he  has  lived  in  proud  but  calm  seclusion  from  the  ways  of 
men,  conversing  only  with  the  magnificent  forms  and  aspects  of  nature  by  which  he  is  surrounded,  and 
with  the  Spirits  of  the  Elements  over  whom  he  has  acquired  dominion,  by  the  secret  and  unhallowed 
studies  of  sorcery  and  magic.  He  is  averse,  indeed,  from  mankind,  and  scorns  the  low  and  frivolous 
nature  to  which  he  belongs;  but  he  cherishes  no  animosity  or  hostility  to  that  feeble  race.  Their  con. 
cerns  excite  no  interest  —  their  pursuits  no  sympathy  —  their  joys  no  envy.  It  is  irksome  and  vexatious! 
for  him  to  be  crossed  by  them  in  his  melancholy  musings,  — but  he  treats  them  with  gentleness  and  pity; 
and,  except  when  stung  to  impatience  by  too  importunate  an  intrusion,  is  kind  and  considerate  to  thti 
comforts  of  all  around  him.  —  This  piece  is  properly  entitled  a  dramatic  poem  —  for  it  is  merely  poetical., 
and  is  not  at  all  a  drama  or  play  in  the  modern  acceptation  of  the  term.  It  has  no  action,  no  plot,  and 
no  characters;  Manfred  merely  muses  and  suffers  from  the  beginningHo  the  end.  His  distresses  are  the 
same  at  the  opening  of  the  scene  and  at  its  closing,  and  the  temper  in  which  they  are  borne  is  the  same. 
A  hunter  and  a  priest,  and  some  domestics,  are  indeed  introduced,  but  they  have  no  connection  with  the 
passions  or  sufferings  on  which  the  interest  depends;  and  Manfred  is  substantially  alone  throughout  the 
whole  piece.  He  holds  no  communion  but  with  the  memory  of  the  Being  he  had  loved;  and  the  immortal 
Spirits  whom  he  evokes  to  reproach  with  his  misery,  and  their  inability  to  relieve  it.  These  unearthly 
beings  approach  nearer  to  the  character  of  persons  of  the  drama  —  but  still  they  are  but  choral  accom- 
paniments to  the  performance;  and  Manfred  is,  in  reality,  the  only  actor  and  sufferer  on  the  scene.  To 
delineate  his  character  indeed  —  to  render  conceivable  his  feelings  —  is  plainly  the  whole  scope  and  design 
of  the  poem;  and  the  conception  and  execution  are,  in  this  respect,  equally  admirable.  It  is  a  grand  and 
terrific  vision  of  a  being  invested  with  superhuman  attributes,  in  order  that  he  may  be  capable  of  more 
than  human  sufferings,  and  be  sustained  under  them  by  more  than  human  force  and  pride.  To  object  to 
the  improbability  of  the  fiction,  is  to  mistake  the  end  and  aim  of  the  author.  Probabilities,  we  apprehend, 
did  not  enter  at  all  into  his  consideration;  his  object  was,  to  produce  effect  —  to  exalt  and  dilate  the 
character  through  whom  he  was  to  interest  or  appall  us  —  and  to  raise  our  conception  of  it,  by  all  the 
helps  that  could  be  derived  from  the  majesty  of  nature,  or  the  dread  of  superstition.  It  is  enough,  there- 
fore, if  the  situation  in  which  he  has  placed  him  is  conceivable,  and  if  the  supposition  of  its  reality 
enhances  our  emotions  and  kindles  our  imagination;  — for  it  is  Manfred  only  that  we  are  required  to  fear, 
to  pity,  or  admire.  If  we  can  once  conceive  of  him  as  a  real  existence,  and  enter  into  the  depth  and  the 
height  of  his  pride  and  his  sorrows,  we  may  deal  as  we  please  with  the  means  that  have  been  used  to 
furnish  us  with  this  impression,  or  to  enable  us  to  attain  to  this  conception.  We  may  regard  them  but 
as  types,  or  metaphors,  or  allegories;  but  he  is  the  thing  to  be  expressed,  and  the  feeling  and  the  intel- 
lect of  which  all  these  are  but  shadows."  —  Jeffrey. 

"  In  this  very  extraordinary  poem,  Lord  Byron  has  pursued  the  same  course  as  in  the  third  canto  of 
Childe  Harold,  and  put  out  his  strength  upon  the  same  objects.  The  action  is  laid  among  the  mountains 
of  the  Alps  —  the  characters  are  all,  more  or  less,  formed  and  swayed  by  the  operations  of  the  magnificent 
scenery  around  them,  and  every  page  of  the  poem  teems  with  imagery  and  passion,  though,  at  the  same 
time,  the  mind  of  the  poet  is  often  overborne,  as  it  were,  by  the  strength  and  novelty  of  its  own  concep- 
tions; and  thus  the  composition,  as  a  whole,  is  liable  to  many  and  fatal  objections.  But  there  is  a  still 
more  novel  exhibition  of  Lord  Byron's  powers  in  this  remarkable  drama.  He  has  here  burst  into  the 
worl  1  of  spirits;  and,  in  the  wild  delight  with  which  the  elements  of  nature  seem  to  have  inspired  him, 
he  has  endeavored  to  embody  and  call  up  before  him  their  ministering  agents,  and  to  employ  these  wild 
personifications,  as  he  formerly  employed  the  feelings  and  passions  of  man.  We  are  not  prepared  to  say, 
that,  in  this  daring  attempt,  he  has  completely  succeeded.  We  are  inclined  to  think,  that  the  plan  he  has 
conceived,  and  the  principal  character  which  he  has  wished  to  delineate,  would  require  a  fuller  develop- 
ment than  is  here  given  to  them;  and,  accordingly,  a  sense  of  imperfection,  incompleteness,  and  confu- 
sion accompanies  the  mind  throughout  the  perusal  of  the  poem,  owing  either  to  some  failure  on  the  part 


MANFRED. 


5G3 


ef  the  poet,  or  to  the  inherent  mystery  of  the  subject.  But  though,  on  that  account,  it  is  difficult  to 
comprehend  distinctly  the  drift  of  the  composition,  it  unquestionably  exhibits  many  noble  delineations 
of  mountain  scenery,  —  many  impressive  and  terrible  pictures  of  passion,  —  and  many  wild  and  awfti? 
visions  of  imaginary  horror."  —  Professor  Wilson.] 


DRAMATIS   PERSONS. 


Manfred. 

Chamois  Hunter. 

Abbot  of  St.  Maurice. 

Manuel. 

Herman. 


Witch  of  the  Alps. 

Arimanes. 

Nemesis. 

The  Destinies. 

Spirits,  etc. 


The  Scene  of  the  Drama  is  amongst  the  Higher  Alps — partly  in  the  Castle  of  Man- 
fred, and  partly  in  the  Mountains. 


ACT  I. 

SCENE  I. — Manfred  alone. — Scene,  a  Gothic 
Gallery. —  Time,  Midnight. 

Man.     The  lamp  must  be  replenished,  but 

even  then 
It  will  not  burn  so  long  as  I  must  watch : 
My  slumbers  —  if  I  slumber  —  are  not  sleep, 
But  a  continuance  of  enduring  thought, 
Which  then  I  can  resist  not :  in  my  heart 
There  is  a  vigil,  and  these  eyes  but  close 
To  look  within ;  and  yet  I  live,  and  bear 
The  aspect  and  the  form  of  breathing  men. 
But  grief  should  be  the  instructor  of  the  wise; 
Sorrow  is  knowledge  :  they  who  know  the  most 
Must  mourn  the  deepest  o'er  the  fatal  truth, 
The  Tree  of  Knowledge  is  not  that  of  Life. 
Philosophy  and  science,  and  the  springs 
Of  wonder,  and  the  wisdom  of  the  world, 
I  have  essayed,  and  in  my  mind  there  is 
A  power  to  make  these  subject  to  itself — 
But  they  avail  not :  I  have  done  men  good, 
And  I  have  met  with  good  even  among  men  — 
But  this  availed  not:  I  have  had  my  foes, 
And  none  have   baffled,  many  fallen  before 

me  — 
But  this  availed  not :  —  Good,  or  evil,  life, 
Powers,  passions,  all  I  see  in  other  beings, 
Have  been  to  me  as  rain  unto  the  sands, 
Since  that  all-nameless  hour.    I  have  no  dread, 
And  feel  the  curse  to  have  no  natural  fear, 
Nor  fluttering  throb,  that  beats  with  hopes  or 

wishes, 
Or  lurking  love  of  something  on  the  earth. — 
Now  to  my  task. — 

Mysterious  Agency ! 
Ye  spirits  of  the  unbounded  Universe ! 1 

1  [Original  MS.  —  "  Eternal  Agency! 

Ye  spirits  of  the  immortal  Universe! 


Whom   I  have  sought  in  darkness  and  Vu 

light  — 
Ye,  who  do  compass  earth  about,  and  dwed 
In  subtler  essence  —  ye,  to  whom  the  tops 
Of  mountains  inaccessible  are  haunts,2 
And    earth's     and    ocean's    caves     familiar 

things  — 
I  call  upon  ye  by  the  written  charm 

Which  gives  me  power  upon  you Rise! 

appear !  [A  pause. 

They  come  not  yet. — Now  by  the  voice  of  him 
Who  is  the  first  among  you —  by  this  sign, 
Which  makes  you  tremble  —  by  the  claims  of 
him 

Who  is  undying, — Rise  1  appear ! Appear ! 

[A  pause. 
If  it  be  so.  —  Spirits  of  earth  and  air, 
Ye  shall  not  thus  elude  me  :  by  a  power, 
Deeper  than  all  yet  urged,  a  tyrant-spell, 
Which  had  its  birthplace  in  a  star  condemned. 
The  burning  wreck  of  a  demolished  world, 
A  wandering  hell  in  the  eternal  space; 
By  the  strong  curse  which  is  upon  my  soul. 
The  thought  which  is  within  me  and  around 

me, 
I  do  compel  ye  to  my  will.  —  Appear! 

[A  star  is  seen  at  the  darker  end  of  the  gal- 
lery: it  is  stationary;  and  a  voice  is  heuri 
singing. 

First  Spirit. 
Mortal !  to  thy  bidding  bowed, 
From  my  mansion  in  the  cloud, 
Which  the  breath  of  twilight  builds, 
And  the  summer's  sunset  gilds 
With  the  azure  and  vermilion, 
Which  is  mixed  for  my  pavilion  ;  3 


»  [MS.— 

Of  inaccessible  mountains  are  the  haunts. "J 

-  [MS.  —  "  Which  is  fit  for  my  pavilion  "] 


50* 


MANFRED. 


[act  i. 


Though  thy  quest  may  be  forbidden, 
On  a  star-beam  I  have  ridden  ; 
To  thine  adjuration  bowed, 
Mortal —  be  thy  wish  avowed! 

Voice  of  the  SECOND  SPIRIT. 

Mont  Blanc  is  the  monarch  of  mountains ; 

They  crowned  him  long  ago 
On  a  throne  of  rocks,  in  a  robe  of  clouds, 

With  a  diadem  of  snow. 
Around  his  waist  are  forests  braced, 

The  Avalanche  in  his  hand ; 
But  ere  it  fall,  that  thundering  ball 

Must  pause  for  my  command. 
The  Glacier's  cold  and  restless  mass 

Moves  onward  day  by  day ; 
But  I  am  he  who  bids  it  pass, 

Or  with  its  ice  delay.1 
I  am  the  spirit  of  the  place, 

Could  make  the  mountain  bow 
And  quiver  to  his  caverned  base — 

And  what  with  me  wouldst  Thou? 

Voice  of  the  THIRD  SPIRIT. 
In  the  blue  depth  of  the  waters, 

Where  the  wave  hath  no  strife, 
Where  the  wind  is  a  stranger, 

And  the  sea-snake  hath  life, 
Where  the  Mermaid  is  decking 

Her  green  hair  with  shells ; 
Like  the  storm  on  the  surface 

Came  the  sound  of  thy  spells ; 
O'er  my  calm  Hall  of  Coral 

The  deep  echo  rolled  — 
To  the  Spirit  of  Ocean 

Thy  wishes  unfold ! 

Fourth  Spirit. 
Where  the  slumbering  earthquake 

Lies  pillowed  on  fire, 
And  the  lakes  of  bitumen 

Rise  boilingly  higher; 
Where  the  roots  of  the  Andes 

Strike  deep  in  the  earth, 
As  their  summits  to  heaven 

Shoot  soaringly  forth  ; 
I  have  quitted  my  birthplace, 

Thy  bidding  to  bide  — 
Thy  spell  hath  subdued  me, 

Thy  will  be  my  guide ! 

Fifth  Spirit. 
i  am  the  Rider  of  the  wind, 

The  Stirrer  of  the  storm  ; 
The  hurricane  I  left  behind 

Is  yet  with  lightning  warm; 
To  speed  to  thee,  o'er  shore  and  sea 

I  swept  upon  the  blast : 
The  fleet  I  met  sailed  well,  and  yet 

'Twill  sink  ere  night  be  past. 


^MS.  —  "  Q*  Tiakes  >*<  ice  delay  ."J 


Sixth  Spirit. 

My  dwelling  is  the  shadow  of  the  night, 
Why  doth  thy  magic  torture  me  with  light  ? 

Seventh  Spirit. 

The  star  which  rules  thy  destiny 

Was  ruled,  ere  earth  began,  by  me : 

It  was  a  world  as  fresh  and  fair 

As  e'er  revolved  round  sun  in  air; 

Its  course  was  free  and  regular, 

Space  bosomed  not  a  lovelier  star. 

The  hour  arrived —  and  it  became 

A  wandering  mass  of  shapeless  flame, 

A  pathless  comet,  and  a  curse, 

The  menace  of  the  universe ; 

Still  rolling  on  with  innate  force, 

Without  a  sphere,  without  a  course, 

A  bright  deformity  on  high, 

The  monster  of  the  upper  sky! 

And  thou!  beneath  its  influence  born  — 

Thou  worm  !  whom  I  obey  and  scorn  — 

Forced  by  a  power  (which  is  not  thine, 

And  lent  thee  but  to  make  thee  mine) 

For  this  brief  moment  to  descend, 

Where  these  weak  spirits  round  thee  bend 

And  parley  with  a  thing  like  thee  — 

What  wouldst  thou,  Child  of  Clay !  with  me  ? 

The  Seven  Spirits. 

Earth,  ocean,  air,  night,  mountains,  winds,  thy 
star, 
Are  at  thy  beck  and  bidding,  Child  of  Clay  ! 
Before  thee  at  thy  quest  their  spirits  are  — 
What  wouldst  thou  with  us,  son  of  mortals 
—  say? 

Man.    Forgetfulness 

First  Spirit.     Of  what  —  of  whom  —  and 
why  ? 

Man.     Of  that  which  is  within  me  ;  read  it 
there  — 
Ye  know  it,  and  I  cannot  utter  it. 

Spirit.     We  can  but  give  thee  that  which 
we  possess : 
Ask  of  us  subjects,  sovereignty,  the  power 
O'er  earth,  the  whole,  or  portion,  or  a  sign 
Which  shall  control  the  elements,  whereof 
We  are  the  dominators,  each  and  all, 
These  shall  be  thine. 

Man.  Oblivion,  self-oblivion  — 

Can  ye  not  wring  from  out  the  hidden  realms 
Ye  offer  so  profusely  what  I  ask  ? 

Spirit.    It  is  not  in  our  essence,  in  our  skill ; 
But  —  thou  mayst  die. 

Man.  Will  death  bestow  it  on  me  ? 

Spirit.    We  are  immortal,  and  do  not  for- 
get; 
We  are  eternal ;  and  to  us  the  past 
Is,  as  the  future,  present.  Art  thou  answered  ? 

Man.    Ye  mock  me  —  but  the  power  whiub 
brought  ye  here 


SCENE  1.1 


MANFRED. 


SOS 


Hath  made  you  mine.     Slaves,  scoff  not  at 

my  will ! 
The  mind,  the  spirit,  the  Promethean  spark, 
The  lightning  of  my  being,  is  as  bright, 
Pervading,  and  far  darting  as  your  own, 
And  shall  not  yield  to  yours,  though  cooped 

in  clay. 
Answer,  or  I  will  teach  you  what  I  am. 
Spirit.    We  answer  as  we  answered;  our 
reply 
Is  even  in  thine  own  words. 
Man.  Why  say  ye  so  ? 

Spirit.     If,  as  thou  say'st,  thine  essence  be 
as  ours. 
We  have  replied  in  telling  thee,  the  thing 
Mortals  call  death  hath  nought  to  do  with  us. 
Man.     I    then   hare   called  ye  from  your 
realms  in  vain ; 
Ye  cannot,  or  ye  will  not,  aid  me. 

Spirit.  Say ; 

What  we  possess  we  offer;  it  is  thine : 
Bethink  ere  thou  dismiss  us,  ask  again  — 
Kingdom,  and  sway,  atid  strength,  and  length 

of  days 

Man.    Accursed !    what  have  I  to  do  with 
days  ? 
They   are   too    long   already.  —  Hence  —  be- 
gone ! 
Spirit.     Yet   pause :    being   here,  our  will 
would  do  thee  service ; 
Bethink  thee,  is  there  then  no  other  gift 
Which  we  can  make  not  worthless  in  thine 
eyes  ? 
Man.     No,  none:  yet  stay  —  one  moment, 
ere  we  part  — 
I  would  behold  ye  face  to  face.     I  hear 
Your  voices,  sweet  and  melancholy  sounds, 
As  music  on  the  waters;  and  I  see 
The  steady  aspect  of  a  clear  large  star ; 
But  nothing  more.     Approach  me  as  ye  are, 
Or  one,  or  all,  in  your  accustomed  forms. 
Spirit.     We  have  no  forms,  beyond  the  ele- 
ments 
Of  which  we  are  the  mind  and  principle : 
But  choose  a  form  —  in  that  we  will  appear. 
Man.     I  have  no  choice ;  there  is  no  form 
on  earth 
Hideous  or  beautiful  to  me.     Let  him, 
Who  is  most  powerful  of  ye,  take  such  aspect 
As  unto  him  may  seem  most  fitting  —  Come! 
Seventh  Spirit  {appearing  in  the  shape  of 

a  beautiful  female  figure) .     Behold  ! 
Man.     Oh  God !  if  it  be  thus,  and  thou 
Art  not  a  madness  and  a  mockery, 
I  yet  might  be  most  happy.    I  will  clasp  thee, 

And  we  again  will  be [  The  figure  vanishes. 

My  heart  is  crushed  ! 
[Manfred  falls  senseless. 

{A  Voice  is  heard  in  the  Incantation  which 
follows.)  1 

1  [These  verses  were  written  in  Switzerland,  in 


When  the  moon  is  on  the  wave, 
And  the  glow-worm  in  the  grass, 

And  the  meteor  on  the  grave, 
And  the  wisp  on  the  morass ; 2 

When  the  falling  stars  are  shooting, 

And  the  answered  owls  are  hooting, 

And  the  silent  leaves  are  still 

In  the  shadow  of  the  hill, 

Shall  my  soul  be  upon  thine, 

With  a  power  and  with  a  sign. 

Though  thy  slumber  may  be  deep, 

Yet  thy  spirit  shall  not  sleep ; 

There  are  shades  which  will  not  vaMsh. 

There  are  thoughts  thou  canst  not  oanist, 

By  a  power  to  thee  unknown, 

Thou  canst  never  be  alone; 

Thou  art  wrapt  as  with  a  shroud, 

Thou  art  gathered  in  a  cloud ; 

And  for  ever  shalt  thou  dwell 

In  the  spirit  of  this  spell. 

Though  thou  seest  me  not  pass  by, 
Thou  shalt  feel  me  with  thine  eye 
As  a  thing  that,  though  unseen, 
Must  be  near  thee,  and  hath  been  ; 
And  when  in  that  secret  dread 
Thou  hast  turned  around  thy  head, 
Thou  shalt  marvel  I  am  not 
As  thy  shadow  on  the  spot, 
And  the  power  which  thou  dost  feel 
Shall  be  what  thou  must  conceal. 

And  a  magic  voice  and  verse 
Hath  baptized  thee  with  a  curse; 
And  a  spirit  of  the  air 
Hath  begirt  thee  with  a  snare ; 
In  the  wind  there  is  a  voice 
Shall  forbid  thee  to  rejoice ; 
And  to  thee  shall  Night  deny 

1816,  and  transmitted  to  England  for  publication 
with  the  third  canto  of  Childe  Harold.  "  As  they 
were  written,"  says  Moore,  "  immediately  after  the 
last  fruitless  attempt  at  reconciliation  with  Lady 
Byron,  it  is  needless  to  say  who  was  in  the  poet's 
thoughts  while  he  penned  some  of  the  opening 
stanzas."] 

2  ["  And  the  wisp  on  the  morass."  Hearing,  in 
February,  1S18,  of  a  menaced  version  of  Manfred 
by  some  Italian,  Byron  wrote  to  his  friend  Mr. 
Hoppner —  "  If  you  have  any  means  of  communi- 
cating with  the  man,  would  you  permit  me  to  con- 
vey to  him  the  offer  of  any  price  he  may  obtain,  or 
think  to  obtain,  for  his  project,  provided  he  will 
throw  his  translation  into  the  fire,  and  promise  not 
to  undertake  any  other  of  that,  or  any  other  of  my 
things?  I  will  send  him  his  money  immediately,  on 
this  condition."  A  negotiation  was  accordingly 
set  on  foot,  and  the  translator,  on  receiving  two 
hundred  francs,  delivered  up  his  manuscript,  and 
engaged  never  to  translate  any  other  of  the  poet's 
works.  Of  his  qualifications  for  the  task  some 
notion  may  be  formed  from  the  fact,  that  he  had 
turned  the  word  "wisp,"  m  this  line,  into  "a 
bundle  of  straw."] 


506 


MANFRED. 


[act  i. 


All  the  quiet  of  her  sky ; 
And  the  day  shall  have  a  sun, 
Which  shall  make  thee  wish  it  done. 

From  thy  false  tears  I  did  distil 

An  essence  which  hath  strength  to  kill ; 

From  thy  own  heart  I  then  did  wring 

The  black  blood  in  its  blackest  spring; 

From  thy  own  smile  I  snatched  the  snake, 

For  there  it  coiled  as  in  a  brake ; 

From  thy  own  lip  I  drew  the  charm 

Which  gave  all  these  their  chiefest  harm ; 

In  proving  every  poison  known, 

I  found  the  strongest  was  thine  own. 

By  thy  cold  breast  and  serpent  smile, 

By  thy  unfathomed  gulfs  of  guile, 

By  that  most  seeming  virtuous  eye, 

By  thy  shut  soul's  hypocrisy  ; 

By  the  perfection  of  thine  art 

Which  passed  for  human  thine  own  heart; 

By  thy  delight  in  others'  pain, 

And  by  thy  brotherhood  of  Cain, 

I  call  upon  thee!  and  compel1 

Thyself  to  be  thy  proper  Hell ! 

And  on  thy  head  I  pour  the  vial 

Which  doth  devote  thee  to  this  trial; 

Nor  to  slumber,  nor  to  die, 

Shall  be  in  thy  destiny; 

Though  thy  death  shall  still  seem  near 

To  thy  wish,  but  as  a  fear; 

Lo !  the  spell  now  works  around  thee, 

And  the  clankless  chain  hath  bound  thee ; 

O'er  thy  heart  and  brain  together 

Hath  the  word  been  passed  —  now  wither! 

SCENE  II.—  The  Mountain  of  the  Jungfrau. 
—  Time,  Morning.  —  MANFRED  alone  upon 
the  Cliffs. 

Man.     The  spirits  I  have  raised  abandon 

me  — 
The  spells  which  I  have  studied  baffle  me  — 
The  remedy  I  recked  of  tortured  me ; 
I  lean  no  more  on  super-human  aid, 
It  hath  no  power  upon  the  past,  and  for 
The  future,  till  the  past  be  gulfed  in  darkness, 
It  is  not  of  my  search. —  My  mother  Earth  ! 
And  thou  fresh  breaking  Day,  and  you,  ye 

Mountains, 
Why  are  ye  beautiful  ?     I  cannot  love  ye. 
And  thou,  the  bright  eye  of  the  universe, 
That  openest  over  all,  and  unto  all 
Art  a  delight — thou  shin'st  not  on  my  heart. 
And    you,  ye    crags,  upon  whose    extreme 

edge 
I  stand,  and  on  the  torrent's  brink  beneath 
Behold  the  tall  pines  dwindled  as  to  shrubs 
In  dizziness  of  distance  ;  when  a  leap, 
A  stir,  a  motion,  even  a  breath,  would  bring 
My  breast  upon  its  rocky  bosom's  bed 


•  [MS.  —  "  I  do  adjure  thee  to  this  spell."] 


To  rest  for  ever  —  wherefore  do  I  pause  ? 

I  feel  the  impulse — yet  I  do  not  plunge; 

I  see  the  peril — yet  do  not  recede; 

And  my  brain  reels — and  yet  my  foot  is  firm : 

There  is  a  power  upon  me  which  withholds, 

And  makes  it  my  fatality  to  live ; 

If  it  be  life  to  wear  within  myselif 

This  barrenness  of  spirit,  and  to  be 

My  own  soul's  sepulchre,  for  I  have  ceased 

To  justify  my  deeds  unto  myself — 

The  last  infirmity  of  evil.     Ay, 

Thou  winged  and  cloud-cleaving  minister, 

[An  eagle  passes. 
Whose  happy  flight  is  highest  into  heaven, 
Well  mayst  thou  swoop  so  near  me — I  should 

be 
Thy  prey,  and  gorge  thine  eaglets ;  thou  art 

gone 
Where  the  eye  cannot  follow  thee  ;  but  thine 
Yet  pierces  downward,  onward,  or  above, 
With  a  pervading  vision. —  Beautiful ! 
How  beautiful  is  all  this  visible  world ! 
How  glorious  in  its  action  and  itself! 
But  we,  who  name  ourselves  its  sovereigns, 

we, 
Half  dust,  half  deity,  alike  unfit 
To  sink  or  soar,  with  our  mixed  essence  make 
A  conflict  of  its  elements,  and  breathe 
The  breath  of  degradation  and  of  pride. 
Contending  with  low  wants  and  lofty  will, 
Till  our  mortality  predominates, 
And  men  are  —  what  they  name  not  to  them- 
selves, 
And  trust  not  to  each  other.    Hark !  the  note, 
[  The  Shepherd's  pipe  in  the  distance  is  heard. 
The  natural  music  of  the  mountain  reed  — 
For  here  the  patriarchal  days  are  not 
A  pastoral  fable  —  pipes  in  the  liberal  air, 
Mixed  with  the  sweet  bells  of  the  sauntering 
herd ; 2 


2  [The  germs  of  this,  and  of  several  other  pas- 
sages in  Manfred,  may  be  found  in  the  Journal  of 
his  Swiss  tour,  which  Byron  transmitted  to  his 
sister:  e.g.  "Sept.  19. — Arrived  at  a  lake  in  the 
very  bosom  of  the  mountains;  left  our  quadrupeds, 
and  ascended  further;  came  to  some  snow  in  patches, 
upon  which  my  forehead's  perspiration  fell  like  rain, 
making  the  same  dents  as  in  a  sieve;  the  chill  of 
the  wind  and  the  snow  turned  me  giddy,  but  I 
scrambled  on  and  upwards.  Hobhouse  went  to  the 
highest  pinnacle.  The  whole  of  the  mountains 
superb.  A  shepherd  on  a  steep  and  very  high  cliff 
playing  upon  his  pipe  ;  very  different  from  Arcadia. 
The  music  of  the  cows'  bells  (for  their  wealth,  like 
the  patriarchs',  is  cattle)  in  the  pastures,  which 
reach  to  a  height  far  above  any  mountains  in  Britain, 
and  the  shepherds  shouting  to  us  from  crag  to  crag, 
and  playing  on  their  reeds  where  the  steeps  appeared 
almost  inaccessible,  with  the  surrounding  scenery, 
realized  all  that  I  have  ever  heard  or  imagined  of  a 
pastoral  existence  —  much  more  so  than  Greece  or 
Asia  Minor;  for  there  we  are  a  little  too  much  ot 
the  sabre  and  musket  order,  and  if  there  is  a  crook 
in  one  hand,  you  are  sure  to  see  a  gun  in  the  other: 


SCENE   II.] 


MANFRED. 


50? 


My  soal  would  drink  those  echoes. — Oh,  that 

I  were 
The  viewless  spirit  of  a  lovely  sound, 
A  living  voice,  a  breathing  harmony, 
A  bodiless  enjoyment  —  born  and  dying 
With  the  blest  tone  which  made  me ! 

Enter  from  below  a  CHAMOIS  HUNTER. 
Chamois  Hunter.  Even  so 

This  way  the  chamois  leapt :  her  nimble  feet 
Have  baffled  me  ;  my  gains  to-day  will  scarce 
Repay  my  break-neck  travail. — What  is  here? 
Who  seems  not  of  my  trade,  and  yet  hath 

reached 
A  height  which  none  even  of  our  mountaineers, 
Save  our  best  hunters,  may  attain  :  his  garb 
Is  goodly,  his  mien  manly,  and  his  air 
Proud   as  a  free-born   peasant's,  at  this  dis- 
tance — 
I  will  approach  him  nearer. 

Man.    (not  perceiving  the  other).     To   be 

thus  — 
Gray-haired  with  anguish,1  like  these  blasted 

pines, 
Wrecks  of  a  single  winter,  barkless,  branch- 

less,2 
A  blighted  trunk  upon  a  cursed  root, 
Which  but  supplies  a  feeling  to  decay  — 
And  to  be  thus,  eternally  but  thus, 
Having  been  otherwise !     Now  furrowed  o'er 
With  wrinkles,  ploughed  by  moments,  not  by 

years 
And  hours  —  all  tortured  into  ages  ■ —  hours 
Which  I  outlive!  —  Ye  toppling  crags  of  ice! 
Ye  avalanches,  whom  a  breath  draws  down 
In  mountainous  o'erwhelming,  come  and  crush 

me! 
I  hear  ye  momently  above,  beneath, 
Crash  with  a  frequent  conflict ;  3  but  ye  pass, 


but  this  was  pure  and  unmixed  — solitary,  savage, 
and  patriarchal.  As  we  went,  they  played  the 
'  Ranz  des  Vaches '  and  other  airs,  by  way  of  fare- 
well. I  have  lately  repeopled  my  mind  with 
nature."] 

1  [See  the  opening  lines  to  the  "  Prisoner  of 
Chillon."  Speaking  of  Marie  Antoinette,  "  I  was 
struck,"  says  Madame  Campan,  "  with  the  aston- 
ishing change  misfortune  had  wrought  upon  her 
features:  her  whole  head  of  hair  had  turned  almost 
white,  during  her  transit  from  Varennes  to  Paris." 
The  same  thing  occurred  to  the  unfortunate  Queen 
Mary.  "  With  calm  but  undaunted  fortitude,"  says 
her  historian,  "  she  laid  her  neck  upon  the  block; 
and  while  one  executioner  held  her  hands,  the  other, 
at  the  second  stroke,  cut  off  her  head,  which,  falling 
out  of  its  attire,  discovered  her  hair,  already  grown 
quite  gray  with  cares  and  sorrows."  The  hair  of 
Mary's  grandson,  Charles  I.,  turned  quite  gray,  in 
like  manner,  during  his  stay  at  Carisbrooke/] 

2  ["  Passed  whole  woods  of  withered  pines,  all 
withered,  —  trunks  stripped  and  barkless,  branches 
lifeless,  done  by  a  single  winter  :  their  appearance 
reminded  me  of  me  and  my  family."  —  Swiss 
Journal.} 

3  ["Ascended  the  Wengern  mountain;    left   th? 


And  only  fall  on  things  that  still  would  live ; 
On  the  young  nourishing  forest,  or  the  hut 
And  hamlet  of  the  harmless  villager. 

C.  Hun.     The  mists  begin  to  rise  up  from 
the  valley ; 
I'll  warn  him  to  descend  or  he  may  chance 
To  lose  at  once  his  way  and  life  together. 
Man.     The   mists  boil  up  around  the  gla- 
ciers; clouds 
Rise  curling  fast  beneath  me,  white  and  sul- 
phury, 
Like  foam  from  the  roused   ocean  of  deep 

Hell* 
Whose  every  wave  breaks  on  a  living  shore, 
Heaped  with  the  damned  like  pebbles. — I  am 
giddy.5 
C.  Hun.     I  must  approach  him  cautiously  ; 
if  near, 
A  sudden  step  will  startle  him,  and  he 
Seems  tottering  already. 

Man.  Mountains  have  fallen, 

Leaving  a  gap  in  the  clouds,  and  with  the  shock 
Rocking  their  Alpine  brethren  ;  filling  up 
The    ripe    green   valleys    with    destruction's 

splinters ; 
Damming  the  rivers  with  a  sudden  dash, 
Which  crushed  the  waters  into  mist,  and  made 
Their  fountains  find  another  channel  —  thus, 
Thus,  in  its  old  age,  did  Mount  Rosenberg  — 
Why  stood  I  not  beneath  it  ? 

C.  Hun.  Friend  !  have  a  care, 

Your  next  step  may  be  fatal !  — for  the  love 
Of  him  who  made   you,  stand   not   on  that 
brink! 
Man.  (hot  hearing  him).    Such  would  have 
been  for  me  a  fitting  tomb  ; 
My  bones  had  then  been  quiet  in  their  depth  ; 
They  had  not  then  been  strewn  upon  the  rocks 
For  the  wind's  pastime  —  as  thus —  thus  they 

shall  be  — 
In  this  one  plunge. —  Farewell,  ye  opening 
heavens ! 


horses,  took  off  my  coat,  and  went  to  the  summit. 
On  one  side,  our  view  comprised  the  Jungfrau,  with 
all  her  glaciers;  then  the  Dent  d'Argent,  shining 
like  truth;  then  the  Little  Giant,  and  the  Great 
Giant;  and  last,  not  least,  the  Wetterhorn.  The 
height  of  the  Jungfrau  is  thirteen  thousand  feet  above 
the  sea,  and  eleven  thousand  above  the  valley. 
Heard  the  avalanches  falling  every  five  minutes 
nearly."  —  Swiss  Journal.] 

*  [MS.— 
"  Like  foam  from  the  roused  ocean  of  old  Hell."] 

5  ["The  clouds  rose  from  the  opposite  valley, 
curling  up  perpendicular  precipices,  like  the  foam 
of  the  ocean  of  hell  during  a  spring  tide  —  it  was 
white  and  sulphury,  and  immeasurably  deep  in 
appearance.  The  side  we  ascended  was  not  of  so 
precipitous  a  nature;  but,  on  arriving  at  '.he  sum- 
mit, we  looked  down  upon  the  other  side  upon  a 
boiling  sea  of  cloud,  dashing  against  the  crags  on 
which  we  stood  —  these  crags  on  one  side  quite  per- 
pendicular.    In  passing  the  masse6  of  snow,  I  made 


508 


MANFRED. 


[act  a 


Look  not  upon  me  thus  reproachfully  — 

Ye  were  not  meant  tor  me  — Earth  !  take  these 

atoms ! 
[As  Man/red  is  in  act  to  spring  from  the 

cliff,  the  Chamois  Hunter  seizes  and 

retains  him  with  a  sudden  grasp. 
C.  Hun.    Hold,  madman  !  —  though  aweary 

of  thy  life, 
Stain  not  our  pure  vales  with  thy  guilty  blood — 

Away  with  me I  will  not  quit  my  hold. 

Man.   I  am  most  sick  at  heart  —  nay,  grasp 

me  not  — 
I  am  all  feebleness  —  the  mountains  whirl 
Spinning   around  me I  grow  blind 

What  art  thou  ? 
C.   Hun.     I'll   answer   that   anon.  —  Away 

with  me 

The    clouds    grow    thicker there  —  now 

lean  on  me  — 
Place  your  foot  here  —  here,  take  this  staff, 

and  cling 
A  moment  to  that  shrub  — now  give  me  your 

hand, 
And  hold  fast  by  my  girdle  —  softly  —  well  — 
The  Chalet  will  be  gained  within  an  hour  — 
Come  on,  we'll  quickly  find  a  surer  footing, 
And  something  like  a  pathway,  which  the  tor- 
rent 
Hath  washed  since  winter. — Come,  'tis  bravely 

done  — 
You  should  have  been  a  hunter. — Follow  me. 
[As  they  descend  the  rocks  with  difficulty, 

the  scene  closes. 


ACT   II. 

SCENE  I. — A  Cottage  amongst  the  Bernese 

Alps. 

Manfred  and  the  Chamois  Hunter. 

C.  Hun.     No,  no  —  yet  pause  —  thou  must 
not  yet  go  forth  : 
Thy  mind  and  body  are  alike  unfit 
To  trust  each  other,  for  some  hours,  at  least ; 
When  thou  art  better,  I  will  be  thy  guide  — 
Bat  whither  ? 

Man.  It  imports  not :  I  do  know 

My  route  full  well,  and  need  no  further  guid- 
ance. 
C.  Hun.     Thy  garb  and  gait  bespeak  thee 
of  high  lineage  — 
One  of  the  many  chiefs,  whose  castled  crags 
Look  o'er  the  lower  valleys  —  which  of  these 
May  call  thee  lord  ?    I  only  know  their  portals  ; 
My  way  of  life  leads  me  but  rarely  down 
To  bask  by  the  huge  hearths  of  those  old  halls, 
Carousing  with  the  vassals  ;  but  the  paths, 
Which  step  from  out  our  mountains  to  their 
doors, 

a  snowball  and  pelted  Hobhouse  with  it."  —  Swiss 
Journal.] 


I  know  from  childhood  —  which  of  these  i9 
thine  ? 
Man.     No  matter. 

C.  Hun.     Well,  sir,  pardon  me  the  question, 
And  be  of  better  cheer.   Come,  taste  my  wine- 
'Tis  of  an  ancient  vintage  ;  many  a  day 
'T  has  thawed  my  veins  among  our  glacier* 

now 
Let  it  do  thus  for  thine  —  Come,  pledge  me 
fairly. 
Man.    Away,  away !  there's  blood  upon  the 
brim! 
Will  it  then  never  —  never  sink  in  the  earth  ? 
C.  Hun.   What  dost  thou  mean  ?  thy  senses 

wander  from  thee. 
Man.    I  say  'tis  blood — my  blood  !  the  pure 
warm  stream 
Which  ran  in  the  veins  of  my  fathers,  and  in 

ours 
When  we  were  in  our  youth,  and  had   on» 

heart, 
And  loved  each  other  as  we  should  not  love, 
And  this  was  shed :  but  still  it  rises  up, 
Coloring  the  clouds,  that  shut  me  out  from 

heaven, 
Where  thou  art  not  —  and  I  shall  never  be. 
C.  Hun.     Man  of  strange  words,  and  some 
half-maddening  sin, 
Which  makes  thee  people  vacancy,  whate'er 
Thy  dread  and  sufferance  be,  there's  comfort 
yet  —        f 

The  aid  of  holy  men.andheavenlypatience 

Man.     Patience  and   patience !     Hence  — 
that  word  was  made 
For  brutes  of  burden,  not  for  birds  of  prey ; 
Preach  it  to  mortals  of  a  dusk  like  thine, — 
I  am  not  of  thine  order. 

C.  Hun.  Thanks  to  heaven  ! 

I  would  not  be  of  thine  for  the  free  fame 
Of  William  Tell ;  but  whatsoe'er  thine  ill, 
Is  must  be  borne,  and  these  wild  starts  are 
useless. 
Man.     Da  I  not  bear  it  ?  —  Look  on  me  — 

I  live. 
C.  Hun.     This  is  convulsion,  and  no  health- 
ful life. 
Alan.  I  tell  thee,  man !  I  have  lived  many 
years, 
Many  long  years,  but  they  are  nothing  now 
To  those  which  I  must  number  :  ages  —  ages  — 
Space  and  eternity  —  and  consciousness, 
With  the  fierce  thirst  of  death — and  still  un- 
slaked ! 
C.  Hun.     Why,  on   thy  brow   the   seal   of 
middle  age 
Hath  scarce  been  set ;  I  am  thine  elder  far. 
Man.    Think'st  thou  existence  doth  depend 
on  time  ? 
It  doth  ;   but  actions  are  our  epochs  :  mine 
Have  made  my  days  and  nights  imperishable, 
Endless,  and  all  alike,  as  sands  on  the  shore, 
Innumerable  atoms;  and  one  desert, 


SCENE   II.] 


MANFRED. 


509 


Barren  and  cold,  on  which  the  wild  waves 

break, 
But  nothing  rests,  save  carcasses  and  wrecks, 
Rocks,  and  the  salt-surf  weeds  of  bitterness. 
C.  Hun.     Alas!  he's  mad' — but  yet  I  must 

not  leave  him. 
Man.  I  would  I  were  —  for  then  the  things 

I  see 
Would  be  but  a  distempered  dream. 

C.  Hun.  What  is  it 

That   thou   dost  see,  or   think   thou   look'st 

upon  ? 
Man.  Myself,  and  thee  —  a  peasant  of  the 

Alps  — 
Thy  humble  virtues,  hospitable  home, 
And  spirit  patient,  pious,  proud,  and  free ; 
Thy  self-respect,  grafted  on  innocent  thoughts  ; 
Thy  days  of  health,  and  nights  of  sleep ;  thy 

toils, 
By  danger  dignified,  yet  guiltless;  hopes 
Of  cheerful  old  age  and  a  quiet  grave, 
With  cross  and  garland  over  its  green  turf, 
And  thy  grandchildren's  love  for  epitaph  ; 
This  do  I  see  —  and  then  I  look  within  — 
It   matters   not  —  my  soul  was  scorched  al- 
ready! 
C.  Hun.  And  would'st  thou  then  exchange 

thy  lot  for  mine  ? 
Man.  No,  friend  !  I  would  not  wrong  thee, 

nor  exchange 
My  lot  with  living  being :  I  can  bear — 
However  wretchedly,  'tis  still  to  bear  — 
In    life    what    others    could    not    brook    to 

dream, 
But  perish  in  their  slumber. 

C.  Hun.  And  with  this  — 

This  cautious  feeling  for  another's  pain, 
Canst   thou   be   black   with   evil  ?  —  say   not 

so. 
Can  one  of  gentle  thoughts  have  wreaked  re- 
venge 
Upon  his  enemies  ? 

Alan.  Oh  !  no,  no,  no ! 

My  injuries  came  down  on  those  who  loved 

me  — 
On    those    whom    I    best    loved :     I    never 

quelled 
An  enemy,  save  in  my  just  defence  — 
But  my  embrace  was  fatal. 

C.  Hun.  Heaven  give  thee  rest ! 

And  penitence  restore  thee  to  thyself; 
My  prayers  shall  be  for  thee. 

Man.  I  need  them  not, 

But  can  endure  thy  pity.     I  depart  — 
Tistime  —  farewell! — Here'sgold,  and  thanks 

for  thee  — 
No    words  —  it    is    thy    due.  —  Follow    me 

not  — 
I    know    my    path  —  the     mountain    peril's 

past : 
And  once  again,  I  charge  thee,  follow  not ! 

{Exit  Manfred. 


SCENE  II.  —  A  lower  Valley  in  the  Alps. — A 
Cataract.^ 

Enter  MANFRED. 

It  is  not  noon  —  the  sunbow's  rays2  still  arch 
The  torrent  with  the  many  hues  of  heaven, 
And  roll  the  sheeted  silver's  waving  column 
O'er  the  crag's  headlong  perpendicular, 
And  fling  its  lines  of  foaming  light  along, 
And  to  and  fro,  like  the  pale  courser's  tail, 
The  Giant  steed,  to  be  bestrode  by  Death, 
As  told  in  the  Apocalypse.3     No  eyes 
But  mine  now  drink  this  sight  of  loveliness  ; 
I  should  be  sole  in  this  sweet  solitude, 
And  with  the  Spirit  of  the  place  divide 
The  homage  of  these  waters.  —  I  will  call  her. 
[MANFRED  takes  some  of  the  water  into  the 
palm  of  his  hand,  and  flings  it  into  the  air, 
muttering  the  adjuration.     After  a  pause 
the  WITCH  OF  THE  ALPS  rises  beneath 
the  arch  of  the  sunbow  of  the  torrent. 
Beautiful  Spirit!  with  thy  hair  of  light, 
And  dazzling  eyes  of  glory,  in  whose  form 
The  charms  of  earth's  least  mortal  daughters 

grow 
To  an  unearthly  stature,  in  an  essence 
Of  purer  elements  ;  while  the  hues  of  youth,  — 
Carnationed  like  a  sleeping  infant's  cheek, 
Rocked  by  the  beating  of  her  mother's  heart, 
Or  the  rose  tints,  which   summer's   twilight 

leaves 
Upon  the  lofty  glacier's  virgin  snow, 
The    blush    of   earth    embracing    with    her 
heaven, — 


1  [This  scene  is  one  of  the  most  poetical  and 
most  sweetly  written  in  the  poem.  There  is  a  still 
and  delicious  witchery  in  the  tranquillity  and  seclu- 
sion of  the  place,  and  the  celestial  beauty  of  the 
being  who  reveals  herself  in  the  midst  of  these 
visible  enchantments.  —  Jeffrey.] 

2  This  iris  is  formed  by  the  r«ys  of  the  sun  over 
the  lower  part  of  the  Alpine  torrents:  it  is  exactly 
like  a  rainbow  come  down  to  pay  a  visit,  and  so 
close  that  you  may  walk  into  it:  this  effect  lasts  till 
noon. —  ["  Before  ascending  the  mountain,  went  to 
the  torrent;  the  sun  upon  it,  forming  a  rainbow  of 
the  lower  part  of  all  colors,  but  principally  purple 
and  gold:  the  bow  moving  as  you  move.  I  never 
saw  any  thing  like  this;  it  is  only  in  the  sunshine." 
—  Swiss  Journal.] 

3  ["  Arrived  at  the  foot  of  the  Jungfrau ;  glaciers; 
torrents  :  one  of  these  torrents  nine  hundred  feet  in 
height  of  visible  descent;  heard  an  avalanche  fall, 
like  thunder;  glaciers  enormous;  storm  came  on  — 
thunder,  lightning,  hail;  all  in  perfection,  and 
beautiful.  The  torrent  is  in  shape  curving  over  the 
rock,  like  the  tail  of  a  white  horse  streaming  in  the 
wind,  such  as  it  might  be  conceived  would  be  that 
of  the  'pale  horse'  on  which  Death  is  mounted  in 
the  Apocalypse.  It  is  neither  mist  nor  water,  but 
a  something  between  both ;  its  immense  height  gives 
it  a  wave  or  curve,  a  spreading  here  or  condensa- 
tion there  wonderful  and  indescribable.  —  Sitiiss 
Journal.] 


510 


MANFRED. 


[act  II. 


Tinge  thy  celestial  aspect,  and  make  tame 
The  beauties  of  the  sunbow  which  bends  o'er 

thee.1 
Beautiful  Spirit!  in  thy  calm  clear  brow, 
Wherein  is  glassed  serenity  of  soul, 
Which  of  itself  shows  immortality, 
I  read  that  thou  wilt  pardon  to  a  Son 
Of  Earth,  whom  the  abstruser  powers  permit 
At  times  to  commune  with  them  —  if  that  he 
Avail  him  of  his  spells  —  to  call  thee  thus, 
And  gaze  on  thee  a  moment. 

Witch.  Son  of  Earth  ! 

I  know  thee,  and  the  powers  which  give  thee 

power. 
I  know  thee  for  a  man  of  many  thoughts, 
And  deeds  of  good  and  ill,  extreme  in  both, 
Fatal  and  fated  in  thy  sufferings. 
I   have  expected  this  —  what   would'st   thou 

with  me  ? 
Man.  To  look  upon  thy  beauty — nothing 

further.2 
The  face  of  the  earth  hath  maddened  me,  and  I 
Take  refuge  in  her  mysteries,  and  pierce 
To  the  abodes  of  those  who  govern  her  — 


1  [In  all  Lord  Byron's  heroes  we  recognize,  though 
with  infinite  modifications,  the  same  great  charac- 
teristics—  a  high  and  audacious  conception  of  the 
power  of  the  mind,  —  an  intense  sensibility  of  pas- 
sion, —  an  almost  boundless  capacity  of  tumultuous 
emotion,  —  a  haunting  admiration  of  the  grandeur 
of  disordered  power,  —  and,  above  all,  a  soul-felt, 
blood-felt  delight  in  beauty.  Parisina  is  full  of  it  to 
overflowing;  it  breathes  from  every  page  of  the 
"  Prisoner  of  Chillon;  "  but  it  is  in  "Manfred" 
that  it  riots  and  revels  among  the  streams,  and 
waterfalls,  and  groves,  and  mountains,  and  heavens. 
There  is  in  the  character  of  Manfred  more  of  the 
self-might  of  Byron  than  in  all  his  previous  produc- 
tions. He  has  therein  brought,  with  wonderful 
power,  metaphysical  conceptions  into  forms,  —  and 
we  know  of  no  poem  in  which  the  aspect  of  external 
nature  is  throughout  lighted  up  with  an  expression 
at  once  so  beautiful,  solemn,  and  majestic.  It  is  the 
poem,  next  to  "  Childe  Harold,"  which  we  should 
give  to  a  foreigner  to  read,  that  he  might  know 
something  of  Byron.  Shakspeare  has  given  to  those 
abstractions  of  human  life  and  being,  which  are  truth 
in  the  intellect,  forms  as  full,  clear,  glowing,  as  the 
idealized  forms  of  visible  nature.  The  very  words 
of  Ariel  picture  to  us  his  beautiful  being.  In  "  Man- 
fred," we  see  glorious  but  immature  manifestations 
of  similar  power.  The  poet  there  creates,  with  de- 
light, thoughts  and  feelings  and  fancies  into  visible 
forms,  that  he  may  cling  and  cleave  to  them,  and 
clasp  them  in  his  passion.  The  beautiful  Witch  of 
the  Alps  seems  exhaled  from  the  luminous  spray  of 
the  cataract,  —  as  if  the  poet's  eyes,  unsated  with 
the  beauty  of  inanimate  nature,  gave  spectral  appa- 
ritions of  loveliness  to  feed  the  pure  passion  of  the 
poet's  soul.  —  Professor  Wilson.\ 

-  [There  is  something  exquisitely  beautiful  in  all 
this  passage;  and  both  the  apparition  and  the  dia- 
logue are  so  managed,  that  the  sense  of  their  im- 
probability is  swallowed  up  in  that  of  their  beauty; 
and  without  actually  believing  that  such  spirits  exist 
or  communicate  themselves,  we  feel  for  the  moment 
as  if  we  stood  in  their  presence.  —  Jeffrey.} 


But  they  can  nothing  aid  me.     I  have  sought 
From  them  what  they  could  not  bestow,  and 

now 
I  search  no  further. 

Witch.     What  could  be  the  quest 
Which  is  not  in  the  power  of  the  most  powerful, 
The  rulers  of  the  invisible? 

Man.  A  boon ; 

But  why  should  I  repeat  it  ?  'twere  in  vain. 
Witch.     I  know  not  that ;  let  thy  lips  utter 

it. 
Man.     Well,  though  it  torture  me,  'tis  but 

the  same ; 
My  pang  shall  find  a  voice.     From  my  youth 

upwards 
My  spirit  walked  not  with  the  souls  of  men, 
Nor  looked  upon  the  earth  with  human  eyes; 
The  thirst  of  their  ambition  was  not  mine, 
The  aim  of  their  existence  was  not  mine; 
My  joys,    my  griefs,  my   passions,  and   my 

powers, 
Made  me  a  stranger  ;  though  I  wore  the  form, 
I  had  no  sympathy  with  breathing  flesh, 
Nor  midst  the  creatures  of  clay  that  girded  me 

Was  there  but  one  who but  of  her  anon. 

I   said  with  men,  and  with  the   thoughts  of 

men, 
I  held  but  slight  communion  ;  but  instead, 
My  joy  was  in  the  Wilderness,  to  breathe 
The  difficult  air  of  the  iced  mountain's  top, 
Where  the  birds  dare  not  build,  nor  insect's 

wing 
Flit  o'er  the  herbless  granite  ;  or  to  plunge 
Into  the  torrent,  and  to  roll  along 
On  the  swift  whirl  of  the  new  breaking  wave 
Of  river-stream,  or  ocean,  in  their  flow. 
In  these  my  early  strength  exulted;  or 
To  follow  through  the  night  the  moving  moon. 
The  stars  and  their  development ;  or  catch 
The  dazzling  lightnings  till  my  eyes  grew  dim  ; 
Or  to  look,  listening,  on  the  scattered  leaves, 
While  Autumn  winds  were  at  their  evening 

song. 
These  were  my  pastimes,  and  to  be  alone ; 
For  if  the  beings,  of  whom  I  was  one, — 
Hating  to  be  so,  —  crossed  me  in  my  path, 
I  felt  myself  degraded  back  to  them, 
And  was  all  clay  again.     And  then  I  dived, 
In    my   lone   wanderings,    to    the    caves    of 

death, 
Searching  its  cause  in  its  effect ;  and  drew 
From  withered  bones,  and  skulls,  and  heaped 

up  dust, 
Conclusions  most  forbidden.     Then  I  passer" 
The  nights  of  years  in  sciences  untaught, 
Save  in  the  old  time ;  and  with  time  and  toil 
And  terrible  ordeal,  and  such  penance 
As  in  itself  hath  power  upon  the  air, 
And  spirits  that  do  compass  air  and  earth, 
Space,  and  the  peopled  infinite,  I  made 
Mine  eyes  familiar  with  Eternity, 
Such  as.  before  me,  did  the  Magi,  and 


SCENE   II.] 


MANFRED. 


511 


.tje  who  from   out   their   fountain    dwellings 

raised 
;gr0s  and  Anteros.i  at  Gadara, 
As  I  do  thee  ;  —  and  with  my  knowledge  grew 
The  thirst  of  knowledge,  and  the  power  and 
joy 

Of  this  most  bright  intelligence,  until 

Witch.     Proceed. 

Man.     Oh  !  I  but  thus  prolonged  my  words, 
Roasting  these  idle  attributes,  because 
4S  I  approach  the  core  of  my  heart's  grief — 
1  Rut  to  my  task.     I  have  not  named  to  ihee 
Father,  or  mother,  mistress,  friend,  or  being, 
VVith  whom  I  wore  the  chain  of  human  ties ; 
if  I  had  such,  they  seemed  not  such  to  me  — 

yet  there  was  one 

Witch.  Spare  not  thyself — proceed. 

Man.     She  was  like  me  in  lineaments  — 
her  eyes. 
Her  hair,  her  features,  all,  to  the  very  tone 
Even  of  her  voice,  they  said  were  like  to  mine  ; 
I  gut  softened  all,  and  tempered  into  beauty; 
;  ghe  had  the  same  lone,  thoughts  and  wander- 
ings, 
The  quest  of  hidden  knowledge,  and  a  mind 
To  comprehend  the  universe  :  nor  these 
Alone,  but  with   them  gentler   powers   than 

mine, 
;  pity,  and  smiles,  and  tears  —  which  I  had  not ; 
And  tenderness  —  but  that  I  had  for  her; 
Humility  —  and  that  I  never  had. 
Her  faults  were  mine  —  her  virtues  were  her 

own  — 
I  loved  her,  and  destroyed  her ! 
Witch.  With  thy  hand  ? 

Man.   Not  with  my  hand,  but  heart  —  which 
broke  her  heart  — 
It  gazed  on  mine,  and  withered.    I  have  shed 
Blood,  but  not  hers — and  yet  her  blood  was 
shed  — 
i  I  saw  —  and  could  not  stanch  it. 


1  The  philosopher  Jamblicus.  The  story  of  the 
raising  of  Eros  and  Anteros  may  be  found  in  his  life 
by  Eunapius.  It  is  well  told.  —  ["  It  is  reported  of 
him,"  says  Eunapius,  "  that  while  he  and  his  schol- 
ars were  bathing  in  the  hot  baths  of  Gadara  in  Syria, 
a  dispute  arising  concerning  the  baths,  he,  smiling, 
ordered  his  disciples  to  ask  the  inhabitants  by  what 
Dames  the  two  lesser  springs,  that  were  nearer  and 
handsomer  than  the  rest,  were  called.  To  which 
the  inhabitants  replied,  that  '  the  one  was  called 
Eros,  and  the  other  Anteros,  but  for  what  reason 
they  knew  not.'  Upon  which  Jamblicus,  sitting  by 
one  of  the  springs,  put  his  hand  in  the  water,  and 
muttering  some  few  words  to  himself,  called  up  a 
fair-complexioned  boy,  with  gold-colored  locks  dan- 
gling from  his  back  and  breast,  so  that  he  looked 
like  one  that  was  washing:  and  then,  going  to  the 
other  spring,  and  doing  as  he  had  done  before, 
called  up  another  Cupid,  with  darker  and  more  dis- 
hevelled hair :  upon  which  both  the  Cupids  clung 
about  Jamblicus;  but  he  presently  sent  them  back 
to  their  proper  places.  After  this,  his  friends  sub- 
mitted their  belief  to  him  in  every  thing."] 


Witch.  And  for  this  — 

A  being  of  the  race  thou  dost  despise, 
The  order  which  thine  own  would  rise  above, 
Mingling  with  us  and  ours,  thou  dost  forego 
The  gifts  of  our  great  knowledge,  and  shrink'st 

back 

To  recreant  mortality Away  ! 

Man.     Daughter  of  Air  !    I  tell  thee,  since 

that  hour  — 
But  words  are  breath  —  look  on  me  in  my 

sleep, 
Or  watch  my  watchings  —  Come  and  sit  by 

me! 
My  solitude  is  solitude  no  more, 
But  peopled  with  the  Furies  ;  —  I  have  gnashed 
My  teeth  in  darkness  till  returning  morn, 
Then    cursed    myself   till    sunset ;  —  I    have 

prayed 
For  madness  as  a  blessing  —  'tis  denied  me. 
I  have  affronted  death  —  but  in  the  war 
Of  elements  the  waters  shrunk  from  me, 
And  fatal  things  passed  harmless  —  the  cold 

hand 
Of  an  all-pitiless  demon  held  me  back, 
Back  by  a  single  hair,  which  would  not  break. 
In  fantasy,  imagination,  all 
The  affluence  of  my  soul — which  one  day  was 
A  Crcesus  in  creation — I  plunged  deep, 
But,  like  a  ebbing  wave,  it  dashed  me  back 
Into  the  gulf  of  my  unfathomed  thought. 
I  plunged  amidst  mankind  —  Forgetfulness 
I  sought  in  all,  save  where  'tis  to  be  found, 
And  that  I  have  to  learn  —  my  sciences, 
My  long  pursued  and  super-human  art, 
Is  mortal  here  —  I  dwell  in  my  despair  — 
And  live  —  and  live  for  ever. 

Witch.  It  may  be 

That  I  can  aid  thee. 

Afan.  To  do  this  thy  power 

Must  wake  the  dead,  or  lay  me  low  with  them. 
Do  so  —  in  any  shape  —  in  any  hbur  — 
With  any  torture  ■ —  so  it  be  the  last. 

Witch.     That  is  not  in  my  province ;   but 

if  thou 
Wilt  swear  obedience  to  my  will,  and  do 
My  bidding,  it  may  help  thee  to  thy  wishes. 
Man.    I  will  not  swear  —  Obey!  and  whom? 

the  spirits 
Whose  presence  I  command,  and  be  the  slave 
Of  those  who  served  me  —  Never! 

Witch.  Is  this  all  ? 

Hast  thou  no  gentler  answer?  —  Yet  bethink 

thee, 
And  pause  ere  thou  rejectest. 

Man.  I  have  said  it. 

Wttch.  Enough  !  —  I  may  retire  then  —  say  ! 
Man.  Retire : 

[The  WITCH  disappear 
Man.  (alone).    We  are  the  fools  of  time  anc 

terror :  Days 
Steal  on  us  and  from  us ;  yet  we  live, 
Loathing  our  life,  and  dreading  still  to  die. 


512 


MANFRED. 


[act 


ii. 


In  all  the  days  of  this  detested  yoke  — 
This  vital  weight  upon  the  struggling  heart, 
Which  sinks  with  sorrow,  or  beats  quick  with 

pain, 
Or  joy  that  ends  in  agony  or  faintness  — 
In  all  the  days  of  past  and  future,  for 
In  life  there  is  no  present,  we  can  number 
How  few  —  how  less  than  few  —  wherein  the 

soul 
Forbears  to  pant  for  death,  and  yet  draws  back 
As  from  a  stream  in  winter,  though  the  chill 
Be  but  a  moment's.     I  have  one  resource 
Still  in  my  science  —  I  can  call  the  dead, 
And  ask  them  what  it  is  we  dread  to  be  : 
The  sternest  answer  car  bv.t  be  the  Gr?"e 
And  that  is  nothing  —  if  they  answer  not  — 
The  buried  Prophet  answered  to  the  Hag 
Of  Endor;  and  the  Spartan  Monarch  drew 
From  the  Byzantine  maid's  unsleeping  spirit 
An  answer  and  his  destiny  —  he  slew 
That  which  he   loved,  unknowing  what  he 

slew, 
And  died  unpardoned  —  though  he  called  in 

aid 
The  Phyxian  Jove,  and  in  Phigalia  roused 
The  Arcadian  Evocators  to  compel 
The  indignant  shadow  to  depose  her  wrath, 
Or  fix  her  term  of  vengeance  —  she  replied 
In  words  of  dubious  import,  but  fulfilled.1 


1  The  story  of  Pausanias,  king  of  Sparta  (who 
commanded  the  Greeks  at  the  battle  of  Platea,  and 
afterwards  perished  for  an  attempt  to  betray  the 
Lacedsemonians) ,  and  Cleonice,  is  told  in  Plutarch's 
life  of  Cimon;  and  in  the  Laconics  of  Pausanias 
the  sophist,  in  his  description  of  Greece. —  [The 
following  is  the  passage  from  Plutarch: — "It  is 
related,  that  when  Pausanias  was  at  Byzantium,  he 
cast  his  eyes  upon  a  young  virgin  named  Cleonice, 
of  a  noble  family  there,  and  insisted  on  having  her 
for  a  mistress.  The  parents  intimidated  by  his 
power,  were  under  the  hard  necessity  of  giving  up 
their  daughter".  The  young  woman  begged  that  the 
light  might  be  taken  out  of  his  apartments,  that  she 
might  go  to  his  bed  in  secrecy  and  silence.  When 
she  entered  he  was  asleep,  and  sh,e  unfortunately 
stumbled  upon  the  candlestick,  and  threw  it  down. 
The  noise  waked  him  suddenly,  and  he,  in  his  con- 
fusion, thinking  it  was  an  enemy  coming  to  assas- 
sinate him,  unsheathed  a  dagger  that  lay  by  him,  and 
plunged  it  into  the  virgin's  heart.  After  this  he 
could  never  rest.  Her  image  appeared  to  him  every 
night,  and  with  a  menacing  tone  repeated  this  he- 
roic verse,  — 

'  Go  to  the  fate  which  pride  and  lust  prepare!  ' 
The  allies,  highly  incensed  at  this  infamous  action, 
joined  Cimon  to  besiege  him  in  Byzantium.  But 
he  found  means  to  escape  thence;  and,  as  he  was 
still  haunted  by  the  spectre,  he  is  said  to  have  ap- 
plied to  a  temple  at  Heraclea,  where  the  names  of 
the  dead  were  consulted.  There  he  invoked  the 
spirit  of  Cleonice,  and  entreated  her  pardon.  She 
appeared,  and  told  him  '  he  would  soon  be  delivered 
from  all  his  troubles,  after  his  return  to  Sparta:  '  in 
which,  it  seems  his  death  was  enigmatically  fore- 
told.    These  particulars  we  have  from  many  histo- 


If  I  had  never  lived,  that  which  I  love 
Had  still  been  living;  had  I  never  loved 
That  which  I  love  would  still  be  beautiful  — 
Happy  and  giving  happiness.     What  is  she' 
What  is  she  now?  —  a  sufferer  for  my  sins-, 
A  thing  I  dare  not  think  upon  —  or  nothing 

Within  few  hours  I  shall  not  call  in  vain B 

Yet  in  this  hour  I  dread  the  thing  I  dare ; 
Until  this  hour  I  never  shrunk  to  gaze 
On  spirit,  good  or  evil  —  now  I  tremble, 
And  feel  a  strange  cold  thaw  upon  my  heart 
But  I  can  act  even  what  I  most  abhor, 
And  champion  human  fears.  — The  night  an. 
proaches.  ^[Exit 

SCENE  III.—  The  Summit  of  the  Jungfrau 
Mountain. 

Enter  FIRST  DESTINY. 

The  moon  is  rising  broad,  and  round,  and 

bright, 
And   here   on   snows,   where    never    human 

foot 
Of  common  mortal  trod,  we  nightly  tread, 
And  leave  no  traces ;  o'er  the  savage  sea, 
The  glassy  ocean  of  the  mountain  ice, 
We  skim  its  rugged  breakers,  which  put  on 
The  aspect  of  a«umbling  tempest's  foam, 
Frozen  in  a  moment'2  —  a  dead  whirlpool's 

image ; 
And  this  most  steep  fantastic  pinnacle, 
The   fretwork   of   some   earthquake  —  where 

the  clouds 
Pause  to  repose  themselves  in  passing  by  — 
Is  sacred  to  our  revels,  or  our  vigils; 
Here  do  I  wait  my  sisters,  on  our  way 
To  the  Hall  of  Arimanes,  for  to-night 
Is  our  great  festival  —  'tis  strange  they  come 

not.  • 

A  Voice  without,  singing. 

The  Captive  Usurper, 

Hurled  down  from  the  throne, 
Lay  buried  in  torpor, 

Forgotten  and  lone; 
I  broke  through  his  slumbers, 

I  shivered  his  chain, 
I  leagued  him  with  numbers  — 

He's  Tyrant  again ! 


rians."  —  Langhom' 's  Plutarch,  vol.  iii.  p.  279. 
"  Thus  we  find,"  adds  the  translator,  "  that  it  was  a 
custom  in  the  Pagan  as  well  as  in  the  Hebrew  the- 
ology, to  conjure  up  the  spirits  of  the  dead;  and 
that  the  witch  of  Endor  was  not  the  only  witch  in 
the  world."] 

2  ["  Came  to  a  morass;  Hobhouse  dismounted  to 
get  over  well;  I  tried  to  pass  my  horse  over;  the 
horse  sunk  up  to  the  chin,  and  of  course  he  and  I 
were  in  the  mud  together;  bemired,  but  not  hurt; 
laughed  and  rode  on.  Arrived  at  the  Grindenwald; 
mounted  again,  and  rode  to  the  higher  glacier- 
like  a  frozen  hurricane?'  —  Swiss  Journal.} 


.SCENE   IV-7 


MANFRED. 


513 


With  the  blood  of  a  million  he'll  answer  my 

care, 
With  a  nation's  destruction  —  his  flight  and 
despair. 

Second  Voice,  without. 
The  ship  sailed  on,  the  ship  sailed  fast, 
But  I  left  not  a  sail,  and  I  left  not  a  mast ; 
There  is  not  a  plank  of  the  hull  or  the  deck, 
And  there  is  not  a  wretch  to  lament  o'er  his 

wreck ; 
Save  one,  whom  I  held,  as  he  swam,  by  the 

hair, 
And  he  was  a  subject  well  worthy  my  care ; 
A  terror  on  land,  and  a  pirate  at  sea  — 
But  I  saved  him  to  wreak  further  havoc  for 
me ! 

First  Destiny,  answering. 
The  city  lies  sleeping ; 

The  morn,  to  deplore  it, 
May  dawn  on  it  weeping: 

Sullenly,  slowly, 
The  black  plague  flew  o'er  it  — 

Thousands  lie  lowly ; 
Tens  of  thousands  shall  perish  — 

The  living  shall  fly  from 
The  sick  they  should  cherish  ; 

But  nothing  can  vanquish 
The  touch  that  they  die  from. 

Sorrow  and  anguish, 
And  evil  and  dread, 

Envelope  a  nation  — 
The  blest  are  the  dead, 
Who  see  not  the  sight 

Of  their  own  desolation  — 
This  work  of  a  night  — 
Thia  wreck   of   a  realm  —  this  deed   of  my 

doing  — 
For  ages  I've  done,  and  shall  still  be  renew- 
ing! 

Enter  the  SECOND  and  THIRD  DESTINIES. 

The  Three. 

Our  hands  contain  the  hearts  of  men, 

Our  footsteps  are  their  graves  ; 
We  only  give  to  take  again 
The  spirits  of  our  slaves  ! 

First  Des.    Welcome  !  — Where's  Nemesis? 
Second  Des.  At  some  great  work  ; 

But  what  I  know  not,  for  my  hands  were  full. 
Third  Des.     Behold  she  cometh. 

Enter  NEMESIS. 

First  Des.  Say,  where  hast  thou  been? 

My  sisters  and  thyself  are  slow  to-night. 

Nem.     I  was  detained  repairing  shattered 
thrones, 
Marrying  fools,  restoring  dynasties, 
Avenging  men  upon  their  enemies, 
And  making  them  repent  their  own  revenge  ; 
Beading  the  wise  to  madness  ;  from  the  dull 


Shaping  out  oracles  to  rule,  the  world 
Afresh,  for  they  were  waxing  out  of  date, 
And  mortals  dared  to  ponder  for  themselves, 
To  weigh  kings  in  the  balance,  and  to  speak 
Of  freedom,  the  forbidden  fruit.  —  Away! 
We  have  outstayed  the  hour  —  mount  we  our 
clouds !  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV. —  The  Hall  of  Arimanes. —  Ari- 
manes  on  his  Throne,  a  Globe  of  Fire,  sur- 
rounded by  the  Spirits. 

Hymn  of  the  SPIRITS. 

Hail  to  out  Master !  —  Prince  of  Earth  and 
Air! 
Who  walks  the  clouds  and  waters  —  in  his 
hand 
The  sceptre  of  the  elements,  which  tear 

Themselves  to  chaos  at  his  high  command1. 
He   breatheth — and  a    tempest   shakes   the 
sea; 
He  speaketh-^and    the   clouds    reply    in 
thunder ; 
He  gazeth  —  fram  his  glance  the  sunbeams 
flee; 
He  moveth  —  earthquakes  rend  the  world 
asunder. 
Beneath  his  footsteps  the  volcanoes  rise ; 
His  shadow  is  the  Pestilence ;  his  path 
The    comets    herald    through  the  crackling 
skies ; l 
And  planets  turn  to  ashes  at  his  wrath. 
To  him  War  offers  daily  sacrifice  ; 
To  him   Death   pays   his  tribute ;    Life  is 
his, 
With  all  its  infinite  of  agonies  — 
And  his  the  spirit  of  whatever  is ! 

Enter  the  DESTINIES  and  NEMESIS. 

First  Des.    Glory  to  Arimanes  !  on  the  earth 
His  power  increaseth  —  both  my  sisters  did 
His  bidding,  nor  did  I  neglect  my  duty! 
Second  Des.     Glory  to  Arimanes !  we  who 
bow 
The   necks    of    men,  bow   down   before   his 
throne ! 
Third  Des.     Glory  to  Arimanes  !  we  await 
His  nod! 
Nem.      Sovereign  of  Sovereigns !    we  are 
thine, 
And  all  that  liveth,  more  or  less,  is  ours, 
And  most  things  wholly  so ;  still  to  increase 
Our  power,  increasing   thine,   demands   our 

care, 
And  we  are  vigilant — Thy  late  commands 
Have  been  fulfilled  to  the  utmost. 
Enter  MANFRED. 
A  Spirit.  What  is  here? 


1  [MS.- 

"  The   comets  herald   through  the  \  £rackllng  ( 
,V;P="1  (burning     S 


skies."! 


514 


MANFRED. 


[act  It 


A  mortal !  — Thou  most  rash  and  fatal  wretch, 
Bow  down  and  worship  ! 

Second  Spirit.  I  do  know  the  man  — 

A  Magian  of  great  power,  and  fearful  skill ! 
Third    Spirit.     Bow  down    and    worship, 

slave !  — 

What,  know'st  thou  not 
Thine   and  our  Sovereign?  —  Tremble,  and 

obey ! 
All  the  Spirits.     Prostrate  thyself,  and  thy 

condemned  clay, 
Child  of  the  Earth  !  or  dread  the  worst. 

Man.  I  know  it ; 

And  yet  ye  see  I  kneel  not. 

Fourth  Spirit.  'Twill  be  taught  thee. 

Man.     'Tis  taught  already ;  —  many  a  night 

on  the  earth, 
On  the  bare  ground,  have  I  bowed  down  my 

face. 
And  strewed   my  head   with   ashes ;    I  have 

known 
The  fulness  of  humiliation,  for 
I  sunk  before  my  vain  despair,  and  knelt 
To  mv  own  desolation. 

Fifth  Spirit.  Dost  thou  dare 

Refuse  to  Arimanes  on  his  throne 
What  the  whole  earth  accords,  beholding  not 
The  terror  of  his  Glory?  —  Crouch  !   I  say. 
Man.     Bid  him  bow  down  to  that  which  is 

above  him, 
The  overruling  Infinite  —  the  Maker 
Who   made  him  not  for   worship — let  him 

kneel, 
And  we  will  kneel  together. 

The  Spirits.  Crush  the  worm  ! 

Tear  him  in  pieces  !  — 

First  Des.     Hence  !  Avaunt !  —  he's  mine, 
Prince  of  the  Powers  invisible  r     This  man 
Is  of  no  common  order,  as  his  port 
And  presence  here  denote  ;   his  sufferings 
Have  been  of  an  immortal  nature,  like 
Our  own  ;  his  knowledge,  and  his  powers  and 

will, 
As  far  as  is  compatible  with  clay, 
Which  clogs  the  ethereal  essence,  have  been 

such 
As  clay  hath  seldom  borne ;  his  aspiraiions 
Have  been  beyond  the  dwellers  of  the  earth, 
And    they   have  only  taught    him   what  we 

know  — 
That     knowledge     is     not    happiness,    and 

science 
But  an  exchange  of  ignorance  for  that 
Which  is  another  kind  of  ignorance. 
This  is  not  all  —  the  passions,  attributes 
Of  earth  and  heaven,  from  which  no  power, 

nor  being, 
Nor  breath  from  the  worm    upwards   is  ex- 
empt 
Have  pierced  his  heart ;   and  in  their  conse- 
quence 
Made  him  a  thing,  which  I,  who  pity  not, 


Yet  pardon  those  who  pity.     He  is  mine, 
And  thine,  it  may  be  —  be  it  so,  or  not, 
No  other  Spirit  in  this  region  hath 
A  soul  like  his — or  power  upon  his  soul. 

Nem.     What  doth  he  here  then? 

First  Des.  Let  him  answer  that 

M.in.     Ye  know  what  I  have  known ;  and 
without  power 
I  could  not  be  amongst  ye  :  but  there  are 
Powers  deeper  still  beyond  —  I  come  in  quest 
Of  such,  to  answer  unto  what  I  seek. 

Nem.     What  would'st  thou? 

Man.  Thou  canst  not  reply  to  me. 

Call  up  the  dead  — -  my  question  is  for  them. 

Nem.    Great  Arimanes,  doth  thy  will  avouch 
The  wishes  of  this  mortal? 

Ari.  Yea. 

Nem.  Whom  would'st  thou 

Uncharnel  ? 

Man.  One  without  a  tomb — call  up 

Astarte. 

Nemesis. 

Shadow !  or  Spirit ! 
«       Whatever  ttiou  art, 
Which  still  doth  inherit 

The  whole  or  a  part 
Of  the  form  of  thy  birth, 

Of  the  mould  of  thy  clay, 
Wlii  h  returned  to  the  earth, 

Reappear  to  the  day ! 
Bear  wnat  thou  borest, 

The  heart  and  the  form, 
And  the  aspect  thou  worest 

Redeem  from  the  worm. 
Appear !  —  Appear !  —  Appear ! 
Who  sent  thee  there  requires  thee  here ! 
[The  Phantom  0/ ASTARTE  rises  and  stands 
in  the  midst. 

Man.    Can  this  be  death  ?   there's  bloom 
upon  her  cheek ; 
But  now  I  see  it  is  no  living  hue 
But  a  strange  hectic  —  like  the  unnatural  fed 
Which  Autumn  plants  upon  the  perished  leaf. 
It  is  the  same !  Oh,  God !  that  I  should  dread 
To  look  upon  the  same  — Astarte !  —  No, 
I  cannot  speak  to  her  — but  bid  her  speak  — 
Forgive  me  or  condemn  me. 

Nemesis. 
By  the  power  which  hath  broken 

The  grave  which  enthralled  thee, 
Speak  to  him  who  hath  spoken, 

Or  those  who  have  called  thee ! 

Man.  She  is  silent, 

And  in  that  silence  I  am  more  than  answered. 

Nem.     My  power  extends  no  further.  Prince 
of  air ! 
It  rests  with  thee  alone  —  command  her  voice. 

Ari.     Spirit  —  obey  this  sceptre  ! 

Nem.  Silent  still  I 


SCENE   IV.] 


MANFRED. 


515 


She  is  not  of  our  order,  but  belongs 

To  the  other  powers.     Mortal!   thy  quest  is 

vain, 
And  we  are  baffled  also. 

Man.  Hear  me,  hear  me  — 

Astarte  !  my  beloved  !  speak  to  me  : 
I  have  so  much  endured  —  so  much  endured — 
Look  on   me !    the  grave   hath  not  changed 

thee  more 
Than  I  am  changed  for  thee.     Thou  lovedst 

me 
Too  much,  as  I  loved  thee  :  we  were  not  made 
To  torture  thus  each  other,  though  it  were 
The  deadliest  sin  to  love  as  we  have  loved. 
Say  that  thou  loath'st  me  not  —  that  I  do  bear 
This  punishment  for  both — that  thou  wilt  be 
One  of  the  blessed — and  that  I  shall  die; 
For  hitherto  all  hateful  things  conspire 
To  bind  me  in  existence— in  a  life 
Which  makes  me  shrink  from  immortality — 
A  future  like  the  past.     I  cannot  rest. 
I  know  not  what  I  ask,  nor  what  I  seek : 
I  feel  but  what  thou  art—  and  what  I  am ; 
And  I  would  hear  yet  once  before  I  perish 
The  voice  which  was  my  music  —  Speak  to  me  ! 
For  I  have  called  on  thee  in  the  still  night, 
Startled  the  slumbering  birds  from  the  hushed 

boughs, 
And  woke  the  mountain  wolves,  and  made  the 

caves 
Acquainted  with  thy  vainly  echoed  name, 
Which  answered  me  —  many  things  answered 

me  — 
Spirits  and  men  —  but  thou  wert  silent  all. 
Yet  speak  to  me  !  I  have  outwatched  the  stars, 
And  gazed  o'er  heaven  in  vain  in  search  of 

thee. 
Speak  to  me  !  I  have  wandered  o'er  the  earth, 
And  never  found  thy  likeness  — Speak  to  me! 
Look  on  the  fiends  around  —  they  feel  for  me  : 
I  fear  them  not,  and  feel  for  thee  alone  — 
Speak  to  me!  though  it  be  in  wrath ; — but 

say  — 
I  reck  not  what  —  but  let  me  hear  thee  once  — 
This  once  —  once  more  ! 

Phantom  of  Astarte.     Manfred ! 

Man.  Say  on,  say  on  — 

I  live  but  in  the  sound — -it  is  thy  voice  ! 

Phan.     Manfred !     To-morrow  ends   thine 
earthly  ills. 
Farewell ! 

Man.    Yet  one  word  more  —  am  I  forgiven  ? 

Phan.     Farewell ! 

Man.     Say,  shall  we  meet  again  ? 

Phan.     Farewell ! 

Man.     One  word   for   mercy!     Say,   thou 
lovest  me. 

Phan.     Manfred ! 

[The  Spirit  of  ASTARTE  disappears  1 

1  [Over  this  fine  drama,  a  moral  feeling  hangs 
like  a  sombrous  thunder  cloud.  No  other  guilt  but 
that  so  darkly  shadowed  out  could  have  furnished 


Nem.     She's  gone,  and  will  not  be  recalled  ; 
Her  words  will  be  fulfilled.     Return  to  the 
earth. 
A  Spirit.     He  is  convulsed  —  This  is  to  be 
a  mortal 
And  seek  the  things  beyond  mortality. 

Another  Spirit.     Yet,  see,  he  mastereth  him- 
self, and  makes 
His  torture  tributary  to  his  will. 
Had  he  been  one  of  us,  he  would  have  made 
An  awful  spirit. 

Nem.  Hast  thou  further  question 

Of  our  great  sovereign,  or  his  worshippers  ? 
Man.     None. 

Nem.  Then  for  a  time  farewell. 

Man.    We  meet  then  !     Where  ?     On  the 
earth  ?  — 
Even  as  thou  wilt :  and  for  the  grace  accorded 
I  now  depart  a  debtor.     Fare  ye  well ! 

[Exit  Manfred. 
{Scene  closes.) 


ACT   1 1 1.2 

SCENE  I.  — A  Hall  in  the  Castle  of  Manfred. 

Manfred  and  Herman. 

Man.     What  is  the  hour  ? 

Her.  It  wants  but  one  till  sunset. 

And  promises  a  lovely  twilight. 

Man.  Say, 

Are  all  things  so  disposed  of  in  the  tower 
As  I  directed  ? 

Her.  All,  my  lord,  are  ready  : 

Here  is  the  key  and  casket. 

so  dreadful  an  illustration  of  the  hideous  aberra- 
tions of  human  nature,  however  noble  and  majestic, 
when  left  a  prey  to  its  desires,  its  passions,  and  its 
imagination.  The  beauty,  at  one  time  so  inno- 
cently adored,  is  at  last  soiled,  profaned,  and  vio- 
lated. Affection,  love,  guilt,  horror,  remorse,  and 
death,  come  in  terrible  succession,  yet  all  darkly 
linked  together.  We  think  of  Astarte  as  young, 
beautiful,  innocent  —  guilty  —  lost  —  murdered  — 
buried  —  judged — pardoned;  but  still,  in  her  per- 
mitted visit  to  earth,  speaking  in  a  voice  of  sorrow, 
and  with  a  countenance  yet  pale  with  mortal 
trouble.  We  had  but  a  glimpse  of  her  in  her 
beauty  and  innocence;  but,  at  last,  she  rises  up  be- 
fore us  in  all  the  mortal  silence  of  a  ghost,  with 
fixed,  glazed,  and  passionless  eyes,  revealing  death, 
judgment,  and  eternity.  The  moral  breathes  and 
burns  in  every  word,  —  in  sadness,  misery-,  insan- 
ity, desolation,  and  death.  The  work  is  '  instinct 
with  spirit,'  —  and  in  the  agony  and  distraction,  and 
all  its  dimly  imagined  causes,  we  behold,  though 
broken  up,  confused,  and  shattered,  the  elements  of 
a  purer  existence.  —  Professor  Wilson.} 

2  [The  third  Act,  as  originally  written,  being 
shown  to  Mr.  Gifford,  he  expressed  his  unfavorable 
opinion  of  it  very  distinctly;  and  Mr.  Murray 
transmitted  this  to  Byron.  The  result  is  told  in 
the  following  extracts  from  his  letters  :  — 


516 


MANFRED. 


[act  iil 


Man.  It  is  well : 

Thou  may'st  retire.  [Exit  Herman. 

Man.   {alone) .   There  is  a  calm  upon  me  — 
Inexplicable  stillness!  which  till  now 
Did  not  belong  to  what  I  knew  of  life. 
If  that  I  did  not  know  philosophy 
To  be  of  all  our  vanities  the  motliest, 
The  merest  word  that  ever  fooled  the  ear 
From  out  the  schoolman's  jargon,  I  should 

deem 
The  golden  secret,  the  sought  "  Kalon,"  found, 
And  seated  in  my  soul.     It  will  not  last, 
But  it  is  well  to  have  known  it,  though  but 

once : 
It  hath   enlarged  my  thoughts  with   a  new 

sense, 
And  I  within  my  tablets  would  note  down 
That  there  is  such  a  feeling.     Who  is  there  ? 
Reenter  HERMAN. 
Her.     My  lord,  the  abbot  of  St.  Maurice 
craves 
To  greet  your  presence. 

Enter  the  ABBOT  OF  ST.  MAURICE. 
Abbot.  Peace  be  with  Count  Manfred ! 

Man.    Thanks,   holy   father!    welcome   to 
these  walls ; 
Thy  presence  honors  them,  and  blesseth  those 
Who  dwell  within  them. 

Abbot.  Would  it  were  so,  Count !  — 

But  I  would  fain  confer  with  thee  alone. 
Man.     Herman,  retire. —  What  would  my 

reverend  guest  ? 
Abbot.    Thus,  without  prelude: — Age  and 
zeal,  my  office, 


"  Venice,  April  14,  1817.  —  The  third  Act  is  cer- 
tainly d — d  bad,  and,  like  the  Archbishop  of  Gre- 
nada's homily  (which  savored  of  the  palsy),  has 
the  dregs  of  my  fever,  during  which  it  was  written. 
It  must  on  no  account  be  published  in  its  present 
state.  I  will  try  and  reform  it,  or  rewrite  it  alto- 
gether; but  the  impulse  is  gone,  and  I  have  no 
chance  of  making  any  thing  out  of  it.  The  speech 
of  Manfred  to  the  Sun  is  the  only  part  of  this  Act  I 
thought  good  myself;  the  rest  is  certainly  as  bad  as 
bad  can  be,  and  I  wonder  what  the  devil  possessed 
me.  I  am  very  glad,  indeed,  that  you  sent  me  Mr. 
Gifford's  opinion  without  deduction.  Do  you  sup- 
pose me  such  a  booby  as  not  to  be  very  much 
obliged  to  him?  of  that  I  was  not,  and  am  not,  con- 
vinced and  convicted  in  my  conscience  of  this  same 
overt  act  of  nonsense?  I  shall  try  at  it  again;  in 
the  mean  time,  lay  it  upon  the  shelf — the  whole 
Drama  I  mean.  —  Recollect  not  to  publish,  upon 
pain  of  I  know  not  what,  until  I  have  tried  again  at 
the  third  act.  I  am  not  sure  that  I  shall  try,  and 
still  less  that  I  shall  succeed  if  I  do." 

"  Rome,  May  5- —  I  have  rewritten  the  greater 
part,  and  returned  what  is  not  altered  in  the  proof 
you  sent  me.  The  Abbot  is  become  a  good  man, 
and  the  Spirits  are  brought  in  at  the  death.  You 
will  find,  I  think,  some  good  poetry  in  this  new  Act, 
here  and  there;  and  if  so.  print  it,  without  sending 
me  further  proofs,  under  Mr.  Gifford''  s  correction, 
if  he  will  have  the  goodness  to  overlook  it,"] 


And  good  intent,  must  plead  my  privilege ; 
Our  near,  though  not  acquainted  neighbor 

hood, 
May  also  be  my  herald.     Rumors  strange, 
And  of  unholy  nature,  are  abroad, 
And  busy  with  thy  name ;  a  noble  name 
For  centuries  :  may  he  who  bears  it  now 
Transmit  it  unimpaired ! 

Man.  Proceed,  —  I  listen. 

Abbot.     'Tis  said  thou  holdest  converse  with 

the  things 
Which  are  forbidden  to  the  search  of  man ; 
That  with  the  dwellers  of  the  dark  abodes, 
The  many  evil  and  unheavenly  spirits 
Which  walk  the  valley  of  the  shade  of  death, 
Thou   communest.     I    know  that  with  man- 
kind, 
Thy  fellows  in  creation,  thou  dost  rarely 
Exchange  thy  thoughts,  and  that  thy  solitude 
Is  as  an  anchorite's,  were  it  but  holy. 
Man.    And  what  are  they  who  do  avouch 

these  things  ? 
Abbot.     My    pious  brethren  —  the    scared 

peasantry  — 
Even  thy  own  vassals  —  who  do  look  on  thee 
With  most  unquiet  eyes.     Thy  life's  in  peril. 
Man.     Take  it. 

Abbot.     I  come  to  save,  and  not  destroy— - 
I  would  not  pry  into  thy  secret  soul ; 
But  if  these  things  be  sooth,  there  still  is  time 
For  penitence  and  pity :  reconcile  thee 
With  the  true  church,  and  through  the  church 

to  heaven. 
Man.     1    hear  thee.     This   is    my  reply : 

whate'er 
I  may  have  been,  or  am,  doth  rest  between 
Heaven  and  myself. —  I   shall  not  choose  a 

mortal 
To  be  my  mediator.     Have  I  sinned 
Against  your  ordinances  ?  prove  and  punish  ! 1 


1  [Thus  far  the  text  stands  as  originally  written: 
this  was  the  sequel  of  the  scene  as  given  in  the  first 
MS. :  — 

"  Abbot.     Then,    hear    and   tremble!     For    the 
headstrong  wretch 
Who  in  the  mail  of  innate  hardihood 
Would  shield  himself,  and  battle  for  his  sins, 
There  is  the  stake  on  earth,  and  beyond  earth  eter- 
nal   

Man.    Charity,  most  reverend  father, 
Becomes  thy  lips  so  much  more  than  this  menace, 
That  I  would  call  thee  back  to  it:  but  say, 
What  wouldst  thou  with  me? 

Abbot.  It  may  be  there  are 

Things  that  would  shake  thee  —  but  I  keep  them 

back, 
And  give  thee  till  to-morrow  to  repent, 
Then  if  thou  dost  not  all  devote  thyself 
To  penance,  and  with  gift  of  all  thy  lands 
To  the  monastery 

Man.  I  understand  thee,  —  welb 

Abbot.   Expect  no  mercy;   I  have  warned  thee. 

Man.  (opening  the  caskei).     Stop  — 
There  is  a  gift  for  thee  within  this  casket- 


SCENE   I.J 


MANFRED. 


517 


Abbot.    My  son !  I  did  not  speak  of  pun- 
ishment, 
But  penitence  and  pardon  ;  —  with  thyself 
The  choice  of  such  remains  —  and  for  the  last, 
Our  institutions  and  our  strong  belief 
Have  given   me  power  to  smooth  the  path 
from  sin 


[Manfred  opens   the   casket,  strikes  a  light, 
and  burns  some  incense. 
Ho!  Ashtaroth! 

The  Demon  Ashtaroth  appears,  singing  as 
follows  :  — 
The  raven  sits 

On  the  raven-stone, 
And  his  black  wing  flits 

O'er  the  milk-white  bone. 
To  and  fro,  as  the  night-winds  blow, 

The  carcass  of  the  assassin  swings; 
And  there  alone,  on  the  raven-stone,* 

The  raven  flaps  his  dusky  wings. 

The  fetters  creak  —  and  his  ebon  beak 

Croaks  to  the  close  of  the  hollow  sound; 
And  this  is  the  tune,  by  the  light  of  the  moon, 

To  which  the  witches  dance  their  round — ■ 
Merrily,  merrily,  cheerily,  cheerily, 

Merrily,  speeds  the  ball : 
The  dead  in  their  shrouds,  and  the  demons  in  clouds, 

Flock  to  the  witches'  carnival. 

Abbot.   I  fear  thee  not  —  hence  —  hence  — 
Avaunt  thee,  evil  one!  — help,  ho!  without  there! 

Man.    Convey  this  man  to  the  Shreckhorn  —  to 
its  peak  — 
To  its  extremest  peak  —  watch  with  him  there 
From  now  till  sunrise;   let  him  gaze,  and  know 
He  ne'er  again  will  be  so  near  to  heaven. 
But  harm  him  not;  and,  when  the  morrow  breaks, 
Set  him  down  safe  in  his  cell  —  away  with  him! 

Ash.   Had  I  not  better  bring  his  brethren  too, 
.  Convent  and  all,  to  bear  him  company? 

Man.    No,  this  will  serve  for  the  present.     Take 
him  up. 

Ash.   Come,  friar!  now  an  exorcism  or  two, 
And  we  shall  fly  the  lighter. 

Ashtaroth  disappears  with  the  Abbot,  singing 
as  follows  :  — 
A  prodigal  son,  and  a  maid  undone, 

And  a  widow  rewedded  within  the  year; 
And  a  worldly  monk,  and  a  pregnant  nun, 
Are  things  which  every  day  appear. 

Manfred  alone. 

Man.   Why  would  this  fool  break  in  on  me,  and 
force 
My  art  to  pranks  fantastical?  —  no  matter, 
It  was  not  of  my  seeking.     My  heart  sickens, 
And  weighs  a  fixed  foreboding  on  my  soul: 
But  it  is  calm  —  calm  as  a  suilen  sea 
After  the  hurricane;  the  winds  are  still, 
But  the  cold  waves  swell  high  and  heavily, 
And  there  is  danger  in  them.     Such  a  rest 
Is  no  repose.     My  life  hath  been  a  combat, 
And  every  thought  a  wound,  till  I  am  scarred 
In  the  immortal  part  of  me.  — What  now?"] 

♦"Raven-stone  (Rabenstein),  a  translation  of 
the  German  word  for  the  gibbet,  which  in  Germany 
and  Switzerland  is  permanent  and  made  of  stone." 


To  higher  hope  and  better  thoughts;  the  firs/ 
I    leave   to    heaven,  —  "Vengeance   is   mine 

alone !  " 
So  saith  the  Lord,  and  with  all  humbleness 
His  servant  echoes  back  the  awful  word. 
Man.    Old  man  1  there  is  no  power  in  hoiy 

men, 
Nor  charm  in  prayer — nor  purifying  form 
Of  penitence  —  nor  outward  look  — nor  fast  - 
Nor  agony  —  nor,  greater  than  all  these, 
The  innate  tortures  of  that  deep  despair, 
Which  is  remorse  without  the  fear  of  hell, 
But  all  in  all  sufficient  to  itself 
Would  make  a  hell  of  heaven  —  can  exorcise 
From  out  the  unbounded  spirit  the  quick  sense 
Of  its  own  sins,  wrongs,  sufferance,  and  re- 
venge 
Upon  itself;  there  is  no  future  pang 
Can  deal  that  justice  on  the  self-condemned 
He  deals  on  his  own  soul. 

Abbot.  All  this  is  well ; 

For  this  will  pass  away,  and  be  succeeded 
By  an  auspicious  hope,  which  shall  look  up 
With  calm  assurance  to  that  blessed  place, 
Which  all  who  seek  may  win,  whatever  be 
Their  earthly  errors,  so  they  be  atoned  : 
And  the  commencement  of  atonement  is 
The  sense  of  its  necessity.  —  Say  on  — 
And  all  our  church  can  teach  thee  shall  be 

taught ; 
And  all  we  can  absolve  thee  shall  be  pardoned, 
Man.     When  Rome's  sixth  emperor  *  was 

near  his  last, 
The  victim  of  a  self-inflicted  wound, 
To  shun  the  torments  of  a  public  death  2 
From  senates  once  his  slaves,  a  certain  soldier, 
With  show  of  loyal  pity,  would  have  stanched 
The  gushing  throat  with  his  officious  robe ; 
The    dying   Roman    thrust   him    back,   and 

said  — 
Some  empire  still  in  his  expiring  glance, 
"  It  is  too  late  —  is  this  fidelity  ?  " 
Abbot.    And  what  of  this  ? 
Man.  I  answer  with  the  Roman  — 

"  It  is  too  late !  " 

Abbot.  It  never  can  be  so, 

To  reconcile  thyself  with  thy  own  soul. 
And  thy  own  soul  with  heaven.     Hast  thou 

no  hope  ? 
'Tis   strange  —  even   those  who   do   despair 

above, 


1  [Otho,  being  defeated  in  a  general  engagement 
near  Brixelium,  stabbed  himself.  Plutarch  says, 
that,  though  he  lived  full  as  badly  as  Nero,  his  last 
moments  were  those  of  a  philosopher.  He  com. 
forted  his  soldiers  who  lamented  his  fortune,  and 
expressed  his  concern  for  their  safety,  when  they 
solicited  to  pay  him  the  last  friendly  offices.] 

2  MS.— 

"  To  shun  j  «">'  l°ss  of  'if%but  {  public  death 
(    the  torments  of  a    )  r""'Ly- 

Choose  between  them."] 


518 


MANFRED. 


[ACT   III. 


Yet  shape  themselves  some  fantasy  on  earth, 
To  which  frail  twig  they  clmg,  like  drowning 
men. 

Man.  Ay  —  father !  I  have  had  those  earthly 
visions 
And  noble  aspirations  in  my  youth, 
To  make  my  own  the  mind  of  other  men, 
The  enlightener  of  nations;  and  to  rise 
I  knew  not  whither  —  it  might  be  to  fell; 
But  fall,  even  as  the  mountain-cataract, 
Which  having  leaped  from  its  more  dazzling 

height, 
Even  in  the  foaming  strength  of  its  abyss, 
(Which  casts  up  misty  columns  that  become 
Clouds  raining  from  the  rcascended  skies,) 
I  ies  low  but  mighty  still.  —  Hut  this  is  past, 
My  thoughts  mistook  themselves. 

Abbot.  And  wherefore  so  ? 

Man.     I  could  not  tame  my  nature  down ; 
for  he 
Must  serve  who  fain  would  sway  —  and  soothe 

—  and  sue  — 
And  watch  all  time  —  and  pry  into  all  place  — 
And  be  a  living  lie  —  who  would  become 
A  mighty  thing  amongst  the  mean,  and  such 
The  mass  are  ;  I  disdained  to  mingle  with 
A  herd,  though  to  be  leader  —  and  of  wolves. 
The  lion  is  alone,  and  so  am  I. 

Abbot.    And  why  not  live  and  act  with  other 
men  ? 

Man.     Because  my  nature  was  averse  from 
life; 
And  yet  not  cruel;  for  I  would  not  make, 
But  find  a  desolation  :  —  like  the  wind. 
The  red-hot  breath  of  the  most  lone  Simoom, 
Which  dwells  but  in  the  desert,  and  sweeps 

o'er 
The  barren  sands  which   bear  no  shrubs  to 

blast, 
And  revels  o'er  their  wild  and  arid  waves, 
And  seeketh  not,  so  that  it  is  not  sought, 
But  being  met  is  deadly  ;  such  hath  been 
The  course  of  my  existence  ;  but  there  came 
Things  in  my  path  which  are  no  more. 

Abbot.  Alas ! 

I  'gin  to  fear  that  thou  art  past  all  aid 
From  me  and  from  my  calling ;  yet  so  young, 
I  still  would 

Man.  Look  on  me  !  there  is  an  order 

Of  mortals  on  the  earth,  who  do  become 
Old  in  their  youth,  and  die  ere  middle  age, 
Without  the  violence  of  warlike  death  ; 
Some  perishing  of  pleasure — some  of  study — 
Some  worn  with  toil  —  some  of  mere  weari- 
ness— 
Some  of  disease  —  and  some  insanity — 1 


1  [This  speech  has  been  quoted  in  more  than  one 
of  the  sketches  of  the  poet's  own  life.  Much  earlier, 
when  only  twenty-three  years  of  age,  he  had  thus 
prophesied:  —  "It  seems  as  if  I  were  to  experience 
in  my  youth  the  greatest  misery  of  old  age.  My 
friends  fall  around  me,  and  I  shall  be  left  a  lonely  tree 


And  some  of  withered,  or  of  broken  hearts ; 
For  this  last  is  a  malady  which  slays 
More  than  are  numbered  in  the  lists  of  Fate, 
Taking  all  shapes,  and  bearing  many  names. 
Look  upon  me  !  for  even  of  all  these  things 
Have  I  partaken ;  and  of  all  these  things, 
One  were  enough  ;  then  wonder  not  that  I 
Am  what  I  am,  but  that  I  ever  was, 
Or  having  been,  that  I  am  still  on  earth. 

Abbot.     Yet,  hear  me  still 

Man.  Old  man  !   I  do  respect 

Thine  order,  and  revere  thine  years ;   I  deem 
Thy  purpose  pious,  but  it  is  in  vain : 
Think  me  not  churlish  ;  I  would  spare  thyself, 
Far  more  than  me,  in  shunning  at  this  time 
All  further  colloquy — and  so  —  farewell.2 

[&r&  MANFREDt 

Abbot.     This   should   have    been   a   noble 
creature :  3  he 
Hath  all  the  energy  which  would  have  made 


bef  >re  I  am  withered.  Other  men  can  always  take 
refuge  in  their  families  —  /have  no  resource  but  my 
own  reflections,  and  they  present  no  prospect,  here 
fir  hereafter,  except  the  selfish  satisfaction  of  sur- 
viving my  betters.  I  am,  indeed,  very  wretched. 
My  days  are  listless,  and  my  nights  restless.  1 
have  very  seldom  any  society;  and  when  I  have,  I 
run  out  of  it.  I  don't  know  that  I  sha'n't  end  with 
insanity."  —  Byron's  Letters,  1811.J 

2  [  "  Of  the  immortality  of  the  soul,  it  appears  to 
me  that  there  cati  be  little  doubt  —  if  we  attend  for 
a  moment  to  the  action  of  mind.  It  is  in  per- 
petual activity.  I  used  to  doubt  of  it  —  but  reflec- 
tion has  taught  me  better.  How  far  our  future  state 
will  be  individual;  or,  rather,  how  far  it  will  at  all 
resemble  our  present  existence,  is  another  question; 
but  that  the  mind  is  eternal  seems  as  probable  as 
that  the  body  is  not  so."  —  Byron's  Diary,  1821. 
—  "I  have  no  wish  to  reject  Christianity  without 
investigation;  on  the  contrary,  I  am  very  desirous 
of  believing;  for  I  have  no  happiness  in  my  present 
unsettled  notions  on  religion."  —  Byron's  Conver- 
sations -with  Kennedy,  1823.] 

3  [There  are  three  only,  even  among  the  great 
poets  of  modern  times,  who  have  chosen  to  depict, 
in  their  full  shape  and  vigor,  those  agonies  to  which 
great  and  meditative  intellects  are,  in  the  present 
progress  of  human  history,  exposed  by  the  eternal 
recurrence  of  a  deep  and  discontented  scepticism. 
But  there  is  only  one  who  has  dared  to  represent 
himself  as  the  victim  of  those  nameless  and  unde- 
finable  sufferings.  Goethe  chose  for  his  doubts 
and  his  darkness  the  terrible  disguise  of  the 
mysterious  Faustus.  Schiller,  with  still  greater 
boldness,  planted  the  same  anguish  in  the  restless, 
haughty,  and  heroic  bosom  of  Wallenstein.  But 
Byron  has  sought  no  external  symbol  in  which  to 
embody  the  inquietudes  of  his  soul.  He  takes  the 
world,  and  all  that  it  inherit,  for  his  arena  and  his 
spectators;  and  he  displays  himself  before  their 
gaze,  wrestling  unceasingly  and  ineffectually  with 
the  demon  that  torments  him.  At  times,  there  is 
something  mournful  and  depressing  in  his  scepti- 
cism; but  oftenerit  is  of  a  high  and  solemn  character, 
approaching  to  the  very  verge  of  a  confiding  faith. 
Whatever  the  poet  may  believe,  we,  his  readers, 
always  feel  ourselves  too  much  ennobled  and  ele- 


SCENE   III.  1 


MANFRED. 


519 


A  goodly  frame  of  glorious  elements, 
Had  they  been  wisely  mingled;  as  it  is, 
It  is  an  awful  chaos  —  light  and  darkness  — 
And  mind  and  dust  —  and  passions  and  pure 

thoughts 
Mixed,  and  contending  without  end  or  order, 
All  dormant  or  destructive:  he  will  perish, 
And  yet  he  must  not ;  I  will  try  once  more, 
For  such  are  worth  redemption  ;  and  my  duty 
Is  to  dare  all  things  for  a  righteous  end. 
I'll  follow  him  —  but  cautiously,  though  surely. 
[Exit  Abbot. 

SCENE  II.  —  Another  Chamber. 
Manfred  and  Herman. 

Her.     My  lord,  you.  bade  me  wait  on  you 

at  sunset : 
He  sinks  behind  the  mountain. 

Man.  Doth  he  so  ? 

I  will  look  on  him. 

[Manfred  advances  to  the  Window  of  the 

Hall. 

Glorious  Orb !  the  idol 
Of  early  nature,  and  the  vigorous  race 
Of  undiseased  mankind,  the  giant  sons1 
Of  the  embrace  of  angels,  with  a  sex 
More  beautiful  than  they.which  did  draw  down 
The  erring  spirits  who  can  ne'er  return.  — ■ 
Most  glorious  orb  !  that  wert  a  worship,  ere 
The  mystery  of  thy  making  was  revealed ! 
Thou  earliest  minister  of  the  Almighty, 
Which  gladdened,  on   their  mountain  tops, 

the  hearts 
Of  the  Chaldean  shepherds,  till  they  poured 
Themselves  in  orisons !    Thou  material  God  ! 
And  representative  of  the  Unknown  — 
Who  chose  thee  for  his  shadow !    Thou  chief 

star! 
Centre  of  many  stars  !  which  mak'st  our  earth 
Endurable,  and  temperest  the  hues 


vated,  even  by  his  melancholy,  not  to  be  confirmed 
in  our  own  belief  by  the  very  doubts  so  majestically 
conceived  and  uttered.  His  scepticism,  if  it  ever 
approaches  to  a  creed,  carries  with  it  its  refutation 
in  its  grandeur.  There  is  neither  philosophy  nor  reli- 
gion in  those  bitter  and  savage  taunts  which  have 
been  cruelly  thrown  out,  from  many  quarters, 
against  those  moods  of  mind  which  are  involuntary, 
and  will  not  pass  away;  the  shadows  and  spectres 
which  still  haunt  his  imagination  may  once  have 
disturbed  our  own ;  —  through  his  gloom  there  are 
frequent  flashes  of  illumination;  —  and  the  sublime 
sadness  which  to  him  is  breathed  from  the  mysteries 
of  mortal  existence,  is  always  joined  with  a  longing 
after  immortality,  and  expressed  in  language  that 
is  itself  divine.  —  Professor  Wilson.\ 

1  "  And  it  came  to  pass,  that  the  Sons  of  God  saw 
the  daughters  of  men,  that  they  were  fair,"  etc. — 
"  There  were  giants  in  the  earth  in  those  days;  and 
also  after  that,  when  the  Sons  of  God  came  in  unto  the 
daughters  of  men.  and  they  bare  children  to  them,  the 
same  became  mighty  men  which  were  of  old,  men 
©f  renown." —  Genesis,  ch.  vi.  verses  2  and  4. 


And  hearts  of  all  who  walk  within  thy  rays : 
Sire  of  the  seasons !    Monarch  of  the  climes, 
And  those  who  dwell  in  them  !  for  near  or  far, 
Our  inborn  spirits  have  a  tint  of  thee 
Even   as   our  outward  aspects ;  —  thou  dost 

rise, 
And  shine,  and  set  in  glory.     Fare  thee  well ! 
I  ne'er  shall  see  thee  more.  As  my  first  glance 
Of  love  and  wonder  was  for  thee,  then  take 
My  latest  look  :  thou  wilt  not  beam  on  one 
To  whom  the  gifts  of  life  and  warmth  have 

been 
Of  a  more  fatal  nature.2    He  is  gone : 
I  follow.  [Exit  Manfred. 

SCENE  III. —  The  Mountains. —  The  Castle 
of  Manfred  at  some  distance.  —  A  Terrace 
before  a  Tower. —  Time,  Twilight. 

HERMAN,  MANUEL,  and  other  Dependants  of 
Manfred. 

Her.  'Tis  strange  enough ;  night  after  night, 
for  years, 
He  hath  pursued  long  vigils  in  this  tower. 
Without  a  witness.     I  have  been  within  it, — 
So  have  we  all  been  oft-times  ;  but  from  it, 
Or  its  contents,  it  were  impossible 
To  draw  conclusions  absolute,  of  aught 
His  studies  tend  to.     To  be  sure,  there  is 
One  chamber  where  none  enter:  I  would  give 
The  fee  of  what  I  have  to  come  these  three 

years, 
To  pore  upon  its  mysteries. 

Manuel.  'Twere  dangerous ; 

Content  thyself  with  what   thou   know'st  al- 
ready. 
Her.  Ah !    Manuel !  thou  art  elderly   aad 
wise, 
And  couldst  say  much  ;  thou  hast  dwelt  with- 
in the  castle  — 
How  many  years  is't  ? 

Manuel.  Ere  Count  Manfred's  birth, 

I  served  him  father,  whom  he  nought  resem- 
bles. 
Her.  There  be  more  sons  in  like  predica- 
ment. 
But  wherein  do  they  differ  ? 

Manuel.  I  speak  not 

Of  features  or  of  form,  but  mind  and  habits  ; 
Count  Sigismund  was  proud, — but  gay  and 

free,  — 
A  warrior  and  a  reveller ;  he  dwelt  not 
With  books  and  solitude,  nor  made  the  night 
A  gloomy  vigil,  but  a  festal  time, 
Merrier  than  day ;  he  did  not  walk  the  rocks 
And  forests  like  a  wolf,  nor  turn  aside 
From  men  and  their  delights. 

Her.  Beshrew  the  hour, 

"-  ["  Pray,  was  Manfred's  speech  to  the  Sun  still 
retained  in  Act  third?  I  hope  so:  it  was  one  of  the 
best  in  the  thing,  and  better  than  the  Coliseum."—* 
Byron's  Letters,  1817.] 


520 


MANFRED. 


[act  in. 


But  those  were  jocund  times !  I  would  that 

such 
Would  visit  the  old  walls  again  ;  they  look 
As  if  they  had  forgotten  them. 

Manuel.  These  walls 

Must  change  their  chieftain  first   Oh  !  I  have 

seen 
Some  strange  things  in  them,  Herman.1 

Her.  Come,  be  friendly ; 

Relate  me  some  to  while  away  our  watch  : 
I've  heard  thee  darkly  speak  of  an  event 
Which  happened  hereabouts,  by  this  same 

tower. 
Manuel.  That  was  a  night  indeed !    I   do 

remember 
'Twas  twilight,  as  it  may  be  now,  and  such 
Another   evening; — yon    red    cloud,   which 

rests 
On  Eigher's  pinnacle,  so  rested  then, — 
So  like  that  it  might  be  the  same ;  the  wind 
Was  faint  and  gusty,  and  the  mountain  snows 
Began  to  glitter  with  the  climbing  moon ; 
Count    Manfred    was,   as    now,   within    his 

tower,  — 
How  occupied,  we  knew  not,  but  with  him 
The  sole  companion  of  his  wanderings 
And  watchings  —  her,  whom   of  all   earthly 

■things 
That    lived,   the    only   thing  he   seemed    to 

love,  — 
As  he,  indeed,  by  blood  was  bound  to  do, 

The  lady  Astarte,  his 

Hush  !  who  comes  here  ? 
Enter  the  ABBOT. 


»  [MS.— 

"  Some  strange  things  in  these  few  years."] 

-  [The  remainder  of  the  third  Act,  in  its  original 
shape,  ran  thus:  — 

Her.     Look  —  look  —  the  tower  — 
The  tower's  on  fire.     Oh,  heavens  and  earth!  what 

sound, 
What   dreadful   sound   is   that? 

[A  crash  like  thunder. 

Manuel.     Help,  help,  there! — to  the  rescue  of 
the  Count,  — 
The  Count's  in  danger, — what  ho!  there!  approach! 

[The   Servants,    Vassals,   and  Peasantry  ap- 
proach, stupefied  with  terror. 
If  there  be  any  of  you  who  have  heart 
And  love  of  human  kind,  and  will  to  aid 
Those  in  distress  —  pause  not  — but  follow  me  — 
The  portal's  open,  follow.  [  Manuel  goes  in. 

Her.     Come — who  follows? 
What,  none  of  ye?  —  ye  recreants!  shiver  then 
Without.     I  will  not  see  old  Manuel  risk 
His  few  remaining  years  unaided.  [Herman £»«/«. 

Vassal.     Hark!  — 
No  —  all  is  silent  —  not  a  breath  —  the  flame 
Which  shot  forth  such  a  blaze  is  also  gone: 
What  may  this  mean?     Let's  enter! 

Peasant.  Faith,  not  I, — 

Not  that,  if  one,  or  two,  or  more,  will  join, 
I  then  will  stay  behind;  but,  for  my  part, 
I  do  not  see  precisely  to  what  end. 


Abbot.  Where  is  your  master  ? 

Her.  Yonder  in  the  tower, 

Abbot.  I  must  speak  with  him. 

Manuel.  'Tis  impossible, 

He  is  most  private,  and  must  not  be  thus 
Intruded  on. 

Abbot.  Upon  myself  I  take 

The  forfeit  of  my  fault,  if  fault  there  be  — 
But  I  must  see  him. 

Her.  Thou  hast  seen  him  once 

This  eve  already. 

Abbot.  Herman  !  I  command  thee, 

Knock,  and  apprise  the  Count  of  my  approach. 

Her.  We  dare  not. 

Abbot.  Then  it  seems  I  must  be  herald 

Of  my  own  purpose. 

Manuel.  Reverend  father,  stop  — 

I  prav  you  pause. 

Abbot.  Why  so  ? 

Manuel.  But  step  this  way, 

And  I  will  tell  you  further.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.3  —  Interior  of  the  Tower. 

Manfred  alone. 

The  stars  are  forth,  the  moon  above  the  tops 
Of  the  snow-shining  mountains. —  Beautiful! 
I  linger  yet  with  Nature,  for  the  night 
Hath  been  to  me  a  more  familiar  face 

Vassal.     Cease  your  vain  prating  —  come. 
Manuel  (speofking  within).     'Tis  all  in  vain  — 
He's  dead. 
Her.    (within).     Not  so  —  even  now  methought 
he  moved; 
But  it  is  dark  —  so  bear  him  gently  out  — 
Softly  —  how  cold  he  is!  take  care  of  his  temples 
In  winding  down  the  staircase. 

Reenter^\\>iVE.i.and  Hkru  an,  bearing  Manfred 
in  their  A  rius. 
Manuel.     Hie   to   the  castle,  some   of  ye,  and 
bring 
What  aid  you  can.     Saddle  the  barb,  and  speed 
For  the  leech  to  the  city  —  quick !  some  water  there ! 
Her.     His  cheek  is  black  —  but  there  is  a  faint 
beat 
Still  lingering  about  the  heart.     Some  water. 

[They  sprinkle  Manfred  with  water:  a/ter 

a  pause,  he  gives  some  signs  0/ life. 
Manuel.     He  seems  to  strive  to  speak  —  come  — 
cheerly,  Count! 
He  moves  his  lips  — canst  hear  him?     I  am  old, 
And  cannot  catch  faint  sounds. 

[Herman  inclining  his  head  and  listening. 
Her.  I  hear  a  word 

Or  two  —  but  indistinctly  —  what  is  next? 
What's  to  be  Uone?  let's  bear  him  to  the  castle. 
[Manfred  motions  with  his  hand  not  to  remove 

him. 
Manuel.     He   disapproves  —  and   'twere   of  n« 
avail  — 
He  changes  rapidly. 
Her.  'Twill  soon  be  over.] 

3  [The  opening  of  this  scene  is,  perhaps,  the  finest 
passage  in  the  drama;  and  its  solemn,  calm,  and 
majestic  character  throws  an  air  of  grandeur  ovef 


SCENE   IV.] 


MANFRED. 


521 


Than  that  of  man  ;  and  in  her  starry  shade 

Of  dim  and  solitary  loveliness, 

I  learned  the  language  of  another  world. 

I  do  remember  me,  that  in  my  youth, 

When  I  was  wandering,  —  upon  such  a  night 

I  stood  within  the  Coliseum's  wall,1 

Midst  the  chief  relics  of  almighty  Rome; 

The    trees   which    grew   along    the    broken 

arches 
Waved  dark  in  the  blue  midnight,  and  the 

stars 
Shone  through  the  rents  of  ruin  ;  from  afar 
The  watchdog  bayed  beyond  the  Tiber;  and 
More  near  from  out  the  Caesars'  palace  came 
The  owl's  long  cry,  and,  interruptedly, 
Of  distant  sentinels  the  fitful  song 
Begun  and  died  upon  the  gentle  wind. 
Some  cypresses  beyond  the  time-worn  breach 
Appeared  to  skirt  the  horizon,  yet  they  stood 
Within  a  bowshot  —  Where  the  Caesars  dwelt, 
And  dwell  the  tuneless  birds  of  night,  amidst 
A  grove  which  springs  through  levelled  battle- 
ments, 
And  twines  its  roots  with  the  imperial  hearths, 
Ivy  usurps  the  laurel's  place  of  growth  ;  — 
But  the  gladiators'  bloody  Circus  stands, 
A  noble  wreck  in  ruinous  perfection  ! 
While  Caesar's  chambers,  and  the  Augustan 

halls, 
Grovel  on  earth  in  indistinct  decay. — 
And    thou   didst  shine,  thou  rolling  moon, 

upon 
All  this,  and  cast  a  wide  and  tender  light, 
Which  softened  down  the  hoar  austerity 
Of  rugged  desolation,  and  filled  up, 
As  'twere  anew,  the  gaps  of  centuries  ; 
Leaving  that  beautiful  which  still  was  so, 
And   making   that  which   was    not,   till    the 

place 
Became  religion,  and  the  heart  ran  o'er 
With  silent  worship  of  the  great  of  old  !  — 
The  dead,  but  sceptred  sovereigns,  who  still 

rule 
Our  spirits  from  their  urns. — 

'Twas  such  a  night ! 
'Tis  strange  that  I  recall  it  at  this  time ; 
But  I  have   found  our  thoughts   take  wildest 

flight 

the  catastrophe,  which  was  in  danger  of  appearing 
extravagant,  and  somewhat  too  much  in  the  style 
of  the  "  Devil  and  Dr.  Faustus." —  IVilson.] 

1  ["  Drove  at  midnight  to  see  the  Coliseum  by- 
moonlight:  but  what  can  I  say  of  the  Coliseum? 
It  must  be  seen;  to  describe  it  I  should  have 
thought  impossible,  if  I  had  not  read  'Manfred.' 
To  see  it  aright,  as  the  Poet  of  the  North  tells  us  of 
the  fair  Melrose,  one  '  must  see  it  by  the  pale  moon- 
light.' The  stillness  of  night,  the  whispering  echoes, 
the  moonlight  shadows,  and  the  awful  grandeur  of 
the  impending  ruins,  form  a  scene  of  romantic  sub- 
limity, such  as  Byron  alone  could  describe  as  it 
deserves.  His  description  is  the  very  thing  itself." 
~-  Matthew's  Diary  of  an  Invalid.] 


Even  at  the  moment  when  they  should  array 
Themselves  in  pensive  order. 

Enter  the  Abbot. 

Abbot.  My  good  lord ! 

I  crave  a  second  grace  for  this  approach ; 
But  yet  let  not  my  humble  zeal  offend 
By  its  abruptness  —  all  it  hath  of  ill 
Recoils  on  me;  its  good  in  the  effect 
May  light  upon  your    head  —  could   I   saj 

heart  — 
Could  I  touch  that,  with  words  or  prayers,  I 

should 
Recall  a  noble  spirit  which  hath  wandered ; 
But  is  not  yet  all  lost. 

Man.  Thou  know'st  me  not ; 

My  days   are   numbered,  and    my   deeds  re- 
corded : 
Retire,  or  'twill  be  dangerous  —  Away ! 

Abbot.  Thou   dost  not    mean    to   menace 
me  ? 

Man.         Not  I ; 
I  simply  tell  thee  peril  is  at  hand, 
And  would  preserve  thee. 

Abbot.  What  dost  thou  mean  ? 

Man.  Look  there ! 

What  dost  thou  see  ? 

Abbot.  Nothing. 

Man.  Look  there,  I  say, 

And   steadfastly ;  —  now   tell   me   what   thou 
seest  ? 

Abbot.  That  which  should  shake  me,  —  but 
I  fear  it  not  — 
I  see  a  dusk  and  awful  figure  rise, 
Like  an  infernal  god,  from  out  the  earth ; 
His  face  wrapt  in  a  mantle,  and  his  form 
Robed  as  with  angry  clouds :  he  stands  be- 
tween 
Thyself  and  me  —  but  I  do  fear  him  not. 

Man.  Thou  hast  no  cause  —  he  shall  not 
harm  thee  —  but 
His  sight  may  shock  thine  old  limbs  into  palsy. 
I  say  to  thee  —  Retire ! 

Abbot.  And  I  reply  — 

Never — -till  I  have  battled  with  this  fiend:  — 
What  doth  he  here  ? 

Man.    Why  —  ay  —  what  doth  he  here  ?  — 
I  did  not  send  for  him,  —  he  is  unbidden. 

Abbot.  Alas  !  lost  mortal !  what  with  guests 
like  these 
Hast  thou  to  do  ?  I  tremble  for  thy  sake  : 
Why  doth  he  gaze  on  thee,  and  thou  on  him? 
Ah  !  he  unveils  his  aspect :  on  his  brow 
The  thunder-scars  are  graven  ;  from  his  eye 
Glares  forth  the  immortality  of  hell  — 
A  vaunt ! — 

Man.  Pronounce — what  is  thy  mission  ? 

Spirit.  Come ! 

Abbot.  What  art  thou,  unknown  heing?  an- 
swer !  —  speak ! 

Spirit.  The  genius  of  this  mortal  — Come' 
'tis  time. 


522 


MANFRED. 


[act  iil 


Man.  I    am   prepared   for   all    things,   but 
deny 
The  power  which  summons  me.     Who  sent 
thee  here  ? 

Spirit.  Thou'lt  know  anon  —  Come!  come! 

Man.  1  have  commanded 

Things  of  an  essence  greater  far  than  thine, 
And    striven   with    thy   masters.      Get    thee 
hence ! 

Spirit.  Mortal!  thine  hour  is  come  —  Away! 
I  say. 

Afa/i.  I  knew,  and  know  my  hour  is  come, 
but  not 
To  render  up  my  soul  to  such  as  thee : 
Away!   I'll  die  as  I  have  lived  —  alone. 

Spirit.  Then  I  must  summon  up  my  breth- 
ren. —  Rise  !  [  Other  Spirits  rise  up. 

Abbot.  Avaunt !  ye  evil  ones  !  —  Avaunt !   I 
say,  — 
Ye  have  no  power  where  piety  hath  power, 
And  I  do  charge  ye  in  the  name 

Spirit.  Old  man ! 

We  know  ourselves,  our  mission,  and  thine 

order ; 
Waste  not  thy  holy  words  on  idle  uses, 
It  were  in  vain  :  this  man  is  forfeited. 
Once  more  I  summon  him — Away!  away! 

Man.    I  do  defy  ye,  —  though  I  feel  my  soul 
Is  ebbing  from  me,  yet  I  do  defy  ye ; 
Nor  will  I  hence,  while  I  have  earthly  breath 
To    breathe    my    scorn    upon    ye  —  earthly 

strength 
To  wrestle,  though  with  spirits  ,  what  ye  take 
Shall  be  ta'en  limb  by  limb. 

Spirit.  Reluctant  mortal! 

Is  this  the  Magian  who  would  so  pervade 
The  world  invisible,  and  make  himself 
Almost  our  equal  ?  —  Can  it  be  that  thou 
Art  thus  in  love  with  life  ?  the  very  life 
Which  made  thee  wretched  ! 

Alan.  Thou  false  fiend,  thou  liest! 

My  life  is  in  its  last  hour,  —  that  I  know. 
Nor  would  redeem  a  moment  of  that  hour; 
I  do  not  combat  against  death,  but  thee 
And  thy  surrounding  angels  ;  my  past  power 
Was   purchased    by   no    compact   with   thy 

crew, 
But    by    superior    science  —  penance  —  dar- 
ing— 
And  length  of  watching  —  strength  of  mind  — 

and  skill 
In  knowledge  of  our  fathers — when  the  earth 
Saw  men  and  spirits  walking  side  by  side, 
And  gave  ye  no  supremacy  :   I  stand 
Upon  my  strength  —  I  do  defy  —  deny  — 
Spurn  back,  and  scorn  ye  !  — 

Spirit.  But  thy  many  crimes 

Have  made  thee 

Man.  What  are  they  to  such  as  thee? 

Must  crimes  be  punished  but  by  other  crimes, 
And  greater  criminals  ?  —  Back  to  thy  hell ! 
Thou  hast  no  power  upon  me,  that  I  feel  ■ 


Thou  never  shalt  possess  me,  that  I  know  : 
What  I  have  done  is  done ;  I  bear  within 
A   torture   which    could   nothing   gain  from 

thine : 
The  mind  which  is  immortal  makes  itself 
Requital  for  its  good  or  evil  thoughts  — 
Is  its  own  origin  of  ill  and  end  — 
And  its  own  place  and  time  —  its  innate  sense, 
When  stripped  of  this  mortality,  derives 
No  color  from  the  fleeting  things  without; 
But  is  absorbed  in  sufferance  or  in  joy, 
Born  from  the  knowledge  of  its  own  desert. 
Thou  didst  not  tempt  me,  and  thou  couldst 

not  tempt  me ; 
I  have  not  been  thy  dupe,  nor  am  thy  prey  — 
But  was  my  own  destroyer,  and  will  be 
My  own  hereafter.  —  Back,  ye  baffled  fiends ! 
The  hand  of  death  is  on  me  — but  not  yours  ! 
[  The  Demons  disappear. 
Abbot.    Alas !  how  pale  thou  art  —  thy  lips 

are  white  — 
And  thy  breast  heaves  —  and  in  thy  gasping 

throat 
The    accents    rattle  —  Give    thy   prayers    to 

Heaven  — 
Pray — albeit  but   in  thought,  —  but  die  not 

thus. 
Afan.     'Tis  over —  my  dull  eyes  can  fix  thee 

not; 
But  all  things  swim  around  me,  and  the  earth 
Heaves  as  it  "were  beneath  me      Fare  thee 

well  — 
Give  me  thy  hand. 

Abbot.  Cold  —  cold  —  even  to  the  heart  — 
But  yet  one  prayer — Ala.d  !  how  fares  it  with 

thee  ? 
Alan.    Old  man!  'tis  not  so  difficult  to  die.1 
[Manfred  expires. 
Abbot.     He's  gone  —  his  soul  hath  ta'en  its 

earthless  flight  — 
Whither?  I  dread  to  think  —  but  he  is  gone.2 

1  [In  the  first  edition,  this  line  was  accidentally 
left  out.  On  discovering  the  omission,  Byron  wrote 
to  Mr.  Murray  —  "You  have  destroyed  the  whole 
effect  and  moral  of  the  poem,  by  omitting  the  last 
line  of  Manfred's  speaking."] 

2  In  June,  1820,  Byron  thus  writes  to  his  pub- 
lisher:— "  Inclosed  is  something  which  will  inter- 
est you;  to  wit,  the  opinion  of  the  greatest  man  in 
Germany — perhaps  in  Europe  —  upon  one  of  the 
great  men  of  your  advertisements  (all  'famous 
hands,'  as  Jacob  Tonson  used  to  say  of  his  raga- 
muffins) —  in  short,  a  critic  of  Goethe's  upon  Man- 
fred. There  is  the  original,  an  English  transla- 
tion, and  an  Italian  one:  keep  them  all  in  your 
archives;  for  the  opinions  of  such  a  man  as  Goethe, 
whether  favorable  or  not,  are  always  interesting  — 
and  this  is  more  so,  as  favorable.  His  Faust  I 
never  read,  for  I  don't  know  German;  but  Matthew 
Monk  Lewis,  in  1816,  at  Coligny,  translated  most 
of  it  to  me  vivd  voce,  and  I  was  naturally  much 
struck  with  it,  but  it  was  the  Steinbach  and  the 
Jungfrau,  and  something  else,  much  more  than 
Faustus,  that  made  me  write  Manfred.     The  first 


SCENE   IV.] 


MANFRED. 


523 


scene,  however,  and  that  of  Faustus  are  very  simi- 
lar." 

The  following  is  the  extract  from  Goethe's  Kitnst 
und  Alterthum  {i.e.  Art  and  Antiquity)  which 
ttie  above  letter  inclosed:  — 

"  Byron's  tragedy,  '  Manfred,'  was  to  me  a  won- 
derful phenomenon,  and  one  that  closely  touched 
me.  This  singularly  intellectual  poet  has  taken  my 
Faustus  to  himself,  and  extracted  from  it  the  strong- 
est nourishment  for  his  hypochondriac  humor.  He 
has  made  use  of  the  impelling  principles  in  his  own 
way,  for  his  own  purposes,  so  that  no  one  of  them 
remains  the  same;  and  it  is  particularly  on  this  ac- 
count that  I  cannot  enough  admire  his  genius. 
The  whole  is  in  this  way  so  completely  formed 
anew,  that  it  would  be  an  interesting  task  for  the 
critic  to  point  out,  not  only  the  alterations  he  has 
made,  but  their  degree  of  resemblance  with,  or  dis- 
similarity to,  the  original:  in  the  course  of  which  I 
cannot  deny,  that  the  gloomy  heat  of  an  unbounded 
and  exuberant  despair  becomes  at  last  oppressive 
to  us.  Yet  is  the  dissatisfaction  we  feel  always 
connected  with  esteem  and  admiration. 

"  We  find  thus,  in  this  tragedy,  the  quintessence 
of  the  most  astonishing  talent  born  to  be  its  own 
tormentor.  The  character  of  Lord  Byron's  life  and 
poetry  hardly  permits  a  just  and  equitable  appreci- 
ation. He  has  often  enough  confessed  what  it  is 
that  torments  him.  He  has  repeatedly  portrayed 
it;  and  scarcely  any  one  feels  compassion  for  this 
intolerable  suffering,  over  which  he  is  ever  labori- 
ously ruminating.  There  are,  properly  speaking, 
two  females  whose  phantoms  for  ever  haunt  him, 
and  which,  in  this  piece  also,  perform  principal 
parts  —  one  under  the  name  of  Astarte,  the  other 
without  form  or  actual  presence,  and  merely  a  voice. 
Of  the  horrid  occurrence  which  took  place  with 
the  former,  the  following  is  related :  —  When  a  bold 
and  enterprising  young  man,  he  won  the  affections 
of  a  Florentine  lady.*  Her  husband  discovered 
the  amour,  and  murdered  his  wife;  but  the  mur- 
derer was  the  same  night  found  dead  in  the  street, 
and  there  was  no  one  on  whom  any  suspicion  could 
be  attached.  Lord  Byron  removed  from  Florence, 
and  these  spirits  haunted  him  all  his  life  after. 

"  This  romantic  incident  is  rendered  highly  prob- 
able by  innumerable   allusions  to  it  in  his  poems. 

*  ["  The  grave  confidence  with  which  the  vener- 
able critic  traces  the  fancies  of  his  brother  poet  to 
real  persons  and  events,  making  no  difficulty  even 
of  a  double  murder  at  Florence  to  lurnish  grounds 
for  his  theory,  affords  an  amusing  instance  of  the 
disposition  so  prevalent  throughout  Europe,  to  pic- 
ture Byron  as  a  man  of  marvels  and  mysteries,  as 
well  in  his  life  as  his  poetry.  To  these  exaggerated, 
or  wholly  false  notions  of  him,  the  numerous  fictions 
palmed  upon  the  world  of  his  romantic  tours  and 
wonderful  adventures,  in  places  he  never  saw,  and 
with  persons  that  never  existed,  have,  no  doubt, 
considerably  contributed;  and  the  consequence  is, 
so  utterly  out  of  truth  and  nature  are  the  represen- 
tations of  his  life  and  character  long  current  upon 
the  Continent,  that  it  may  be  questioned  whether 
the  real  '  flesh  and  blood '  hero  of  these  pages,  — 
the  social,  practical-minded,  and,  with  all  his  faults 
and  eccentricities,  English  Lord  Byrcn,  —  may  not, 
to  the  over-exalted  imaginations  of  most  of  his 
foreign  admirers,  appear  but  an  ordinary,  unro- 
mantic,  and  prosaic  personage.''  —  Moore's  Life  of 
Byron.] 


As,  for  instance,  when  turning  his  sad  contempla- 
tions inwards,  he  applies  to  himself  the  fatal  history 
of  the  king  of  Sparta.  It  is  as  follows:  — Pausa- 
nias,  a  Lacedaemonian  general,  acquires  glory  by 
the  important  victory  at  Plataea  but  afterwards  for- 
feits the  confidence  of  his  countrymen  through  his 
arrogance,  obstinacy,  and  secret  intrigues  with  the 
enemies  of  his  country.  This  man  draws  upon 
himself  the  heavy  guilt  of  innocent  blood,  which 
attends  him  to  his  end;  for,  while  commanding  the 
fleet  of  the  allied  Greeks,  in  the  Black  Sea,  he  is 
inflamed  with  a  violent  passion  for  a  Byzantine 
maiden.  After  long  resistance,  he  at  length  obtains 
her  from  her  parents,  and  she  is  to  be  delivered  up 
to  him  at  night.  She  modestly  desires  the  servant 
to  put  out  the  lamp,  and,  while  groping  her  way  in 
the  dark,  she  overturns  it.  Pausanias  is  awakened 
from  his  sleep  —  apprehensive  of  an  attack  from 
murderers,  he  seizes  his  sword,  and  destroys  his 
mistress.  The  horrid  sight  never  leaves  him.  Her 
shade  pursues  him  unceasingly,  and  he  implores 
for  aid  in  vain  from  the  gods  and  the  exorcising 
priests. 

"  That  poet  must  have  a  lacerated  heart  who  se- 
lects such  a  scene  from  antiquity,  appropriates  it  to 
himself,  and  burdens  his  tragic  image  with  it.  The 
following  soliloquy,  which  is  overladen  with  gloom 
and  a  weariness  of  life,  is,  by  this  remark,  rendered 
intelligible.  We  recommend  it  as  an  exercise  to  all 
friends  of  declamation.  Hamlet's  soliloquy  appears 
improved  upon  here."  —  Goethe  here  subjoins  Man- 
fred's soliloquy,  beginning  "  We  are  the  fools  of 
time  and  terror,"  in  which  the  allusion  to  Pausanias 
occurs.  The  reader  will  not  be  sorry  to  pass  from 
this  German  criticism  to  that  of  the  Edinburgh  Re- 
view on  Manfred.  —  "  This  is,  undoubtedly,  a  work 
of  great  genius  and  originality.  Its  worst  fault, 
perhaps,  is  that  it  fatigues  and  overawes  us  by  the 
uniformity  of  its  terror  and  solemnity.  Another, 
is  the  painful  and  offensive  nature  of  the  circum- 
stance on  which  its  distress  is  ultimately  founded. 
The  lyrical  songs  of  the  Spirits  are  too  long,  and 
not  all  excellent.  There  is  something  of  pedantry 
in  them  now  and  then;  and  even  Manfred  deals  in 
classical  allusions  a  little  too  much.  If  we  were  to 
consider  it  as  a  proper  drama,  or  even  as  a  finished 
poem,  we  should  be  obliged  to  add,  that  it  is  far  too 
indistinct  and  unsatisfactory.  But  this  we  take  to 
be  according  to  the  design  and  conception  of  the 
author.  He  contemplated  but  a  dim  and  magnifi- 
cent sketch  of  a  subject  which  did  not  admit  of 
more  accurate  drawing  or  more  brilliant  coloring. 
Its  obscurity  is  a  part  of  its  grandeur;  —  and  the 
darkness  that  rests  upon  it,  and  the  smoky  distance 
in  which  it  is  lost,  are  all  devices  to  increase  its 
majesty,  to  stimulate  our  curiosity,  and  to  impress 
us  with  deeper  awe. — ■  It  is  suggested,  in  an  ingeni- 
ous paper  in  a  late  number  of  the  Edinburgh  Mag- 
azine, that  the  general  conception  of  this  piece,  and 
much  of  what  is  excellent  in  the  manner  of  its  exe- 
cution, have  been  borrowed  from  '  The  Tragical 
History  of  Dr.  Faustus,'  of  Marlow ;  f  and  a  variety 
of  passages  are  quoted,  which  the  author  considers 
as  similar,  and,  in  many  respects  superior  to  others 
in  the  poem  before  us.  We  cannot  agree  in  the 
general  terms  of  the  conclusion :  but  there  is  no 
doubt  a  certain  resemblance,  both  in  some  of  the 


t  [On  reading  this,  Byron  wrote  from  Venice:  — 
"Jeffrey  is  very  kind  about  Manfred,  and  defends 
its  originality,  which  I  did  not  know  tha'  anybody 


524 


MARINO  FALIERO,   DOGE    OF   VENICE. 


topics  that  are  suggested,  and  in  the  cast  of  the  dic- 
tion in  which  tney  are  expressed.  Thus,  to  induce 
Faustus  to  persist  in  his  unlawful  studies,  he  is  told 
that  the  Spirits  of  the  Elements  will  serve  him, — 

'  Sometimes  like  women,  or  unwedded  maids, 
Shadowing  more  beauty  in  their  ayrie  browes, 
Than  have  the  white  breasts  of  the  Queene  of  Love.' 

And  again,  when  the  amorous  sorcerer  commands 
Helen  of  Troy  to  revive  again  to  be  his  paramour, 
he  addresses  her,  on  her  first  appearance,  in  these 
rapturous  lines  — 

'  Was  this  the  face  that  launcht  a  thousand  ships, 
And  burned  the  topless  towers  of  Ilium? 
Sweet  Helen !  make  me  immortal  with  a  kiss, 
Her  lips  suck  forth  my  soule!  — see  where  it  flies. 
Come    Helen,  come  give  me  my  soule  againe, 
Here  will  I  dwell,  for  heaven  is  on  that  lip, 
And  all  is  dross  that  is  not  Helena. 
O!   thou  art  fairer  than  the  evening  ayre, 
Clad  in  the  beauty  of  a  thousand  starres; 
More  lovely  than  the  monarch  of  the  skyes, 
In  wanton  Arethusa's  azure  arms!  ' 

The  catastrophe,  too,  is  bewailed  in  verses  of  great 
elegance  and  classical  beauty  — 

'  Cut  is  the   branch   that  might  have  growne   full 
straight, 
And  burned  is  Apollo's  laurel  bough 
That  sometime  grew  within  this  learned  man. 
Faustus  is  gone!  — regard  his  hellish  fall, 
Whose  findful  torture  may  exhort  the  wise, 
Only  to  wonder  at  unlawful  things!  ' 

But   these,  and   many  other  smooth   and   fanciful 


had  attacked.  As  to  the  germs  of  it,  they  may  be 
found  in  the  Journal  which  I  sent  to  Mrs.  Leigh, 
shortly  before  I  left  Switzerland.  I  have  the  whole 
scene  of  Manfred  before  me,  as  if  it  was  but  yester- 
day, and  could  point  it  out,  spot  by  spot,  torrent 
and  all."] 


verses  in  this  curious  old  drama,  prove  nothing^  w« 
think,  against  the  originality  of  Manfred,  for  there 
is  nothing  to  be  found  there  of  the  pride,  the  ab- 
straction, and  the  heart-rooted  misery  in  which  that 
originality  consists.  Faustus  is  a  vulgar  sorcerer, 
tempted  to  sell  his  soul  to  the  devil  for  the  ordinary 
price  of  sensual  pleasure,  and  earthly  power  and 
glory;  and  who  shrinks  and  shudders  in  agony 
when  the  forfeit  comes  to  be  exacted.  The  style, 
too,  of  Marlow,  though  elegant  and  scholarlike,  is 
weak  and  childish  compared  with  the  depth  and 
force  of  much  of  Lord  Byron;  and  the  disgusting 
buffoonery  and  low  farce  of  which  his  piece  is  prin- 
cipally made  up,  place  it  more  in  contrast,  than  in 
any  terms  of  comparison,  with  that  of  his  noble  suc- 
cessor. In  the  tone  and  pitch  of  the  composition, 
as  well  as  in  the  character  of  the  diction  in  the 
more  solemn  parts,  Manfred  reminds  us  much  more 
of  the  '  Prometheus '  of  ^Eschylus,*  than  of  any 
more  modern  performance.  The  tremendous  soli- 
tude of  the  principal  person  —  the  supernatural 
beings  with  whom  alone  he  holds  communion —  the 
guilt  —  the  firmness  —  the  misery  —  are  all  points 
of  resemblance,  to  which  the  grandeur  of  the  poetic 
imagery  only  gives  a  more  striking  effect.  The 
chief  differences  are,  that  the  subject  of  the  Greek 
poet  was  sanctified  and  exalted  by  the  established  be- 
lief of  his  country,  and  that  his  terrors  are  nowhere 
tempered  with  the  sweetness  which  breathes  from 
so  many  passages  of  his  English  rival."  —  7e_^~rey.] 


*  ["  Of  the  'Prometheus'  of  ^Eschylus  I  was 
passionately  fond  as  a  boy  (it  was  one  of  the  Greek 
plays  we  read  thrice  a  year  at  Harrow) ;  indeed, 
that  and  the  VMedea'  were  the  only  ones,  except 
the  '  Seven  before  Thebes,'  which  ever  much 
pleased  me.  The  Prometheus,  if  not  exactly  in  my 
plan,  has  always  been  so  much  in  my  head,  that  I 
can  easily  conceive  its  influence  over  all  or  any  thing 
that  I  have  written;  but  I  deny  Marlow  and  his 
progeny,  and  beg  that  you  will  do  the  same."  — 
Byron's  Letters,  1817.] 


MARINO    FALIERO,   DOGE   OF   VENICE; 

AN   HISTORICAL  TRAGEDY,   IN   FIVE   ACTS. 

"  Dux  tnquieti  turbidus  Adriae."  —  Horace. 


[On  the  original  MS.  sent  from  Ravenna,  Byron  wrote:  — "  Begun  April  4th,  1820  —  completed  Julj 
i6th,  1820 — finished  copying  August  i6th-i7th,  1820;  the  which  copying  makes  ten  times  the  toil  ol 
composing,  considering  the  weather —  thermometer  90  in  the  shade  —  and  my  domestic  duties."] 


[Byron  finished  the  composition  of  this  tragedy  on  the  17th  July,  1820.  He  at  the  time  intended  t« 
keep  it  by  him  for  six  years  before  sending  it  to  the  press ;  but  resolutions  of  this  kind  are,  m  modern 
days,  very  seldom  adhered  to.  It  was  published  in  the  end  of  the  same  year;  and,  to  the  poet's  great 
disgust,  and  in  spite  of  his  urgent  and  repeated  remonstrances,  was  produced  on  the  stage  of  Drury  Lana 
Theatre  early  in  1821. 


MARINO  FALTERO,    DOGE    OF   VENICE.  525 

Marino  Faliero  was,  greatly  to  his  satisfaction,  commended  warmly  for  the  truth  o/  its  adhesion  to 
Venetian  history  and  manners,  as  well  as  the  antique  severity  of  its  structure  and  language,  by  that  emi- 
nent master  of  Italian  and  classical  literature,  Ugo  Foscolo.  Mr.  Gifford  also  delighted  him  by  pro- 
nouncing it  "  English  —  genuine  English."  It  was,  however,  little  favored  by  the  contemporary  critics. 
There  was,  indeed,  only  one  who  spoke  of  it  as  quite  worthy  of  Byron's  reputation.  "  Nothing,"  said 
he,  "  has  for  a  long  time  afforded  us  so  much  pleasure,  as  the  rich  promise  of  dramatic  excellence  un- 
folded in  this  production  of  Lord  Byron.  Without  question,  no  such  tragedy  as  Marino  Faliero  has 
appeared  in  English,  since  the  day  when  Otway  also  was  inspired  to  his  masterpiece  by  the  interests  of  a 
Venetian  story  and  a  Venetian  conspiracy.  The  story  of  which  Lord  Byron  has  possessed  himself  is, 
we  think,  by  far  the  finer  of  the  two,  — and  we  say  possessed,  because  we  believe  he  has  adhered  almost 
to  the  letter  of  the  transactions  as  they  really  took  place."  —  The  language  of  the  Edinburgh  and  Quar- 
terly Reviewers,  Mr.  Jeffrey  and  Bishop  Heber,  was  in  a  far  different  strain.     The  former  says  — 

"  Marino  Faliero  has  undoubtedly  considerable  beauties,  both  dramatic  and  poetical;  and  might  have 
made  the  fortune  of  any  young  aspirant  for  fame:  but  the  name  of  Byron  raises  expectations  which  are 
not  so  easily  satisfied ;  and,  judging  of  it  by  the  lofty  standard  which  he  himself  has  established,  we  are 
compelled  to  say,  that  we  cannot  but  regard  it  as  a  failure,  both  as  a  poem  and  a  play.  The  story,  in  so 
far  as  it  is  original  in  our  drama,  is  extremely  improbable,  though,  like  most  other  very  improbable  sto- 
ri«s,  derived  from  authentic  sources:  but,  in  the  main,  it  is  original;  being,  indeed,  merely  another'  Ven- 
ice Preserved,'  and  continually  recalling,  though  certainly  without  eclipsing,  the  memory  of  the  first. 
Except  that  Jaffier  is  driven  to  join  the  conspirators  by  the  natural  impulse  of  love  and  misery,  and  the 
Doge  by  a  resentment  so  outrageous  as  to  exclude  all  sympathy,  —  and  that  the  disclosure,  which  is  pro- 
duced by  love  in  the  old  play,  is  here  ascribed  to  mere  friendship,  —  the  general  action  and  catastrophe 
of  the  two  pieces  are  almost  identical;  while,  with  regard  to  the  writing  and  management,  it  must  be 
owned  that,  if  Lord  Byron  has  most  sense  and  vigor,  Otway  has  by  far  the  most  passion  and  pathos;  and 
that  though  his  conspirators  are  better  orators  and  reasoners  than  the  gang  of  Pierre  and  Reynault,  the 
tenderness  of  Belvidere  is  as  much  more  touching,  as  it  is  more  natural,  than  the  stoical  and  self-satisfied 
decorum  of  Angiolina." 

The  following  is  an  extract  from  Bishop  Heber's  review  in  the  Quarterly:  — 

"  Marino  Faliero  has,  we  believe,  been  pretty  generally  pronounced  a  failure  by  the  public  voice,  and 
we  see  no  reason  to  call  for  a  revision  of  their  sentence.  It  contains,  beyond  all  doubt,  many  passages 
of  commanding  eloquence,  and  some  of  genuine  poetry;  and  the  scenes,  more  particularly,  in  which  Lord 
Byron  has  neglected  the  absurd  creed  of  his  pseudo-Hellenic  writers,  are  conceived  and  elaborated  with 
great  tragic  effect  and  dexterity.  But  the  subject  is  decidedly  ill-chosen.  In  the  main  tissue  of  the  plot, 
and  in  all  the  busiest  and  most  interesting  parts  of  it,  it  is,  in  fact,  no  more  than  another  '  Venice  Pre- 
served,' in  which  the  author  has  had  to  contend  (nor  has  he  contended  successfully)  with  our  recollec- 
tions of  a  former  and  deservedly  popular  play  on  the  same  subject.  And  the  only  respect  in  which  it 
differs  is,  that  the  Jaffier  of  Lord  Byron's  plot  is  drawn  in  to  join  the  conspirators,  not  by  the  natural  and 
intelligible  motives  of  poverty,  aggravated  by  the  sufferings  of  a  beloved  wife,  and  a  deep  and  well- 
grounded  resentment  of  oppression,  but  by  his  outrageous  anger  for  a  private  wrong  of  no  very  atrocious 
nature.  The  Doge  of  Venice,  to  chastise  the  vulgar  libel  of  a  foolish  boy,  attempts  to  overturn  that  re- 
public of  which  he  is  the  first  and  most  trusted  servant;  to  massacre  all  of  his  ancient  friends  and  fellow- 
soldiers,  the  magistracy  and  nobility  of  the  land.  With  such  a  resentment  as  this,  thus  simply  stated 
and  taken  singly,  who  ever  sympathized,  or  who  but  Lord  Byron  would  have  expected  in  such  a  cause 
to  be  able  to  awaken  sympathy?  It  is  little  to  the  purpose  to  say  that  this  is  all  historically  true.  A 
thing  may  be  true  without  being  probable ;  and  such  a  case  of  idiosyncrasy  as  is  implied  in  a  resentment 
so  sudden  and  extravagant,  is  no  more  a  fitting  subject  for  the  poet,  than  an  animal  with  two  heads  would 
be  for  an  artist  of  a  different  description." 

The  following  extract  from  a  letter  of  January,  1821,  will  show  the  author's  own  estimate  of  the  piece 
thus  criticized.  After  repeating  his  hope,  that  no  manager  would  be  so  audacious  as  to  trample  on  his 
feelings  by  producing  it  on  the  stage,  he  thus  proceeds:  — 

"  It  is  too  regular  —  the  time,  twenty-four  hours  —  the  change  of  place  not  frequent  —  nothing  melo- 
dramatic —  no  surprises  —  no  starts,  nor  trap-doors,  nor  opportunities  '  for  tossing  their  heads  and  kicking 
their  heels'  —  and  no  love,  the  grand  ingredient  of  a  modern  play.  I  am  persuaded  that  a  great  tragedy 
is  not  to  be  produced  by  following  the  old  dramatists  —  who  are  full  of  gross  faults,  pardoned  only  for  the 
beauty  of  their  language,  — but  by  writing  naturally  and  regularly,  and  producing  regular  tragedies, 
like  the  Greeks;  but  not  in  imitation,  —  merely  the  outline  of  their  conduct,  adapted  to  our  own  times 
and  circumstances,  and  of  course  no  chorus.  You  will  laugh,  and  say,  '  Why  don't  you  do  so?  '  I  have, 
you  see,  tried  a  sketch  in  Marino  Faliero;  but  many  people  think  my  talent  '  essentially  undramatic,' 
and  I  am  not  at  all  clear  that  they  are  not  right.  If  Marino  Faliero  don't  fail  —  in  the  perusal  —  I  shall, 
perhaps,  try  again  (but  not  for  the  stage) ;  and  as  I  think  that  love  is  not  the  principal  passion  for  tragedy 
(and  yet  most  of  ours  turn  upon  it),  you  will  not  find  me  a  popular  writer.  Unless  it  is  love  furious, 
-riminal,  and  hapless,  it  ought  not  to  make  a  tragic  subject.  When  it  is  melting  and  maudlin,  it  does, 
but  it  ought  not  to  do;  it  is  then  for  the  gallery  and  second  price  boxes.  If  you  want  to  have  a  notion 
of  what  I  am  trying,  take  up  a  translation  of  any  of  the  Greek  tragedians.  If  I  said  the  original,  it 
would  be  an  impudent  presumption  of  mine;  but  the  translations  are  so  inferior  to  the  originals,  that  I 
think  I  may  risk  it.  Then  judge  of  the  '  simplicity  of  plot,'  and  do  not  judge  me  by  your  old  mad  drama- 
tists; which  is  like  drinking  usquebaugh,  and  then  proving  a  fountain.  Yet,  after  all,  I  suppose  you  do 
not  mean  that  spirits  is  a  nobler  element  than  a  clear  spring  bubbling  up  in  the  sun?  and  this  I  take  to 
be  the  difference  between  the  Greeks  and  those  turbid  mountebanks  —  always  excepting  Ben  Jonson, 
who  was  a  scholar  and  a  classic.  Or,  take  up  a  translation  of  Alfieri,  and  try  the  interest,  etc.  of  these 
my  new  attempts  in  the  old  line,  by  him  in  English:  and  then  tell  me  fairly  your  opinion,     but  don't 


526  MARINO  FALIERO,  DOGE    OF   VENICE. 

measure  me  by  your  own  old  or  new  tailor's  yard.  Nothing  so  easy  as  intricate  confusion  of  plot  and 
rant.  Mrs.  Centlivre,  in  comedy,  has  ten  times  the  bustle  of  Congreve;  but  are  they  to  be  compared? 
and  yet  she  drove  Congreve  hom  the  theatre.'' 

Again,  February  10,  he  thus  writes:  — 

"  You  say  the  Doge  will  not  be  popular:  did  I  ever  write  for  popularity?  I  defy  you  to  show  a  work 
of  mine  (except  a  tale  or  two)  of  a  popular  style  or  complexion.  It  appears  to  me  that  there  is  room  foi 
a  different  style  of  the  drama;  neither  a  servile  following  of  the  old  drama,  which  is  a  grossly  erroneous 
one,  nor  yet  too  French,  like  those  who  succeeded  the  older  writers.  It  appears  to  me  that  good  English, 
and  a  severer  approach  to  the  rules,  might  combine  something  not  dishonorable  to  our  literature.  I  have 
also  attempted  to  make  a  play  without  love;  and  there  are  neither  rings,  nor  mistakes,  nor  starts,  nor 
outrageous  canting  villains,  nor  melodrama  in  it.  All  this  will  prevent  its  popularity,  but  does  not  per- 
suade me  that  it  is  therefore  faulty.  Whatever  fault  it  has  will  arise  from  deficiency  in  the  conduct. 
rather  than  in  the  conception,  which  is  simple  and  severe. 

"  Reproach  is  useless  always,  and  irritating  —  but  my  feelings  were  very  much  hurt,  to  be  dragged 
like  a  gladiator  to  the  fate  of  a  gladiator  by  that  '  retiarius,'  Mr.  Elliston.  As  to  his  defence  and  offers 
of  compensation,  what  is  all  this  to  the  purpose?  It  is  like  Louis  XIV.  who  insisted  upon  buying  at  any 
price  Algernon  Sydney's  horse,  and,  on  his  refusal,  on  taking  it  by  force,  Sydney  shot  his  horse.  I  could 
not  shoot  my  tragedy,  but  I  woidd  have  flung  it  into  the  fire  rather  than  have  had  it  represented." 

The  poet  originally  designed  to  inscribe  this  tragedy  to  his  friend,  Mr.  Douglas  Kinnaird;  but  th6 
dedication  he  drew  up  remained  in  MS.  till  after  the  poet's  death.     It  is  in  these  words:  — 

"To  the  Honorable  Douglas  Kinnaird. 

"My  dear  Douglas,  —  I  dedicate  to  you  the  following  tragedy,  rather  on  account  of  your  good 
opinion  of  it,  than  from  any  notion  of  my  own  that  it  may  be  worthy  of  your  acceptance.  But  if  its 
merits  were  ten  times  greater  than  they  possibly  can  be,  this  offering  would  still  be  a  very  inadequate 
acknowledgment  of  the  active  and  steady  friendship  with  which,  for  a  series  of  years,  you  have  honored 

"  Your  obliged  and  affectionate  friend, 

"  Byron." 

At  another  moment,  the  poet  resolved  to  dedicate  the  tragedy  to  Goethe,  whose  praises  of"  Manfred" 
had  highly  delighted  him;  but  this  dedication  shared  the  fate  of  that  to  Mr.  Kinnaird:  —  it  did  not  reach 
the  hands  of  Goethe  till  1 831,  when  it  was  presented  to  him  at  Weimar,  by  Mr.  Murray,  jun.;  nor 
was  it  printed  at  all,  until  Moore  included  it  in  his  Memoirs  of  Byron.  In  doing  so,  he  omitted  some 
passages,  which,  the  MS.  having  since  been  lost,  cannot  be  restored.  "  It  is  written,"  he  says,  "  in  the 
poet's  most  whimsical  and  mocking  mood;  and  the  unmeasured  se\jerity  poured  out  in  it  upon  the  two 
favorite  objects  of  his  wrath  and  ridicule,  compels  me  to  deprive  the  reader  of  some  of  its  most  amusing 
passages." 

Wordsworth  and  Southey  were  the  persons  ridiculed  in  these  suppressed  passages. 

"  To  Bakon  Goethe,'  etc.  etc.  etc. 

"  Sir,  —  In  the  Appendix  to  an  English  work  lately  translated  into  German  and  published  at  Leipsic, 
a  judgment  of  yours  upon  English  poetry  is  quoted  as  follows:  '  That  in  English  poetry,  great  genius, 
universal  power,  a  feeling  of  profundity,  with  sufficient  tenderness  and  force,  are  to  be  found;  but  that 
altogether  these  do  not  constitute  poets,'  etc.  etc. 

"  I  regret  to  see  a  great  man  falling  into  a  great  mistake.  This  opinion  of  yours  only  proves,  that  the 
'  Dictionary  of  ten  thousand  living  English  Authors'  has  not  been  translated  into  German.  You 
will  have  read  in  your  friend  Schlegel's  version,  the  dialogue  in  Macbeth  — 

'  There  are  ten  thousand  ! 
Macbeth.     Geese,  villain? 
Answer  Authors,  sir.8 

Now,  of  these  '  ten  thousand  authors,'  there  are  actually  nineteen  hundred  and  eighty-seven  poets,  all 
alive  at  this  moment,  whatever  their  works  may  be,  as  their  booksellers  well  know:  and  amongst  these 
there  are  several  who  possess  a  far  greater  reputation  than  mine,  although  considerably  less  than  yours. 
It  is  owing  to  this  neglect  on  the  part  of  your  German  translators  that  you  are  not  aware  of  the  works  of 
*  *  *  *'*  *  *  * 

"  There  is  also  another,  named  ********* 

"  I  mention  these  poets  by  way  of  sample  to  enlighten  you.  They  form  but  two  bricks  of  our  Babel 
(Windsor  bricks,  by  the  way),  but  may  serve  for  a  specimen  of  the  building. 

"  It  is,  moreover,  asserted  that  '  the  predominant  character  of  the  whole  body  of  the  present  English 
poetry  is  a  disgust  and  contempt  for  life."  But  I  rather  suspect  that,  by  one  single  work  of  prose ,  you 
yourself  have  excited  a  greater  contempt  for  life,  than  all  the  English  volumes  of  poesy  that  ever  were 
written.  Madame  de  Stael  says,  that  '  Werther  has  occasioned  more  suicides  than  the  most  beautilul 
woman;  '  and  I  really  believe  that  he  has  put  more  individuals  out  of  this  world  than  Napoleon  himself,— 
except  in  the  way  of  his  profession.  Perhaps,  Illustrious  Sir,  the  acrimonious  judgment  passed  by  a 
celebrated  northern  journal  upon  you  in  particular,  and  the  Germans  in  general,  has  rather  indisposed 
you  towards  English  poetry  as  well  as  criticism.     But  you  must  not  regard  our  critics,  who  are  at  bottom 

1  [Goethe  was  ennobled,  having  the  Von  prefixed  to  his  name,  but  never  received  the  tit'e  of  Baron. 1 


MARINO  FALIERO,   DOGE    OF   VENICE.  527 

good-natured  fellows,  considering  their  two  professions,  —  taking  up  the  law  in  court,  and  laying  it  down 
out  of  it.  No  one  can  more  lament  their  hasty  and  unfair  judgment,  in  your  particular,  than  I  do;  and 
I  so  expressed  myself  to  your  friend  Schlegel,  in  1S16,  at  Coppet. 

"  In  behalf  of  my  '  ten  thousand  '  living  brethren,  and  of  myself,  I  have  thus  far  taken  notice  of  an 
opinion  expressed  with  regard  to  '  English  poetry'  in  general,  and  which  merited  notice,  because  it  was 

YOURS. 

"My  principal  object  in  addressing  you  was  to  testify  my  sincere  respect  and  admiration  of  a  man, 
who,  for  half  a  century,  has  led  the  literature  of  a  great  nation,  and  will  go  down  to  posterity  as  the  first 
literary  character  of  his  age. 

"  You  have  been  fortunate,  Sir,  not  only  in  the  writings  which  have  illustrated  your  name,  but  in  the 
name  itself,  as  being  sufficiently  musical  for  the  articulation  of  posterity.  In  this  you  have  the  advaa- 
tage  of  some  of  your  countrymen,  whose  names  would  perhaps  be  immortal  also  —  if  anybody  coula 
pronounce  them. 

"  It  may,  perhaps,  be  supposed,  by  this  apparent  tone  of  levity,  that  I  am  wanting  in  intentional 
respect  towards  you;  but  this  will  be  a  mistake:  I  am  always  flippant  in  prose.  Considering  you,  as  I 
really  and  warmly  do,  in  common  with  all  your  own,  and  with  most  other  nations,  to  be  by  far  the  first 
literary  character  which  has  existed  in  Europe  since  the  death  of  Voltaire,  I  felt,  and  feel,  desirous  to 
inscribe  to  you  the  following  work,  —  not  as  being  either  a  tragedy  or  apoem,  (for  I  cannot  pronounce 
upon  its  pietensions  to  be  either  one  or  the  other,  or  both,  or  neither,)  but  as  a  mark  of  esteem  and 
admiration  from  a  foreigner  to  the  man  who  has  been  hailed  in  Germany  'the  great  Goethe.' 

"  I  have  the  honor  to  be,  with  the  truest  respect, 

"  Your  most  obedient  and  very  humble  servant, 

"  Ravenna,  8bre  14°.  1820.  "  Byron. 

"  P.  S.  I  perceive  that  in  Germany,  as  well  as  in  Italy,  there  is  a  great  struggle  about  what  they  call 
'  Classical'  and  '  Romantic,'  —  terms  which  were  not  subjects  of  classification  in  England,  at  least  when 
I  left  it  four  or  five  years  ago.  Some  of  the  English  scribblers,  it  is  true,  abused  Pope  and  Swift,  but  the 
reason  was,  that  they  themselves  did  not  know  how  to  write  either  prose  or  verse;  but  nobody  thought 
them  worth  making  a  sect  of.  Perhaps  there  may  be  something  of  the  kind  sprung  up  lately,  but  I  have 
not  heard  much  about  it,  and  it  would  be  such  bad  taste  that  I  shall  be  very  sorry  to  believe  it." 

Goethe  was  much  gratified  with  this  token  of  Byron's  admiration. 


PREFACE. 


The  conspiracy  of  the  Doge  Marino  Faliero  is  one  of  the  most  remarkable  events  in  the  annals  of  the 
most  singular  government,  city,  and  people  of  modern  history.  It  occurred  in  the  year  1355.  Every  thing 
about  Venice  is,  or  was,  extraordinary  —  her  aspect  is  like  a  dream,  and  her  history  is  like  a  romance. 
The  story  of  this  Doge  is  to  be  found  in  all  her  Chronicles,  and  particularly  detailed  in  the  "  Lives  of  the 
Doges,"  by  Marin  Sanuto,  which  is  given  in  the  Appendix.  It  is  simply  and  clearly  related,  and  is  per- 
haps more  dramatic  in  itself  than  any  scenes  which  can  be  founded  upon  the  subject. 

Marino  Faliero  appears  to  have  been  a  man  of  talents  and  of  courage.  I  find  him  commander-in-chief 
of  the  land  forces  at  the  siege  of  Zara,  where  he  beat  the  King  of  Hungary  and  his  army  of  eighty  thou- 
sand men,  killing  eight  thousand  men,  and  keeping  the  besieged  at  the  same  time  in  check;  an  exploit  to 
which  I  know  none  similar  in  history,  except  that  of  Caesar  at  Alesia,  and  of  Prince  Eugene  at  Belgrade. 
He  was  afterwards  commander  of  the  fleet  in  the  same  war.  He  took  Capo  d'Istria.  He  was  ambassa- 
dor at  Genoa  and  Rome,  —  at  which  last  he  received  the  news  of  his  election  to  the  dukedom ;  his  absence 
being  a  proof  that  he  sought  it  by  no  intrigue,  since  he  was  apprised  of  his  predecessor's  death  and  his 
own  succession  at  the  same  moment.  But  he  appears  to  have  been  of  an  ungovernable  temper.  A  story 
is  told  by  Sanuto,  of  his  having,  many  years  before,  when  podesta  and  captain  at  Treviso,  boxed  tne 
ears  of  the  bishop,  who  was  somewhat  tardy  in  bringing  the  Host.  For  this,  honest  Sanutc  "  saddles 
him  with  a  judgment,"  as  Thwackum  did  Square;  but  he  does  not  tell  us  whether  he  was  punished  or 
rebuked  by  the  Senate  for  this  outrage  at  the  time  of  its  commission.  He  seems,  indeed,  to  have  been 
afterwards  at  peace  with  the  church,  for  we  find  him  ambassador  at  Rome,  and  invested  with  the  fief  oi 
Val  di  Marino,  in  the  march  of  Treviso,  and  with  the  title  of  Count,  by  Lorenzo  Count-bishop  of  Ceneda. 
for  these  facts  my  authorities  are  Sanuto,  Vettor  Sandi,  Andrea  Navagero,  and  the  account  of  the  siege 
•»f  Zara,  first  published  by  the  indefatigable  Abate  Morelli,  in  his  "  Monumenti  Veneziani  di  varia  Letter- 
atura,"  printed  in  1796,  all  of  which  I  have  looked  over  in  the  original  language.     The  moderns,  Daril 


528  MARINO  FALIERO,  DOGE    OF  VENICE. 

Sismondi,  and  Laugier,  nearly  agree  with  the  ancient  chroniclers.  Sismondi  attributes  the  conspiracy  t» 
his  jealousy;  but  I  find  this  nowhere  asserted  by  the  national  historians.     Vettor  Sandi,  indeed,  says, 

that "  Altri  scnssero  che dalla  gelosa  suspizion  di  esso  Doge  siasi  fatto  (Michel  Steno)  staccar  con 

viclenza,"  etc.  etc. ;  but  this  appears  to  have  been  by  no  means  the  general  opinion,  nor  is  it  alluded  to 
by  Sanuto  or  by  Navagero;  and  Sandi  himself  adds,  a  moment  after,  that  "  per  altre  Veneziane  memorie 
traspiri,  che  non  il  solo  desiderio  di  vendetta  lo  dispose  alia  congiura,  ma  anche  la  innata  abituale  ambi- 
zion  sua,  per  cui  anelava  a  farsi  principe  independente."  The  first  motive  appears  to  have  been  excited 
by  the  gross  affront  of  the  words  written  by  Michel  Steno  on  the  ducal  chair,  and  by  the  light  and  inade- 
quate sentence  of  the  Forty  on  the  offender,  who  was  one  of  their  "  tre  Capi."  The  attentions  of  Steno 
himself  appear  to  have  been  directed  towards  one  of  her  damsels,  and  not  to  the  "  Dogaressa"  herself, 
against  whose  fame  not  the  slightest  insinuation  appears,  while  she  is  praised  for  her  beauty,  and  re- 
marked for  her  youth.  Neither  do  I  find  it  asserted  (unless  the  hint  of  Sandi  be  an  assertion),  that  the 
Doge  was  actuated  by  jealousy  of  his  wife;  but  rather  by  respect  for  her,  and  for  his  own  honor,  war- 
ranted by  his  past  services  and  present  dignity. 

I  know  not  that  the  historical  facts  are  alluded  to  in  English,  unless  by  Dr.  Moore  in  his  View  of 
Italy.  His  account  is  false  and  flippant,  full  of  stale  jests  about  old  men  and  young  wives,  and  wonder- 
ing at  so  great  an  effect  from  so  slight  a  cause.  How  so  acute  and  severe  an  observer  of  mankind  as  the 
author  of  Zeluco  could  wonder  at  this  is  inconceivable.  He  knew  that  a  basin  of  water  spilt  on  Mrs. 
Masham's  gown  deprived  the  Duke  of  Marlborough  of  his  command,  and  led  to  the  inglorious  peace  ol 
Utrecht  —  that  Louis  XIV.  was  plunged  into  the  most  desolating  wars,  because  his  minister  was  nettled 
at  his  finding  fault  with  a  window,  and  wished  to  give  him  another  occupation  —  that  Helen  lost  Troy  — 
that  Lucretia  expelled  the  Tarquins  from  Rome  —  and  that  Cava  brought  the  Moors  to  Spain  —  that  an 
insulted  husband  led  the  Gauls  to  Clusium,  and  thence  to  Rome  —  that  a  single  verse  of  Frederick  II.  of 
Prussia  on  the  Abb£  de  Bernis,  and  a  jest  on  Madame  de  Pompadour,  led  to  the  battle  of  Rosbach1  — 
that  the  elopement  of  Dearbhorgil  with  Mac  Murchad  conducted  the  English  to  the  slavery  of  Ireland  — 
that  a  personal  pique  between  Maria  Antoinette  and  the  Duke  of  Orleans  precipitated  the  first  expulsion 
of  the  Bourbons — and,  not  to  multiply  instances,  that  Commodus,'Domitian,  and  Caligula  fell  victims 
not  to  their  public  tyranny,  but  to  private  vengeance  —  and  that  an  order  to  make  Cromwell  disembark 
from  the  ship  in  which  he  would  have  sailed  to  America  destroyed  both  king  and  commonwealth.  After 
these  instances,  on  the  least  reflection,  it  is  indeed  extraordinary  in  Dr.  Moore  to  seem  surprised  that  a 
man  used  to  command,  who  had  served  and  swayed  in  the  most  important  offices,  should  fiercely  resent, 
in  a  fierce  age,  an  unpunished  affront,  the  grossest  that  can  be  offered  to  a  man,  be  he  prince  or  peasant. 
The  age  of  Faliero  is  little  to  the  purpose,  unless  to  favor  it  — 

"  The  young  man's  wrath  is  like  straw  on  fire, 
Bui  like  red-hot  steel  is  the  old  man's  ire." 

"  Young  men  soon  give  and  soon  forget  affronts, 
Old  age  is  slow  at  both." 

Laugier's  reflections  are  more  philosophical:  — "  Tale  fii  il  fine  ignominioso  di  un'  uomo,  che  la  sua 
nascita,  la  sua  eta,  il  suo  carattere  dovevano  tener  lontano  dalle  passioni  produttrici  di  grandi  delitti.  I 
suoi  talenti  per  lungo  tempo  esercitati  ne'  maggiori  impieghi,  la  sua  capacita  sperimentata  ne'  govemi  e 
nelle  ambasciate,  gli  avevano  acquistato  la  stima  e  la  fiducia  de'  cittadini,  ed  avevano  uniti  i  suffragj  per 
collocarlo  alia  testa  della  republica.  Innalzato  ad  un  grado  che  terminava  gloriosamente  la  sua  vita,  il 
risentimento  di  un'  ingiuria  leggiera  insinu6  nel  suo  cuore  tal  veleno,  che  bast&  a  corrompere  le  antiche 
sue  qualita,  e  a  condurlo  al  termine  dei  scellerati;  serio  esempio,  che  prova  nen  esservi  eta,  in  cui  la 

1  [The  AbWs  biographer  denies  the  correctness  of  this  statement.  — "  Quelques  ^crivains,"  he  says, 
"  qui  trouvaient  sans  doute  piquant  d'attribuer  de  grands  effets  a  de  petites  causes,  ont  pr^tendus  que  1'AbW 
a/ait  insiste  dans  le  conseil  pour  faire  declarer  la  guerre  a  la  Prusse,  par  ressentiment  contre  Frederic  et 
oour  venger  sa  vanity  poetique,  humilie  par  le  vers  du  monarque  bel-esprit  et  poete  — 

'  Evitez  de  Bernis  la  sterile  abondance.' 

Je  ne  m'amuserai  point  a  refuter  cette  opinion  ridicule;  elle  tombe  par  le  fait,  si  1'abW,  comme  dit  Duclos, 
>e  declara  au  contraire,  dans  le  conseil,  constamment  pour  l'alliance  avec  la  Prusse,  contre  le  sentiroen* 
9i6me  de  Lou'S  XV,  et  de  Madame  de  Pompadour."  —  Bii.  Univ.\ 


MARINO  FALIERO,  DOGE    OF   VENICE.  529 

frudensa  umana  sia  sicura,  e  che  nell'  uomo  restano  sempre  passiani  capaci  a  disonorarlo, 
quando  non  invigili  sopra  se  stesso."  ' 

Where  did  Dr.  Moore  find  that  Marino  Faliero  begged  his  life?  I  have  searched  the  chroniclers,  and 
find  nothing  of  the  kind;  it  is  true  that  he  avowed  all.  He  was  conducted  to  the  place  of  torture,  but 
there  is  no  mention  made  of  any  application  for  mercy  on  his  part;  and  the  very  circumstance  of  their 
having  taken  him  to  the  rack  seems  to  argue  any  thing  but  his  having  shown  a  want  of  firmness,  which 
would  doubtless  have  been  also  mentioned  by  those  minute  historians,  who  by  no  means  favor  him: 
such,  indeed,  would  be  contrary  to  his  character  as  a  soldier,  to  the  age  in  which  he  lived,  and  at  which 
he  died,  as  it  is  to  the  truth  of  history.  I  know  no  justification,  at  any  distance  of  time,  for  calumni- 
ating an  historical  character:  surely  truth  belongs  to  the  dead,  and  to  the  unfortunate;  and  they  who 
have  died  upon  a  scaffold  have  generally  had  faults  enough  of  their  own,  without  attributing  to  them 
that  which  the  very  incurring  of  the  perils  which  conducted  them  to  their  violent  death  renders,  of  all 
others,  the  most  improbable.  The  black  veil  which  is  painted  over  the  place  of  Marino  Faliero  amongst 
the  Doges,  and  the  Giants'  Staircase  where  he  was  crowned,  and  discrowned,  and  decapitated,  struck 
forcibly  upon  my  imagination;  as  did  his  fiery  character  and  strange  story.  I  went,  in  1819,  in  search 
of  his  tomb  more  than  once  to  the  church  San  Giovanni  e  San  Paolo ;  and,  as  I  was  standing  before  the 
monument  of  another  family,  a  priest  came  up  to  me  and  said,  "  I  can  show  you  finer  monuments  than 
that."  I  told  him  that  I  was  in  search  of  that  of  the  Faliero  family,  and  particularly  of  the  Doge 
Marino's.  "  Oh,"  said  he,  "  I  will  show  it  you;  "  and  conducting  me  to  the  outside,  pointed  out  a  sar- 
cophagus in  the  wall  with  an  illegible  inscription.  He  said  that  it  had  been  in  a  convent  adjoining,  but 
was  removed  after  the  French  came,  and  placed  in  its  present  situation;  that  he  had  seen  the  tomb 
opened  at  its  removal ;  there  were  still  some  bones  remaining,  but  no  positive  vestige  of  the  decapi- 
tation. The  equestrian  statue,  of  which  I  have  made  mention  in  the  third  act,  as  before  that  church,  is 
not,  however,  of  a  Faliero,  but  of  some  other  now  obsolete  warrior,  although  of  a  later  date.  There  were 
two  other  Doges  of  this  family  prior  to  Marino;  Ordelafo,  who  fell  in  battle  at  Zara  in  1117  (where  his 
descendant  afterwards  conquered  the  Huns),  and  Vital  Faliero,  who  reigned  in  1082.  The  family, 
originally  from  Fano,  was  of  the  most  illustrious  in  blood  and  wealth  in  the  city  of  once  the  most 
wealthy  and  still  the  most  ancient  families  in  Europe.  The  length  1  have  gone  into  on  this  subject  will 
show  the  interest  I  have  taken  in  it.  Whether  I  have  succeeded  or  not  in  the  tragedy,  I  have  at  least 
transferred  into  our  language  an  historical  fact  worthy  of  commemoration. 

It  is  now  four  years  that  I  have  meditated  this  work;  and  before  I  had  sufficiently  examined  the 
records,  I  was  rather  disposed  to  have  made  it  turn  on  a  jealousy  in  Faliero.2  But,  perceiving  no  foun- 
dation for  this  in  historical  truth,  and  aware  that  jealousy  is  an  exhausted  passion  in  the  drama,  I  have 
given  it  a  more  historical  form.  I  was,  besides,  well  advised  by  the  late  Matthew  Lewis  on  that  point, 
in  talking  with  him  of  my  intention  at  Venice  in  1817.  "  If  you  make  him  jealous,"  said  he,  "  recoiled 
that  you  have  to  contend  with  established  writers,  to  say  nothing  of  Shakspeare,  and  an  exhausted  sub- 
ject; —  stick  to  the  old  fiery  Doge's  natural  character,  which  will  bear  you  out,  if  properly  drawn;  and 
make  your  plot  as  regular  as  you  can."  Sir  William  Drummond  gave  me  nearly  the  same  counsel. 
How  far  I  have  followed  these  instructions,  or  whether  they  have  availed  me,  is  not  for  me  to  decide. 
I  have  had  no  view  to  the  stage;  in  its  present  state  it  is,  perhaps,  not  a  very  exalted  object  of  ambition; 
besides,  I  have  been  too  much  behind  the  scenes  to  have  thought  it  so  at  any  time.3  And  I  cannot  con- 
ceive any  man  of  irritable  feeling  putting  himself  at  the  mercies  of  an  audience.  The  sneering  reader, 
ind  the  loud  critic,  and  the  tart  review,  are  scattered  and  distant  calamities;  but  the  trampling  of  an 

1  Laugier,  Hist,  de  la  Repub.  de  Venise,  Italian  translation,  vol.  iv.  p.  30. 

2  [In  February,  1817,  Byron  wrote  to  Mr.  Murray  —  "  Look  into  Dr.  Moore's  'View  of  Italy'  for  me: 
m  one  of  the  volumes  you  will  find  an  account  of  the  Doge  Valiero  (it  ought  to  be  Falieri)  and  his  con- 
spiracy, or  the  motives  of  it.  Get  it  transcribed  for  me,  and  send  it  in  a  letter  to  me  soon.  I  want  it, 
and  cannot  find  so  good  an  account  of  that  business  here:  though  the  veiled  patriot,  and  the  place  where 
he  was  crowned,  and  afterwards  decapitated,  still  exist  and  are  shown.  I  have  searched  all  their  his* 
jtories;  but  the  policy  of  the  old  aristocracy  make  their  writers  silent  on  his  motives,  which  were  a  private 
grievance  against  one  of  the  patricians.  I  meaD  *o  write  a  tragedy  on  the  subject,  which  appears  to  me 
very  dramatic:  an  old  man,  jealous,  and  conspiring  against  the  state,  of  which  he  was  actually  reigning 
'.-.hief.  The  last  circumstance  makes  it  the  most  remarkable,  and  only  fact  of  the  kind,  in  all  history  0? 
ill  nations."] 

s  [MS.     "It  is  like  being  at  the  whole  process  of  a  woman's  toilet — -it  disenchants."] 


530  MARINO  FALIERO,   DOGE    OF   VENICE. 

intelligent  or  of  an  ignorant  audience  on  a  production  which,  be  it  good  or  bad,  has  been  a  mental  laboi 
to  the  writer,  is  a  palpable  and  immediate  grievance,  heightenea  by  a  man's  doubt  of  their  competency 
to  judge,  and  his  certainty  of  his  own  imprudence  in  electing  them  his  judges.  Were  I  capable  of  writing 
a  play  which  could  be  deemed  stage-worthy,  success  would  give  me  no  pleasure,  and  failure  great  pain. 
It  is  for  this  reason  that,  even  during  the  time  of  being  one  of  the  committee  of  one  of  the  theatres,  I 
never  made  the  attempt,  and  never  will.1  But  surely  there  is  dramatic  power  somewhere,  where  Joanna 
Baillie,  and  Millman,  and  John  Wilson  exist.  The  "  City  of  the  Plague  "  and  the  "  Fall  of  Jerusalem" 
are  full  of  the  best  "  materiel"  for  tragedy  that  has  been  seen  since  Horace  Walpole,  except  passages 
of  Ethwald  and  De  Montfort.  It  is  the  fashion  to  underate  Horace  Walpole;  firstly,  because  he  v/as  a 
nobleman,  and  secondly,  because  he  was  a  gentleman;  but,  to  say  nothing  of  the  composition  of  his 
incomparable  letters,  and  of  the  Castle  of  Otranto,  he  is  the  "  Ultimus  Romanorum,"  the  author  of  the 
Mysterious  Mother,  a  tragedy  of  the  highest  order,  and  not  a  puling  love-play.  He  is  the  father  of  the 
first  romance  and  of  the  last  tragedy  in  our  language,  and  surely  worthy  of  a  higher  place  than  any  living 
writer,  be  he  who  he  may. 

In  speaking  of  the  drama  of  Marino  Faliero,  I  forgot  to  mention,  that  the  desire  of  preserving,  though 
still  too  remote,  a  nearer  approach  to  unity  than  the  irregularity,  which  is  the  approach  of  the  English 
theatrical  compositions,  permits,  has  induced  me  to  represent  the  conspiracy  as  already  formed,  and  the 
Doge  acceding  to  it;  whereas,  in  fact,  it  was  of  his  own  preparation  and  that  of  Israel  Bertuccio.  The 
other  characters  (except  that  of  the  Duchess),  incidents,  and  almost  the  time,  which  was  wonderfully 
short  for  such  a  design  in  real  life,  are  strictly  historical,  except  that  all  the  consultations  took  place  in 
the  palace.  Had  I  followed  this,  the  unity  would  have  been  better  preserved;  but  I  wished  to  produce 
the  Doge  in  the  full  assembly  of  the  conspirators,  instead  of  monotonously  placing  him  always  in  dia- 
logue with  the  same  individuals.2     For  the  real  facts,  I  refer  to  the  Appendix. 

1  While  I  was  in  the  sub-committee  of  Drury  Lane  Theatre,  I  can  vouch  for  my  colleagues,  and  I  hope 
for  myself,  that  we  did  our  best  to  bring  back  the  legitimate  drama.  I  tried  what  I  could  to  get  "  De 
Montfort "  revived,  but  in  vain,  and  equally  in  vain  in  favor  of  Sotheby's  "  Ivan,"  which  was  thought  an 
acting  play;  and  I  endeavored  also  to  wake  Mr.  Coleridge  to  write  a  tragedy.  Those  who  are  not  in  the 
secret  will  hardly  believe  that  the  "School  for  Scandal"  is  the  play  which  has  brought  least  money, 
averaging  the  number  of  times  it  has  been  acted  since  its  production;  so  Manager  Dibdin  assured  me. 
Of  what  has  occurred  since  Maturin's  "  Bertram"  I  am  not  aware;  so  that  I  may  be  traducing,  through 
ignorance,  some  excellent  new  writers:  if  so.  I  beg  their  pardon.  I  have  been  absent  from  England 
nearly  five  years,  and,  till  last  year,  I  never  read  an  English  newspaper  since  my  departure,  and  am  now 
only  aware  of  theatrical  matters  through  the  medium  of  the  Parisian  Gazette  of  Galignani,  and  only  for 
the  last  twelve  months.  Let  me  then  deprecate  all  offence  to  tragic  or  comic  writers,  to  whom  I  wish 
well,  and  of  whom  I  know  nothing.  The  long  complaints  of  the  actual  state  of  the  drama  arise,  however, 
from  no  fault  of  the  performers.  I  can  conceive  nothing  better  than  Kemble,  Cooke,  and  Kean  in  their 
very  different  manners,  or  than  Elliston  in  gentleman's  comedy,  and  in  some  parts  of  tragedy.  Miss 
O'Neill  I  never  saw,  having  made  and  kept  a  determination  to  see  nothing  which  should  divide  or  disturb 
my  recollection  of  Siddons.  Siddons  and  Kemble  were  the  ideal  of  tragic  action  ;  I  never  saw  any  thing 
at  all  resembling  them  even  in  person  :  for  this  reason,  we  shall  never  see  again  Coriolanus  or  Macbeth. 
When  Kean  is  blamed  for  want  of  dignity,  we  should  remember  that  it  is  a  grace,  and  not  an  art,  and 
not  to  be  attained  by  study.  In  all,  not  st'PER-natural  parts,  he  is  perfect;  even  his  very  defects  belong, 
or  seem  to  belong,  to  the  parts  themselves,  and  appear  truer  to  nature.  But  of  Kemble  we  may  say, 
with  reference  to  his  acting,  what  the  Cardinal  de  Retz  said  of  the  Marquis  of  Montrose,  "that  he  was 
the  only  man  he  ever  saw  who  reminded  him  of  the  heroes  of  Plutarch." 

2  ["  We  cannot  conceive  a  greater  instance  of  the  efficacy  of  system  to  blind  the  most  acute  percep- 
tion, than  the  fact  that  Lord  Byron,  in  works  exclusively  intended  for  the  closet,  has  piqued  himself  on 
the  observance  of  rules  which  are  evidently,  off  the  stage,  a  matter  of  perfect  indifference.  The  only 
object  of  adhering  to  the  unities  is  to  preserve  the  illusion  of  the  scene.  To  the  reader  they  are  obviously 
useless."  —  HeierA 


DRAMATIS   PERSONS. 


MEN. 

Makino  Faliero,  Doge  of  Venice. 
Bertuccio  Faliero,  Nephew  of  the  Doge. 
LlONl,  a  Patrician  and  Senator. 


Benintende,    Chief    of    the    Council    cf 

Ten. 
Michel  Steno,  One  of  the  three  Capi  of  thk 

Forty. 


MARINO  FA  LIEU  O,  DoGE   OF  VENICE. 


531 


Israel  Bertuccio,  Chiefs 

of  the  Arsenal, 
Philip  Calenuaro, 
Dagolino, 
Bertram, 


Conspirators. 


Sigtior  of  the  Night, 

First  Citizen. 
Second  Citizen. 
Third  Citizen. 


"  Signore  di  Notte,"  one 
of  the  Officers  belong- 
ing to  the  Republic. 


PlETRO  Z°'    1  °fficeri  belonging  to  the  Ducal 
Battista,     J  Palace- 

Secretary  of  the  Council  of  Ten. 
Guards,   Conspirators,    Citizens,   The  Council 
of  Ten,  The  Giunta,  etc.  etc. 

WOMEN. 
ANGIOLINA,   Wife  to  the  Doge. 
Marianna,  her  Friend. 
Female  Attendants,  etc. 


Scene  Venice  —  in  the  year  1355. 


ACT  I. 

SCENE  I.  —  An  Antechamber  in  the  Ducal 
Palace. 

PlETRO  speaks,  in  entering,  to  BATTISTA. 

Pie.     Is  not  the  messenger  returned  ? 

Bat.  Not  yet ; 

I  have  sent  frequently,  as  you  commanded, 
But  still  the  Signory  is  deep  in  council, 
And  long  debate  on  Steno's  accusation. 

Pie.   Too  long — at  least  so  thinks  the  Doge. 

Bat.  How  bears  he 

These  moments  of  suspense  ? 

Pie.  With  struggling  patience 

Placed  at  the  ducal  table,  covered  o'er 
With  all  the  apparel  of  the  state ;  petitions, 
Despatches,  judgments,  acts,   reprieves,  re- 
ports, 
He  sits  as  rapt  in  duty ;  but  whene'er 
He  hears  the  jarring  of  a  distant  door, 
Or  aught  that  intimates  a  coming  step, 
Or  murmur  of  a  voice,  his  quick  eye  wanders, 
And  he  will   start  up  from   his   chair,  then 

pause, 
And  seat  himself  again,  and  fix  his  gaze 
Upon  some  edict ;  but  I  have  observed 
For  the  last  hour  he  has  not  turned  a  leaf. 

Bat.     'Tis  said  he  is  much  moved, —  and 
doubtless  'twas 
Foul  scorn  in  Steno  to  offend  so  grossly. 

Pie.     Ay,  if  a  poor  man  :  Steno's  a  patrician, 
Young,  galliard,  gay,  and  haughty. 

Bat.  Then  you  think 

He  will  not  be  judged  hardly  ? 

Pie.  'Twere  enough 

He  be  judged  justly ;  but  'tis  not  for  us 
To  anticipate  the  sentence  of  the  Forty. 

Bat.    And  here  it   comes.  —  What    news, 
Vincenzo  ? 

Enter  VINCENZO. 
Vin.  'Tis 

Decided  ;  but  as  yet  his  doom's  unknown: 
I  saw  the  president  in  act  to  seal 


The  parchment  which  will  bear  the  Forty's 

judgment 
Unto  the  Doge,  and  hasten  to  inform  him. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. —  The  Ducal  Chamber. 

Marino  Faliero,  Doge ;  and  his  Nephew, 
Bertuccio  Faliero. 

Ber.  F.     It  cannot  be  but  they  will  do  you 
justice. 

Doge.    Ay,  such  as  the  Avogadori  x  did, 
Who  sent  up  my  appeal  unto  the  Forty 
To  try  him  by  his  peers,  his  own  tribunal. 

Ber.  F.    His  peers  will  scarce  protect  him ; 
such  an  act 
Would  bring  contempt  on  all  authority. 

Doge.     Know  you  not  Venice  ?    Know  you 
not  the  Forty  ? 
But  we  shall  see  anon. 

Ber.  F.  {addressing  VINCENZO,  then  enter- 
ing'). How  now  —  what  tidings  ? 

Vin.   I  am  charged  to  tell  his  highness  that 
the  court 
Has  passed  its  resolution,  and  that,  soon 
As  the  due  forms  of  judgment  are  gone  through, 
The  sentence  will  be  sent  up  to  the  Doge; 
In  the  mean  time  the  Forty  doth  salute 
The  Prince  of  the  Republic,  and  entreat 
His  acceptation  of  their  duty. 

Doge.  Yes  — 

They  are  wond'rous  dutiful,  and  ever  humble, 
Sentence  is  passed,  you  say  ? 

Vin.  It  is,  your  highness: 

The  president  was  sealing  it,  when  I 
Was  called  in,  that  no  moment  might  be  lost 
In  forwarding  the  intimation  due 
Not  only  to  the  Chief  of  the  Republic, 
But  the  complainant,  both  in  one  united. 

1  [The  Avogadori,  three  in  number,  were  the 
conductors  of  criminal  prosecutions  on  the  part  oi 
the  state;  and  no  act  of  the  councils  was  valid,  unj 
leis  sanctioned  by  the  presence  of  one  of  them.] 


532 


MARINO  FA  LIES  O,   DOGE    OF   VENICE. 


[act  l 


Ber.  F.    Are  you  aware,  from  aught  you 
have  perceived, 
Of  their  decision  ? 

Vin.  No,  my  lord  ;  you  know 

The  secret  custom  of  the  courts  in  Venice. 
Ber.  F.     True  ;  but  there  still  is  something 
given  to  guess, 
Which  a  shrewd  gleaner  and  quick  eye  would 

catch  at ; 
A  whisper,  or  a  murmur,  or  an  air 
More  or  less  solemn  spread  o'er  the  tribunal. 
,The  Forty  are  but  men  —  most  worthy  men, 
And   wise,   and  just,  and   cautious  —  this   I 

grant  — 
And  secret  as  the  grave  to  which  they  doom 
The  guilty  ;  but  with  all  this,  in  their  aspects — 
At  least  in  some,  the  juniors  of  the  number— 
A  searching  eye,  an  eye  like  yours,  Vincenzo, 
Would    read   the   sentence  ere    it  was    pro- 
nounced. 
Vin.     My  lord,  I  came  away  upon  the  mo- 
ment, 
And  had  no  leisure  to  take  note  of  that 
Which    passed   among   the  judges,  even   in 

seeming ; 
My  station  nearthe  accused  too,  Michel  Steno, 

Made  me 

Doge,    {abruptly).     And   how  looked   he  f 

deliver  that. 
Vin.     Calm,  but  not  overcast,  he  stood  re- 
signed 
To  the  decree,  whate'er  it  were  : —  but  lo  ! 
It  comes,  for  the  perusal  of  his  highness. 
Enter  the  SECRETARY  of  the  Forty. 
Sec.     The  high  tribunal  of  the  Forty  sends 
Health  and  respect  to  the  Doge  Faliero, 
Chief  magistrate  of  Venice,  and  requests 
His  highness  to  peruse  and  to  approve 
The  sentence  passed  on  Michel  Steno,  born 
Patrician,  and  arraigned  upon  the  charge 
Contained,  together  with  its  penalty, 
Within  the  rescript  which  I  now  present. 
Doge.     Retire,  and  wait  without. 

[Exeunt  SECRETARY  and  VINCENZO. 
Take  thou  this  paper, 
The  misty  letters  vanish  from  my  eyes ; 
I  cannot  fix  them. 

Ber.  F.  Patience,  my  dear  uncle  : 

Why  do  you  tremble  thus?  —  Nav,  doubt  not, 

all 
Will  be  as  could  be  wished. 

Doge.  Say  on. 

Ber.  F.  {reading).  "Decreed 

In  council,  without  one  dissenting  voice, 
That  Michel  Steno,  by  his  own  confession, 
Guilty  on  the  last  night  of  Carnival 
Of  having  graven  on  the  ducal  throne 

The  following  words "  1 

Doge.  Would'st  thou  repeat  them  ? 


1  ["Marino  Faliero  dalla  bella  moglie  —  altri  la 
godc,  ed  egli  la  mantiene."  —  Sanuto. 


Would'st  thou  repeat  them  —  thou,  a.  Faliero, 
Harp  on  the  deep  dishonor  of  our  house, 
Dishonored  in  its  chief —  that  chief  the  princt 
Of  Venice,  first  of  cities?  —  To  the  sentence. 

Ber.  F.     Forgive  me,  my  good  lord  ;  I  will 
obey  — 
{Reads.)  "That  Michel  Steno  be  detained  a 

month 
In  close  arrest." 

Doge.  Proceed. 

Ber.  F.  My  lord,  'tis  finished. 

Doge.     How,  say  you?  —  finished!     Do   I 
dream  ?  —  'tis  false  — 
Give  me  the  paper — {Snatches  the  paper  and 

reads.)  —  "  'Tis  decreed  in  council 
That  Michel  Steno  " Nephew,  thine  arm! 

Ber.  F.  Nay, 

Cheer  up,  be  calm  ;  this  transport  is  uncalled 

for  — 
Let  me  seek  some  assistance. 

Doge.  Stop,  sir  —  Stir  not  — 

'Tis  past. 

Ber.  F.     I  cannot  but  agree  with  you 
The  sentence  is  too  slight  tor  the  offence  — 
It  is  not  honorable  in  the  Forty 
To  affix  so  slight  a  penalty  to  that 
Which  was  a  foul  affront  to  you,  and  even 
To  them,  as  being  your  subjects  ;  but  'tis  not 
Yet  without  remedy  :  you  can  appeal 
To  them  once  more,  or  to  the  Avogadori, 
Who,  seeing  that  true  justice  is  withheld, 
Will  now  take  up  the  cause  they  once  de- 
clined, 
And  do  you  right  upon  the  bold  delinquent. 
Think  you  not  thus,  good  uncle  ?  why  do  you 

stand 
So  fixed  ?    You  heed  me  not :  —  I  pray  you, 
hear  me ! 

Doge  {dashing  down  the  ducal  bonnet,  and 
offering  to  trample  upon  it,  exclaims,  as 
he  is  withheld  by  his  nephew) . 
Oh  !  that  the  Saracen  were  in  Saint  Mark's ! 
Thus  would  I  do  him  homage. 

Ber.  F.                                          For  the  sake 
Of  Heaven  and  all  its  saints,  my  lord 

Doge.  Away ! 

Oh,  that  the  Genoese  were  in  the  port ! 
Oh,  that  the  Huns  whom  I  o'erthrew  at  Zara 
Were  ranged  around  the  palace ! 

Ber.  F.  'Tis  not  well 

In  Venice'  Duke  to  say  so. 

Doge.  Venice'  Duke ! 

Who  now  is  Duke  in  Venice  ?  let  me  see  him, 
That  he  may  do  me  right. 

Ber.  F.     '  If  you  forget 

Your  office,  and  its  dignity  and  duty, 
Remember  that  of  man,  and  curb  this  passion. 
The  Duke  of  Venice 

Doge  {interrupting  him).   There  is  no  such 
thing — 
It  is  a  word — nay,  worse  —  a  worthless  by 
word; 


SCENE    II.] 


MARINO   FALTER O,   DOGE    OF   VENICE. 


533 


The  most  despised,  wronged,  outraged,  help- 
less wretch. 
Who  begs  his  bread,  if  'tis  refused  by  one, 
May  win  it  from  another  kinder  heart ; 
But  he,  who  is  denied  his  right  by  those 
Whose  place  it  is  to  do  no  wrong,  is  poorer 
Than  the  rejected  beggar  —  he's  a  slave  — 
And  that  am  I,  and  thou,  and  all  our  house, 
Even  from  this  hour ;  the  meanest  artisan 
Will  point  the  finger,  and  the  haughty  noble 
May  spit  upon  us  :  — where  is  our  redress  ? 

Ber.  F.     The  law,  my  prince  ? 

Doge  (interrupting  him).     You  see  what  it 
has  done  — 
I  asked  no  remedy  but  from  the  law  — 
I  sought  no  vengeance  but  redress  by  law  — 
I  called  no  judges  but  those  named  by  law  — 
As  sovereign,  I  appealed  unto  my  subjects, 
The  very  subjects  who  had  made  me  sovereign, 
And  gave  me  thus  a  double  right  to  be  so. 
The  rights  of  place  and  choice,  of  birth  and 

service, 
Honors  and  years,  these  scars,  these  hoary 

hairs, 
The  travel,  toil,  the  perils,  the  fatigues, 
The  blood  and  sweat  of  almost  eighty  years, 
Were  weighed  i'  the  balance,  'gainst  the  foul- 
est stain, 
The  grossest  insult,  most  contemptuous  crime 
Of  a  rank,  rash  patrician — and  found  wanting  ! 
And  this  is  to  borne  ! 

Ber.  F.  I  say  not  that :  — 

In  case  your  fresh  appeal  should  be  rejected, 
We  will  find  other  means  to  make  all  even. 
Doge.   Appeal  again  !  art  thou  my  brother's 
son  ? 
A  scion  of  the  house  of  Faliero  ? 
The  nephew  of  a  Doge  ?  and  of  that  blood 
V/hich   hath   already  given   three   dukes  to 

Venice  ? 
But  thou  say'st  well  —  we  must  be  humble 
now. 
Ber.  F.     My  princely  uncle !  you  are   too 
much  moved  :  — 
I  grant  it  was  a  gross  offence,  and  grossly 
Left  without  fitting  punishment :  but  still 
This  fury  doth  exceed  the  provocation, 
Or  any  provocation  :  if  we  are  wronged, 
We  will  ask  justice  ;  if  it  be  denied, 
We'll  take  it ;   but  may  do  all  this  in  calm- 
ness— 
Deep  Vengeance  is  the  daughter  of  deep  Si- 
lence. 
1    .ave  yet  scarce  a  third  part  of  your  years, 
i  love  our  house,  I  honor  you,  its  chief, 
The  guardian  of  my  youth,  and  its  instructor — 
But  though  I  understand  your  grief,  and  enter 
In  part  of  your  disdain,  it  doth  appall  me 
To  see  your  anger,  like  our  Adrian  waves, 
O'ersweep  all  bounds,  and  foam  itself  to  air. 
Doge.     I  tell  thee  —  must  I  tell  thee  —  what 
thy  father 


Would  have  required  no  words  to  compre- 
hend ? 
Hast  thou  no  feeling  save  the  external  sense 
Of  torture   from    the  touch  ?    hast   thou   no 

soul  — 
No  pride  —  no  passion  —  no  deep  sense   of 
honor  ? 
Ber.  F.  'Tis  the  first  time  that  honor  has 
been  doubted, 
And  were  the  last,  from  any  other  sceptic. 
Doge.     You  know  the  full  offence  of  this 
born  villain, 
This  creeping,  coward,  rank,  acquitted  felon, 
Who  threw  his  sting  into  a  poisonous  libel, 
And  on  the  honor  of —  Oh  God !  —  my  wife, 
The  nearest,  dearest  part  of  all  men's  honor, 
Left  a  base  slur  to  pass  from  mouth  to  mouth 
Of  loose  mechanics,  with  all  coarse  foul  com- 
ments, 
And  villanous  jests,  and  blasphemies  obscene ; 
While  sneering  nobles,  in  more  polished  guise, 
Whispered  the  tale,  and  smiled  upon  the  lie 
Which  made  me  look  like  them  —  a  courteous 

wittol, 
Patient  —  ay,  proud,  it  may  be,  of  dishonor. 
Ber.  F.     But  still  it  was  a  lie  —  you  knew 
it  false, 
And  so  did  all  men. 

Doge.  Nephew,  the  high  Roman 

Said,  "  Caesar's  wife  must   not  even  be  sus- 
pected," 
And  put  her  from  him. 

Ber.  F.  True  —  but  in  those  days 

Doge.     What  is  it  that  a  Roman  would  not 
suffer, 
That  a  Venetian  prince  must  bear  ?  Old  Dan. 

dolo 
Refused  the  diadem  of  all  the  Caesars, 
And  wore  the  ducal  cap  I  trample  on, 
Because  'tis  now  degraded. 
Ber.  F.  'Tis  even  so. 

Doge.     It  is  —  it  is  ;  —  I  did  not  visit  on 
The  innocent  creature  thus  most  vilely  slan- 
dered 
Because  she  took  an  old  man  for  her  lord, 
For  that  he  had  been  long  her  father's  friend 
And  patron  of  her  house,  as  if  there  were 
No  love  in  woman's  heart  but  lust  of  youth 
And  beardless  faces  ;  —  I  did  not  for  this 
Visit  the  villain's  infamy  on  her, 
But  craved  my  country's  justice  on  his  head, 
The  justice  due  unto  the  humblest  being 
Who  hath  a  wife  whose  faith  is  sweet  to  him, 
Who  hath  a  home  whose  hearth  is  dear  to  him, 
Who  hath  a  name  whose  honor's  all  to  him, 
When  these  are  tinted  by  the  accursing  breath 
Of  calumny  and  scorn. 

Ber.  F.  And  what  redress 

Did  you  expect  as  his  fit  punishment  ? 
Doge.     Death !     Was  I  not  the  sovereign 
of  the  state  — 
Insulted  on  his  very  throne,  and  made 


534 


MARINO  FALIERO,   DOGE    OF   VENICE. 


[act  i. 


A  mockery  to  the  men  who  should  obey  me  ? 
Was  I  not  injured  as  a  husband  ?  scorned 
As  man  ?  reviled,  degraded,  as  a  prince  ? 
Was  not  offence  like  his  a  complication 
Of  insult  and  of  treason  ?  —  and  he  lives ! 
Had  he  instead  of  on  the  Doge's  throne 
Stamped  the  same  brand  upon  a  peasant's 

stool, 
His  blood  had  gilt  the  threshold ;  for  the  carl 
Had  stabbed  him  on  the  instant. 

Ber.  F.  Do  not  doubt  it, 

He  shall  not  live  till  sunset  —  leave  to  me 
The  means,  and  calm  yourself. 

Doge.  Hold,  nephew  :  this 

Would  have  sufficed  but  yesterday  ;  at  present 
I  have  no  further  wrath  against  this  man. 

Ber.  F.     What  mean  you  ?  is  not  the  of- 
fence redoubled 
By  this  most  rank —  I  will  not  say —  acquittal ; 
For  it  is  worse,  being  full  acknowledgment 
Of  the  offence,  and  leaving  it  unpunished  ? 

Doge.     It  is  redoubled,  but  not  now  by  him  : 
The  Forty  hath  decreed  a  month's  arrest  — 
We  must  obey  the  Forty. 

Ber.  F.  Obey  them  ! 

Who  have  forgot  their  duty  to  the  sovereign  ? 

Doge.     Why   yes  ;  —  boy,   you   perceive   it 
then  at  last : 
Whether  as  fellow-citizen  who  sues 
For  justice,  or  as  sovereign  who  commands  it, 
They  have  defrauded  me  of  both  my  rights 
(For  here  the  sovereign  is  a  citizen)  ; 
But,  notwithstanding,  harm  not  thou  a  hair 
Of  Steno's  head  —  he  shall  not  wear  it  long. 

Ber.  F.  Not  twelve  hours  longer,  had  you 
left  to  me 
The  mode  and  means :  if  you  had  calmly  heard 

me, 
I  never  meant  this  miscreant  should  escape, 
But  wished  you  to  suppress  such  gusts  of  pas- 
sion, 
That  we  more  surely  might  devise  together 
His  taking  off. 

Doge.  No,  nephew,  he  must  live ; 

At  least,  just  now  —  a  life  so  vile  as  his 
Were  nothing  at  this  hour;    in  th'  olden  time 
Some  sacrifices  asked  a  single  victim, 
Great  expiations  had  a  hecatomb. 

Ber.  F.    Your  wishes  are  my  law  :  and  yet 
I  fain 
Would  prove  to  you  how  near  unto  my  heart 
The  honor  of  our  house  must  ever  be. 

Doge.     Fear  not;  you  shall  have  time  and 
place  of  proof, 
But  be  not  thou  too  rash,  as  I  have  been. 
I  am  ashamed  of  my  own  anger  now ; 
I  pray  you,  pardon  me. 

Ber.  F.  Why  that's  my  uncle ! 

The  leader,  and  the  statesman,  and  the  chief 
Of  commonwealths,  and   sovereign  of  him- 

I  wondered  to  perceive  you  so  forget 


All  prudence  in  your  fury  at  these  years, 

Although  the  cause 

Doge.  Ay,  think  upon  the  cause  — 

Forget  it  not :  — When  you  lie  down  to  rest, 
Let  it  be  black  among  your  dreams ;  and  when 
The  morn  returns,  so  let  it  stand  between 
The  sun  and  you,  as  an  ill-omened  cloud 
Upon  a  summer-day  of  festival : 
So  will  it  stand  to  me; — but  speak  not,  stir 

not, — 
Leave  all  to  me; — we  shall  have  much  to 

do, 
And  you  shall  have  a  part.  —  But  now  retire, 
'Tis  fit  I  were  alone. 

Ber.  F.  {taking  up   and  placing  the   ducaJ 
bonnet  on  the  table).     Ere  I  depart, 
I  pray  you  to  resume  what  you  have  spurned, 
Till  you  can  change  it  haply  for  a  crown. 
And  now  I  take  my  leave,  imploring  you 
In  all  things  to  rely  upon  my  duty 
As  doth  become  your  near  and  faithful  kins- 
man, 
And  not  less  loyal  citizen  and  subject. 

[Exit  Bertuccio  Faliero. 
Doge  {solus) .     Adieu,  my  worthy  nephew.  — 
Hollow  bauble  !     [  Takingupthe  ducalcap. 
Beset  with  all  the  thorns  that  line  a  crown, 
Without  investing  the  insulted  brow 
With  the  all-swaying  majesty  of  kings ; 
Thou  idle,  gilded,  and  degraded  toy, 
Let  me  resunte  thee  as  I  would  a  vizor. 

[Puts  it  on. 
How  my  brain  aches  beneath  thee !  and  my 

temples 
Throb  feverish  under  thy  dishonest  weight. 
Could  I  not  turn  thee  to  a  diadem  ? 
Could  I  not  shatter  the  Briarean  sceptre 
Which  in  this  hundred-handed  senate  rules, 
Making  the  people  nothing,  and  the  prince 
A  pageant  ?     In  my  life  I  have  achieved 
Tasks  not  less  difficult  —  achieved  for  them, 
Who  thus  repay  me ! —  Can  I  not  requite  them  ? 
Oh  for  one  year !     Oh  but  for  even  a  day 
Of  my  full  youth,  while  yet  my  body  served 
My  soul  as  serves  the  generous  steed  his  lord- 
I  would  have  dashed  amongst  them,  asking  few 
In  aid  to  overthrow  these  swoln  patricians; 
But  now  I  must  look  round  for  other  hands 
To  serve  this  hoary  head ;  —  but  it  shall  plan 
In  such  a  sort  as  will  not  leave  the  task 
Herculean,  though  as  yet  'tis  but  a  chaos 
Of  darkly  brooding  thoughts:  my  fancy  is 
In  her  first  work,  more  nearly  to  the  light 
Holding  the  sleeping  images  of  things 
For  the  selection  of  the  pausing  judgment  — 

The  troops  are  few  in 

Enter  VlNCENZO. 

Vin.  There  is  one  without 

Craves  audience  of  your  highness. 

Doge.  I'm  unwell  — 

I  can  see  no  one,  not  even  a  patrician  — 


SCENE  II. J 


MARINO  FALIERO,   DOGE    OF   VENICi 


535 


Let  him  refer  his  business  to  the  council. 

Vin.     My  lord,  I  will  deliver  your  reply ; 
It  cannot  much  import  —  he's  a  plebeian, 
The  master  of  a  galley,  I  believe. 

Doge,     How!  did  you  say  the  patron  of  a 

galley  ? 
That  is  —  I  mean  —  a  servant  of  the  state: 
Admit  him,  he  may  be  on  public  service. 

{Exit  Vincenzo. 
Doge  {solus) .   This  patron  may  be  sounded  ; 

I  will  try  him. 
I  know  the  people  to  be  discontented : 
They  have  cause,   since  Sapienza's  adverse 

day, 
When  Genoa  conquered :  they  have  further 

cause, 
Since  they  are  nothing  in  the  state,  and  in 
The  city  worse  than  nothing  —  mere  machines, 
To  serve  the  nobles'  most  patrician  pleasure. 
The  troops  have  long  arrears  of  pay,  oft  prom- 
ised, 
And  murmur  deeply  —  any  hope  of  change 
Will    draw    them    forward :    they   shall   pay 

themselves 
With   plunder: — but   the   priests  —  I   doubt 

the  priesthood 
Will  not  be  with  us ;  they  have  hated  me 
Since  that  rash  hour,  when,  maddened  with 

the  drone, 
I  smote  the  tardy  bishop  at  Treviso,1 
Quickening  his  holy  march  ;  yet,  ne'ertheless 
They  may  be  won,  at  least  their  chief  at  Rome, 
By  some  well-timed  concessions ;  but,  above 
All  things,  I  must  be  speedy :  at  my  hour 
Of  twilight  little  light  of  life  remains. 
Could  I  free  Venice,  and  avenge  my  wrongs, 
I  had  lived  too  long,  and  willingly  would  sleep 
Next  moment  with  my  sires  ;  and,  wanting  this, 
Better  that  sixty  of  my  four-score  years 
Had  been  already  where  —  how  soon,  I  care 

not  — 
The  whole  must  be  extinguished  ;  —  better  that 
They  ne'er  had  been,  than  drag  me  on  to  be 
The  thing  these  arch-oppressors  fain  would 

make  me. 
Let  me  consider —  of  efficient  troops 
There  are  three  thousand  posted  at 

Enter  VINCENZO    and   ISRAEL   BERTUCCIO. 

Vin.  May  it  please 

Your  highness,  the  same  patron  whom  I  spake 

of 
Is  here  to  crave  your  patience. 

Doge.  Leave  the  chamber, 

Vincenzo.  —  [Exit  VINCENZO. 

Sir,  you  may  advance  —  what  would  you  ? 

/.  Ber.     Redress. 


1  An  historical  fact.  See  Marin  Sanuto's  Lives 
of  the  Doges. —  ["  Sanuto  says  that  Heaven  took 
away  his  senses  for  this  buffet,  and  induced  him  to 
conspire:  — '  Perb  fu  permesso  che  il  Faliero  per- 
dette  1'iDtelktto,'  "  etc.  —  Byron's  Letters.] 


Doge.  Of  whom  ? 

/.  Ber.  Of  God  and  of  the  Doge 

Doge.     Alas !  my  friend,  you  seek  it  of  the 
twain 
Of  least  respect  and  interest  in  Venice 
You  must  address  the  council. 

/.  Ber.  'Twere  in  vain ; 

For  he  who  injured  me  is  one  of  them. 

Doge.     There's  blood  upon  thy  face  —  how 
came  it  there  ? 

/.  Ber.     'Tis    mine,  and  not  the  first   I've 
shed  for  Venice, 
But  the  first  shed  by  a  Venetian  hand  : 
A  noble  smote  me. 

Doge.  Doth  he  live  ? 

/.  Ber.  Not  long  — 

But  for  the  hope  I  had  and  have,  that  you, 
My  prince,  yourself  a  soldier,  will  redress 
Him,  whom  the  laws  of  discipline  and  Venice 
Permit  not  to  protect  himself;  —  if  not  — 
I  say  no  more. 

Doge.  But  something  you  would  do — ■ 

Is  it  not  so  ? 

/.  Ber.  I  am  a  man,  my  lord. 

Doge.     Why  so  is  he  who  smote  you. 

/.  Ber.  He  is  called  so  ; 

Nay,  more,  a  noble  one —  at  least,  in  Venice  : 
But  since  he  hath  forgotten  that  I  am  one, 
And  treats  me  like  a  brute,  the  brute   may 

turn  — ■ 
'Tis  said  the  worm  will. 

Doge.  Say  —  his  name  and  lineage  ? 

/.  Ber.     Barbaro. 

Doge.    What  was  the  cause  ?   or  the  pre- 
text? 

/.  Ber.     I    am   the   chief   of  the   arsenal,1 
employed 
At  present  in  repairing  certain  galleys 
But  roughly  used  by  the  Genoese  last  year. 
This  morning  comes  the  noble  Barbaro 
Full  of  reproof,  because  our  artisans 
Had  left  some  frivolous  order  of  his  house, 
To  execute  the  state's  decree  ;   I  dared 
To  justify  the  men  —  he  raised  his  hand ;  — 
Behold  my  blood !  the  first  time  it  e'er  flowed 
Dishonorably. 

Doge.  Have  you  long  time  served  ? 

/.  Ber.     So   long    as   to   remember   Zara's 
siege, 
And  fight  beneath  the  chief  who  beat  the  Huns 

there, 
Sometime  my  general,  now  the  Doge  Faliero. — 

Doge.     How !    are    we    comrades  ?  —  the 
state's  ducal  robes 
Sit  newly  on  me,  and  you  were  appointed 


1  [This  officer  was  chief  of  the  artisans  of  the 
arsenal,  and  commanded  the  Bucentaur,  for  the 
safety  of  which,  even  if  an  accidental  storm  should 
arise,  he  was  responsible  with  his  life.  He  mounted 
guard  at  the  ducal  palace  during  an  interregnum, 
and  bore  the  red  standard  before  the  new  Doge  on 
his  inauguration.  ■ — Amelot  de  la  Houssaye,  79.] 


536 


MARINO  FALIERO,   DOGE    OF   VENICE. 


[act  i. 


Chief  of  the  arsenal  ere  I  came  from  Rome ; 
So  that  I  recognized  you  not.     Who  placed 
you  ? 

/.  Ber.     The  late   Doge ;  keeping  still  my 
old  command 
As  patron  of  a  galley:  my  new  office 
Was  given  as  the  reward  of  certain  scars 
(So  was  your  predecessor  pleased  to  say) : 
I  little  thought  his  bounty  would  conduct  me 
To  his  successor  as  a  helpless  plaintiff; 
At  least,  in  such  a  cause. 

Doge.  Are  you  much  hurt  ? 

/.  Ber.     Irreparably  in  my  self-esteem. 

Doge.     Speak    out ;    fear    nothing :    being 
stung  at  heart, 
What  would  you  do  to  be  revenged  on  this 
man  ? 

/.  Ber.     That  which  I  dare  not  name,  and 
yet  will  do. 

Doge.    Then  wherefore  came  you  here  ? 

/.  Ber.  I  come  for  justice. 

Because  my  general  is  Doge,  and  will  not 
See  his  old  soldier  trampled  on.     Had  any, 
Save  Faliero,  filled  the  ducal  throne, 
This   blood   had   been  washed  out  in  other 
blood. 

Doge.     You  come  to  me  for  justice  —  unto 
me  f 
The  Doge  of  Venice,  and  I  cannot  give  it ; 
I  cannot  even  obtain  it  —  'twas  denied 
To  me  most  solemnly  an  hour  ago ! 

/.  Ber.     How  says  your  highness  ? 

Doge.  Steno  is  condemned 

To  a  month's  confinement. 

/.  Ber.  What !  the  same  who  dared 

To   stain    the   ducal   throne  with  those  foul 

words, 
That  have  cried  shame  to  every  ear  in  Venice  ? 

Doge.     Ay,    doubtless    they   have   echoed 
o'er  the  arsenal, 
Keeping  due  time  with  every  hammer's  clink 
As  a  good  jest  to  jolly  artisans  ; 
Or  making  chorus  to  the  creaking  oar, 
In  the  vile  tune  of  every  galley-slave, 
Who,  as  he  sung  the  merry  stave,  exulted 
He  was  not  a  shamed  dotard  like  the  Doge. 

/.  Ber.     Is't  possible  ?  a  month's  imprison- 
ment ! 
Xo  more  for  Steno  ? 

Doge.  You  have  heard  the  offence, 

And  now  you   know  his   punishment;    and 

then 
You  ask  redress  of  vie  !     Go  to  the  Forty, 
Who  passed  the  sentence  upon  Michel  Steno  ; 
They'll  do  as  much  by  Barbaro,  no  doubt. 

/.  Ber.     Ah  !  dared  I  speak  my  feelings  ! 

Doge.  Give  them  breath. 

Mine  have  no  further  outrage  to  endure. 

/.  Ber,     Then,  in  a  word,  it   rests  but  on 
your  word 
To  punish  and  avenge —  I  will  not  say 
My  petty  wrong,  for  what  is  a  mere  blov 


However  vile,  to  such  a  thing  as  I  am  ?  — 
But    the   base   insult    done    your   state    and 
person. 
Doge.     You  overrate  my  power,  which  is  a 
pageant. 
This  cap  is  not  the  monarch's  crown ;  these 

robes 
Might  move  compassion,  like  a  beggar's  rags; 
Nay,  more,  a  beggar's  are  his  own,  and  these 
But  lent  to  the  poor  puppet,  who  must  play 
Its  part  with  all  its  empire  in  this  ermine. 
/.  Ber.     Wouldst  thou  be  king  ? 
Doge.     Yes  —  of  a  happy  people. 
/.  Ber.     Wouldst  thou  be  sovereign  lord  of 

Venice  ? 
Doge.  Ay, 

If  that  the  people  shared  that  sovereignty, 
So  that  nor  they  nor  I  were  further  slaves 
To  this  o'ergrown  aristocratic  Hydra, 
The  poisonous  heads  of  whose  envenomed 

body 
Have  breathed  a  pestilence  upon  us  all. 
/.  Ber.     Yet,  thou  wast  born,  and  still  hast 

lived,  patrician. 
Doge.     In  evil  hour  was  I  so  born  ;  my  birth 
Hath  made  me  Doge  to  be  insulted:  but 
I  lived  and  toiled  a  soldier  and  a  servant 
Of  Venice  and  her  people,  not  the  senate; 
Their  good  and  my  own  honor  were  my  guer- 
don. r 
I  have  fought  and  bled;  commanded,  ay,  and 

conquered ; 
Have   made  and   marred  peace   oft  in  em- 
bassies, 
As  it  might  chance  to  be  our  country's  'van- 
tage; 
Have  traversed  land  and  sea  in  constant  duty, 
Through    almost    sixty   years,   and    still  for 

Venice, 
My  fathers'  and  my  birthplace,  whose  deai 

spires, 
Rising  at  distance  o'er  the  blue  Lagoon, 
It  was  reward  enough  for  me  to  view 
Once  more ;  but  not  for  any  knot  of  men. 
Nor  sect,  nor  faction,  did  I  bleed  or  sweat! 
But  would  you  know  why  I  have  done  all  this  ? 
Ask  of  the  bleeding  pelican  why  she 
Hath  ripped  her  bosom  ?    Had   the  bird  a 

voice, 
She'd  tell  thee  'twas  for  all  her  little  ones. 
/.  Ber.    And  yet  they  made  thee  duke. 
Doge.  They  made  me  so  ; 

I  sought  it  not,  the  flattering  fetters  met  me 
Returning  from  my  Roman  embassy, 
And  never  having  hitherto  refused 
Toil,  charge,  or  duty  for  the  state,  I  did  not, 
At    these   late   years,  decline   what  was   the 

highest 
Of  all  in  seeming,  but  of  all  most  base 
In  what  we  have  to  do  and  to  endure : 
Bear  witness  for  me  thou,  my  injured  subject, 
When  I  can  neither  right  myself  nor  thee. 


SCENE  II.] 


MARINO  FALTER 0,   DOGE    OF   VENICE. 


537 


/.  Ber.     You  shall  do  both,  if  you  possess 
the  will ; 
And  many  thousands  more  not  less  oppressed, 
Who  wait  but  for  a  signal  —  will  you  give  it  ? 
Doge.     You  speak  in  riddles. 
/.  Ber.  Which  shall  soon  be  read 

At  peril  of  my  life ;  if  you  disdain  not 
To  lend  a  patient  ear. 

Doge.  Say  on. 

/.  Ber.  Not  thou, 

Nor  I  alone,  are  injured  and  abused, 
Contemned  and  trampled  on  ;  but  the  whole 

people 
Groan  with   the   strong   conception   of  their 

wrongs : 
The  foreign  soldiers  in  the  senate's  pay 
Are  discontented  for  their  long  arrears  ; 
The  native  mariners,  and  civic  troops, 
Feel  with  their  friends  ;  for  who  is  he  amongst 

them 
Whose  brethren,  parents,  children,  wives,  or 

sisters, 
Have  not  partook  oppression,  or  pollution, 
From  the  patricians  ?     And  the  hopeless  war 
Against  the  Genoese,  which  is  still  maintained 
With  the  plebeian  blood,  and  treasure  wrung 
From  their  hard  earnings,  has  inflamed  them 

further : 
Even  now — but,  I  forget  that  speaking  thus, 
Perhaps  I  pass  the  sentence  of  my  death ! 
Doge.     And  suffering  what  thou  hast  done 
—  fear'st  thou  death  ? 
Be  silent  then,  and  live  on,  to  be  beaten 
By  those  for  whom  thou  hast  bled. 

I.  Ber.  No,  I  will  speak 

At  every  hazard ;  and  if  Venice'  Doge 
Should  turn  delator,  be  the  shame  on  him, 
And  sorrow  too  ;  for  he  will  lose  far  more 
Than  I. 

Doge.    From  me  fear  nothing  ;  out  with  it ! 
/.  Ber.    Know  then,  that  there  are  met  and 
sworn  in  secret 
A  band  of  brethren,  valiant  hearts  and  true; 
Men  who  have  proved  all  fortunes,  and  have 

long 
Grieved  over  that  of  Venice,  and  have  right 
To  do  so  ;  having  served  her  in  all  climes, 
And  having  rescued  her  from  foreign  foes, 
Would  do  the  same  from   those  within  her 

walls. 
They  are  not  numerous,  nor  yet  too  few 
For  their  great  purpose  ;  they  have  arms,  and 

means, 
And  hearts,  and  hopes,  and  faith,  and  patient 
courage. 
Doge.     For  what  then  do  they  pause  ? 
/.  Ber.  An  hour  to  strike. 

Doge  {aside).  Saint  Mark's  shall  strike  that 
hour !  ! 


I.  Ber.  I  now  have  placed 

My  life,  my  honor,  all  my  earthly  hopes 
Within  thy  power,  but  in  the  firm  belief 
That   injuries    like   ours,   sprung    from    one 

cause, 
Will  generate  one  vengeance  :  should  it  be  so, 
Be  our  chief  now  —  our  sovereign  hereafter. 
Doge.     How  many  are  ye  ? 
/.  Ber.  I'll  not  answer  that 

Till  I  am  answered. 

Doge.  How,  sir  !  do  you  menace  ? 

/.  Ber.  No  ;   I  affirm.    I  have  betrayed  my- 
self; 
But  there's  no  torture  in  the  mystic  wells 
Which  undermine  your  palace,  nor  in  those 
Not  less  appalling  cells,  the  "leaden  roofs," 
To  force  a  single  name  from  me  of  others. 
The  Pozzi2  and  the  Piombi  were  in  vain ; 
They  might  wring  blood  from  me,  but  treach- 
ery never. 
And   I  would  pass   the  fearful   "  Bridge    of 

Sighs," 
Joyous  that  mine  must  be  the  last  that  e'er 
Would  echo  o'er  the  Stygian  wave  which  flows 
Between  the  murderers  and  the   murdered, 

washing 
The  prison  and  the  palace  walls  :  there  are 
Those   who  would    live   to    think  on't,  and 
avenge  me. 
Doge.     If  such  your  power   and   purpose, 
why  come  here 
To  sue  for  justice,  being  in  the  course 
To  do  yourself  due  right  ? 

/.  Ber.  Because  the  man, 

Who  claims  protection  from  authority, 
Showing  his  confidence  and  his  submission 
To  that  authority,  can  hardly  be 
Suspected  of  combining  to  destroy  it. 
Had  I  sate  down  too  humbly  with  this  blow, 
A   moody   brow   and   muttered   threats   had 

made  me 
A  marked  man  to  the  Forty's  inquisition ; 
But  loud  complaint,  however  angrily 
It  shapes  its  phrase,  is  little  to  be  feared, 
And  less  distrusted.     But,  besides  all  this, 
I  had  another  reason. 
Doge.  What  was  that  ? 

/.  Ber.     Some   rumors  that  the  Doge  was 
greatly  moved 
By  the  reference  of  the  Avogadori 


1  The  bells  of  San  Marco  were  never  rung  but 
by   order  of  the   Doge.     One  of  the   pretexts  for 


ringing  this  alarm  was  to  have  been  an  announce- 
ment of  the  appearance  of  a  Genoese  fleet  off  the 
Lagune. 

-  [The  state  dungeons,  called  Pozzi,  or  wells, 
were  sunk  in  the  thick  walls  of  the  palace;  and  the 
prisoner,  when  taken  out  to  die,  was  conducted 
across  the  gallery  to  the  other  side,  and  being  then 
led  back  into  the  other  compartment,  or  cell,  upon 
the  bridge,  was  there  strangled.  The  low  portal 
through  which  the  criminal  was  taken  into  this  cell 
is  now  walled  up;  but  the  passage  is  open,  and  is 
still  known  by  the  name  of  the  Bridge  of  Sighs.  — 
Hothouse.] 


538 


MARINO  FALIERO,   DOGE    OF   VENICE. 


[act  II. 


Of  Michel  Steno's  sentence  to  the  Forty 
Had  reached  me.    I  had  served  you,  honored 

you, 
And  felt  that  you  were  dangerously  insulted, 
Being  of  an  order  of  such  spirits,  as 
Requite  tenfold  both  good  and  evil :  'twas 
My  wish  to  prove  and  urge  you  to  redress. 
Now  you  know  all ;  and  that  I  speak  the  truth, 
My  peril  be  the  proof. 

Doge.  You  have  deeply  ventured  ; 

But  all  must  do  so  who  would  greatly  win: 
Thus  far  I'll  answer  you  —  your  secret's  safe. 

/.  Ber.    And  is  this  all  ? 

Doge.  Unless  with  all  intrusted, 

What  would  you  have  me  answer  ? 

/.  Ber.  1  would  have  you 

Trust  him  who  leaves  his  life  in  trust  with  you. 

Doge.     But  I  must   know  your  plan,  your 
names,  and  numbers; 
The  last  may  then  be  doubled,  and  the  former 
Matured  and  strengthened. 

/.  Ber.  We're  enough  already  ; 

You  are  the  sole  ally  we  covet  now. 

Doge.     But  bring  me  to  the  knowledge  of 
your  chiefs. 

/.  Ber.      That    shall  be   done  upon   your 
formal  pledge 
To  keep  the  faith  that  we  will  pledge  to  you. 

Doge.     When  ?  where  ? 

/.  Ber.     This  night  I'll  bring  to  your  apart- 
ment 
Two  of  the  principals ;  a  greater  number 
Were  hazardous. 

Doge.  Stay,  I  must  think  of  this. 

What  if  I  were  to  trust  myself  amongst  you, 
And  leave  the  palace  ? 

/.  Ber.  You  must  come  alone. 

Doge.     With  but  my  nephew. 

/.  Ber.  Not  were  he  your  son. 

Doge.   Wretch  !  darest  thou  name  my  son  ? 
He  died  in  arms 
At  Sapienza  for  this  faithless  state. 
Oh  !  that  he  were  alive,  and  I  in  ashes ! 
Or  that  he  were  alive  ere  I  be  ashes ! 
I  should  not  need  the  dubious  aid  of  strangers. 

/.  Ber.  Not  one  of  all  those  strangers  whom 
thou  doubtest, 
But  will  regard  thee  with  a  filial  feeling, 
So  that  thou  keep'st  a  father's  faith  with  them. 

Doge.   The  die  is  cast.    Where  is  the  place 
of  meeting  ? 

/.  Ber.  At  midnight  I  will  be  alone  and 
masked 
Where'er  your  highness  pleases  to  direct  me, 
To  wait  your  coming,  and  conduct  you  where 
You  shall  receive  our  homage,  and  pronounce 
Upon  our  project. 

Doge.  At  what  hour  arises 

The  moon  ? 

/.  Ber.        Late,  but  the  atmosphere  is  thick 
and  dusky, 
Tis  a  sirocco. 


Doge.  At  the  midnight  hour,  then, 

Near  to  the  church  where  sleep  my  sires ; ' 

the  same, 
Twin-named   from    the    apostles    John   and 

Paul; 
A  gondola,2  with  one  oar  only,  will 
Lurk  in  the  narrow  channel  which  glides  by 
Be  there. 

/.  Ber.     I  will  not  fail. 

Doge.  And  now  retire 

/.  Ber.     In  the  full  hope  your  highness  wil< 

not  falter 
In  your  great  purpose.     Prince,  I   take  my 

leave.  [Exit  Israel  Bertuccio. 

Doge  (solus).     At  midnight,  by  the  church 

Saints  John  and  Paul, 
Where  sleep  my  noble  fathers,  I  repair  — 
To  what  ?  to  hold  a  council  in  the  dark 
With  common  ruffians  leagued  to  ruin  states! 
And  will  not  my  great  sires  leap  from  the 

vault, 
Where  lie  two  doges  who  preceded  roe, 
And  pluck  me  down  amongst  them  ?  Would 

they  could ! 
For  I  should  rest  in  honor  with  the  honored. 
Alas !   I  must  not  think  of  them,  but  those 
Who  have  made  me  thus  unworthy  of  a  name 
Noble  and  brave  as  aught  of  consular 
On  Roman  marbles ;  but  I  will  redeem  it 
Back  to  its  antique  lustre  in  our  annals, 
By  sweet  revenge  on  all  that's  base  in  Venice, 
And  freedom  to  the  rest,  or  leave  it  black 
To  all  the  growing  calumnies  of  time. 
Which  never  spare  the  fame  of  him  who  fails, 
But  try  the  Caesar  or  the  Catiline, 
By  the  true  touchstone  of  desert  —  success. 


ACT   II. 

SCENE  I.  —  An  Apartment  in  the  Ducal 

Palace. 

Angiolina  {wife  of  the  DOGE)  and  Mar* 

ANNA. 

Ang.    What  was  the  Doge's  answer  ? 
Mar.  That  he  was 

That  moment  summoned  to  a  conference ; 


1  [The  Doges  were  all  buried  in  St.  Mark's  be- 
fore Faliero.  It  is  singular  that  when  his  prede- 
cessor, Andrea  Dandolo,  died,  the  Ten  made  a  law 
that  all  the  future  Doges  should  be  buried  with  their 
families  in  their  own  churches — one  would  think, 
by  a  kind  of  presentiment.  So  that  all  that  is  said 
of  his  ancestral  Deges,  as  buried  at  St.  John's 
and  Paul's,  is  altered  from  the  fact,  they  being 
in  St.  Mark's.  Make  a  note  of  this,  and  put  Edite" 
as  the  subscription  to  it.  As  I  make  such  preten- 
sions to  accuracy,  I  should  not  like  to  be  twitted 
even  with  such  trifles  on  that  score.  Of  the  play 
they  may  say  what  they  please,  but  not  sc  af  my 
costume  and  dram.  pers.  —  they  having  been  real 
existences.  —  Byron's  Letters,  Oct.  1820.] 

*  A  gondola  is  not  like  a  common  boat,  but  is  as 


SCENE  I.J 


MARINO  FALIERO,   DOGE   OF   VENICE. 


539 


But  'tis  by  this  time  ended.     I  perceived 
Not  long  ago  the  senators  embarking ; 
And  the  last  gondola  may  now  be  seen 
Gliding  into  the  throng  of  barks  which  stud 
The  glittering  waters. 

Ang.  Would  he  were  returned ! 

He  has  been  much  disquieted  of  late ; 
And  Time,  which  has  not  tamed  his  fiery 

spirit 
Nor  yet  enfeebled  even  his  mortal  frame, 
Which  seems  to  be  more  nourished  by  a  soul 
So  quick  and  restless  that  it  would  consume 
Less  hardy  clay  —  Time  has  but  little  power 
On  his  resentments  or  his  griefs.     Unlike 
To  other  spirits  of  his  order,  who, 
In  the  first  burst  of  passion,  pour  away 
Their  wrath  or  sorrow,  all  things  wear  in  him 
An  aspect  of  eternity:  his  thoughts, 
His  feelings,  passions,  good  or  evil,  all 
Have  nothing  of  old  age  ;  and  his  bold  brow 
Bears  but  the  scars  of  mind,  the  thoughts  of 

years, 
Not  their  decrepitude :  and  he  of  late 
Has  been  more  agitated  than  his  wont. 
Would  he  were  come  !  for  I  alone  have  power 
Upon  his  troubled  spirit. 

Mar.  It  is  true, 

His  highness  has  of  late  been  greatly  moved 
By  the  affront  of  Steno,  and  with  cause : 
But  the  offender  doubtless  even  now 
Is  doomed  to  expiate  his  rash  insult  with 
Such  chastisement  as  will  enforce  respect 
To  female  virtue,  and  to  noble  blood. 

Ang.     'Twas  a  gross  insult ;   but  I  heed  it 
not 
For  the  rash  scorner's  falsehood  in  itself, 
But  for  the  effect,  the  deadly  deep  impression 
Which  it  has  made  upon  Faliero's  soul, 
The  proud,  the  fiery,  the  austere — austere 
To  all  save  me :  I  tremble  when  I  think 
To  what  it  may  conduct. 

Mar.  Assuredly 

The  Doge  can  not  suspect  you  ? 

Ang.  Suspect  me  f 

Whv  Steno  dared  not :  when  he  scrawled  his 

'lie, 
Grovelling  by  stealth  in  the  moon's  glimmer- 
ing light, 
His  own  still  conscious  smote  him  for  the  act, 
And  every  shadow  on  the  walls  frowned  shame 
Upon  his  coward  calumny. 

Mar.  'Twere  fit 

He  should  be  punished  grievously. 

Ang.  He  is  so. 

Mar.    What !  is  the  sentence  passed  ?  is  he 
condemned  ? 

Ang.     I  know  not  that,  but  he  has  been  de- 
tected. 


easily  rowed  with  one  oar  as  with  two  (though  of 
course,  not  so  swiftly),  and  often  is  so  from  motives 
of  privacy;  and,  since  the  decay  of  Venice,  of 
economy. 


Mar.     And  deem  you  this  enough  for  such 

foul  scorn  ? 
Ang .     I  would  not  be  a  judge  in  my  own 
cause, 
Nor  do  I  know  what  sense  of  punishment 
May  reach  the  soul  of  ribalds  such  as  Steno ; 
But  if  his  insults  sink  no  deeper  in 
The  minds  of  the  inquisitors  than  they 
Have  ruffled  mine,  he  will,  for  all  acquittance^ 
Be  left  to  his  own  shamelessness  or  shame. 
Mar.     Some  sacrifice  is  due  to  slandered 

virtue. 
Ang.     Why,  what   is   virtue  if  it   needs   a 
victim  ? 
Or  if  it  must  depend  upon  men's  words  ? 
The  dying  Roman  said,  "  'twas  but  a  name :  " 
It  were  indeed  no  more,  if  human  breath 
Could  make  or  mar  it. 

Mar.  Yet  full  many  a  dame. 

Stainless  and  faithful,  would  feel  all  the  wrong 
Of  such  a  slander;  and  less  rigid  ladies, 
Such  as  abound  in  Venice,  would  be  loud 
And  all-inexorable  in  their  cry 
For  justice. 

Ang,  This  but  proves  it  is  the  name 

And  not  the  quality  they  prize:  the  first 
Have  found  it  a  hard  task  to  hold  their  honor, 
If  they  require  it  to  be  blazoned  forth ; 
And  those  who   have   not  kept   it,  seek  its 

seeming 
As  they  would  look  out  for  an  ornament 
Of  which  they  feel  the  want,  but  not  because 
They  think  it  so  ;  they  live  in  others'  thoughts, 
And  would  seem  honest  as  they  must  seem 
fair. 
Mar.     You  have  strange   thoughts   for  a 

patrician  dame. 
Ang.     And  yet  they  were  my  father's  ;  with 
his  name, 
The  sole  inheritance  he  left. 

Mar.  You  want  none ; 

Wife  to  a  prince,  the  chief  of  the  Republic. 
Ang.     I  should  have  sought  none  though  a 
peasant's  bride, 
But  feel  not  less  the  love  and  gratitude 
Due  to  my  father,  who  bestowed  my  hand 
Upon  his  early,  tried,  and  trusted  friend, 
The  Count  Val  di  Marino,  now  our  Doge. 
Mar.     And  with  that  hand  did  he  bestow 

your  heart  ? 
Ang.  He  did  so,  or  it  had  not  been  bestowed. 
Mar.     Yet   this   strange    disproportion    in 
your  years, 
And,  let  me  add,  disparity  of  tempers, 
Might  make  the  world  doubt  whether  sucn  an 

union 
Could  make  you  wisely,  permanently  happy. 
Ang.    The  world  will  think  with  worldlings  ; 
but  my  heart 
Has  still  been  in  my  duties,  which  are  many, 
But  never  difficult. 

A4ar.  And  do  you  love  him  ? 


5+0 


MARINO  FALIERO,   DOGE    OF   VENICE. 


[act  II, 


Ang.    I  love  all  noble  qualities  which  merit 
Love,  and  I  loved  my  father,  who  first  taught 

me 
To  single  out  what  we  should  love  in  others, 
And  to  subdue  all  tendency  to  lend 
The  best  and  purest  feelings  of  our  nature 
To  baser  passions.     He  bestowed  my  hand 
Upon  Faliero :  he  had  known  him  noble, 
Brave,  generous  ;  rich  in  all  the  qualities 
Of  soldier,  citizen,  and  friend;  in  all 
Such  have  I  found  him  as  my  father  said. 
His  faults  are  those  that  dwell  in  the  high 

bosoms 
Of  men  who  have  commanded;    too   much 

pride, 
And  the  deep  passions  fiercely  fostered  by 
The  uses  of  patricians,  and  a  life 
Spent  in  the  storms  of  state  and  war ;  and  also 
From   the  quick  sense  of  honor,  which  be- 
comes 
A  duty  to  a  certain  sign,  a  vice 
When  overstrained,  and  this  I  fear  in  him. 
And  then  he  has  been  rash  from  his  youth 

upvvards, 
Yet  tempered  by  redeeming  nobleness 
In  such  sort,  that  the  wariest  of  republics 
Has  lavished  all  its  chief  employs  upon  him, 
From  his  first  fight  to  his  last  embassy, 
From  which  on  his  return  the  dukedom  met 
him. 
Mar.     But  previous  to  this  marriage,  had 
your  heart 
Ne'er  beat  for  any  of  the  noble  youth, 
Such  as  in  years  had  been  more  meet  to  match 
Beauty  like  yours  ?  or  since  have  you  ne'er 

seen 
One,  who,  if  your  fair  hand  were  still  to  give, 
Might  now  pretend  to  Loredano's  daughter  ? 
Ang.     I  answered  your  first  question  when 
I  said 
1  married. 
Mar.       And  the  second  ? 
Aug.  Needs  no  answer. 

Mar.     I   pray  your    pardon,  if  I  have  of- 
fended. 
Ang.     I  feel  no  wrath,  but  some  surprise  : 
I  knew  not 
That  wedded  bosoms  could  permit  themselves 
To  ponder  upon  what  they  now  might  choose, 
Or  aught  save  their  past  choice. 

Mar.  Tis  their  past  choice 

That  far  too  often  makes  them  deem   they 

would 
Now  choose  more  wisely,  could  they  cancel  it. 
Ang.     It  may  be  so.     I  knew  not  of  such 

thoughts. 
Mar.     Here  comes  the  Doge — shall  I  re- 
tire? 
Ang.         It  may 
Be  better  you  should  quit  me ;  he  seems  rapt 
In  thought. — How  pensively  he  takes  his  way  ! 
{Exit  Marianna. 


Enter  the  DOGE  and  PlETRO. 

Doge  {musing).     There  is  a  certain  Philip 
Calendaro 
Now  in  the  Arsenal,  who  holds  command 
Of  eighty  men,  and  has  great  influence 
Besides  on  all  the  spirits  of  his  comrades : 
This  man,  I  hear,  is  bold  and  popular, 
Sudden  and  daring,  and  yet  secret;  'twould 
Be  well  that  he  were  won  :  I  needs  must  hope 
That  Isreal  Bertuccio  has  secured  him, 
But  fain  would  be • 

Pit'  My  lord,  pray  pardon  me 

For  breaking  in  upon  your  meditation  ; 
The  Senator  Bertuccio,  your  kinsman, 
Charged  me  to  follow  and  inquire  vour  pleasure 
To  fix  an  hour  when  he  may  speak  with  you. 

Doge.     At  sunset.  —  Stay  a  moment  — let 
me  see  — 
Say  in  the  second  hour  of  night. 

[Exit  PlETRO. 

Ang.  My  lord ! 

Doge.     My  dearest  child,  forgive  me  —  why 
delay 
So  long  approaching  me  ?—  I  saw  you  not. 

Ang.    You  were  absorbed  in  thought,  and 
he  who  now 
Has  parted  from  you  might  have  words  ol 

weight 
To  bear  you  from  the  senate. 

Doge.  t  From  the  senate  ?  1 

Ang.    I  would  not  interrupt  him  in  his  duty 
And  theirs. 

Doge.        The  senate's  duty !  you  mistake ; 
'Tis  we  who  owe  all  service  to  the  senate. 


1  [This  scene  is,  perhaps,  the  finest  in  the  whole 
play.  The  character  of  the  calm,  pure-spirited 
Angiolina  is  developed  in  it  most  admirably  :  — the 
great  difference  between  her  temper  and  that  of  he- 
fiery  husband  is  vividly  portrayed; — but  not  lesu 
vividly  touched  is  that  strong  bond  of  their  union 
which  exists  in  the  common  nobleness  of  theiz 
deeper  natures.  There  is  no  spark  of  jealousy  it 
the  old  man's  thoughts,  —  he  does  not  expect  the 
fervors  of  youthful  passion  in  his  wife,  nor  does 
he  find  them :  but  he  finds  what  is  far  better,  —  the 
fearless  confidence  of  one,  who,  being  to  the  heart's 
core  innocent,  can  scarcely  be  a  believer  in  the  ex- 
istence of  such  a  thing  as  guilt.  He  finds  every 
charm  which  gratitude,  respect,  anxious  and  deep- 
seated  affection  can  give  to  the  confidential  Ian 
guage  of  a  lovely,  and  a  modest,  and  a  pious  woman 
She  has  been  extremely  troubled  by  her  observancf 
of  the  countenance  and  gesture  of  the  Doge,  ever 
since  the  discovery  of  Steno's  guilt;  and  she  does 
all  she  can  to  soothe  him  from  his  proud  irritation. 
Strong  in  her  consciousness  of  purity,  she  has 
brought  herself  to  regard  without  anger  the  insult 
offered  to  herself;  and  the  yet  uncorrected  instinct 
of  a  noble  heart  makes  her  try  to  persuade  her  lord, 
as  she  is  herself  persuaded,  that  Steno,  whatever 
be  the  sentence  of  his  judges,  must  be  punished  — 
more  even  than  they  would  wish  him  to  be  —  by  the 
secret  suggestions  of  his  own  guilty  conscience.  — 
Lockhart-] 


SCENE  I.J 


MARINO  FALIERO,   DOGE    OF   VENICE. 


541 


Ang.     I  thought  the  Duke  had  held  com- 
mand in  Venice. 

Doge.     He  shall.  —  But  let  that  pass.  —  We 
will  be  jocund. 
How  fares  it  with  you  ?  have  you  been  abroad? 
The  day  is  overcast,  but  the  calm  wave 
Favors  the  gondolier's  light  skimming  oar; 
Or  have  you  held  a  levee  of  your  friends  ? 
Or  has  your  music  made  you  solitary  ? 
Say — -is  there  aught  that  you  would  will  within 
The  little  sway  now  left  the  Duke  ?  or  aught 
Of  fitting  splendor,  or  of  honest  pleasure, 
Social  or  lonely,  that  would  glad  your  heart, 
To  compensate  for  many  a  dull  hour,  wasted 
On  an  old  man  oft  moved  with  many  cares  ? 
Speak,  and  'tis  done. 

Ang.  You're  ever  kind  to  me. 

I  have  nothing  to  desire,  or  to  request, 
Except  to  see  you  oftener  and  calmer. 

Doge.     Calmer  ? 

Ang.    Ay,  calmer,  my  good  lord. — Ah,  why 
Do  you  still  keep  apart,  and  walk  alone, 
And  let  such  strong  emotions  stamp  your  brow, 
As  not  betraying  their  full  import,  yet 
Disclose  too  much  ? 

Doge.  Disclose  too  much  !  —  of  what  ? 

What  is  there  to  disclose  ? 

Aug.  A  heart  so  ill 

At  ease. 

Doge.    'Tis  nothing,  child.  —  But  in  the  state 
You  know  what  daily  cares  oppress  all  those 
Who  govern  this  precarious  commonwealth  ; 
Now  suffering  from  the  Genoese  without, 
And    malcontents    within  —  'tis    this   which 

makes  me 
More  pensive  and  less  tranquil  than  my  wont. 

Ang.    Yet  this  existed  long  before,  and  never 
Till  in  these  late  days  did  I  see  you  thus. 
Forgive  me  ;  there  is  something  at  your  heart 
More  than  the  mere  discharge  of  public  duties, 
Which  long  use  and  a  talent  like  to  yours 
Have  rendered  light,  nay,  a  necessity, 
To  keep  your  mind  from  stagnating.     'Tis  not 
In  hostile  states,  nor  perils,  thus  to  shake  you  ; 
You,  who  have  stood  all  storms  and  never  sunk, 
And  climed  up  to  the  pinnacle  of  power 
And  never  fainted  by  the  way,  and  stand 
Upon  it,  and  can  look  down  steadily 
Along  the  depth  beneath,  and  ne'er  feel  dizzy. 
Were  Genoa's  galleys  riding  in  the  port, 
Were  civil  fury  raging  in  Saint  Mark's, 
Vou  are  not  to  be  wrought  on,  but  would  fall, 
As  you  have  risen,  with  an  unaltered  brow  — 
Your  feelings  now  are  of  a  different  kind; 
Something  has  stungyour  pride,  notpatriotism. 

Doge.     Pride  !  Angiolina  ?   Alas  !    none  is 
left  me. 

Ang.     Yes  —  the  same  sin  that    overthrew 
the  angels, 
And  of  all  sins  most  easily  besets 
Mortals  the  nearest  to  the  angelic  nature  : 
The  vile  are  only  vain ;  the  great  are  proud. 


Doge.     I  had  the  pride  of  honor,  of  your 
honor, 

Deep  at  my  heart But  let  us  change  the 

theme. 
Ang.     Ah  no  !  —  As  I  have  ever  shared  your 
kindness 
In  all  things  else,  let  me  not  be  shut  out 
From  your  distress  :  were  it  of  public  import, 
You  know  I  never  sought,  would  never  seek 
To  win  a  word  from  you ;  but  feeling  now 
Your  grief  is  private,  it  belongs  to  me 
To  lighten  or  divide  it.     Since  the  day 
When  foolish  Steno's  ribaldry  detected 
Unfixed  your  quiet,  you  are  greatly  changed, 
And  I  would  soothe  you  back  to  what  you 
were. 
Doge.     To  what  I  was !  —  Have  you  heard 

Steno's  sentence  ? 
Ang.     No. 

Doge.  A  month's  arrest. 

Ang.  Is  it  not  enough  ? 

Doge.     Enough  !  —  yes,  for  a  drunken  gal- 
ley slave, 
Who,  stung  by  stripes,  may  murmur  at  his 

master, 
But  not  for  a  deliberate,  false,  cool  villain, 
Who  stains  a  lady's  and  a  prince's  honor 
Even  on  the  throne  of  his  authority. 

Ang.     There  seems  to  be  enough  in  the  con- 
viction 
Of  a  patrician  guilty  of  a  falsehood: 
All  other  punishment  were  light  unto 
His  loss  of  honor. 

Doge.  Such  men  have  no  honor; 

They  have  but  their  vile  lives  —  and  these  are 
spared. 
Ang.    You  would  not  have  him  die  for  this 

offence  ? 
Doge.     Not    now:  —  being   still   alive,    I'd 
have  him  live 
Long  as  he  can  ;  he  has  ceased  to  merit  death ; 
The  guilty  saved  hath  damned  his  hundred 

judges, 
And  he  is  pure,  for  now  his  crime  is  theirs. 
Ang.     Oh !  had  this  false  and  flippant   li- 
beller 
Shed  his  young  blood  for  his  absurd  lampoon, 
Ne'er  from  that  moment  could  this  breast  have 

known 
A  joyous  hour,  or  dreamless  slumber  more. 
Doge.      Does   not  the  law   of  Heaven  say 
biood  for  blood  ? 
And  he  who  taints  kills   more  than  he  who 

sheds  it. 
Is  it  the  pain  of  blows,  or  shame  of  blows, 
That  make  such  deadly  to  the  sense  of  man  ? 
Do  not  the  laws  of  man  say  blood  for  honor  ? 
And,  less  than  honor,  for  a  little  gold  ? 
Say  not  the  laws  of  nations  blood  for  treason  ? 
Is't  nothing   to  have    filled   these  veins  with 

poison 
For  their  once  healthful  current  ?  is  it  nothing 


542 


MARINO  FALTER O,   DOGE    OF   VENICE. 


[act  It 


T©  have  stained  your  name  and  mine  —  the 

noblest  names  ? 
Is't  nothing  to  have  brought  into  contempt 
A  prince  before  his  people  ?  to  have  failed 
In  the  respect  accorded  by  mankind 
To  youth  in  woman,  and  old  age  in  man  ? 
To  virtue  in  your  sex,  and  dignity 
In  ours  ?  —  But  let  them  look  to  it  who  have 
saved  him.1 

Ang.  Heaven  bids  us  to  forgive  our  enemies. 

Doge.     Doth  Heaven  forgive  her  own  ?     Is 
Satan  saved 
From  wrath  eternal  ?  2 

Ang.  Do  not  speak  thus  wildly  — 

Heaven  will  alike  forgive  you  and  your  foes. 

Doge     Amen !    May  Heaven  forgive  them  ! 

Ang.  And  will  you? 

Doge.     Yes,  when  they  are  in  heaven  ! 

Ang.  And  not  till  then  ? 

Doge.     What  matters  my  forgiveness  ?  an 
old  man's, 
Worn  out,  scorned,  spurned,  abused ;    what 

matters  then 
My  pardon  more  than  my  resentment,  both 
Being  weak  and  worthless  ?     I  have  lived  too 

long.  — 
But  let  us  change  the  argument.  —  My  child  ! 
My  injured  wife,  the  child  of  Loredano, 
The  brave,  the  chivalrous,  how  little  deemed 
Thy  father,  wedding  thee  unto  his  friend, 
That  he  was  linking  thee  to  shame  !  — Alas  ! 
Shame   without   sin,   for   thou   art    faultless. 

Hadst  thou 
But  had  a  different  husband,  any  husband 
In  Venice  savethe  Doge,  this  blight,  this  brand, 
This  blasphemy  had  never  fallen  upon  thee. 
So  young,  so  beautiful,  so  good,  so  pure, 
To  suffer  this,  and  yet  be  unavenged  ! 

Ang.     I  am  too  well  avenged,  for  you  still 
love  me, 
And  trust,  and  honor  me;  and  all  men  know 
That  you  are  just,  and  I  am  true :  what  more 
Could  I  require,  or  you  command  ? 

Doge.  'Tis  well, 

And  may  be  better ;  but  whate'er  betide, 
Be  thou  at  least  kind  to  my  memory. 

Ang.     Why  speak  you  thus  ? 

Doge.  It  is  no  matter  why ; 

But  I  would  still,  whatever  others  think, 
Have  your  respect  both  now  and  in  my  grave. 


1  [This  scene  between  the  Doge  and  Angiolina, 
though  intolerably  long,  has  more  force  and  beauty 
than  any  thing  that  goes  before  it.  She  endeavors 
to  soothe  the  furious  mood  of  her  aged  partner;  while 
he  insists  that  nothing  but  the  libeller's  death  could 
make  fitting  expiation  for  his  offence.  This  speech 
of  the  Doge  is  an  elaborate,  ?nd,  after  all,  ineffectual 
attempt,  by  rhetorical  exaggerations,  to  give  some 
color  to  the  insane  and  unmeasured  resentment  on 
which  the  piece  hinges.  —  Jeffr?y-\ 

*MS.— 
K  Doth  Heaven  forgive  her  own  ?  is  there  not  Hell ?  " 


Ang.     Whv  should  vou  doubt  it  ?  has  it  evet 

failed? 
Doge.     Come  hither,  child ;  I  would  a  word 

with  you. 
Your  father  was  my  friend  ;  unequal  fortune 
Made  him  my  debtor  for  some  courtesies 
Which  bind  the  good  more  firmly  :  when,  op 

pressed 
With  his  last  malady,  he  willed  our  union, 
It  was  not  to  repay  me,  long  repaid 
Before  by  his  great  loyalty  in  friendship  ; 
His  object  was  to  place  your  orphan  beauty 
In  honorable  safety  from  the  perils, 
Which,  in  this  scorpion  nest  of  vice,  assail 
A  lonely  and  undowered  maid.     I  did  not 
Think  with   him,  but  would   not   oppose   the 

thought 
Which  soothed  his  death-bed. 

Ang.  I  have  not  forgotten 

The  nobleness  with  which  you  bade  me  speak 
If  my  young  heart  held  any  preference 
Which  would   have    made  me    happier;  nor 

your  offer 
To  make  my  dowry  equal  to  the  rank 
Of  aught  in  Venice,  and  forego  all  claim 
My  father's  last  injunction  gave  you. 

Doge.  Thus, 

'Twas  not  a  foolish  dotard's  vile  caprice, 
Nor  the  false  edge  of  aged  appetite, 
Which  made  me  coveteous  of  girlish  beauty. 
And  a  young  Bride  :  for  in  my  fieriest  youth 
I  swayed  such   passions ;    nor  was   this   my 

age 
Infected  with  that  leprosy  of  lust 
Which  taints  the  hoariest  years  of  vicious  men, 
Making  them  ransack  to  the  very  last 
The  dregs  of  pleasure  for  their  vanished  joys  ; 
Or  buy  in  selfish  marriage  some  young  victim, 
Too  helpless  to  refuse  a  state  that's  honest, 
Too  feeling  not  to  know  herself  a  wretch. 
Our  wedlock  was  not  of  this  sort ;  you  had 
Freedom  from  me  to  choose,  and  urged  in 

answer 
Your  father's  choice. 

Ang.  I  did  so  ;  I  would  do  so 

In  face  of  earth  and  heaven ;  for  I  have  never 

Repented  for  my  sake ;  sometimes  for  yours. 

In  pondering  o'er  your  late  disquietudes. 

Doge.     I  knew  my  heart  would  never  trtat 

you  harshly ; 
I  knew  my  days  could  not  disturb  you  long ; 
And  then  the  daughter  of  my  earliest  friend, 
His  worthy  daughter,  free  to  choose  again, 
Wealthier  and  wiser,  in  the  ripest  bloom 
Of  womanhood,  more  skilful  to  select 
By  passing  these  probationary  years 
Inheriting  a  prince's  name  and  riches, 
Secured,  by  the  short  penance  of  enduring 
An  old  man  for  some  summers,  against  all 
That  law's  chicane  or  envious  kinsmen  might 
Have    urged    against    her    right;    my    best 

friend's  child 


JCENE   I.] 


MARINO   FALIERO,   DOGE    OF    VENICE. 


543 


W  ould  choose  more  fitly  in  respect  of  years, 
And  not  less  truly  in  a  faithful  heart. 

Ang.     My  lord,  I  looked  but  to  my  father's 

wishes, 
Hallowed  by  his  last  words,  and  to  my  heart 
For  doing  all  its  duties,  and  replying 
With  faith  to  him  with  whom  I  was  affianced. 
Ambitious  hopes  ne'er  crossed  my  dreams ; 

and  should 
The  hour  you  speak  of  come,  it  will  be  seen 

so. 
Doge.     I  do  believe  you ;  and  I  know  you 

true : 
For  love,  romantic  love,  which  in  my  youth 
I  knew  to  be  illusion,  and  ne'er  saw 
Lasting,  but  often  fatal,  it  had  been 
No  lure  for  me,  in  my  most  passionate  days, 
And  could  not  be  so  now,  did  such  exist. 
But  such  respect,  and  mildly  paid  regard 
As  a  true  feeling  for  your  welfare,  and 
A  free  compliance  with  all  honest  wishes ; 
A  kindness  to  your  virtues,  watchfulness 
Not  shown,  but   shadowing   o'er  such   little 

failings 
As  youth  is  apt  in,  so  as  not  to  check 
Rashly,  but  win  you  from  them  ere  you  knew 
You  had  been  won,  but  thought  the  change 

your  choice ; 
A   pride  not  in  your  beauty,  but  your  con- 
duct, — 
A  trust  in  you  —  a  patriarchal  love, 
And     not     a     doting     homage  —  friendship, 

faith  — 
Such  estimation  in  your  eyes  as  these 
Might  claim,  I  hoped  for. 
Ang.  And  have  ever  had. 

Doge.     I  think  so.     For  the  difference  in 

our  years 
You  knew  it,   choosing  me,  and   chose :    I 

trusted 
Not  to  my  qualities,  nor  would  have  faith 
In  such,  nor  outward  ornaments  of  nature, 
Were  I  still  in  my  five  and  twentieth  spring ; 
I  trusted  to  the  blood  of  Loredano 
Pure  in  your  veins ;   I  trusted  to  the  soul 
God   gave   you  —  to   the   truths   your   father 

taught  you  — 
To  your  belief  in  heaven — to  your  mild  vir- 
tues— 
To  your  own  faith  and  honor,  for  my  own. 
Ang.     You  have  done  well. —  I  thank  you 

for  that  trust, 
Which  I  have  never  for  one  moment  ceased 
To  honor  you  the  more  for. 

Doge.  Where  is  honor, 

Innate  and  precept-strengthened,  'tis  the  rock 
Of  faith  connubial :  where  it  is  not — where 
Light  thoughts  are  lurking,  or  the  vanities 
Of  worldly  pleasure  rankle  in  the  heart, 
Or  sensual  throbs  convulse  it,  well  I  know 
'Twere  hopeless  for  humanity  to  dream 
Of  honesty  in  such  infected  blood, 


Although  'twere  wed  to  him  it  covets  meat : 
An  incarnation  of  the  poet's  god 
In  all  his  marble-chiselled  beauty,  or 
The  demi-deity,  Alcides,  in 
His  majesty  of  superhuman  manhood, 
Would  not  suffice  to  bind  where  virtue  is  not; 
It  is  consistency  which  forms  and  proves  it : 
Vice  cannot  fix,  and  virtue  cannot  change. 
The  once  fallen  woman  must  for  ever  fall; 
For  vice  must  have  variety,  while  virtue 
Stands  like  the  sun,  and  all  which  rolls  around 
Drinks   life,  and   light,   and  glory  from   her 
aspect. 

Ang.     And  seeing,  feeling  thus  this  truth  in 
others, 
(I   pray   you   pardon    me;)     but    wherefore 

yield  you 
To  the  most  fierce  of  fatal  passions,  and 
Disquiet  your  great  thoughts  with  restless  hate 
Of  such  a  thing  as  Steno? 

Doge.                                     You  mistake  me. 
It  is  not  Steno  who  could  move  me  thus  ; 
Had  it  been  so,  he  should but  let  that  pass. 

Ang.     What  is't  you  feel  so  deeply,  then, 
even  now? 

Doge.     The  violated  majesty  of  Venice, 
At  once  insulted  in  her  lord  and  laws. 

Ang.     Alas  !  why  will  you  thus  consider  it? 

Doge.     I  have  thought  on't  till but  let 

me  lead  you  back 
To  what  I  urged  ;  all  these  things  being  noted, 
I  wedded  you;  the  world  then  did  me  justice 
Upon  the  motive,  and  my  conduct  proved 
They  did  me   right,   while  yours  was  all  to 

praise : 
You  had  all  freedom — all  respect  — all  trust 
From  me  and  mine  ;  and,  born  of  those  who 

made 
Princes  at  home,  and  swept  kings  from  their 

thrones 
On  foreign  shores,  in  all  things  you  appeared 
Worthy  to  be  our  first  of  native  dames. 

Ang.    To  what  does  this  conduct? 

Doge.  To  thus  much  —  that 

A  miscreant's  angry  breath  may  blast  it  all  — 
A  villain,  whom  for  his  unbridled  bearing, 
Even  in  the  midst  of  our  great  festival, 
I  caused  to  be  conducted  forth,  and  taught 
How  to  demean  himself  in  ducal  chambers  ; 
A  wretch  like  this  may  leave  upon  the  wall 
The  blighting  venom  of  his  sweltering  heart, 
And  this  shall  spread  itself  in  general  poison; 
And  woman's  innocence,  man's  honor,  pass 
Into  a  by-word ;  and  the  doubly  felon 
(Who  first  insulted  virgin  modesty 
By  a  gross  affront  to  your  attendant  damsels 
Amidst  the  noblest  of  our  dames  in  public) 
Requite  himself  for  his  most  just  expulsion      < 
By  blackening  publicly  his  sovereign's  consort, 
And  be  absolved  by  his  upright  compeers. 

Ang.    But  he   has  been   condemned  into 
caotivity. 


54* 


MARINO  FALIERO,   DOGE    OF   VENICE. 


[act  h 


Doge.    For  such  as  him  a  dungeon  were 

acquittal ; 
And  his  brief  term  of  mock-arrest  will  pass 
Within  a  palace.     But  I've  done  with  him  ; 
The  rest  must  be  with  you. 
Ang.  With  me,  my  lord? 

Doge.     Yes  Angiolina.     Do  not  marvel ;  I 
Have  let  this  prey  upon  me  till  I  feel 
My  life  cannot  be  long  ;  and  fain  would  have 

you 
(Regard  the  injunctions  you  will  find  within 
-This  scroll   {Giving  her  a  paper.) Fear 

not ;  they  are  for  your  advantage  : 
Read  them  hereafter  at  the  fitting  hour. 
Ang.     My  lord,  in  life,  and  after  life,  you 

shall 
Be  honored  still  by  me :  but  may  your  days 
Be  many  yet — and  happier  than  the  present! 
This  passion  will  give  way,  and  you  will  be 
Serene,  and  what  you  should  be  —  what  you 

were. 
Doge.     I  will  be  what  I   should  be,  or  be 

nothing; 
But  never  more  —  oh  !  never,  never  more, 
O'er  the  few  days  or  hours  which  yet  await 
Th3  blighted  old  age  of  Faliero,  shall 
Sweet  Quiet  shed  her  sunset!     Never  more 
Those  summer  shadows  rising  from  the  past 
Of  a  not  ill-spent  nor  inglorious  life, 
Mellowing  the  last  hours   as  the  night  ap- 
proaches, 
Shall  soothe  me  to  my  moment  of  long  rest. 
I  had  but  little  more  to  ask,  or  hope, 
Save  the  regards  due  to  the  blood  and  sweat, 
And  the  soul's   labor  through  which  I    had 

toiled 
To   make  my  country  honored.     As  her  ser- 
vant — ■ 
Her  servant,  though  her  chief —  I  would  have 

gone 
Down  to  my  fathers  with  a  name  serene 
,\nd  pure  as  theirs ;  but  this  has  been  denied 

me.  — 
Would  I  had  died  at  Zara ! 

Ang.  There  you  saved 

The  state;    then  live  to  save  her  still.      A 

day, 
Another  day  like  that  would  be  the  best 
Reproof  10  them,  and  sole  revenge  for  you. 
Doge.     But  one  such  day  occurs  within  an 

age; 
My  lite  is  little  less  than  one,  and  'tis 
Enough  for  Fortune  to  have  granted  once, 
That  which  scarce  one  more  favored  citizen 
May  win  in  many  states  and  years.     But  why 
'  Thus  speak  I?     Venice  has  forgot  that  day  — 
Then  why  should  I  remember  it?  —  Farewell, 
Sweet  Angiolina  !  I  must  to  my  cabinet ; 
There's  much  for  me  to  do  —  and  the  hour 

hastens. 
Ang.     Remember  what  you  were. 
Doge.  It  were  in  vain ! 


Joy's  recollection  is  no  longer  joy, 
While  Sorrow's  memory  is  a  sorrow  still. 
Ang.     At  least,  whate'er  may  urge,  let  me 
implore 
That  you  will  take  some  little  pause  of  rest : 
Your  sleep  for  many  nights  has  been  so  tur- 
bid, 
That  it  had  been  relief  to  have  awaked  you, 
Had  I  not  hoped  that  Nature  would   o'er- 

power 
At  length   the   thoughts  which   shook  your 

slumbers  thus. 
An  hour  of  rest  will  give  you  to  your  toils 
With  fitter  thoughts  and  freshened  strength. 

Doge.  I  cannot  — 

I  must  not,  if  I  could  ;   for  never  was 
Such  reason  to  be  watchful :  yet  a  few  — 
Yet  a  few  days  and  dream-perturbed  nights, 
And  I  shall  slumber  well  —  but  where  ?  —  no 

matter. 
Adieu,  my  Angiolina. 

Ang.  Let  me  be 

An  instant  —  yet  an  instant  your  companion! 
I  cannot  bear  to  leave  you  thus. 

Doge.  Come  then, 

My  gentle  child  —  forgive  me;  thou  wert  made 
For  better  fortunes  than  to  share  in  mine, 
Now  darkling  in  their  close  toward  the  deep 

vale 
Where  Death  sits  robed  in  his  all-sweeping 

shadow.  * 
When  I  am  gone —  it  may  be  sooner  than 
Even  these  years  warrant,  for  there  is  that 

stirring 
Within  —  above  —  around,  that  in  this  city 
Will  make  the  cemeteries  populous 
As  e'er  they  were  by  pestilence  or  war, — 
When  I  am  nothing,  let  that  which  I  was 
Be  still  sometimes  a  name  on  thy  sweet  lips, 
A  shadow  in  thy  fancy,  of  a  thing 
Which  would  not  have  thee  mourn  it,  but  re- 
member ;  — 
Let  us  begone,  my  child — the  time  is  pressing. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.  —  A  retired  Spot  near  the  Arsenal. 

Israel  Bertuccio  and  Philip  Calen- 
daro. 

Cat.     How  sped  you,  Israel,  in  your  late 
complaint  ? 

/.  Ber.    Why,  well. 

Cal.        Is't  possible !  will  he  be  punished  ? 

/.  Ber.  Yes. 

Cal.    With  what  ?  a  mulct  or  an  arrest  ? 

/.  Ber.  With  death !  — 

Cal.  Now  you  rave,  or  must  intend  revenge, 
Such  as  I  counselled  you,  with  your  own  hand. 

/.  Ber.     Yes ;  and  for  one  sole  draught  of 
hate,  forego 
The  great  redress  we  meditate  for  Venice, 
And  change  a  life  of  hope  for  one  of  exile ; 


SCENE   II. J 


MARINO  FAIJERO,   DOGE    OF   VENICE. 


545 


Leaving  one  scorpion  crushed,  and  thousands 

stinging 
My  friends,  my  family,  my  countrymen ! 
No,  Calendaro  ;  these  same  drops  of  blood, 
Shed  shamefully,  shall  have  the  whole  of  his 

For  their  requital But  not  only  his  ; 

We  will  not  strike  for  private  wrongs  alone  : 
Such  are  for  selfish  passions  and  rash  men, 
But  are  unworthy  a  tyrannicide. 

Cal.     You  have  more  patience  than  I  care 
to  boast. 
Had  I  been  present  when  you  bore  this  insult, 
I  must  have  slain  him,  or  expired  myself 
In  the  vain  effort  to  repress  my  wrath. 

/.  Ber.    Thank  Heaven,  you  were  not  —  all 
had  else  been  marred  : 
As  'tis,  our  cause  looks  prosperous  still. 

Cal.  You  saw 

The  Doge  —  what  answer  gave  he  ? 

I.  Ber.  That  there  was 

No  punishment  for  such  as  Barbara. 

Cal.     I  told  you  so  before,  and  that  'twas 
idle 
To  think  of  justice  from  such  hands. 

/.  Ber.  At  least, 

It  lulled  suspicion,  showing  confidence. 
Had  I  been  silent,  not  a  sbirro  but 
Had  kept  me  in  his  eye,  as  meditating 
A  silent,  solitary,  deep  revenge. 

Cal.     But  wherefore  not  address  you  to  the 
Council  ? 
The  Doge  is  a  mere  puppet,  who  can  scarce 
Obtain  right  for  himself.    Why  speak  to  him  ? 

7.  Ber.     You  shall  know  that  hereafter. 

Cal.  Why  not  now  ? 

I.  Ber.     Be  patient  but  till  midnight.     Get 
your  musters, 
And   bid    our    friends    prepare    their    com- 
panies :  — 
Set  all  in  readiness  to  strike  the  blow, 
Perhaps  in  a  few  hours  ;  we  have  long  waited 
For  a  fit  time  —  that  hour  is  on  the  dial, 
It  may  be,  of  to-morrow's  sun  :  delay 
Beyond  may  breed  us  double  danger.     See 
That  all  be  punctual  at  our  place  of  meeting, 
And  armed,  excepting  those  of  the  Sixteen, 
Who  will  remain  among  the  troops  to  wait 
The  signal. 

Qz/.    These  brave  words   have   breathed 
new  life 
Into  my  veins  ;  I  am  sick  of  these  protracted 
And  hesitating  councils  :  day  on  day 
Crawled  on,  and  added  but  another  link 
To  our  long  fetters,  and  some  fresher  wrong 
Inflicted  on  our  brethren  or  ourselves, 
Helping  to  swell  our  tyrants'  bloated  strength. 
Let  us  but  deal  upon  them,  and  I  care  not 
For  the  result,  which  must  be  death  or  free- 
dom ! 
I'm  weary  to  the  heart  of  finding  neither. 

I.  Ber.    We  will  be  free  in  life  or  death ! 
the  grave 


Is  chainless.    Have  you  all  the  musters«ready? 
And  are  the  sixteen  companies  completed 
To  Sixty  ? 

Cal.        All  save  two,  in  which  there  are 
Twenty-five  wanting  to  make  up  the  number. 
I.  Ber.     No  matter;    we   can   do   without 

Whose  are  they  ? 
Cal.     Bertram's  and  old  Soranzo's,  both  of 
whom 
Appear  less  forward  in  the  cause  than  we  are. 
I.  Ber.     Your  fiery  nature  makes  you  deem 
all  those 
Who  are  not  restless  cold  :  but  there  exists 
Oft  in  concentred  spirits  not  less  daring 
Than  in  more  loud  avengers.     Do  not  doubt 
them. 
Cal.     I  do  not  doubt  the  elder ;  but  in  Ber- 
tram 
There  is  a  hesitating  softness,  fatal 
To  enterprise  like  ours  :  I've  seen  that  man 
Weep  like  an  infant  o'er  the  misery 
Of  others,  heedless  of  his  own,  though  greater; 
And  in  a  recent  quarrel  I  beheld  him 
Turn  sick  at  sight  of  blood,  although  a  villain's. 
I.  Ber.     The  truly  brave  are  soft  of  heart 
and  eyes, 
And  feel  for  what  their  duty  bids  them  do. 
I  have  known  Bertram  long ;    there  doth  not 

breathe 
A  soul  more  full  of  honor. 

Cal.  1 1  may  be  so  : 

I  apprehend  less  treachery  than  weakness ; 
Yet  as  he  has  no  mistress,  and  no  wife 
To  work  upon  his  milkiness  of  spirit, 
He  may  go  through  the  ordeal ;  it  is  well 
He  is  an  orphan,  friendless  save  in  us : 
A  woman  or  a  child  had  made  him  less 
Than  either  in  resolve. 

I.  Ber.  Such  ties  are  not 

For  those  who  are  called  to  the  high  destinies 
Which  purify  corrupted  commonwealths  ; 
We  must  forget  all  feelings  save  the  one  — 
We  must  resign  all  passions  save  our  pur- 
pose— 
We  must  behold  no  object  save  our  country  — 
And  only  look  on  death  as  beautiful, 
So  that  the  sacrifice  ascend  to  heaven, 
And  draw  down  freedom  on  her  evermore. 

Cal.    But  if  we  fail 

/.  Ber.  They  never  fail  who  die 

In  a  great  cause  :    the  block  may  soak  their 

gore; 
Their  heads  may  sodden  in  the  sun  ;  their  limbs 
Be  strung  to  city  gates  and  castle  walls  — 
But  still  their  spirit  walks  abroad.    Though 

years 
Elapse,  and  others  share  as  dark  a  doom, 
They  but  augment  the  deep  and   sweeping 

thoughts 
Which  overpower  all  others,  and  conduct 
The  world  at  last  to  freedom  :  What  were  we. 
If  Brutus  had  not  lived  ?     He  died  in  giving 


546 


MARINO  FALIERO,   DOGE    OF   VENICE. 


[act  il 


Rome  liberty,  but  left  a  deathless  lesson  — 
A  name  which  is  a  virtue,  and  a  soul 
Which  multiplies  itself  throughout  all  time 
When  wicked  men  wax  mighty,  and  a  state 
Turns  servile:    he  and  his  high  friend  were 

styled 
"  The  last  of  Romans  !  "     Let  us  be  the  first 
Of  true  Venetians,  sprung  from  Roman  sires. 

Cal.  Our  fathers  did  not  fly  from  Attila 
Into  these  isles,  where  palaces  have  sprung 
On  banks  redeemed  from  the  rude  ocean's 

ooze, 
To  own  a  thousand  despots  in  his  place. 
Better  bow  down  before  the  Hun,  and  call 
A  Tartar  lord,  than  these  swoln  silkworms 

masters. 
The  first  at  least  was  man,  and  used  his  sword 
As  sceptre :  these  unmanly  creeping  things 
Command  our  swords,  and  rule  us  with  a  word 
As  with  a  spell. 

/.  Ber.  It  shall  be  broken  soon. 

You  say  that  all  things  are  in  readiness  : 
To-day  I  have  not  been  the  usual  round, 
And  why  thou  knowest ;  but  thy  vigilance 
Will   better   have  supplied   my   care :   these 

orders 
In  recent  council  to  redouble  now 
Our  efforts  to  repair  the  galleys,  have 
Lent  a  fair  color  to  the  introduction 
Of  many  of  our  cause  into  the  arsenal, 
As  new  artificers  for  their  equipment, 
Or  fresh  recruits  obtained  in  haste  to  man 
The  hoped-for  fleet.  —  Are  all  supplied  with 
arms  ? 
Cal.    All  who  were  deemed  trustworthy : 
there  are  some 
Whom  it  were  well  to  keep  in  ignorance 
Till  it  be  time  to  strike,  and  then  supply  them  ; 
When  in  the  heat  and  hurry  of  the  hour 
They  have  no  opportunity  to  pause, 
But  needs  must  on  with  those  who  will  sur- 
round them. 
/.  Ber.     You  have  said  well.    Have  you  re- 
marked all  such  ? 
Cal.     I've   noted  most;    and  caused   the 
other  chiefs 
To  use  like  caution  in  their  companies. 
As  far  as  I  have  seen,  we  are  enough 
To  make  the  enterprise  secure,  if  'tis 
Commenced  to-morrow;  but,  till  'tis  begun, 
Each  hour  is  pregnant  with  a  thousand  perils. 
I.  Ber.    Let  the  Sixteen  meet  at  the  wonted 
hour, 
Except  Soranzo,  Nicoletto  Blondo, 
And  Marco  Giuda,  who  will  keep  their  watch 
Within  the  arsenal,  and  hold  all  ready 
Expectant  of  the  signal  we  will  fix  on. 
Cal.     We  will  not  fail. 

/.  Ber.  Let  all  the  rest  be  there  ; 

I  have  a  stranger  to  present  to  them. 

Cal.  A  stranger !  doth  he  know  the  secret  ? 
/.  Ber.  Yes. 


Cal.    And  have  you   dared  to  peril  youi 

friends'  lives 
On  a  rash  confidence  in  one  we  know  not  ? 
/.  Ber.     I  have  risked  no  man's  life  excep* 

my  own  — 
Of  that  be  certain  :  he  is  one  who  may 
Make  our  assurance  doubiy  sure,  according 
His  aid ;  and  if  reluctant,  he  no  less 
Is  in  our  power:  he  comes  alone  with  me, 
And  cannot  'scape  us ;  but  he  will  not  swerve. 
Cal.     I  cannot  judge  of  this  until  I  know 

him : 
Is  he  one  of  our  order  ? 

/.  Ber.  Ay,  in  spirit, 

Although  a  child  of  greatness ;  he  is  one 
Who  would  become  a  throne,  or  overthrow 

one  — 
One  who  has   done  great  deeds,  and  seen 

great  changes ; 
No  tyrant,  though  bred  up  to  tyranny; 
Valiant  in  war,  and  sage  in  council ;  noble 
In  nature,  although  haughty;  quick,  yet  wary : 
Yet  for  all  this,  so  full  of  certain  passions, 
That  if  once  stirred   and  baffled,  as  he  has 

been 
Upon  the  tenderest  points,  there  is  no  Fury 
In  Grecian  story  like  to  that  which  wrings 
His  vitals  with  her  burning  hands,  till  he 
Grows  capable  of  all  things  for  revenge ; 
And  add  too,  that  his  mind  is  liberal, 
He  sees  an^  feels  the  people  are  oppressed, 
And  shares  their  sufferings.    Take  him  all  in 

all, 
We  have  need  of  such,  and  such  have  need 

of  us. 
Cal.    And  what  part  would  you  have  him 

take  with  us  ? 
/.  Ber.     It  may  be,  that  of  chief. 
Cal.  What !  and  resign 

Your  own  command  as  leader  ? 

/.  Ber.  Even  so. 

My  object  is  to  make  your  cause  end  well, 
And  not  to  push  myself  to  power.     Experi- 
ence, 
Some  skill,  and  your  own  choice,  had  marked 

me  out 
To  act  in  trust  as  your  commander,  till 
Some  worthier  should  appear:  if  I  have  found 

such 
As  you  yourselves  shall  own   more  worthy. 

think  you 
That  I  would  hesitate  from  selfishness, 
And,  covetous  of  brief  authority, 
Stake  our  deep  interest  on  my  single  thoughts, 
Rather  than  yield  to  one  above  me  in 
All  leading  qualities  ?     No,  Calendaro, 
Know  your  friend  better;   but  you   all  shall 

judge.— 
Away !  and  let  us  meet  at  the  fixed  hour. 
Be  vigilant,  and  all  will  yet  go  well. 

Cal.    Worthy  Bertuccio,  I  have  known  yo« 

ever 


SCENE   I.] 


MARINO  FALIERO,   DOGE    OF   VENICE. 


547 


Trusty  and  brave,  with  head  and  heart  to  plan 
What  I  have  still  been  prompt  to  execute. 
For  my  own  part,  I  seek  no  other  chief; 
What  the  rest  will  decide  I  'know  not,  but 
I  am  with  YOU,  as  I  have  ever  been, 
In  all  our  undertakings.     Now  farewell, 
Until  the  hour  of  midnight  sees  us  meet. 

\Exeunt. 


ACT  III. 

SCENE  I.  —  Scene,  the  Space  between  the  Canal 
and  the    Church  of  San    Giovanni  e  San 
Paolo.     An  equestrian  Statue  before  it.  —  A 
Gondola  lies  in  the  Canal  at  some  distance. 
Enter  the  DOGE  alone,  disguised. 

Doge  (solus).     I  am   before  the  hour,  the 

hour  whose  voice, 
Pealing  into  the  arch  of  night,  might  strike 
These  palaces  with  ominous  tottering, 
And  rock  their  marbles  to  the  corner-stone, 
Waking   the   sleepers    from    some    hideous 

dream 
Of  indistinct  but  awful  augury 
Of  that  which  will  befall  them.     Yes,  proud 

city! 
Thou  must   be  cleansed  of  the  black  blood 

which  makes  thee 
A  lazar-house  of  tyranny  :  the  task 
Is  forced  upon  me,  I  have  sought  it  not; 
And  therefore  was  I  punished,  seeing  this 
Patrician  pestilence  spread  on  and  on, 
Until  at  length  it  smote  me  in  my  slumbers, 
And  I  am  tainted,  and  must  wash  away 
The  plague-spots  in  the  healing  wave.     Tall 

fane ! 
Where  sleep  my  fathers,  whose  dim  statues 

shadow 
The  floor  which  doth  divide  us  from  the  dead, 
Where  all  the  pregnant  hearts  of  our  bold 

blood, 
Mouldered  into  a  mite  of  ashes,  hold 
In  one  shrunk  heap  what  once  made  many 

heroes, 
When   what   is'  now   a   handful    shook    the 

earth  — 
Fane   of  the   tutelar  saints   who  guard  our 

house ! 
Vault  where  two  Doges  rest —  my  sires  !  who 

died 
The  one  of  toil,  the  other  in  the  field, 
With  a  long  race  of  other  lineal  chiefs 
And  sages,  whose  great  labors,  wounds,  and 

state 
I  have  inherited,  —  let  the  graves  gape, 
Till  all  thine  aisles  be  peopled  with  the  dead, 
^nd  pour  them  from  thy  portals  to  gaze  on 

me ! 
I  call  them  up,  and  them  and  thee  to  witness 
What   it   hath  been  which   put   me   to   this 

task  — 


Their  pure  high   blood,  their  blazon-roll  of 

glories, 
Their  mighty  name  dishonored  all  in  me, 
Not  by  me,  but  by  the  ungrateful  nobles 
We   fought  to   make    our    equals,   not    our 

lords : — 
And  chiefly  thou,  Ordelafo  the  brave, 
Who  perished  in  the  field,  where  I  since  con- 
quered, 
Battling  at  Zara,  did  the  hecatombs 
Of  thine  and  Venice'  foes,  there  offered  up 
By  thy  descendant,  merit  such  acquittance  ? 
Spirits  !  smile  down  upon  me  ;  for  my  cause 
Is  yours,  in  all  life  now  can  be  of  yours, — 
Your   fame,  your   name,  all   mingled   up   in 

mine, 
And  in  the  future  fortunes  of  our  race! 
Let  me  but  prosper,  and  I  make  this  city 
Free  and  immortal,  and  our  house's  name 
Worthier  of  what  you  were,  now  and   here- 
after !  1 

Enter  ISRAEL  BERTUCCIO. 
/.  Ber.    Who  goes  there  ? 
Doge.  A  friend  to  Venice. 

/.  Ber.  'Tis  he. 

Welcome,  my  lord,  —  you  are  before  the  time. 
Doge.     I  am  ready  to  proceed  to  your  as- 
sembly. 
/.  Ber.     Have  with  you.  —  I  am  proud  and 
pleased  to  see 
Such  confident  alacrity.     Your  doubts 
Since  our  last  meeting,  then,  are  all  dispelled  ? 
Doge.    Not  so  —  but  I  have  set  my  little  left 
Of  life  upon  this  cast :  the  die  was  thrown 
When  I  first  listened  to  vour  treason  —  Start 

not! 
That  is  the  word  ;  I  cannot  shape  my  tongue 
To  syllable  black  deeds  into  smooth  names, 
Though  I   be  wrought  on  to  commit   them. 

When 
I  heard  you  tempt  your  sovereign,  and  forbore 
To  have  you  dragged  to  prison,  I  became 
Your  guiltiest  accomplice  :  now  you  may, 
If  it  so  please  you,  do  as  much  by  me. 
/.  Ber.     Strange  words,  my  lord,  and  most 
unmerited ; 
I  am  no  spy,  and  neither  are  we  traitors. 
Doge.      We — ■  We!  —  no  matter  —  you  have 
earned  the  right 
To  talk  of  us.  —  But  to  the  point. —  If  this 
Attempt  succeeds,  and  Venice,  rendered  free 
And  flourishing,  when  we  are  in  our  graves, 
Conducts  her  generations  to  our  tombs, 
And  makes  her  children  with  their  little  hands 
Strew  flowers  o'er  her  deliverers'  ashes,  then 
The  consequence  will  sanctify  the  deed, 
And  we  shall  be  like  the  two  Bruti  in 

1  [The  Doge,  true  to  his  appointment,  is  waiting 
for  his  conductor  before  the  church  of  San  Paolo  e 
Giovanni.  There  is  great  loftiness,  both  of  feeling 
and  diction,  in  this  passage. —  Jeffrey.\ 


548 


MARINO   FALIERO,   DOGE    OF    VENICE. 


[act  in. 


The  annals  of  hereafter ;  but  if  not, 
If  we  should  fail,  employing  bloody  means 
And  secret  plot,  although  to  a  good  end, 
Still  we  are  traitors,  honest  Israel ;  —  thou 
No  less  than  he  who  was  toy  sovereign 
Six  hours  ago,  and  now  thy  brother  rebel. 

/.  Ber.     'Tis  not   the  moment  to  consider 
thus, 
Else  I  could  answer.  —  Let  us  to  the  meeting, 
Or  we  may  be  observed  in  lingering  here. 

Doge.     We  are  observed,  and  have  been. 

/.  Ber.                                         We  observed  ! 
Let  me  discover  —  and  this  steel 

Doge.  Put  up ; 

Here  are  no  human  witnesses ;  look  there  — 
What  see  you  ? 

/.  Ber.  Only  a  tall  warrior's  statue 

Bestriding  a  proud  steed,  in  the  dim  light 
Of  the  dull  moon. 

Doge.  That  warrior  was  the  sire 

Of  my  sire's  fathers,  and  that  statue  was 
Decreed  to  him  by  the  twice  rescued  city  :  — 
Think  you  that  he  looks  down  on  us  or  no  ? 

/.  Ber.     My  lord,  these  are  mere  fantasies ; 
there  are 
No  eyes  in  marble. 

Doge.  But  there  are  in  Death. 

I  tell  thee,  man,  there  is  a  spirit  in 
Such  things  that  acts  and  sees,  unseen,  though 

felt ; 
And,  if  there  be  a  spell  to  stir  the  dead, 
'Tis  in  such  deeds  as  we  are  now  upon. 
Deem'st  thou  the  souls  of  such  a  race  as  mine 
Can  rest,  when  he,  their  last  descendant  chief, 
Stands  plotting  on   the   brink   of  their  pure 

graves 
With  stung  plebeians  ?  * 

/.  Ber.  It  had  been  as  well 


1  [There  is  a  great  deal  of  natural  struggle  in  the 
breast  of  the  high-born  and  haughty  Doge,  between 
the  resentment  with  which  he  burns  on  the  one  hand, 
and  the  reluctance  with  which  he  considers  the  mean- 
ness of  the  associates  with  whom  he  has  leagued  him- 
self, on  the  other.  The  conspiring  Doge  is  not,  we 
think,  meant  to  be  ambitious  for  himself,  but  he  is 
sternly,  proudly,  a  Venetian  noble;  and  it  is  impos- 
sible for  him  to  tear  from  his  bosom  the  scorn  for 
every  thing  plebeian  which  has  been  implanted  there 
by  birth,  education,  and  a  long  life  of  princely  com- 
mand. There  are  other  thoughts,  too,  and  of  a  gen- 
tler kind,  which  cross  from  time  to  time  his  perturbed 
spirit.  He  remembers  —  he  cannot  entirely  forget  — 
the  days  and  nights  of  old  companionship,  by  which 
he  had  long  been  bound  to  those  whose  sentence  he 
has  consented  to  seal.  He  has  himself  been  declaim- 
ing against  the  folly  of  mercy,  and  arguing  valiantly 
the  necessity  of  total  extirpation,  —  and  that,  too,  in 
the  teeth  even  of  some  of  the  plebeian  conspirators 
themselves:  yet  the  poet,  with  profound  insight  into 
the  human  heart,  makes  him  shudder  when  his  own 
impetuosity  has  brought  himself,  and  all  who  hear 
him,  to  the  brink.  He  cannot  look  upon  the  bloody 
resolution,  no  not  even  after  he  himself  has  been  the 
chief   nstrument  of  its  formation.  —  Lockhart.\ 


To  have  pondered  this  before, —  ere  you  em- 
barked 
In  our  great  enterprise. —  Do  you  repent  ? 
Doge.     No  —  but  \  feel,  and  shall  do  to  the 
last. 
I  cannot  quench  a  glorious  life  at  once, 
Nor  dwindle  to  the  thing  I  now  must  be,2 
And  take  men's  lives  by  stealth,  without  some 

pause  : 
Yet  doubt  me  not ;  it  is  this  very  feeling, 
And  knowing  what  has  wrung  me  to  be  thus, 
Which  is  your  best  security.     There's  not 
A  roused  mechanic  in  your  busy  plot 
So  wronged  as  I,  so  fallen,  so  loudly  called 
To  his  redress :  the  very  means  I  am  forced 
By  these  fell  tyrants  to  adopt  is  such, 
That  I  abhor  them  doubly  for  the  deeds 
Which  I  must  do  to  pay  them  back  for  theirs. 
/.   Ber.     Let   us   away  —  hark  —  the    hour 

strikes. 
Doge.  On  —  on  — 

It  is  our  knell  or  that  of  Venice  —  On. 
/.  Ber,     Say  rather,  'tis  her  freedom's  rising 
peal 

Of  triumph This  way  —  we  are  near  the 

place.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. —  The  House  where  the  Conspira- 
tors meet. 

Dagolino,    Doro,     Bertram,     Fedele 
Trevisano'     Calendaro,      Antonio 

DELLE  BENDE,  etc.  etc. 

Cat.  {entering').     Are  all  here  ? 

Dag.  All  with  you;  except  the  three 

On  duty,  and  our  leader  Israel, 
Who  is  expected  momently. 

Cal.  Where's  Bertram  ? 

Ber.     Here ! 

Cal.      Have  you  not  been  able  to  complete 
The  number  wanting  in  your  company  ? 

Ber.     I  had  marked  out  some  :  but  I  have 
not  dared 
To  trust  them  with  the  secret,  till  assured 
That  they  were  worthy  faith. 

Cal.  There  is  no  need 

Of  trusting  to  their  faith  :  who,  save  ourselves 
And  our  more  chosen  comrades,  is  aware 
Fully  of  our  intent  ?  they  think  themselves 
Engaged  in  secret  to  the  Signory,3 
To  punish  some  more  dissolute  young  nobles 
Who  have  defied  the  law  in  their  excesses ; 
But  once  drawn   up,  and  their  new  swords 

well  fleshed 
In  the  rank  hearts  of  the  more  odious  sena- 
tors. 
They  will  not  hesitate  to  follow  up 
Their  blow  upon  the  others,  when  they  see 


2  [MS.— 

'  Nor  dwindle  to  a  cut-throat  without  shuddering."] 

3  An  historical  fact.     See  Appendix,  Note  A- 


SCENE    II.] 


MARINO   FALTER O,   DOGE    OF   VENICE. 


549 


The  example  of  their  chiefs,  and  I  for  one 
Will  set  them  such,  that  they  for  very  shame 
And  safety  will  not  pause  till  all  have  perished. 

Ber.     How  say  you  ?  all  I 

Cal.  Whom  wouldst  thou  spare  ? 

Ber.  I  spare  f 

I  have  no  power  to  spare.     I  only  questioned, 
Thinking  that   even   amongst   these   wicked 

men 
There  might  be  some,  whose  age  and  qualities 
Might  mark  them  out  for  pity. 

Cal.  Yes,  such  pity 

As  when  the  viper  hath  been  cut  to  pieces, 
The  separate  fragments  quivering  in  the  sun, 
In  the  last  energy  of  venomous  life, 
Deserve  and  have.     Why,  I  should  think  as 

soon 
Of  pitying  some  particular  fang  which  made 
One  in  the  jaw  of  the  svvoln  serpent,  as 
Of  saving  one  of  these  :  they  form  but  links 
Of  one  long  chain  ;  one  mass,  one  breath,  one 

body, 
They  eat,  and  drink,  and  live,  and  breed  to- 
gether, 
Revel,  and  lie,  oppress,  and  kill  in  concert, — 
So  let  them  die  as  one ! 

Dag.  Should  one  survive, 

He  would  be  dangerous  as  the  whole  ;  it  is  not 
Their  number,  be  it  tens  or  thousands,  but 
The  spirit  of  this  aristocracy 
Which  must  be  rooted  out;  and  if  there  were 
A  single  shoot  of  the  old  tree  in  life, 
'Twould  fasten  in  the  soil,  and  spring  again 
To  gloomy  verdure  and  to  bitter  fruit. 
Bertram,  we  must  be  firm  ! 

Cal.  Look  to  it  well, 

Bertram  ;  I  have  an  eve  upon  thee. 

Ber.  Who 

Distrusts  me  ? 

Cal.  Not  I ;  for  if  I  did  so, 

Thou  wouldst  not  now  be  there  to  talk  of 

trust : 
It  is  thy  softness,  not  thy  want  of  faith, 
Which  makes  thee  to  be  doubted. 

Ber.  You  should  know 

Who  hear  me,  who  and  what  I  am ;  a  man 
Roused  like  yourselves  to  overthrow  oppres- 
sion ; 
A  kind  man,  I  am  apt  to  think,  as  some 
Of  you  have  found  me;  and  if  brave  or  no, 
You,  Calendaro,  can  pronounce,  who  have 

seen  me 
Put  to  the  proof;  or,  if  you  should  have  doubts, 
I'll  clear  them  on  your  person  ! 

Cal.  You  are  welcome 

When  once  our  enterprise  is  o'er,  which  must 

not 
Be  interrupted  by  a  private  brawl. 

Ber.     I  am  no  brawler ;  but  can  bear  myself 
As  far  among  the  foe  as  any  he 
Who  hears  me  ;  else  why  have  I  been  selected 
To  be  of  your  chief  comrades  ?  but  no  less 


I  own  my  natural  weakness;  I  have  not 
Yet  learned  to  think  of  indiscriminate  murder 
Without  some  sense  of  shuddering;  and  the 

sight 
Of  blood  which  spouts  through  hoary  scalps 

is  not 
To  me  a  thing  of  triumph,  nor  the  death 
Of  man  surprised  a  glory.     Well  —  too  well 
I  know  that  we  must  do  such  things  on  thos4 
Whose  acts  have  raised  up  such  avengers  ;  but 
If  there  were  some  of  these  who  could  be  saved 
From  out  this  sweeping  fate,  for  our  own  sakes 
And  for  our  honor,  to  take  off  some  stain 
Of  massacre,  which  else  pollutes  it  wholly, 
I  had  been  glad;  and  see  no  cause  in  this 
For  sneer,  nor  for  suspicion ! 

Dag.  Calm  thee,  Bertram, 

For  we  suspect  thee  not,  and  take  good  heart ; 
It  is  the  cause,  and  not  our  will,  which  asks 
Such  actions  from  our  hands  :  we'll  wash  away 
All  stains  in  Freedom's  fountain  ! 

Enter   ISRAEL  BERTUCCIO,  and  the  DOGE, 

disguised. 

Dag.  Welcome,  Israel. 

Consp.     Most  welcome.  —  Brave  Bertuccio, 
thou  art  late  — 
Who  is  this  stranger  ? 

Cal.  It  is  time  to  name  him. 

Our  comrades  are  even  now  prepared  to  greet 

him 
In  brotherhood,  as  I  have  made  it  known 
That  thou  wouldsradd  a  brother  to  our  cause, 
Approved  by  thee,  and  thus  approved  by  all, 
Such  is  our  trust  in  all  thine  actions.     Now 
Let  him  unfold  himself. 

/.  Ber.  Stranger,  step  forth  ! 

[  The  DOGE  discovers  himself. 

Consp.     To   arms  !  —  we  are  betrayed  —  it 

is  the  Doge ! 

Down  with  them  both  !  our  traitorous  captain, 

and 
The  tyrant  he  hath  sold  us  to. 

Cal.  {drawing  his  sword).         Hold!  hold  I 
Who  moves  a  step  against  them  dies.     Holdi 

hear 
Bertuccio  —  What !  are  you  appalled  to  see 
A  lone,  unguarded,  weaponless  old  man 
Amongst  you  ? — Israel,  speak!  what  means 
this  mystery  ? 
/.  Ber.     Let  them   advance  and  strike  at 
their  own  bosoms, 
Ungrateful  suicides  !  for  on  our  lives 
Depend  their  own,  their  fortunes,  and  their 
hopes. 
Doge.    Strike !  —  If    I    dreaded    death,    a 
death  more  fearful 
Than  any  your  rash  weapons  can  inflict, 
I  should  not  now  be  here  :  —  Oh,  noble  Cour- 
age ! 
The  eldest  born  of  Fear,  which  makes  you 
brp"p 


550 


MARINO  FALIERO,   DOGE    OF   VENICE. 


[act  m 


Against  this  solitary  hoary  head ! 

See  the  bold  chiefs,  who  would  reform  a  state 

And  shake  down  senates,  mad  with  wrath  and 

dread 
At  sight  of  one  patrician!  —  Butcher  me, 
You  can  ;  I  care  not.—  Israel,  are  these  men 
The  mighty  hearts  you  spoke  of?  look  upon 
them ! 
Cal.    Faith!  he  hath  shamed  us,  and  de- 
servedly. 
Was  this  your  trust  in  your  true  chief  Bertuc- 

cio, 
To  turn  your  swords  against  him  and  his  guest  ? 
Sheathe  them,  and  hear  him. 

/.  Ber.  I  disdain  to  speak. 

They  might  and  must  have  known  a  heart  like 

mine 
Incapable  of  treachery ;  and  the  power 
They  gave  me  to  adopt  all  fitting  means 
To  further  their  design  was  ne'er  abused. 
They    might    be    certain    that  whoe'er  was 

brought 
By  me  into  this  council  had  been  led 
To  take  his  choice  —  as  brother  or  as  victim. 
Doge.    And  which  am  I  to  be  ?  your  ac- 
tions leave 
Some  cause  to  doubt  the  freedom  of  the  choice. 
/.  Ber.     My  lord,  we  would  have  perished 
here  together, 
Had  these  rash  men  proceeded ;  but,  behold, 
They  are  ashamed  of  that  mad  moment's  im- 
pulse, 
And  droop  their  heads ;  believe  me,  they  are 

such 
As  I  described  them  —  Speak  to  them. 

Cal.  Ay,  speak ; 

We  are  all  listening  in  wonder. 

/.  Ber.  {addressing the  Conspirators).     You 
are  safe, 
Nay,  more,  almost  triumphant  —  listen  then, 
And  know  my  words  for  truth. 

Doge.  You  see  me  here, 

As  one  of  you  hath  said,  an  old,  unarmed, 
Defenceless  man  ;  and  yesterday  you  saw  me 
Presiding  in  the  hall  of  ducal  state, 
Apparent  sovereign  of  our  hundred  isles, 
Robed  in  official  purple,  dealing  out 
The  edicts  of  a  power  which  is  not  mine, 
Nor  yours,  but  of  our  masters — the  patricians. 
Why  I  was  there  you  know,  or  think  you  know  ; 
Why  I   am  here,  he  who   hath   been   most 

wronged, 
He  who  among  you  hath  been  most  insulted, 
Outraged  and  trodden  on,  until  he  doubt 
If  he  be  worm  or  no,  may  answer  for  me, 
Asking  of  his  own  heart  what  brought  him 

here  ? 
You  know  my  recent  story,  all  men  know  it, 
And  judge  of  it  far  differently  from  those 
Who  sate  in  judgment  to  heap  scorn  on  scorn. 
But  spare  me  the  recital—  it  is  here, 
Here  at  my  heart  the  outrage  —  but  my  words, 


Already  spent  in  unavailing  plaints, 
Would  only  show  my  feebleness  the  more, 
And  I  come  here  to  strengthen  even  the  strong, 
And  urge  them  on  to  deeds,  and  not  to  war 
With  woman's  weapons ;  but  I  need  not  urge 

you. 
Our  private  wrongs  have  sprung  from  public 

vices 
In  this  —  I  cannot  call  it  commonwealth 
Nor  kingdom,  which  hath  neither  prince  nor 

people, 
But  all  the  sins  of  the  old  Spartan  state  * 
Without  its  virtues  —  temperance  and  valor. 
The  Lords  of  Lacedaemon  were  true  soldiers, 
But  ours  are  Sybarites,  while  we  are  Helots, 
Of  whom  I  am  the  lowest,  most  enslaved  ; 
Although  dressed  out  to  head  a  pageant,  as 
The  Greeks  of  yore  made  drunk  their  slaves 

to  form 
A  pastime  for  their  children.    You  are  met 
To  overthrow  this  monster  of  a  state, 
This  mockery  of  a  government,  this  spectre, 
Which  must  be  exorcised  with  blood,  —  and 

then 
We  will  renew  the  times  of  truth  and  justice, 
Condensing  in  a  fair  free  commonwealth 
Not  rash  equality  but  equal  rights, 
Proportioned  like  the  columns  to  the  temple, 
Giving  and  taking  strength  reciprocal, 
And  making  firm  the  whole  with  grace  and 

beauty, 
So  that  no  part  could  be  removed  without 
Infringement  of  the  general  symmetry. 
In  operating  this  great  change,  I  claim 
To  be  one  of  you  —  if  you  trust  in  me; 
If  not,  strike  home, —  my  life  is  compromised, 
And  I  would  rather  fall  by  freemen's  hands 
Than  live  another  day  to  act  the  tyrant 
As  delegate  of  tyrants  :  such  I  am  not, 
And  never  have  been  —  read  it  in  our  annals; 
I  can  appeal  to  my  past  government 
In  many  lands  and  cities  ;  they  can  tell  you 
If  I  were  an  oppressor,  or  a  man 
Feeling  and  thinking  for  my  fellow  men. 
Haply  had  I  been  what  the  senate  sought, 
A  thing  of  robes  and  trinkets,  dizened  out 
To  sit  in  state  as  for  a  sovereign  s  picture ; 
A  popular  scourge,  a  ready  sentence-signer, 
A  stickler  for  the  Senate  and  "  the  Forty," 
A  sceptic  of  all  measures  which  had  not 
The  sanction  of  "the  Ten,"  a  council-fawner, 
A  tool,  a  fool,  a  puppet,  —  they  had  ne'er 
Fostered  the  wretch  who  stung  me.     What  I 

suffer 
Has  reached  me  through  my  pity  for  the  peo- 
ple; 
That  many  know,  and  they  who  know  not  yet 
Will  one  day  learn :  meantime  I  do  devote, 
Whate'er  the  issue,  my  last  days  of  life  — 


«  [MS.— 

"  But  all  the  worst  sins  of  the  Spartan  state."] 


SCENE   II. J 


MARINO   FALIERO,   DOGE    OF   VENICE. 


551 


My  present  power  such  as  it  is,  not  that 
Of  Doge,  but  of  a  man  who  has  been  great 
Before  he  was  degraded  to  a  Doge, 
And  still  has  individual  means  and  mind; 
I    stake   my   fame    (and    I    had   fame)  —  my 

breath  — 
(The  least  of  all,  for  its  last  hours  are  nigh) 
My  heart — my  hope  —  my  soul  —  upon  this 

cast! 
Such  as  I  am,  I  offer  me  to  you 
And  to  your  chiefs,  accept  me  or  reject  me, 
A  Prince  who  fain  would  be  a  citizen 
Or  nothing,  and  who  has  left  his  throne  to  be 

so. 
Cal.     Long  live  Faliero! — Venice  shall  be 

free ! 
Consp.     Long  live  Faliero ! 
/.  Ber.  Comrades !  did  I  well  ? 

Is  not  this  man  a  host  in  such  a  cause  ? 
Doge.     This  is  no  time  for  eulogies,  nor 

place 
For  exultation.     Am  I  one  of  you? 

Cal.     Ay,  and  the  first  amongst  us,  as  thou 

hast  been 
Of  Venice  —  be  our  general  and  chief. 

Doge.  Chief!  —  general !  —  I  was  general  at 

Zara, 
And  chief  in  Rhodes  and  Cyprus,  prince  in 

Venice : 

I  cannot  stoop that  is,  I  am  not  fit 

To  lead  a  band  of patriots  :  when  I  lay 

Aside  the  dignities  which  I  have  borne, 
'Tis  not  to  put  on  others,  but  to  be 
Mate  to  my  fellows  —  but  now  to  the  point : 
Israel  has  stated  to  me  your  whole  plan  — 
"Tis  bold,  but  feasible  if  I  assist  it, 
And  must  be  set  in  motion  instantly. 

Cal.     E'en  when  thou  wilt.     Is  it  not  so,  my 

friends  ? 
I  have  disposed  all  for  a  sudden  blow ; 
When  shall  it  be  then  ? 
Doge.  At  sunrise. 

Ber.  So  soon  ? 

Doge.   So    soon  ?  —  so    late  —  each    hour 

accumulates 
Peril  on  peril,  and  the  more  so  now 
Since  I  have  mingled  with  you  ; — know  you  not 
The  Council,  and  "  the  Ten  ?"  the  spies,  the 

eyes 
Ot  the  patricians  dubious  of  their  slaves, 
And   now  more  dubious  of  the  prince  they 

have  made  one  ? 
I  tell  you,  you  must  strike,  and  suddenly, 
Full   to   the   Hydra's   heart  —  its   heads   will 

follow. 
Cal.  With  all  my  soul  and  sword,  I  yield 

assent. 
Our  companies  are  ready,  sixty  each, 
And  all  now  under  arms  by  Israel's  order; 
Each  at  their  different  place  of  rendezvous, 
And  vigilant,  expectant  of  some  blow ; 
Let  each  repair  for  action  to  his  post ! 


And  now,  my  lord,  the  signal  ? 

Doge.  When  you  heaj 

The  great  bell  of  Saint  Mark's,  which  may  not 

be 
Struck  without  special  order  of  the  Doge 
(The   last   poor    privilege    they   leave    theiv 

prince) , 
March  on  Saint  Mark's ! 
/.  Ber.  And  there  ?  — 

Doge.  By  different  toutes 

Let  your  march  be  directed,  every  sixty 
Entering  a  separate  avenue,  and  still 
Upon  the  way  let  your  cry  be  of  war 
And  of  the  Genoc».   fleet,  by  the  first  da,vn 
Discerned  before  the  port ;  form  rcund  the 

palace, 
Within  whose  court  will  be  drawn  out  in  arms 
My  nephew  and  the  clients  of  our  house, 
Many  and  martial ;  while  the  bell  tolls  on, 
Shout  ye,  "  Saint  Mark! — the  foe  is  on  our 

waters !  " 
Cal.  I  see  it  now — but  on,  my  noble  lord. 
Doge.    All   the  patricians   flocking  to   the 

Council, 
(Which  they  dare  not   refuse,  at   the  dread 

signal 
Pealing  from  out  their  patron  saint's  proud 

tower,) 
Will  then  be  gathered  in  unto  the  harvest, 
And  we  will  reap  them  with  the  sword  for 

sickle. 
If  some  few  should  be  tardy  or  absent  them, 
'Twill  be  but  to  be  taken  faint  and  single, 
When  the  majority  are  put  to  rest. 

Cal.  Would  that  the  hour  were  come !  we 

will  not  scotch, 
But  kill. 

Ber.    Once  more,  sir,  with  your  pardon,  I 
Would  now  repeat  the  question  which  I  asked 
Before  Bertuccio  added  to  our  cause 
This  great  ally  who  renders  it  more  sure, 
And  therefore  safer,  and  as  such  admits 
Some  dawn  of  mercy  to  a  portion  of 
Our  victims  —  must  all  perish  in  this  slaughter? 
Cal.  All  who  encounter  me  and  mine   be 

sure, 
The  mercy  they  have  shown,  I  show. 

Consp.  All!  all, 

Is  this  a  time  to  talk  of  pity?  when 
Have  they  e'er  shown,  or  felt,  or  feigned  it  ? 
/.  Ber.  Bertram, 

This  false  compassion  is  a  folly,  and 
Injustice  to  thy  comrades  and  thy  cause! 
Dost  thou  not  see,  that  if  we  single  out 
Some  for  escape,  they  live  but  to  avenga 
The   fallen  ?  and   how   distinguish   now   the 

innocent 
From  out  the  guilty  ?  all  their  acts  are  one  — 
A  single  emanation  from  one  body, 
Together  knit  for  our  oppression  !     'Tis 
Much  that  we  let  their  children  live ;  I  doub. 
If  all  of  these  even  should  be  set  apart: 


552 


MARINO  FALTER O,   DOGE    OF   VENICE. 


[act  iil 


The  hunter  may  reserve  some  single  cub 
From  out  the  tiger's  litter,  but  who  e'er 
Would  seek  to  save  the  spotted  sire  or  dam, 
Unless  to  perish  by  their  fangs  ?  however, 
I  will  abide  by  Doge  Faliero's  counsel : 
Let  him  decide  if  any  should  be  saved. 
Doge.  Ask   me  not  —  tempt   me   not  with 

such  a  question  — 
Decide  yourselves. 

I.  Ber.  You  know  their  private  virtues 

Far  better  than  we  can,  to  whom  alone 
Their  public  vices,  and  most  foul  oppression, 
Have  made  them  deadly  ;  if  there  be  amongst 

them 
One  who  deserves  to  be  repealed,  pronounce. 
Doge.  Dolfino's  father  was  my  friend,  and 

Lando 
Fought    by    my    side,   and    Marc    Cornaro 

shared  * 
My  Genoese  embassy  :  I  saved  the  life 
Of  Veniero  —  shall  I  save  it  twice? 
Would  that  I  could  save  them  and  Venice 

also! 
All    these   men,   or  their    fathers,  were   my 

friends 
Till  they  became  my  subjects  ;  then  fell  from 

me 
As  faithless  leaves  drop  from  the  o'erblown 

flower, 
And  left  me  a  lone  blighted  thorny  stalk, 
Which,  in  its  solitude,  can  shelter  nothing; 
So,  as  they  let  me  wither,  let  them  perish ! 
Cal.  They  cannot  coexist  with  Venice'  free- 
dom i 
Doge.  Ye,  though  you  know  and  feel  our 

mutual  mass 
Of  many  wrongs,  even  ye  are  ignorant 2 
What  fatal  poison  to  the  springs  of  life, 
To  human  ties,  and  all  that's  good  and  dear, 
Lurks  in  the  present  institutes  of  Venice  : 
All  these  men  were  my  friends  ;  I  loved  them, 

they 
Requited  honorably  my  regards; 
We  served  and  fought ;  we  smiled  and  wept 

in  concert; 
We  revelled  or  we  sorrowed  side  by  side ; 
We  made  alliances  of  blood  and  marriage; 
We  grew  in  years  and  honors  fairly,  —  till 
Their  own  desire,  not  my  ambition,  made 
Them  choose  me  for  their  prince,  and  then 

farewell ! 
Farewell  all  social  memory !  all  thoughts 


»  [MS.— 

^  |  SSEESSS;  i  Isave d  'He.ife,"etc.] 

*[MS.— 

"  Bear  witness  with  me !  ye  who  hear  and  know, 
And  feel  our  mutual  mass  of  many  wrones."] 


In  common  !  and  sweet  bonds  which  link  old 

friendships, 
When  the  survivors  of  long  years  and  actions, 
Which    now   belong   to    history,   soothe   the 

days 
Which  yet  remain  by  treasuring  each  other, 
And  never  meet,  but  each  beholds  the  mirror 
Of  half  a  century  on  his  brother's  brow, 
And  sees  a  hundred  beings,  now  in  earth, 
Flit  round  them  whispering  of  the  davs  gone 

by. 

And  seeming  not  all  dead,  as  long  as  two 
Of  the  brave,  joyous,  reckless,  glorious  band, 
Which  once  were  one  and  many,  still  retain 
A  breath  to  sigh  for  them,  a  tongue  to  speak 
Of  deeds    that   else    were    silent,   save    on 

marble 

Oime  !  Oime  !  —  and  must  I  do  this  deed  ?  3 
/.  Ber.  My  lord,  you  are  much  moved :  it 

is  not  now 
That  such  things  must  be  dwelt  upon. 

Doge.  Your  patience 

A  moment  —  I  recede  not :  mark  with  me 
The  gloomy  vices  of  this  government. 
From  the  hour  that  made  me  Doge,  the  Doge 

THEY  made  me  — 
Farewell   the   past!  I   died  to   all  that  had 

been, 
Or  rather  they  to  me :    no  friends,  no  kind- 
ness,        f 
No  privacy  of  life  —  all  were  cut  off: 
They  came  not  near  me,  such  approach  gave 

umbrage. 
They  could  not  love  me,  such  was  not  the  law ; 
They  thwarted  me,  'twas  the  state's  policy ; 
They  baffled  me,  'twas  a  patrician's  duty ; 
They  wronged  me,  for  such  was  to  right  the 

state ; 
They  could  not   right   me,  that   would  give 

suspicion ; 
So  that  I  was  a  slave  to  my  own  subjects ; 
So  that  I  was  a  foe  to  my  own  friends ; 
Begirt  with  spies  for  guards  —  with  robes  for 

power  — 
With    pomp    for    freedom  —  gaolers    for  a 

council  — 


3  [The  Doge  is  at  last  ushered  into  the  presence 
of  the  conspirators,  who  are  at  first  disposed  to  sac- 
rifice both  him  and  his  introducer;  but  are  pacified 
and  converted  by  a  speech  of  three  pages,  which  is 
not  very  good:  and  then  they  put  it  to  him  to  say, 
whether  any  of  the  devoted  senate  shall  be  spared 
in  the  impending  massacre.  He  says  — 
"  Ask  me  not  —  tempt  me  not  with  such  a  question  — 

Decide  yourselves."  — 
But,  on  being  further  pressed,  he,  in  these  pas- 
sages, gives  way  to  feelings  most  natural  to  his  own 
condition,  but  by  no  means  calculated  to  recommend 
him  to  his  new  associates:  and  afterwards,  when 
lie  is  left  alone  with  the  chief  conspirator,  the  con- 
trast of  their  situation  is  still  more  finely  and  fore* 
bly  elicited.  —  Jeffrey, .] 


SCENE   II.] 


MARWG   FALlERO,   DOGE    OF    VENICE. 


553 


Inquisitors  for  friends  —  and  hell  for  life ! 

1  had  one  only  fount  of  quiet  left, 

And  that  they  poisoned  !  My  pure  household 

gods1 
Were  shivered  on  my  hearth,  and  o'er  their 

shrine 
Sate  grinning  Ribaldry  and  sneering  Scorn. 
/.  Ber.  You  have  been  deeply  wronged,  and 

now  shall  be 
Nobly  avenged  before  another  night. 
Doge.  I  had  borne  all — -it  hurt  me,  but  I 

bore  it  — 
Till  this  last  running  over  of  the  cup 
Of  bitterness  —  until  this  last  loud  insult, 
Not  only  unredressed,  but  sanctioned ;  then, 
And  thus,  I  cast  all  further  feelings  from  me  — 
The  feelings  which  they  crushed  for  me,  long, 

long 
Before,  even  in  their  oath  of  false  allegiance  ! 
Even  in  that  very  hour  and  vow,  they  abjured 
Their  friend  and  made  a  sovereign,  as  boys 

make 
Playthings,   to   do   their  pleasure  —  and    be 

broken ! 
I  from  that  hour  have  seen  but  senators 
In  dark  suspicious  conflict  with  the  Doge, 
Brooding  with  him  in  mutual  hate  and  fear ; 
They  dreading  he  should  snatch  the  tyranny 
From  out  their  grasp,  and  he  abhorring  tyrants. 
To  me,  then,  these  men  have  no  private  life, 
Nor  claim  to  ties  they  have  cut  off  from  others  ; 
As  senators  for  arbitrary  acts 
Amenable,  I  look  on  them  —  as  such 
Let  them  be  dealt  upon.2 

Cal.  And  now  to  action  ! 

Hence,  brethren,  to  our  posts,  and  may  this  be 
The  last  night  of  mere  words:  I'd  fain  be  do- 

ing! 
Saint  Mark's  great  bell  at  dawn  shall  find  me 

wakeful ! 
'.  Ber.     Disperse  then  to  your  posts :    be 

firm  and  vigilant ; 
Think  on  the  wrongs  we  bear,  the  rights  we 

claim. 


1  ["  I  could  have  forgiven  the  dagger  or  the 
bowl,  any  thing,  but  the  deliberate  desolation  piled 
upon  me,  when  I  stood  alone  upon  my  hearth,  with 
my  household  gods  shivered  around  me.  Do  you 
suppose  I  have  forgotten  or  forgiven  it?  It  has, 
comparatively,  swallowed  up  in  me  every  other 
feeling,  and  I  am  only  a  spectator  upon  earth  till  a 
tenfold  opportunity  offers.  It  may  come  yet."  — 
Byron's  Letters,  1819.] 

-  [The  struggle  of  feelings  with  which  the  Doge 
undertakes  the  conspiracy  is  admirably  contrasted 
with  the  ferocious  eagerness  of  his  low-born  asso- 
ciates ;  and  only  loses  its  effect  because  we  cannot 
but  be  sensible  that  the  man  who  felt  thus,  could 
not  have  gone  on  with  his  guilty  project,  unless 
stimulated  by  some  greater  and  more  accumulated 
injuries  than  are,  in  the  course  of  the  tragedy, 
brought  before  the  perception  of  the  reader.  — 
Htijr.] 


This  day  and  night  shall  be  the  last  of  peril ! 
Watch  for  the  signal,  and  then  march  I  go 
To  join   my  band ;    let   each  be  prompt  to 

marshal 
His  separate  charge :  the  Doge  will  now  re- 
turn 
To  the  palace  to  prepare  all  for  the  blow. 
We  part  to  meet  in  freedom  and  in  glory! 
Cal.     Doge,  when    I   greet  you   next,  my 
homage  to  you 
Shall  be  the  head  of  Steno  on  this  sword ! 
Doge.     No ;  let  him  be  reserved  unto  the 
last, 
Nor  turn  aside  to  strike  at  such  a  prey,3 
Till  nobler  game  is  quarried:  his  offence 
Was  a  mere  ebullition  of  the  vice, 
The  general  corruption  generated 
By  the  foul  aristocracy :  he  could  not — 
He  dared  not  in  more  honorable  days 
Have   risked  it.     I  have  merged  all  private 

wrath 
Against  him  in  the  thought  of  our  great  pur- 
pose. 
A  slave  insults   me — I  require   his   punish- 
ment 
From  his  proud  master's  hands  ;  if  he  refuse  it, 
The  offence  grows  his,  and  let  him  answer  it. 
Cal.     Yet,  as  the  immediate  cause  of  the 
alliance 
Which  consecrates  our  undertaking  more, 
I  owe  him  such  deep  gratitude,  that  fain 
I  would  repay  him  as  he  merits ;  may  I  ? 
Doge.     You  would  but  lop  the  hand,  and  I 
the  head ; 
You  would  but  smite  the  scholar,  I  the  mas- 
ter; 
You  would  but  punish  Steno,  I  the  senate. 
I  cannot  pause  on  individual  hate, 
In  the  absorbing,  sweeping,  whole  revenge, 
Which,  like   the   sheeted   fire   from   heaven, 

must  blast 
Without  distinction,  as  it  fell  of  yore, 
Where   the    Dead   Sea   hath   quenched  twa 
cities'  ashes. 
/.  Ber.     Away,  then,  to  your  posts !  I  but 
remain 
A  moment  to  accompany  the  Doge 
To  our  late  place  of  tryst,  to  see  no  spies 
Have  been   upon   the   scout,   and  thence   I 

hasten 
To  wrhere  my  allotted  band  is  under  arms. 
Cal.     Farewell,  then, —  until  dawn! 
I.  Ber.  Success  go  with  you ! 

Consp.     We    will    not    fail  —  Away !    My 
lord,  farewell ! 4 


3  [MS.— 

"  Nor  turn  aside  to  strike  at  such  a  wretch."] 

4  [The  great  defect  of  Marino  Faliero  is,  that 
the  nature  and  character  of  the  conspiracy  excite 
no  interest.  It  matters  little  that  Lord  Byron  has 
been  faithful  to  history,  if  the  event  is  destitute  of  .{ 


55-* 


MARINO  FALTER O,   DOGE    OF    VENICE. 


[act  hi, 


[The  Conspirators  salute  the  DOGE  and 
Israel  Bertuccio,  and  retire,  headed 
by  Philip  Calendaro.  The  Doge 
and  Israel  Bertuccio  remain. 
I.  Ber.  We  have  them  in  the  toil  —  it  can- 
not fail ! 
Now   thou'rt   indeed   a   sovereign,   and  wilt 

make 
A.  name  immortal  greater  than  the  greatest : 
Free  citizens  have  struck  at  kings  ere  now ; 
Caesars  have  fallen,  and  even  patrician  hands 
Have  crushed  dictators,  as  the  popular  steel 
Has  reached  patricians :  but,  until  this  hour, 
What  prince  has  plotted  for  his  people's  free- 
dom ? 
Or  risked  a  life  to  liberate  his  subjects  ? 
For  ever,  and  for  ever,  they  conspire 
Against  the  people,  to  abuse  their  hands 
To  chains,  but  laid  aside  to  carry  weapons 
Against  the  fellow  nations,  so  that  yoke 
On  yoke,  and  slavery  and  death  may  whet, 
Not  glut,  the  never-gorged  Leviathan  ! 
Now,  my  lord,  to  our  enterprise;  —  'tis  great, 
And  greater  the  reward ;  why  stand  you  rapt  ? 
A   moment   back,   and  you  were   all   impa- 
tience ! 
Doge.    And  is  it  then  decided !  must  they 

die? 
/.  Ber.     Who  ? 

Doge.     My  own  friends  by  blood  and  cour- 
tesy, 
And  many  deeds  and  days  —  the  senators  ? 
/.  Ber.     You  passed  their  sentence,  and  it 

is  a  just  one. 
Doge.     Ay,  so  it  seems,  and  so  it  is  to  you  ; 
You  are  a  patriot,  plebeian  Gracchus  — 
The  rebel's  oracle,  the  people's  tribune  — 
I  biame  you  not  —  you  act  in  your  vocation  ; 


poetic  character.  Like  Alfieri,  to  whom,  in  many 
points,  his  genius  approximates,  he  is  fettered  by 
an  intractable  story,  which  is  wholly  remote  from 
the  instincts  and  feelings  of  mankind.  How  ele- 
vated soever  may  be  his  diction,  how  vivid  soever 
his  coloring,  a  moral  truth  is  wanting.  That 
charm,  so  difficult  to  define,  so  easy  to  apprehend, 
which,  diffused  over  the  scene,  excites  in  generous 
bosoms  an  exalted  enthusiasm  for  the  great  in- 
terests of  humanity.  This  is  the  poesy  of  history. 
It  is  the  charm  of  the  William  Tell  of  Schiller;  it 
is  felt  in  the  awful  plot  of  Brutus,  and,  to  a  certain 
degree,  in  the  conspiracy  of  Pierre  and  Jaffier;  for 
the  end  and  purpose  of  these  conspiracies  were,  to 
redeem  their  country  from  insult  and  oppression. 
But  in  Marino  Faliero's  attempt  against  the  state, 
we  contemplate  nothing  but  the  project  of  a  san- 
guinary ruffian,  seeking  to  grasp  unlimited  author- 
ity, and  making,  after  the  established  precedents  of 
all  usurpers,  the  wrongs  and  sufferings  of  the 
commonalty  his  pretence;  while,  in  another  aspect 
of  his  character,  we  see  him  goaded,  by  an  imag- 
ined injury,  into  an  enterprise  which  would  have 
inundated  Venice  with  her  best  blood.  Is  this  a 
sublime  spectacle,  calculated  to  purge  the  mind, 
according  to  the  aphorism  of  Aristotle,  by  means  of 
terror  er  pity?  —  Eel.  Rev.\ 


They  smote   you,  and   oppressed   you,  and 

despised  you; 
So  they  have  me  :  but  you  ne'er  spake  with 

them  ; 
You  never  broke  their  bread,  nor  shared  their 

salt; 
You  never  had  their  wine-cup  at  your  lips ; 
You  grew  not  up  with  them,  nor  laughed,  noi 

wept, 
Nor  held  a  revel  in  their  company ; 
Ne'er  smiled  to  see  them  smile,  nor  claimed 

their  smile 
In  social  interchange  for  yours,  nor  trusted 
Nor  wore  them  in  your  heart  of  hearts,  as  I 

have: 
These   hairs   of  mine  are  gray,  and  so  are 

theirs, 
The  elders  of  the  council :  I  remember 
When  all  our  locks  were  like  the  raven's  wing, 
As  we  went  forth  to  take  our  prey  around 
The  isles  wrung  from  the  false  Mahometan  ; 
And  can  I  see  them  dabbled  o'er  with  blood  ? 
Each  stab  to  them  will  seem  my  suicide.1 
/.  Ber.     Doge !    Doge !   this   vacillation   is 

unworthy 
A  child;  if  you  are  not  in  second  childhood, 
Call  back  your  nerves  to  your  own  purpose, 

nor 
Thus  shame  yourself  and  me.     By  heavens! 

I'd  rather 
Forego  even  now,  or  fail  in  our  intent, 
Than  see  the  man  I  venerate  subside 
From  high  resolves  into  such  shallow  weak- 
ness ! 
You  have  seen  blood  in  battle,  shed  it,  both 
Your  own  and  that  of  others  ;  can  you  shrink 

then 
From  a  few  drops  from  veins  of  hoary  vam- 
pires, 
Who  but  give  back  what  they  have  drained 

from  millions  ? 


1  [The  unmixed  selfishness  of  the  motives  with 
which  the  Doge  accedes  to  the  plot  perpetually 
escapes  him.  Not  that  he  is  wholly  untouched  by 
the  compunctious  visitings  of  nature.  But  the 
fearful  unity  of  such  a  character  is  broken  by  assign- 
ing to  it  the  throbbings  and  the  pangs  of  human 
feelings,  and  by  making  him  recoil  with  affright 
from  slaughter  and  desolation.  In  the  roar  and 
whirlwind  of  the  mighty  passions  which  precede 
the  acting  of  a  dreadful  plot,  it  is  wholly  unreason- 
able and  out  of  keeping  to  put  into  his  mouth  the 
sentimental  effusions  of  affectionate  pity  for  his 
friends,  whom  he  thinks  of  rather  too  late  to  give 
these  touches  of  remorse  and  mercy  any  other  char- 
acter than  that  of  hypocritical  whining.  The  senti- 
ments are  certainly  good,  but  lamentably  out  of 
time  and  place,  and  remind  us  of  Scarron's  remark 
upon  the  moralizing  Phlegyas  in  the  infernal  re- 
gions, — 

"  Cette  sentence  est  vrai  et  belle, 
Mais  dans  enfer  de  quoi  sert-elle?  " 
Yet  though  wholly  repugnant  to  dramatic  congruity, 
the  passage  has  great  poetic  power.  —  Eel.  Rev.\ 


SCENE    II.] 


MARINO   FALIERO,   DOGE    OF   VENICE. 


S5S 


Doge.     Bear  with  me !     Step  by  step,  and 
blow  on  blow, 
I  will  divide  with  you;  think'  not  I  waver: 
Ah  !  no  ;  it  is  the  certainty  of  all 
Which  I  must  do  doth  make  me  tremble  thus. 
But  let  these  last  and  lingering  thoughts  have 

way 
To  which  you  only  and  the  Night   are  con- 
scious, 
And  both  regardless  ;  when  the  hour  arrives, 
'Tis  mine  to  sound  the  knell,  and  strike  the 

blow, 
Which  shall  unpeople  many  palaces, 
A.nd  hew  the  highest  genealogic  trees 
Down  to  the  earth,  strewed  with  their  bleed- 
ing fruit, 
And  crush  their  blossoms  into  barrenness : 
This  will  I  —  must  I  — have  I  sworn  to  do, 
Nor  aught  can  turn  me  from  my  destiny ; 
But  still  I  quiver  to  behold  what  I 
Must  be,  and  think  what  I  have  been !    Bear 
with  me. 
/.  Ber.  Re-man  your  breast ;  I  feel  no  such 
remorse, 
I  understand  it  not :  why  should  you  change  ? 
You  acted,  and  you  act,  on  your  free  will. 
Doge.    Ay,  there  it  is — you  feel  not,  nor 
do  I, 
Else  I  should  stab  thee  on  the  spot,  to  save 
A  thousand  lives,  and,  killing,  do  no  murder; 
You  feel  not — you  go  to  this  butcher-work 
As   if  these   high-born    men  were  steers   for 

shambles ! 
When  all  is  over,  you'll  be  free  and  merry, 
And  calmly  wash  those  hands  incarnadine; 
But  I,  outgoing  thee  and  all  thy  fellows 
In  this  surpassing  massacre,  shall  be, 
Shall  see  and  feel  —  oh  God!  oh  God!  'tis  true, 
And  thou  dost  well  to  answer  that  it  was 
"  My  own  free  will  and  act,"  and  yet  you  err, 
For  I  will  do  this  !     Doubt  not  —  fear  not ;  I 
Will  be  your  most  unmerciful  accomplice  ! 
And  yet  I  act  no  more  on  my  free  will, 
Nor  my  own  feelings  —  both  compel  me  back  ; 
But  there  is  hell  within  me  and  around, 
And  like  the  demon  who  believes  and  trem- 
bles, 
Must  I  abhor  and  do.    Away !  away  ! 
Get  thee  unto  thy  fellows,  I  will  hie  me 
To  gather  the  retainers  of  our  house. 
Doubt  not,  Saint  Mark's  great  bell  shall  wake 

all  Venice, 
Except  her  slaughtered  senate  :  ere  the  sun 
Be  broad  upon  the  Adriatic  there 
Shall  be  a  voice   of  weeping,  which    shall 

drown 
The  roar  of  waters  in  the  cry  of  blood! 
I  am  resolved  —  come  on. 

/.  Ber.  With  all  my  soul ! 

Keep  a  firm  rein  upon  these  bursts  of  passion  ; 
Remember  what   these   men   have   dealt    to 
thee, 


And  that  this  sacrifice  will  be  succeeded 
By  ages  of  prosperity  and  freedom 
To  this  unshackled  city  :  a  true  tyrant 
Would  have  depopulated  empires,  nor 
Have   felt  the   strange    compunction  which 

hath  wrung  you 
To  punish  a  few  traitors  to  the  people. 
Trust  me,  such  were  a  pity  more  misplaced 
Than  the  late  mercy  of  the  state  to  Steno. 
Doge.     Man,  thou  hast  struck   upon   the 

chord  which  jars 
All  nature  from  my  heart.  Hence  to  our  taski 

[Exeunt. 


ACT   IV. 

SCENE  I.l  —  Palazzo  of  the  patrician  LlONI. 
LlONl  laying  aside  the  mask  and  cloak 
which  the  Venetian  Nobles  wore  in  public, 
attended  by  a  Domestic. 

Lioni.     I   will  to  rest,  right  weary  of  this 

revel, 
The  gayest  we  have  held  for  many  moons, 
And  yet,  I  know  not  why,  it  cheered  me  not; 
There  came  a  heaviness  across  my  heart, 
Which,   in    the    lightest    movement    of   the 

dance, 
Though  eye  to  eye,  and  hand  in  hand  united 
Even  with  the  lady  of  my  love,  oppressed  me, 
And  through  my  spirit  chilled  my  blood,  until 
A  damp  like   death   rose  o'er  my  brow ;    I 

strove 
To  laugh  the  thought  away,  but  'twould  not 

be; 
Through  all  the  music  ringing  in  my  ears 
A  knell  was  sounding  as  distinct  and  clear, 
Though  low  and  far,  as  e'er  the  Adrian  wave 
Rose  o'er  the  city's  murmur  in  the  night, 
Dashing  against  the  outward  Lido's  bulwark: 
So  that  I  left  the  festival  before 
It  reached  its  zenith,  and  will  woo  my  pillow 
For  thoughts  more  tranquil,  or  forgetfulness. 
Antonio,  take  my  mask  and  cloak,  and  light 
The  lamp  within  my  chamber. 

Ant.  Yes,  my  lord ; 

Command  you  no  refreshment  ? 


1  [The  fourth  act  opens  with  the  most  poetical 
and  brilliantly  written  scene  in  the  play  —  though 
it  is  a  soliloquy,  and  altogether  alien  from  the  busi- 
ness of  the  piece.  Lioni,  a  young  nobleman,  returns 
home  from  a  splendid  assembly,  rather  out  of  spirits ; 
and,  opening  his  palace  window  for  air,  contrasts  the 
tranquillity  of  the  night  scene  which  lies  before  him, 
with  the  feverish  turbulence  and  glittering  enchant- 
ments of  that  which  he  has  just  quitted.  Nothing  cao 
be  finer  than  this  picture,  in  both  its  compartments. 
There  is  a  truth  and  a  luxuriance  in  the  description 
of  the  rout,  which  mark  at  once  the  hand  of  a 
master,  and  raise  it  to  a  very  high  rank  as  a  piece 
of  poetical  painting:  — while  the  moonlight  view 
from  the  window  is  equally  grand  and  beautiful.— 
Jeffrey.} 


156 


MARINO   FALIERO,   DOGE    OF   VENICE. 


[act  IV. 


Lioni.  Nought,  save  sleep. 

Which  will  not  be  commanded.  Let  me  hope 

it,  {Exit  Antonio. 

Though  my  breast  feels  too  anxious  ;  I  will  try 
Whether  the  air  will  calm  my  spirits  :  'tis 
A.  goodly  night;  the  cloudy  wind  which  blew 
From  the  Levant  hath  crept  into  its  cave, 
And  the  broad  moon  has  brightened.     What 

a  stillness!  [Goes  to  an  open  lattice. 

And  what  a  contrast  with  the  scene  I  left, 
Where   the    tall    torches'   glare,   and    silver 

lamps' 
More  pallid  gleam  along  the  tapestried  walls, 
Spread  over  the  reluctant  gloom  which  haunts 
Those  vast  and  dimly-latticed  galleries 
A  dazzling  mass  of  artificial  light, 
Which  showed  all  things,  but  nothing  as  they 

were. 
There  age  essaying  to  recall  the  past, 
After  long  striving  for  the  hues  of  youth 
At  the  sad  labor  of  the  toilet,  and 
Full  many  a  glance  at  the  too  faithful  mirror, 
Pranked  forth  in  all  the  pride  of  ornament, 
Forgot  itself,  and  trusting  to  the  falsehood 
Of  the  indulgent  beams,  which  show,  yet  hide, 
Believed  itself  forgotten,  and  was  fooled. 
There  Youth,  which  needed  not,  nor  thought 

of  such 
Vain  adjuncts,  lavished  its  true  bloom,  and 

health, 
And  bridal  beauty,  in  the  unwholesome  press 
Of  flushed  and  crowded  wassailers,  and  wasted 
Its  hours  of  rest  in  dreaming  this  was  pleasure, 
And  so  shall  waste  them  till  the  sunrise  streams 
On   sallow    cheeks   and  sunken  eyes,  which 

should  not 
Have  worn  this  aspect  yet  for  many  a  year. 
The  music,  and  the  banquet,  and  the  wine  — 
The  garlands,  the  rose  odors,  and  the  flow- 
ers— 
The  sparkling  eyes,  and  flashing  ornaments  — 
The   white   arms   and   the   raven   hair  —  the 

braids 
And   bracelets ;    swanlike  bosoms,   and    the 

necklace, 
An  India  in  itself,  yet  dazzling  not 
The  eye  like  what  it  circled ;  the  thin  robes, 
Floating  like  light  clouds  'twixt  our  gaze  and 

heaven ; 
The  many-twinkling  feet  so  small  and  sylph- 
like, 
Suggesting  the  more  secret  symmetry 
Of  the  fair  forms  which  terminate  so  well  — 
All  the  delusion  of  the  dizzy  scene, 
Its   false   and   true   enchantments  —  art    and 

nature, 
Which  swam  before  my  giddy  eyes,  that  drank 
The  sight  of  beauty  as  the  parched  pilgrim's 
On  Arab  sands  the  false  mirage,  which  offers 
A  lucid  lake  to  his  eluded  thirst, 
Are   gone.    •  Around   me  are  the  stars  and 

waters  — 


Worlds  mirrored  in  the  ocean,  goodlier  sigh* 
Than  torches  glared  back  by  a  gaudy  glass , 
And  the  great  element,  which  is  to  space 
What  ocean  is  to  earth,  spreads  its  blue  depths, 
Softened    with    the    first    breathings    of   the 

spring ; 
The  high  moon  sails  upon  her  beauteous  way. 
Serenely  smoothing  o'er  the  lofty  walls 
Of  those  tall  piles  and  sea-girt  palaces, 
Whose   porphyry   pillars,  and  whose   costly 

fronts, 
Fraught  with  the  orient  spoil  of  many  marbles, 
Like  altars  ranged  along  the  broad  canal, 
Seem  each  a  trophy  of  some  mighty  deed 
Reared  up  from  out  the  waters,  scarce   less 

strangely 
Than  those  more  massy  and  mysterious  giants 
Of  architecture,  those  Titanian  fabrics, 
Which  point  in  Egypt's  plains  to  times  that 

have 
No  other  record.     All  is  gentle  :  nought 
Stirs  rudely  ;  but,  congenial  with  the  night, 
Whatever  walks  is  gliding  like  a  spirit. 
The  tinklings  of  some  vigilant  guitars 
Of  sleepless  lovers  to  a  wakeful  mistress, 
And  cautious  opening  of  the  casement,  show- 
ing 
That  he  is  not  unheard ;    while  her  young 

hand, 
Fair  as  the  moonlight  of  which  it  seems  part, 
So  delicately'whiti,  it  trembles  in 
The  act  of  opening  the  forbidden  lattice, 
To  let  in  love  through  music,  makes  his  heart 
Thrill  like  his  lyre-strings  at  the  sight ;  the  dash 
Phosphoric  of  the  oar,  or  rapid  twinkle 
Of  the  far  lights  of  skimming  gondolas, 
And  the  responsive  voices  of  the  choir 
Of  boatmen   answering  back  with  verse  foi 

verse ; 
Some  dusky  shadow  checkering  the  Rialto ; 
Some   glimmering  palace   roof,   or   tapering 

spire, 
Are  all  the  sights  and  sounds  which  here  per- 
vade 
The  ocean-born  and  earth-commanding  city — ■ 
How  sweet  and  soothing  is  this  hour  of  calm  ! 
I   thank  thee,  Night!    for  thou   hast  chased 

away 
Those  horrid  bodements  which,  amidst  the 

throng, 
I  could  not  dissipate  :  and  with  the  blessing 
Of  thy  benign  and  quiet  influence, — 
Now  will  I  to  my  couch,  although  to  rest 
Is  almost  wronging  such  a  night  as  this  — — 
\_A  knocking  is  heard  from  without. 
Hark !   what  is  that  ?   or  who  at  such  a  mo- 
ment ? 

Enter  ANTONIO. 

Ant.    My  lord,  a  man  without,  on  urged* 

business, 
Implores  to  be  admitted. 


SCENE    I.] 


MARINO  FALIERO,   DOGE    OF   VENICE. 


557 


Lioni.  Is  he  a  stranger  ? 

Ant.     His  face  is  muffled  in  his  cloak,  but 
both 
,l\s  voice  and  gestures  seem  familiar  to  me ; 
t  craved  his  name,  but  this  he  seemed  reluc- 
tant 
To  trust,  save  to  yourself;  most  earnestly 
He  sues  to  be  permitted  to  approach  you. 

Lioni.     'Tis   a   strange   hour,  and   a   sus- 
picious bearing ! 
And  yet  there  is  slight  peril :  'tis  not  in 
Their  houses  noble  men  are  struck  at ;  still, 
Although  I  know  not  that  I  have  a  foe 
In  Venice,  'twill  be  wise  to  use  some  caution. 
Admit  him,  and  retire;  but  call  up  quickly 
Some  of  thy  fellows,  who  may  wait  without.  — 
Who  can  this  man  be  ?  — • 

[Exit  Antonio,  and  returns  with  Ber- 
tram muffled. 

Ber.  My  good  lord  Lioni, 

I  have  no  time  to  lose,  nor  thou  —  dismiss 
This  menial  hence ;   I  would  be  private  with 
you. 

Lioni.     It  seems  the  voice  of  Bertram  — 
Go,  Antonio.  [Exit  ANTONIO. 

Now,  stranger,  what  would  you  at  such  an 
hour  ? 

Ber.  (discovering  himself).     A  boon,  my 
noble  patron  ;  you  have  granted 
Many  to  your  poor  client,  Bertram  ;  add 
This  one,  and  make  him  happy. 

Lioni.  Thou  hast  known  me 

From  boyhood,  ever  ready  to  assist  thee 
In  all  fair  objects  of  advancement,  which 
Beseem  one  of  thy  station  ;  I  would  promise 
Ere  thy  request  was  heard,  but  that  the  hour, 
Thy  bearing;  and  this  strange  and   hurried 

mode 
Of  suing,  gives  me  to  suspect  this  visit 
Hath  some  mysterious  import  —  but  say  on  — 
What  has  occurred,  some  rash  and  sudden 

broil  ?  — 
A  cup  too  much,  a  scuffle,  and  a  stab  ?  — 
Mere  things  of  every  day ;  so  that  thou  hast  not 
Spilt  noble  blood,  I  guarantee  thy  safety; 
But  then  thou  must  withdraw,  for  angry  friends 
And  relatives,  in  the  first  burst  of  vengeance, 
Are  things  in  Venice  deadlier  than  the  laws. 

Ber.     My  lord,  I  thank  you  ;  but 

Lioni.  But  what  ?     You  have  not 

Raised  a  rash  hand  against  one  of  our  order  ? 
If  so,  withdraw  and  fly,  and  own  it  not; 
J  would  not  slay  —  but  then  I  must  not  save 

thee ! 
He  who  has  shed  patrician  blood 

Ber.  I  come 

To  save  patrician  blood,  and  not  to  shed  it ! 
And  thereunto  I  must  be  speedy,  for 
Each  minute  lost  may  lose  a  life ;  since  Time 
Has   changed  his   slow  scythe  for  the  two- 
edged  sword, 
And  is  about  to  take,  instead  of  sand, 


The   dust   from   sepulchres  to  fill  his  hour- 
glass !  — 
Go  not  thou  forth  to-morrow ! 

Lioni.  Wherefore  not  ?  — ■ 

What  means  this  menace  ? 

Ber.  Do  not  seek  its  meaning, 

But  do  as  I  implore  thee  ;  —  stir  not  forth, 
Whate'er   be   stirring;    though    the   roar  of 

crowds  — 
The  cry  of  women,  and  the  shrieks  of  babes  — 
The  groans  of  men  —  the  clash  of  arms  — 

the  sound 
Of  rolling  drum,  shrill  trump,  and  hollow  bell, 
Peal  in  one  wide  alarum  !  —  Go  not  forth 
Until  the  tocsin's  silent,  nor  even  then 
Till  I  return ! 

Lioni.  Again,  what  does  this  mean  ? 

Ber.    Again,  I  tell  thee,  ask  not ;  but  by  all 
Thou  holdest  dear  on  earth  or  heaven  —  by  all 
The  souls  of  thy  great  fathers,  and  thy  hope 
To  emulate  them,  and  to  leave  behind 
Descendants  worthy  both  of  them  and  thee  — 
By  all  thou  hast  of  blessed  in  hope  or  mem- 
ory — 
By  all  thou  hast  to  fear  here  or  hereafter  — 
By  all  the  good  deeds  thou  hast  done  to  me, 
Good  I  would  now  repay  with  greater  good, 
Remain  within  —  trust  to  thy  household  gods, 
And  to  my  word  for  safety,  if  thou  dost 
As  I  now  counsel  —  but  if  not,  thou  art  lost! 

Lioni.    I  am  indeed  already  lost  in  wonder; 
Surely  thou  ravest !  what  have  /  to  dread  ? 
Who  are  my  foes  ?  or  if  there  be  such,  why 
Art  thou  leagued  with  them  ?  —  thou!  or  if  so 

leagued, 
Why  comest  thou  to  tell  me  at  this  hour, 
And  not  before  ? 

Ber.  I  cannot  answer  this. 

Wilt  thou  go  forth  despite  of  this  true  warning? 
Lioni.     I  was  not  born  to  shrink  from  idle 
threats, 
The  cause  of  which  I  know  not :  at  the  hour 
Of  council,  be  it  soon  or  late,  I  shall  not 
Be  found  among  the  absent. 

Ber.  Say  not  so  ! 

Once  more,  art  thou  determined  to  go  forth  ? 
Lioni.     I  am.     Nor  is  there  aught  which 

shall  impede  me ! 

Ber.     Then   Heaven   have   mercy   on   thy 

soul !  —  Farewell !  [  Going. 

Lioni.     Stay — there  is   more  in  this  than 

my  own  safety 

Which  makes  me  call  thee  back ;  we  must 

not  part  thus : 
Bertram  I  have  known  thee  long. 

Ber.  From  childhood,  signor, 

You  have  been  my  protector :  in  the  days 
Of  reckless  infancy,  when  rank  forgets, 
Or,  rather,  is  not  yet  taught  to  remember 
Its  cold  prerogative,  we  played  together; 
Our  sports,  our  smiles,  our  tears,  were  min- 
gled oft ; 


558 


MARINO  FALIERO,    DOGE    OF   VENICE. 


[act  IV. 


My  father  was  your  father's  client,  I 
His  son's  scarce  less  than  foster-brother ;  years 
Saw  us  together  —  happy,  heart-full  hours  ! 
Oh  God  !  the  difference  'twixt  those  hours  and 
this! 
Lioni.     Bertram,  'tis  thou  who  hast  forgot- 
ten them. 
Jer.     Nor   now,  nor  ever ;  whatsoe'er  be- 
tide, 
vould  have  saved  you:  when  to  manhood's 
growth 
<ve  sprung,  and  you,  devoted  to  the  state, 
As  suits  your  station,  the  more  humble  Ber- 
tram 
Was  left  unto  the  labors  of  the  humble. 
Still  you  forsook  me  not ;  and  if  my  fortunes 
Have  not  been  towering,  'twas  no  fault  of  him 
Who  ofttimes  rescued  and  supported  me 
When   struggling  with   the   tides   of  circum- 
stance 
Which  bear  away  the  weaker :  noble  blood 
Ne'er  mantled  in  a  nobler  heart  than  thine 
Has  proved  to  me,  the  poor  plebeian  Bertram. 
Would  that  thy  fellow  senators  were  like  thee  ! 
Lioni.     Why,  what  hast  thou  to  say  against 

the  senate  ? 
Ber.     Nothing. 

Lioni.     I  know  that  there  are  angry  spirits 
And  turbulent  mutteiers  of  stifled  treason, 
Who  lurk  in  narrow  places,  and  walk  out 
Muffled  to  whisper  curses  to  the  night; 
Disbanded  soldiers,  discontented  ruffians, 
A  'id  desperate  libertines  who  brawl  in  taverns ; 
Thou  herdest  not  with  such  :  'tis  true,  of  late 
I  have  lost  sight  of  thee,  but  thou  wert  wont 
To  lead  a  temperate  life,  and  break  thy  bread 
With  honest  mates,  and  bear  a  cheerful  aspect. 
What  hath  come  to  thee  ?  in  thy  hollow  eye 
And  hueless  cheek,  and  thine  unquiet  motions, 
Sorrow  and  shame  and  conscience  seem  at 

war 
To  waste  thee. 

Ber.  Rather  shame  and  sorrow  light 

On  the  accursed  tyranny  which  rides  1 
The  very  air  in  Venice,  and  makes  men 
Madden  as  in  the  last  hours  of  the  plague 
Which  sweeps  the  soul  deliriously  from  life! 
Lioni.     Some  villains  have  been  tampering 
with  thee,  Bertram ; 
This  is  not  thy  old  language,  nor  own  thoughts  ; 
Some  wretch  has  made  thee  drunk  with  dis- 
affection, 
But  thou  must  not  be  lost  so  ;  thou  wert  good 
And  kind,  and  art  not  fit  for  such  base  acts 
As  vice  and  villany  would  put  thee  to: 
Confess  —  confide  in  me  —  thou  know'st  my 

nature  — 
What  is  it  thou  and  thine  are  bound  to  do, 
Which  should  prevent  thy  friend,  the  only  son 


[MS.— 

"On  the  accursed  tyranny  which  taints"! 


Of  him  who  was  a  friend  unto  thy  father 

So  that  our  good-will  is  a  heritage 

We  should  bequeathe  to  our  posterity 

Such  as  ourselves  received  it,  or  augmented; 

I  say,  what  is  it  thou  must  do,  that  I 

Should  deem  thee  dangerous,  and  keep  the 

house 
Like  a  sick  girl  ? 
Ber.  Nay,  question  me  no  further: 

I  must  be  gone. 

Lioni.  And  I  be  murdered! — say, 

Was  it  not  thus  thou  said'st,  my  gentle  Ber- 
tram ? 
Ber.     Who  talks  of  murder  ?  what  said  I 
of  murder  ?  — 
'Tis  false !     I  did  not  utter  such  a  word. 
Lioni.    Thou  didst  not ;  but  from  out  thy 
wolfish  eye, 
So  changed  from  what  I  knew  it,  there  glares 

forth 
The  gladiator.     If  my  life's  thine  object, 
Take  it  —  I  am  unarmed,  —  and  then  away  ! 
I  would  not  hold  my  breath  on  such  a  tenure 
As  the  capricious  mercy  of  such  things 
As  thou  and  those  who  have  set  thee  to  thy 
task-work. 
Ber.     Sooner  than  spill  thy  blood,  I  peril 
mine ; 
Sooner  than  harm  a  hair  of  thine,  I  place 
In  jeopardy  a  thousand  heads,  and  some 
As  noble,  naf,  even  nobler  than  thine  own. 
Lioni.     Ay,   is   it   even   so  ?      Excuse   me, 
Bertram ; 
I  am  not  worthy  to  be  singled  out 
From  such  exalted  hecatombs  —  who  are  they 
That  are  in  danger,  and  that  make  the  dan- 
ger ? 
Ber.     Venice,  and  all  that  she  inherits,  are 
Divided  like  a  house  against  itself, 
And  so  will  perish  ere  to-morrow's  twilight! 
Lioni.     More  mysteries,  and  awful    ones! 
But  now 
Or  thou,  or  I,  or  both,  it  may  be,  are 
Upon  the  verge  of  ruin ;  speak  once  out, 
And  thou  art  safe  and  glorious ;  for  'tis  more 
Glorious  to  save  than  slay,  and  slay  i'  the  dark 

too  — 
Fie,  Bertram  !  that  was  not  a  craft  for  thee  ! 
How  would  it  look  to  see  upon  a  spear 
The  head  of  him  whose  heart  was  open  to 

thee, 
Borne  by  thy   hand  before   the   shuddering 

people  ? 
And  such  may  be  my  doom  ;  for  here  I  swear, 
Whate'er  the  peril  or  the  penalty 
Of  thy  denunciation,  I  go  forth, 
Unless  thou  dost  detail  the  cause,  and  show 
The  consequence  of  all  which  led  thee  here* 
Ber.     Is  there  no  way  to  save  thee  ?   min- 
utes fly. 
And  *hou  art  lost !  — thou!  my  sole  benefactor, 
Tht  only  being  who  was  constant  to  me 


SCENE   II.] 


MARINO    FAL1ER0,    DOGE    OF   VENICE. 


559 


Through  every  change.    Yet,  make  me  not  a 

traitor ! 
Let  me  save  thee  —  but  spare  my  honor! 

Lioni.  Where 

Can  lie  the  honor  in  a  league  of  murder  ? 
And  who  are  traitors  save  unto  the  state  ? 
Ber.     A  league  is  still  a  compact,  and  more 

binding 
In  honest  hearts  when  words  must  stand  for 

law; 
And  in  my  mind,  there  is  no  traitor  like 
He  whose  domestic  treason  plants  the  poniard 
Within  the  breast  which  trusted  to  his  truth. 
Lioni.     And   who  will   strike  the   steel   to 

mine  ? 
Ber.  Not  I ; 

I  could  have  wound  my  soul  up  to  all  things 
Save  this.     Thou   must  not  die!    and   think 

how  dear 
Thy  life  is,  when  I  risk  so  many  lives, 
Nay,  more,  the  life  of  lives,  the  liberty 
Of  future  generations,  not  to  be 
The    assassin    thou    miscall'st    me ;  —  once, 

once  more 
I  do  adjure  thee,  pass  not  o'er  thy  threshold! 
Lioni.     It  is  in  vain  —  this   moment  I  go 

forth. 
Ber.     Then  perish  Venice  rather  than  my 

friend ! 
I  will  disclose  —  ensnare  —  betray —  destroy  — 
Oh,  what  a  villain  I  become  for  thee ! 

Lioni.     Say,  rather  thy  friend's  savior  and 

the  state's !  — 
Speak  —  pause  not  —  all  rewards,  all  pledges 

for 
Thy  safety  and  thy  welfare ;   wealth  such  as 
The  state  accords  her  worthiest  servants  ;  nay, 
Nobility  itself  I  guarantee  thee, 
So  that  thou  art  sincere  and  penitent. 

Ber.     I  have  thought  again  :  it  must  not  be 

—  I  love  thee  — 
Thou  knowest  it — -that  I  stand   here  is  the 

proof, 
Not  least  though  last ;   but  having  done  my 

duty 
By  thee,  I  now  must  do  it  by  my  country! 
Farewell  —  we  meet  no  more  in  life  !  —  fare- 
well! 
JLioni.     What,   ho  !  —  Antonio  —  Pedro  — 

to  the  door! 
See  that  none  pass  —  arrest  this  man! 

Enter  ANTONIO  and  other  armed  Domestics, 
who  seize  BERTRAM. 

Lioni  {continues).  Take  care 

He  hath  no  harm ;  bring  me  my  sword  and 

cloak, 
And    man    the    gondola    with    four    oars  — 
quick —  [Exit  ANTONIO. 

We  will  unto  Grovanni  Gradenigo's, 
And  send  for  Marc  Cornaro  :■ — fear  not,  Ber- 
tram ; 


This  needful  violence  is  for  thy  safety, 
No  less  than  for  the  general  weal. 

Ber.  Where  wouldst  thou 

Bear  me  a  prisoner  ? 

Lioni.  Firstly  to  "  the  Ten  ;  " 

Next  to  the  Doge. 

Ber.  To  the  Doge  ? 

Lioni.  Assuredly : 

Is  he  not  chief  of  the  state  ? 

Ber.  Perhaps  at  sunrise  — 

Lioni.    What  mean  you  ?  —  but  we'll  know 
anon. 

Ber.  Art  sure  ? 

Lioni.     Sure  as  all  gentle  means  can  make  ; 
and  if 
They  fail,   you   know  "  the   Ten"   and   their 

tribunal, 
And  that  St.  Mark's  has  dungeons,  and  the 

dungeons 
A  rack. 

Ber.     Apply  it  then  before  the  dawn 
Now  hastening  into  heaven. —  One  more  such 

word 
And  you  shall  perish  piecemeal,  by  the  death 
You  think  to  doom  to  me. 

Reenter  ANTONIO. 

Ant.  The  bark  is  ready, 

My  lord,  and  all  prepared. 

Lioni.  Look  to  the  prisoner. 

Bertram,  I'll  reason  with  thee  as  we  go 
To  the  Magnifico's,  sage  Gradenigo.  [Exeunt. 

SCEN  E    11.— The  Ducal  Palace.  —  The 
Doge's  Apartment. 

The  Doge  and  his  vepheiv  Bertuccio 
Faliero. 

Doge.     Are  all  the  people  of  our  house  in 

muster? 
Ber.  F.     They  are  arrayed,  and  eager  for 
the  signal, 
Within  our  palace  precincts  at  San  Polo.1 
I  come  for  your  last  orders. 

Doge.  It  had  been 

As  well  had  there  been  time  to  have  got  to- 
gether, 
From  my  own  fief,  Val  di  Marino,  more 
Of  our  retainers  —  but  it  is  too  late. 
Ber.  F.     Methinks,  my  lord,  'tis  better  as  it 
is : 
A  sudden  swelling  of  our  retinue 
Had   waked   suspicion ;    and,   though   fierce 

and  trusty, 
The  vassals  of  that  district  are  too  rude 
And  quick  in  quarrel  to  have  long  maintained 
The  secret  discipline  we  need  for  such 
A  service,  till  our  foes  are  dealt  upon. 

Doge.     True  ;  but  when  once  the  signal  has 
been  given, 
These  are  the  men  for  such  an  enterprise ; 


1  The  Doge's  family  palace. 


560 


MARINO  FALIERO,   DOGE    OP   VENICE. 


[act  it. 


These  city  slaves  have  all  their  private  bias, 
Their  prejudice  against  or  for  this  noble, 
Which  may  induce  them  to  o'erdo  or  spare 
Where   mercy   may  be  madness ;  the  fierce 

peasants, 
Serfs  of  my  county  of  Val  di  Marino, 
Would  do  the  bidding  of  their  lord  without 
Distinguishing  for  love  or  hate  his  foes; 
Alike  to  them  Marcello  or  Cornaro, 
A  Gradenigo  or  a  Foscari ; 
They  are  not  used  to  start  at  those  vain  names, 
Nor  bow  the  knee  before  a  civic  senate  ; 
A  chief  in  armor  is  their  Suzerain, 
And  not  a  thing  in  robes. 

Ber.  F.  We  are  enough  ; 

And  for  the  dispositions  of  our  clients 
Against  the  senate  I  will  answer. 

Doge.  Well, 

The  die  is  thrown  ;  but  for  a  warlike  service, 
Done  in  the  field,  commend  me  to  my  peas- 
ants: 
They  made  the  sun  shine  through  the  host  of 

Huns 
When  sallow  burghers  slunk  back  to  their 

tents, 
And   cowered  to  hear  their  own   victorious 

trumpet. 
If  there  be  small  resistance,  you  will  find 
These  citizens  all  lions,  like  their  standard  ; 
But  if  there's  much  to  do,  you'll  wish  with  me, 
A  band  of  iron  rustics  at  our  backs. 

Ber.  F.     Thus  thinking,  I  must  marvel  you 
resolve 
To  strike  the  blow  so  suddenly. 

Doge.  Such  blows 

Must  be  struck  suddenly  or  never.  When 
I  had  o'ermastered  the  weak  false  remorse 
Which  yearned  about  my  heart,  too  fondly 

yielding 
A  moment  to  the  feelings  of  old  days, 
I  was  most  fain  to  strike ;  and,  firstly,  that 
I  might  not  yield  again  to  such  emotions ; 
And,  secondly,  because  of  all  these  men, 
Save  Israel  and  Philip  Calendaro, 
I  know  not  well  the  courage  or  the  faith : 
To-day  might  find  'mongst  them  a  traitor  to 

us, 
As  yesterday  a  thousand  to  the  senate; 
But  once  in,  with  their  hilts  hot  in  their  hands, 
They  must  on  for  their  own  sakes  ;  one  stroke 

struck, 
And  the  mere  instinct  of  the  first-born  Cain, 
Which    ever    lurks   somewhere    in    human 

hearts, 
Though  circumstance  may  keep  it  in  abey- 
ance, 
Will  urge  the  rest  on  like  to  wolves ;  the  sight 
Of  blood  to  crowds  begets  the  thirst  of  more, 
As  the  first  wine-cup  leads  to  the  long  revel ; 
And  you  will  find  a  harder  task  to  quell 
Than  urge  them  when  they  have  commenced, 
but  till 


That    moment,    a    mere  voice,    a    straw,  a 

shadow, 
Are  capable  of  turning  them  aside.  — 
How  goes  the  night? 
Ber.  F.  Almost  upon  the  dawn. 

Doge.     Then  it  is  time  to  strike  upon  the 

bell. 
Are  the  men  posted? 

Ber.  F.  By  this  time  they  are, 

But  they  have  orders  not  to  strike,  until 
They  have  command  from  you  through  me  in 

person. 
Doge.    'Tis  well.  —  Will  the   morn  never 

put  to  rest 
Ttiese   stars  which  twinkle  yet   o'er  all  the 

heavens? 
I  am  settled  and  bound  up,  and  being  so, 
The  very  effort  which  it  cost  me  to 
Resolve  to  cleanse  this  commonwealth  with 

fire, 
Now  leaves  my  mind  more  steady.     I  have 

wept, 
And  trembled  at  the  thought  of  this  dread 

duly; 
But  now  I  have  put  down  all  idle  passion, 
And  look  the  growing  tempest  in  the  face, 
As  doth  the  pilot  of  an  admiral  galley  : 
Yet  (wouldst  thou  think  it,  kinsman?)  it  hatn 

been 
A  greater  struggle  to  me,  than  when  nations 
Beheld  thei^  fate  merged  in  the  approaching 

fight, 
Where  I  was  leader  of  a  phalanx,  where 
Thousands   were    sure  to  perish  —  Yes,  to 

spill 
The  rank  polluted  current  from  the  veins 
Of  a  few  bloated  despots  needed  more 
To  steel  me  to  a  purpose  such  as  made 
Timoleon  immortal,  than  to  face 
The  toils  and  dangers  of  a  life  of  war. 
Ber.  F.     It  gladdens  me  to  see  your  former 

wisdom 
Subdue  the  furies  which  so  wrung  you  ere 
You  were  decided. 

Doge.  It  was  ever  thus 

With  me ;  the  hour  of  agitation  came 
In  the  first  glimmerings  of  a  purpose,  when 
Passion  had  too  much  room  to  sway ;  but  in 
The  hour  of  action  I  have  stood  as  calm 
As  were  the  dead  who  lay  around  me :  this 
They  knew  who  made  me  what  I   am,  and 

trusted 
To  the  subduing  power  which  I  preserved 
Over  my  mood,  when  its  first  burst  was  spent. 
But  they  were  not  aware  that  there  are  things 
Which  make  revenge  a  virtue  by  reflection. 
And  not  an  impulse  of  mere  anger;  though 
The   laws   sleep,  justice  wakes,  and   injured 

souls 
Oft  do  a  public  right  with  private  wrong, 
And  justify  their  deeds  unto  themselves. — 
Methinks  the  day  breaks  —  is  it  not  so?  look 


SCENE   II.] 


MARINO  FALIERO,   DOGE    OF   VENICE. 


561 


Thine    eyes  are  clear  with   youth; — the   air 

puts  on 
A  morning  freshness,  and,  at  least  to  me, 
The  sea  looks  grayer  through  the  lattice. 

Ber.  F.  True, 

The  morn  is  dappling  in  the  sky.1 

Doge.  Away  then ! 

See  that  they  strike  without  delay,  and  with 
The  first  toll  from  Saint  Mark's,  march  on  the 

palace 
With  all  our  house's   strength ;    here  I  will 

meet  you  — 
The  Sixteen  and  their  companies  will  move 
Inseparate  columns  at  theself-same  moment — 
Be  sure  you  post  yourself  at  the  great  gate  : 
I  would  not  trust  "  the  Ten  "  except  to  us  — 
The  rest,  the  rabble  of  patricians,  may 
Glut  the  more  careless  swords  of  those  leagued 

with  us. 
Remember  that  the  cry  is  still  "  Saint  Mark  ! 
The  Genoese  are  come  —  ho!  to  the  rescue! 
Saint  Mark  and  Liberty!"  —  Now — -now  to 

action! 
B<r.  F.     Farewell   then,   noble   uncle !   we 

Mil  meet 
In  freedom  aad  true  sovereignty,  or  never! 
Doge.     Come  hither,   my   Bertuccio  —  one 

embrace  — 
Speed,  for  the  day  grows  broader  —  Send  me 

soon 
A  messenger  to  tell  me  how  all  goes 
When  you  rejoin  our  troops,  and  then  sound 

—  sound 
The  storm-bell  from  Saint  Mark's ! 

{Exit  Bertuccio  Faliero. 
Doge  {solus).  He  is  gone,'- 

And  on  each  footstep  moves  a  life. — 'Tis  done. 
Now  the  destroying  angel  hovers  o'er 
Venice,  and  pauses  ere  he  pours  the  vial, 
Even  as  the  £agle  overlooks  his  prey, 
And  for  a  moment,  poised  in  middle  air, 
Suspends  the  motion  of  his  mighty  wings, 
Then  swoops  with  his  unerring  beak.  — Thou 

day! 
That    slowly  walk'st    the  waters !    march  — 

march  on  — 
I  would  not  smite  i'  the  dark,  but  rather  see 
That  no  stroke  errs.    And  you,  ye  blue  sea- 
waves  ! 
I  have  seen  you  dyed  ere  now,  and  deeply  too, 
With  Genoese,  Saracen,  and  Hunnish  gore, 
While  that  of  Venice  flowed  too, but  victorious  ; 


1  [MS.  —  "  The  night  is  clearing  from  the  sky."] 

2  [At  last  the  moment  arrives  when  the  bell  is  to 
oe  sounded,  and  the  whole  of  the  conspiring  bands 
are  watching  in  impatience  for  the  signal.  The 
nephew  of  the  Doge,  and  the  heir  of  his  house  (for 
he  is  childless),  leaves  Faliero  in  his  palace,  and 
goes  to  strike  with  his  own  hand  the  fatal  summons. 
The  Doge  is  left  alone;  and  English  poetry,  we 
think,  contains  few  passages  superior  to  that  which 
follows.  —  Lockhart.\ 


Now  thou  must  wear  an  unmixed  crimson  ;  no 
Barbaric  blood  can  reconcile  us  now 
Unto  that  horrible  incarnadine, 
But  friend  or  foe  will  roll  in  civic  slaughter. 
And  have  I  lived  to  fourscore  years  for  this  ? 
I,  who  was  named  Preserver  of  the  City  ? 
I,  at  whose  name  the  million's  caps  were  flung 
Into  the  air,  and  cries  from  tens  of  thousands 
Rose  up,  imploring  Heaven  to  send  me  bless- 
ings, 
And  fame,  and  length  of  days  —  to  see  thii 

day  ? 
But  this  day,  black  within  the  calendar, 
Shall  be  succeeded  by  a  bright  millennium. 
Doge  Dandoio  survived  to  ninety  summers 
To  vanquish  empires,  and  refuse  their  crown; 
I  will  resign  a  crown,  and  make  the  state 
Renew  its  freedom  —  but  oh  !  by  what  means? 
The  noble  end  must  justify  them  —  What 
Are  a  few  drops  of  human  blood  ?  'tis  false, 
The  blood  of  tyrants  is  not  human  ;  they, 
Like  to  incarnate  Molochs,  feed  on  ours, 
Until  'tis  time  to  give  them  to  the  tombs 
Which   they  have  made  so  populous.  —  Oh 

world ! 
Oh  men  !  what  are  ye,  and  our  best  designs, 
That  we  must  work  by  crime  to  punish  crime  ? 
And  slay  as  if  Death  had  but  this  one  gate, 
Whn  a  few  years  would  make  the  sword  su> 

perfluous  ? 
And  I,  upon  the  verge  of  th'  unknown  realm, 
Yet  send  so  many  heralds  on  before  me  ?  — 
I  must  not  ponder  this.  [A  pause. 

Hark  !  was  there  not 
A  murmur  as  of  distant  voices,  and 
The  tramp  of  feet  in  martial  unison  ? 
What  phantoms  even  of  sound  our  wishes 

raise ! 
It  cannot  be  —  the  signal  hath  not  rung  — 
Why  pauses  it  ?     My  nephew's  messenger 
Should  be  upon  his  way  to  me,  and  he 
Himself  perhaps  even  now  draws  grating  back 
Upon  its  ponderous  hinge   the   steep  tower 

portal, 
Where  swings  the  sullen  huge  oracular  bell,? 
Which  never  knells  but  for  a  princely  death, 
Or  for  a  state  in  peril,  pealing  forth 
Tremendous  bodements ;  let  it  do  its  office 
And  be  this  peal  its  awfullest  and  last 
Sound  till  the  strong  tower  rock!  —  What! 

silent  still  ? 
I  would  go  forth,  but  that  my  post  is  here, 
To  be  the  centre  of  re-union  to 
The  oft  discordant  elements  which  form 
Leagues  of  this  nature,  and  to  keep  compact 
The  wavering  of  the  weak,  in  case  of  conflict ; 
For  if  they  should  do  battle,  'twill  be  here. 
Within  the  palace,  that  the  strife  will  thicken  : 


3  [MS.— 

<i  tin.  .i.        n       \  iron  oracte. 

Where  swings  the  sullen  j  b,jge  Qracular  ^j  „j 


562 


MARINO  FALIERO,   DOGE    OF   VENICE. 


[ACT  IV. 


/hen  here  must  be  my  station,  as  becomes 
The  master-mover. Hark  !  he  comes — he 

comes, 
My  nephew,  brave  Bertuccio's  messenger. — 
What  tidings  ?     Is  he    marching  ?    hath    he 

sped  ?  — 
They  here  !  —  all's  lost  —  yet  will  I  make  an 

effort.l 

Enter  a   SlGNOR    OF    THE    NIGHT,2    with 
Guards,  etc.  etc. 

Sig.     Doge,  I  arrest  thee  of  high  treason  ! 

Doge.  Me ! 

Thy  prince,  of  treason  ?  —  Who  are  they  that 

dare 
Cloak  their  own  treason  under  such  an  order  ? 
Sig.  {showing his  order).    Behold  my  order 

from  the  assembled  Ten. 
Doge.     And  where  are  they,  and  why  assem- 
bled ?  no 
Such  council  can  be  lawful,  till  the  prince 
Preside  there,  and  that  duty's  mine  :  on  thine 
1  charge  thee,  give  me  way,  or  marshal  me 
To  the  council  chamber. 

Sig.  Duke !  it  may  not  be  : 

Nor  are  they  in  the  wonted  Hall  of  Council, 
But  sitting  in  the  convent  of  Saint  Saviour's. 
Doge.     You  dare  to  disobey  me,  then  ? 
Sig.  I  serve 

The  state,  and  needs  must  serve  it  faithfully  ; 
My  warrant  is  the  will  of  those  who  rule  it. 
Doge.     And  till  that  warrant  has  my  signa- 
ture 
It  is  illegal,  and,  as  now  applied, 
Rebellious  —  Hast  thou  weighed  well  thy  life's 

worth, 
That  thus  you  dare  assume  a  lawless  function  ? 
Sig.     "fis  not  my  office  to  reply,  but  act  — 
I  am  placed  here  as  guard  upon  thy  person, 
And  not  as  judge  to  hear  or  to  decide. 

Doge  (aside).     I  must  gain  time  —  So  that 
the  storm-bell  sound 
All   may  be  well   yet. —  Kinsman,   speed  — 

Spe©d —  speed  !  — 
0u*"  fate  is  trembling  in  the  balance,  and 
Woe  to  the  vanquished !  be  they  prince  and 

people, 
Or  slaves  and  senate  — 

r  The  great  bell  of  Saint  M ark's  tolls. 
Lo  !  it  sounds  —  it  tolls  ! 
Dog    (aloud).     Hark,  Signor  of  the  Night! 
and  you,  ye  hirelings, 
Who  wield  your  mercenary  staves  in  fear, 


1  [A  relenting  conspirator,  whom  the  contem- 
plative Lioni  had  formerly  befriended,  calls  to  warn 
him  o'  his  danger;  and  is  gradually  led  to  betray 
his  associates.  The  plot  is  crushed  in  the  moment 
of  itL.  development,  and  the  Doge  arrested  in  his 
palac-  The  scene  immediately  preceding  this 
catasl  'nphe  is  noble  and  thrilling.  —  Jeffrey. ~\ 

2  r  \  Signori  di  Notte  "  held  an  important  charge 
in  thr>  odd  republic] 


It  is  your  knell  —  Swell  on,  thou  lusty  peal! 
Now,  knaves,  what  ransom  for  your  lives  ? 

Sig.  Confusion 

Stand  to  your  arms,  and  guard  the  door  — 

all's  lost 
Unless  that  fearful  bell  be  silenced  soon. 
The  officer  hath  missed  his  path  or  purpose, 
Or  met  some  unforeseen  and  hideous  obstacle. 
Anselmo,  with  thy  company  proceed 
Straight  to  the  tower ;  the  rest  remain  with  me. 
[Exit  part  of  the  Guard. 
Doge.     Wretch !   if  thou  wouldst  have  thy 
vile  life,  implore  it ; 
It  is  not  now  a  lease  of  sixty  seconds. 
Ay,  send  thy  miserable  ruffians  forth ; 
They  never  shall  return. 

Stg,  So  let  it  be ! 

They  die  then  in  their  duty,  as  wiH  I. 

Doge.     Fooll  the  high  eagle  flies  at  nobler 
game 
Than  thou  and  thy  base  myrmidons,  —  live  on, 
So  thou  provok'st  not  peril  by  resistance, 
And  learn   (if  souls  so  much  obscured  can 

bear 
To  gaze  upon  the  sunbeams)  to  be  free. 
Sig.    And  learn  thou  to  be  captive  —  It  hath 
ceased,  [  The  bell  ceases  to  toll. 

The  traitorous  signal,  which  was  to  have  set 
The  bloodhound  mob  on  their  patrician  prey — 
The  knell  hath  rung,  but  it  is  not  the  senate's  ! 
Doge  (after  a  pause).     All's  silent,  and  all's 

lost! 
Sig.  Now,  Doge,  denounce  me 

As  rebel  slave  of  a  revolted  council ! 
Have  I  not  done  my  duty  ? 

Doge.  Peace,  thou  thing! 

Thou  hast  done  a  worthy  deed,  and  earned 

the  price 
Of  blood,  and  they  who  use  thee  will  reware 

thee.  "  • 

But  thou  wert  sent  to  watch,  and  not  to  prate, 
As  thou  said'st   even   now  —  then   do   thine 

office, 
But  let  it  be  in  silence,  as  behooves  thee, 
Since,  though  thy  prisoner,  I  am  thy  prince. 
Sig.     I  did  not  mean  to  fail  in  the  respect 
Due  to  your  rank :  in  this  I  shall  obey  you. 
Doge  (aside).     There  now  is    nothing  left 
me  save  to  die ; 
And  yet   how   near  success !  I   would  have 

fallen, 
And  proudly,  in  the  hour  of  triumph,  but 
To  miss  it  thus  ! 

Enter  other  SlGNORS  OF  THE   NIGHT,  with 
BERTUCCIO  FALIERO  prisoner. 

■zd  Sig.  We  took  him  in  the  act 

Of  issuing  from  the  tower,  where,  at  his  order, 
As  delegated  from  the  Doge,  the  signal 
Had  thus  begun  to  sound. 

ist  Sig.  Are  all  the  passes 

Which  lead  up  to  the  palace  well  secured  ? 


SCENE    II.] 


MARINO   FALTER O,   DOGE    OF   VENICE. 


563 


zd  Sig.     They  are  —  besides,  it  matters  not ; 
the  chiefs 
Are  all  in  chains,  and  some  even  now  on 

trial  — 
Their  followers  are  dispersed,  and  many  taken. 
Ber.  F.     Uncle ! 

Doge.        It  is  in  vain  to  war  with  Fortune  ; 
The  glory  hath  departed  from  our  house. 
Ber.  F.    Who  would  have  deemed  it?  — 

Ah !  one  moment  sooner ! 
Doge.     That  moment  would  have  changed 
the  face  of  ages  ; 
This  gives  us  to  eternity — We'll  meet  it 
As  men  whose  triumph  is  not  in  success. 
But  who  can  make  their  own  minds  all  in  all, 
Equal  to  every  fortune.     Droop  not,  'tis 
But  a  brief  passage —  I  would  go  alone, 
Yet  if  they  send  us,  as  'tis  like,  together, 
Let  us  go  worthy  of  our  sires  and  selves. 
Ber  F.     I  shall  not  shame  you,  uncle. 
ist  Sig.  Lords,  our  orders 

Are  to  keep  guard  on  both  in  separate  cham- 
bers, 
Until  the  council  call  ye  to  your  trial. 

Doge.     Our    trial!     will    they   keep    their 
mockery  up 
Even  to  the  last  ?  but  let  them  deal  upon  us, 
As  we  had  dealt  on  them,  but  with  less  pomp. 
'Tis  but  a  game  of  mutual  homicides, 
Who  have  cast  lots  for  the  first  death,  and  they 
Have  won  with  false  dice.  —  Who  hath  been 
our  Judas  ? 
1st  Sig.     I  am  not  warranted  to  answer  that. 
Ber.  F.     I'll  answer  for  thee — 'tis  a  certain 
Bertram, 
Even  now  deposing  to  the  secret  giunta. 
Doge.     Bertram,    the    Bergamask!      With 
what  vile  tools 
We  operate  to  slay  or  save !     This  creature, 
Black  with  a  double  treason,  now  will  earn 
Rewards  and  honors,  and  be  stamped  in  story 
With  the  geese  in  the  Capitol,  which  gabbled 
Till  Rome  awoke,  and  had  an  annual  triumph, 
While  Manlius,  who  hurled  down  the  Gauls, 

was  cast 1 
From  the  Tarpeian. 

ist  Sig.  He  aspired  to  treason, 

And  sought  to  rule  the  state. 

Doge.  He  saved  the  state, 

And  sought  but  to  reform  what  he  revived — ■ 

But  this  is  idle Come,  sirs,  do  your  work. 

ist  Sig.     Noble   Bertuccio,  we   must   now 
remove  you 
Into  an  inner  chamber. 

Ber.  F.  Farewell,  uncle ! 

If  we  shall  meet  again  in  life  I  know  not, 
But  they  perhaps  will  let  our  ashes  mingle. 
Doge.     Yes,  and  our  spirits,  which  shall  yet 
go  forth, 


And  do  what  our  frail  clay,  thus  clogged,  hath 

failed  in ! 
They  cannot  quench  the  memory  of  those 
Who   would   have   hurled    them   from   their 

guilty  thrones, 
And  such   examples  will  find  heirs,  {hough 

distant. 


ACT  V. 

Scene  I.  —  The  Hall  of  the  Council  of  Ten 
assembled  with  the  additional  Senators,  who, 
on  the  Trials  of  the  Conspirators  for  the  Trea- 
son of  Marino  Faliero,  composed  what 
was  called  the  Giunta,  —  Guards,  Officers, 
etc.  etc. — Israel  Bertuccio  and  Philip 
Calendaro  as  prisoners. —  Bertram, 
LlONI,  and  Witnesses,  etc? 
The  Chief  of  the  Ten,  BENINTENDE.3 

Ben.    There  now  rests,  after  such  conviction 

of 
Their  manifold  and  manifest  offences, 
But  to  pronounce  on  these  obdurate  men 
The  sentence  of  the  law  :  —  a  grievous  task 
To   those  who  hear,  and  those  who  speak. 

Alas! 
That  it  should  fall  to  me !  and  that  my  days 
Of  office  should  be  stigmatized  through  all 
The  years  of  coming  time,  as  bearing  record 
To  this  most  foul  and  complicated  treason 
Against  a  just  and  free  state,  known  to  all 
The  earth  as  being  the   Christian  bulwark 

'gainst 
The  Saracen  and  the  schismatic  Greek, 
The  savage   Hun,  and  not   less   barbarous 

Frank ; 
A  city  which  has  opened  India's  wealth 
To  Europe ;  the  last  Roman  refuge  from 
O'erwhelming  Attila ;  the  ocean's  queen ; 
Proud  Genoa's  prouder  rival !  'Tis  to  sap 
The  throne  of  such  a  city,  these  lost  men 
Have   risk'd   and    forfeited    their   worthless 

lives  — 
So  let  them  die  the  death. 

/.  Ber.  We  are  prepared ; 

Your  racks  have  done  that  for  us.     Let  us  die. 

Ben.     If  ye  have  that  to  say  which  would 

obtain 
Abatement  of  your  punishment,  the  Giunta 
Will  hear  you  ;  if  you  have  aught  to  confess, 
Now  is  your  time,  perhaps  it  may  avail  ye. 


»[MS.— 

'  While  Manlius,  who  hurled  back  the  Gauls,"  etc.] 


2  [The  fifth  Act,  which  begins  with  the  arraign- 
ment of  the  original  conspirators,  is  much  in  the 
style  of  that  of  Pierre  and  his  associates  in  the  old 
play.  After  them,  the  Doge  is  brought  in:  his 
part  is  very  forcibly  written  throughout.  —  Jef- 
frey.] 

3  ["In  the  notes  to  Marino  Faliero,  it  may  be  as 
well  to  say,  that  Benintende  was  not  really  of  the 
Ten,  but  merely  Grand  Chancellor — a  separate 
office,  though  an  important  one.  It  was  an  arbi- 
trary alteration  of  mine."  —  Byren's  Letters] 


564 


MARINO  FALTERO,   DOGE    OF   VENICE. 


[act  v 


Ber.  F.     We  stand  to  hear,  and  not  to  speak. 
Ben.  Your  crimes 

Are  fully  proved  by  your  accomplices, 
And  all  which  circumstance  can  add  to  aid 

them ; 
Yet  we  would  hear  from  your  own  lips  com- 
plete 
Avowal  of  your  treason  :  on  the  verge 
Of  that  dread  gulf  which  none  repass,  the  truth 
Alone  can  profit  you  on  earth  or  heaven  — 
Say,  then,  what  was  your  motive  ? 

/.  Ber.  Justice ! 

I     Ben.  What 

four  object  ? 
I.  Ber.  Freedom ! 

Ben.  You  are  brief,  sir. 

/.  Ber.     So  my  life  grows  :  I 
Was  bred  a  soldier,  not  a  senator. 

Bin.     Perhaps    you    think   by   this    blunt 
brevity 
To  brave  your  judges  to  postpone  the  sen- 
tence ? 
/.  Ber.     Do  you  be  brief  as  I  am,  and  be- 
lieve me, 
I  shall  prefer  that  mercy  to  your  pardon. 
Ben.     Is  this  your  sole  reply  to  the  tribunal  ? 
/.  Ber.    Go,  ask  your  racks  what  they  have 
wrung  from  us, 
Or  place  us  there  again ;  we  have  still  some 

blood  left, 
And    some   slight   sense    of   pain    in    these 

wrenched  limbs: 
But  this  ye  dare  not  do ;  for  if  we  die  there  — 
And  you  have  left  us  little  life  to  spend 
Upon    your    engines,    gorged    with    pangs 

already  — 
Ye  lose  the  public  spectacle,  with  which 
You  would  appall  your  slaves  to  further  slav- 
ery! 
Groans  are  not  words,  nor  agony  assent, 
Nor  affirmation  truth,  if  nature's  sense 
Should  overcome  the  soul  into  a  lie, 
For  a  short  respite  — ■  must  we  bear  or  die  ? 
Ben.     Say,  who  were  your  accomplices  ? 
/.  Ber.  The  Senate  ! 

Ben.     What  do  you  mean  ? 
/  Ber.  Ask  of  the  suffering  people, 

Whom  your  patrician  crimes  have  driven  to 
crime. 
Ben.     You  know  the  Doge  ? 
/.  Ber.  I  served  with  him  at  Zara 

fri  the  field,  when  you  were  pleading  here  your 

way 
To  present  office ;  we  exposed  our  lives, 
While  you  but  hazarded  the  lives  of  others, 
Alike  by  accusation  or  defence  ; 
And,   for    the    rest,    all    Venice    knows    her 


Through  his  great  actions,  and  the  Senate's 
insults. 
Ben.     You  have  held  conference  with  him  ? 
/.  Ber.  I  am  weary  — 


Even   wearier  of  your  questions  than   youl 

tortures. 
I  pray  you  pass  to  judgment. 

Ben.  It  is  coming.  — 

And  you,  too,  Philip  Calendaro,  what 
Have   you   to   say  why  you  should   not  be 
doomed  ? 
Cal.     I  never  was  a  man  of  many  words, 
And  now  have  few  left  worth  the  utterance. 

Ben.     A  further  application  of  yon  engine 
May  change  your  tone. 

Cal.  Most  true,  it  will  do  so; 

A  former  application  did  so ;  but 
It  will  not  change  my  words,  or,  if  it  did  — 
Ben.     What  then  ? 

Cal.  Will  my  avowal  on  yon  rack 

Stand  good  in  law  ? 

Ben.  Assuredly. 

Cal.  Whoe'er 

The  culprit  be  whom  I  accuse  of  treason  ? 
Ben.     Without  doubt,  he  will  be  brought 

up  to  trial. 
Cal.    And  on  this  testimony  would  he  per- 
ish ? 
Ben.     So  your  confession  be  detailed  and 
full, 
He  will  stand  here  in  peril  of  his  life. 

Cal.    Then   look  well   to  thy  proud   self, 
President ! 
For  by  the  eternity  which  yawns  before  me, 
I  swear  that  thou,  and  only  thou,  shalt  be 
The  traitor  I  denounce  upon  that  rack, 
If  I  be  stretched  there  for  the  second  time. 
One  of  the  Giunta.     Lord  President,  'twere 
best  proceed  to  judgment ; 
There  is  no  more  to  be  drawn  from   these 
men. 
Ben.     Unhappy  men !    prepare  for  instant 
death. 
The  nature   of  your  crime  —  our  law  —  and 

peril 
The  state  now  stands  in,  leave  not  an  hour's 

respite  — 
Guards !  lead  them  forth,  and  upon  the  bal- 
cony 
Of  the  red  columns,  where,  on  festal  Thurs- 
day,1 
The  Doge  stands  to  behold  the  chase  of  bulls, 
Let  them  be  justified :  and  leave  exposed 
Their  wavering  relics,  in  the  place  of  judg- 
ment, 
To  the  full  view  of  the  assembled  people  !  — 
And  Heaven  have  mercy  on  their  souls ! 
The  Giunta.  Amen! 

/.  Ber.     Signors,  farewell !  we  shall  not  all 
again 
Meet  in  one  place. 

Ben.  And  lest  they  should  essay 

To  stir  up  the  distracted  multitude  — 


^'Giovedi  grasso,"  —  "fat  or  greasy  Thurs- 
y,"  —  which  I  cannot  literally  translate  in  the 
it.  was  the  dav. 


day,    —  wnicn  i 
text,  was  the  day. 


SCENE  1.1 


MARINO  FALIERO,  DOGE    OF   VENICE. 


565 


Guards !  let  their  mouths  be  gagged 1  even  in 

the  act 
Of  execution.  —  Lead  them  hence ! 

Cal.  What !  must  we 

Not  even  say  farewell  to  some  fond  friend, 
Nor  leave  a  last  word  with  our  confessor  ? 

Ben.  A  priest  is  waiting  in  the  antechamber ; 
But,  for  your  friends,  such  interviews  would  be 
Painful  to  them,  and  useless  all  to  you. 

Cal.     I  knew  that  we  were  gagged  in  life  ; 

at  least 
All  those  who  had  not  heart  to  risk  their 

lives 
Upon  their  open  thoughts  ;  but  still  I  deemed 
That  in  the  last  few  moments,  the  same  idle 
Freedom  of  speech  accorded  to  the  dying, 

Would  not  now  be  denied  to  us  ;  but  since 

/.  Ber.     Even   let  them    have   their  way, 

brave  Calendaro ! 
What  matter  a  few  syllables  ?  let's  die 
Without  the   slightest  show   of   favor   from 

them  ; 
So  shall  our  blood  more  readily  arise 
To  heaven  against  them,  and  more  testify 
To  their  atrocities,  than  could  a  volume 
Spoken  or  written  of  our  dying  words  ! 
They  tremble  at  our  voices  —  nay,  they  dread 
Our  very  silence  —  let  them  live  in  fear!  — 
Leave  them  unto  their  thoughts,  and  let  us 

now 
Address  our  own  above !  —  Lead  on ;  we  are 

ready. 
Cal.    Israel,  hadst  thou  but  hearkened  unto 

me 
It  had  not  now  been  thus  ;  and  yon  pale  villain, 

The  coward  Bertram,  would 

/.  Ber.  Peace,  Calendaro. 

What  brooks  it  now  to  ponder  upon  this  ? 
Bert.    Alas !  I  fain  you  died  in  peace  with 

me : 
I  did  not  seek  this  task;  'twas  forced  upon 

me : 
Say,  you  forgive  me,  though  I  never  can 
Retrieve    my   own    forgiveness  —  frown    not 

thus ! 
/.  Ber.     I  die  and  pardon  thee ! 
Cal.  (spitting  at  Aim).2    I    die   and  scorn 

thee! 

[Exeunt  ISRAEL  BERTUCCIO  and  PHILIP 
Calendaro,  Guards,  etc. 

Ben.    Now  that  these  criminals  have  been 
disposed  of, 
'Tis  time  that  we  proceed  to  pass  our  sentence 
Upon  the  greatest  traitor  upon  record 


1  Historical  fact. 

2  ["  I  know  what  Foscolo  means,  about  Calen- 
dared spitting  at  Bertram;  that's  national  —  the 
objection,  I  mean.  The  Italians  and  French,  with 
those  '  flags  of  abomination'  their  pocket  handker- 
chiefs, spit  there,  and  here,  and  everywhere  else  — 
in  your  face  almost,  and  therefore  object  to  it  on 


In  any  annals,  the  Doge  Faliero ! 

The  proofs   and   process  are  complete ;   the 

time 
And  crime  require  a  quick  procedure  :  shall 
He  now  be  called  in  to  receive  the  award  ? 
The  Giunta.     Ay,  ay. 
Ben.     Avogadori,  order  that  the  Doge 
Be  brought  before  the  council. 

One  of  the  Giunta.  And  the  rest, 

When  shall  they  be  brought  up  ? 

Ben.  When  all  the  chiefs 

Have  been  disposed  of.    Some  have  fled  to 

Chiozza ; 
But  there  are  thousands  in  pursuit  of  them, 
And  such  precaution  ta'en  on  terra  firma, 
As  well  as  in  the  islands,  that  we  hope 
None  will  escape  to  utter  in  strange  lands 
His  libellous  tale  of  treasons  'gainst  the  sen- 
ate. 

Enter  the  DOGE  as  Prisoner,  with  Guards, 
etc.  etc. 

Ben.    Doge  —  for  such  still  you  are,  and 
by  the  law 
Must  be  considered,  till  the  hour  shall  come 
When  you  must  doff  the  ducal  bonnet  from 
That  head,  which   could  not  wear  a  crown 

more  noble 
Than  empires  can  confer,  in  quiet  honor, 
But  it  must  plot  to  overthrow  your  peers, 
Who  made  you  what  you  are,  and  quench  in 

blood 
A  city's  glory  —  we  have  laid  already 
Before  you  in  your  chamber  at  full  length, 
By  the  Avogadori,  all  the  proofs 
Which  have  appeared  against  you ;  and  more 

ample 
Ne'er  reared  their  sanguinary  shadows  to 
Confront  a  traitor.    What  have  you  to  say 
In  your  defence  ? 

Doge.  What  shall  I  say  to  ye, 

Since  my  defence  must  be  your  condemna- 
tion ? 
You  are  at  once  offenders  and  accusers, 
Judges  and  executioners  !  —  Proceed 
Upon  your  power. 

Ben.  Your  chief  accomplices 

Having  confessed,  there  is  no  hope  for  you. 

Doge.    And  who  be  they  ? 

Ben.  In  number  many ;  but 

The  first  now  stands  before  you  in  the  court, 
Bertram,  of  Bergamo,  —  would  you  question 
him  ? 

Doge  (looking  at  him  contemptuously).   No. 

Ben.  And  two  others,  Israt*  Bertuccio, 


the   stage  as  too  familiar.     But  we  who  spit  no- 
where—  but  in  a  man's  face  when  we  grow  savage 
—  are  not   likely   to   feel   this.     Remember    Mas- 
singer,  and  Kean's  Sir  Giles  Overreach  — 
'  Lord !  thus  I  spit  at  thee  and  at  thy  counsel ! '  " 
Byron's  Letters.} 


9T>6 


MARINO  FALTER O,   DOGE    OF   VENICE. 


[act  v. 


And  Philip  Calendaro,  have  admitted 
Their  fellowship  in  treason  with  the  Doge! 
Doge.     And  where  are  they  ? 
Ben.  Gone  to  their  place,  and  now 

Answering  to  Heaven  for  what  they  did  on 
earth. 
Doge.    Ah  !  the  plebeian  Brutus,  is  he  gone? 
And  the  quick  Cassius  of  the  arsenal  ?  — 
How  did  they  meet  their  doom  ? 

Den.  Think  of  your  own  : 

It  is  approaching.   You  decline  to  plead,  then  ? 
Doge.     I  cannot  plead  to  my  inferiors,  nor 
Can  recognize  your  legal  power  to  try  me. 
Show  me  the  law  ! 

Ben.  On  great  emergencies, 

The  law  must  be  remodelled  or  amended  : 
Our  fathers  had  not  fixed  the  punishment 
Of  such  a  crime,  as  on  the  old  Roman  tables 
The  sentence  against  parricide  was  left 
In  pure  forgetfulness  ;  they  could  not  render 
That    penal,   which   had   neither   name  nor 

thought 
In  their  great  bosoms :  who  would  have  fore- 
seen 
That  nature  could  be  filed  to  such  a  crime 
As  sons  'gainst  sires,  and  princes  'gainst  their 

realms  ? 
Your  sin  hath  made  us  make  a  law  which  will 
Become  a  precedent  'gainst  such  haught  trai- 
tors, 
As  would  with  treason  mount  to  tyranny  ; 
Not  even  contented  with  a  sceptre,  till 
They  can  convert  it  to  a  two-edged  sword ! 
Was  not  the  place  of  Doge  sufficient  for  ye  ? 
What's  nobler  than  the  signory  of  Venice  ? 
Doge.  The  signory  of  Venice!  You  betrayed 
me  — 
You  — you,  who  sit  there,  traitors  as  ye  are ! 
From  my  equality  with  you  in  birth, 
And  my  superiority  in  action, 
You  drew  me  from  my  honorable  toils 
In   distant   lands  —  on   flood  —  in   field  —  in 

cities  — 
You  singled  me  out  like  a  victim  to 
Stand  crowned,  but  bound  and  helpless,  at  the 

altar 
Where  you   alone   could   minister.     I   knew 

not — • 
I  sought  not  —  wished  not  —  dreamed  not  the 

election, 
Which    reached   me    first   at    Rome,   and   I 

obeyed ; 
But  found  or.  my  arrival,  that,  besides 
The  jealouf  vigilance  which  always  led  you 
To  mock  and  mar  your  sovereign's  best  in- 
tents, 
You  had,  even  in  the  interregnum  of 
My  journey  to  the  capital,  curtailed 
And  mutilated  the  few  privileges 
Yet  left  the  duke  :  all  this  I  bore,  and  would 
Have  borne,  until  my  very  hearth  was  stained 
By  the  pollution  of  your  ribaldry, 


And  he,  the  ribald,  whom  I  see  amongst  you  — 

Fit  judge  in  such  tribunal ! 

Ben.  {interrupting  Aim).  Michel  Steno 

Is  here  in  virtue  of  his  office,  as 
One  of  the  Forty;  "  the  Ten"  having  craved 
A  Giunta  of  patricians  from  the  senate 
To  aid  our  judgment  in  a  trial  arduous 
And  novel  as  the  present :  he  was  set 
Free  from  the  penalty  pronounced  upon  him. 
Because  the  Doge,  who  should  protect  the  law 
Seeking  to  abrogate  all  law,  can  claim 
No  punishment  of  others  by  the  statutes 
Which  he  himself  denies  and  violates  ! 
Doge.    His  punishment!  I  rather  see  him 

there, 
Where  he  now  sits,  to  glut  him  with  my  death, 
Than  in  the  mockery  of  castigation, 
Which  your  foul,  outward,  juggling  show  of 

justice 
Decreed  as  sentence  !     Base  as  was  his  crime 
'Twas  purity  compared  with  your  protection. 
Ben.     And  can  it  be,  that  the  great  Doge  ol. 

Venice, 
With  three  parts  of  a  century  of  years 
And  honors  on  his  head,  could  thus  allow 
His  fury,  like  an  angry  boy's,  to  master 
All  feeling,  wisdom,  faith,  and  fear,  on  such 
A  provocation  as  a  young  man's  petulance  ? 
Doge.    A  spark  creates  the  flame —  tis  the 

last  drop 
Which  makes  the  cup  run  o'er,  and  mine  was 

full 
Already  :  you  oppressed  the  prince  and  peo- 
ple ; 
I  would  have  freed  both,  and  have  failed  in 

both: 
The  price  of  such  success  would  have  been 

glory, 
Vengeance,  and  victory,  and  such  a  name 
As  would  have  made  Venetian  history 
Rival  to  that  of  Greece  and  Syracuse 
When  they  were  freed,  and  flourished  ages 

after, 
And  mine  to  Gelon  and  to  Thrasybulus:  — 
Failing,  I  know  the  penalty  of  failure 
Is  present  infamy  and  death  —  the  future 
Will  judge,  when  Venice  is  no  more,  or  free ; 
Till  then,  the  truth  is  in  abeyance.     Pause  not ; 
I  would  have  shown  no  mercy,  and    I  seek 

none ; 
My  life  was  staked  upon  a  mighty  hazard, 
And  being  lost,  take  what  I  would'  have  taken  ! 
I  would  have  stood  alone  amidst  your  tombs: 
Now  you  may  flock  round  mine,  and  trample 

on  it, 
As  you  have  done  upon  my  heart  while  living. 
Ben.     You  do  confess  then,  and  admit  the 

justice 
Of  our  tribunal  ? 

Doge.  I  confess  to  have  failed ; 

Fortune  is  female  :  from  my  youth  her  favors 
Were  not  withheld,  the  fault  was  mine  to  hope 


WiNE  I.] 


MARINO  FALIERO,   DOGE    OF    VENICE. 


56? 


Her  former  smiles  again  at  this  late  hour. 
Ben.     You  do  not  then  in  aught  arraign  our 

equity  ? 
Doge.     Noble  Venetians !  stir  me  not  with 

questions. 
\  am  resigned  to  the  worst ;  but  in  me  still 
Have  something  of  the  blood  of  brighter  days, 
And  am  not  over-patient.     Pray  you,  spare  me 
Further  interrogation,  which  boots  nothing, 
Except  to  turn  a  trial  to  debate. 
I  shall  but  answer  that  which  will  offend  you, 
And  please  your  enemies  —  a  host  already; 
Tis  true,  these  sullen  walls  should  yield  no 

echo  : 
But  walls  have  ears  —  nay,  more,  they  have 

tongues ;  and  if 
There  were  no  other  way  for  truth  to  o'erleap 

them,1 
You  who  condemn  me,  you  who  fear  and  slay 

me, 
Yet  could  not  bear  in  silence  to  your  graves 
What  you  would  hear  from  me  of  good  or  evil ; 
The  secret  were  too  mighty  for  your  souls  : 
Then  let  it  sleep  in  mine,  unless  you  court 
A  danger  which  would  double  that  you  escape. 
Such  my  defence  would  be,  had  I  full  scope 
To  make  it  famous  ;  for  true  words  are  things. 
And  dying  men's  are  things  which  long  outlive, 
And  oftentimes  avenge  them  ;  burv  mine, 
If  ye  would  fain  survive  me ;  take  this  counsel, 
And  though  too  oft  ye  made  me  live  in  wrath, 
Let  me  die  calmly ;  you  may  grant  me  this ;  — 
I  deny  nothing  —  defend  nothing  —  nothing 
I  ask  of  you,  but  silence  for  myself, 
And  sentence  from  the  court! 

Ben.  This  full  admission 

Spares  us  the  harsh  necessity  of  ordering 
The  torture  to  elicit  the  whole  truth.'2 
Doge.     The  torture  !  you  have  put  me  there 

already, 
Daily  since  I  was  Doge ;  but  if  you  will 
Add  the  corporeal  rack,  you  may  :  these  limbs 
Will  yield  with  age  to  crushing  iron;  but 
There's  that  within  my  heart  shall  strain  your 

engines. 

Enter  an  OFFICER. 

Officer.     Noble  Venetians!    Duchess  Fa- 
liero  3 
Requests  admission  to  the  Giunta's  presence. 
Ben.     Say,  conscript  fathers,4  shall  she  be 
admitted  ? 


1  [MS.  —  "  There  were  no  other  way  for  truth  to 

pierce  them."] 

2  [MS.  —  "The  torture  for  the  exposure  of  the 

truth."] 

'  [MS.— 

"  Noble  Venetians !  \  D.°p  Falier°'^  c°nsoj;t-     „, 
(  with  respect  the  Duchess.  J 

4  The  Venetian  senate  took  the  same  title  as  the 
Roman,  of  "  conscript  fathers." 


One  of  the    Giunta.      She  may  have  reve- 
lations of  importance 
Unto  the  state,  to  justify  compliance 
With  her  request. 

Ben.  Is  this  the  general  will  ? 

All.     It  is. 

Doge.  Oh,  admirable  laws  of  Venice! 

Which  would  admit  the  wife,  in  the  full  hope 
That  she  might  testify  against  the  husband. 
What  glory  to  the  chaste  Venetian  dames ! 
But  such  blasphemers  'gainst  all  honor,  as 
Sit  here,  do  well  to  act  in  their  vocation. 
Now,  villain  Steno  !  if  this  woman  fail, 
I'll  pardon  thee  thy  lie,  and  thy  escape, 
And  my  own  violent  death,  and  thy  vile  life. 

The  DUCHESS  enters? 

Ben.     Lady  !  this  just  tribunal  has  resolved, 
Though  the  request  be  strange,  to  grant  it,  and 
Whatever  be  its  purport,  to  accord 
A  patient  hearing  with  the  due  respect 
Which  fits  your  ancestry,  your  rank,  and  vir- 
tues : 
But  you  turn  pale  —  ho!  there,  look  to  the 

lady! 
Place  a  chair  instantly. 

Ang.  A  moment's  faintness  — 

'  Tis  past ;  I  pray  you  pardon  me,  —  I  sit  not 
In  presence  of  my  prince  and  of  my  husband, 
While  he  is  on  his  feet. 

Ben.  Your  pleasure,  lady  ? 

Ang.     Strange  rumors,  but  most  true,  if  all  I 
hear 
And  see  be  sooth,  have  reached  me,  and  I 

come 
To  know  the  worst,  even  at  the  worst ;  forgive 
The  abruptness  of  my  entrance  and  my  bear- 
ing. 

Is  it I  cannot  speak — I  cannot  shape 

The  question  —  but  you  answer  it  ere  spoken, 

5  [The  drama,  which  has  the  merit,  uncommon  in 
modern  performances,  of  embodying  no  episodical 
deformity  whatever,  now  hurries  in  full  career  to 
its  close.  Every  thing  is  despatched  with  the  stern 
decision  of  a  tyrannical  aristocracy.  There  is  no 
hope  of  mercy  on  any  side,  —  there  is  no  petition, 
—  nay,  there  is  no  wish  for  mercy.  Even  the  ple- 
beian conspirators  have  too  much  Venetian  blood  in 
them  to  be  either  scared  by  the  approach,  or  shaken 
in  the  moment,  of  death:  and,  as  for  the  Doge,  he 
bears  himself  as  becomes  a  warrior  of  sixty  years,  and 
a  deeply  insulted  prince.  At  the  moment,  however, 
which  immediately  precedes  the  pronouncing  of  the 
sentence,  admission  is  asked  and  obtained  by  one 
from  whom  less  of  the  Spartan  firmness  might  have 
been  expected.  This  is  Angiolina.  She  indeed  haz- 
ards one  fervent  prayer  to  the  unbending  senate ;  but 
she  sees  in  a  moment  that  it  is  in  vain,  and  she  re- 
covers herself  on  the  instant;  and  turning  to  her 
lord,  who  stands  calm  and  collected  at  the  foot  of 
the  council  table,  speaks  words  worthy  of  him  and 
of  her.  Nothing  can  be  more  unexpected,  or  more 
beautiful,  than  the  behavior  of  the  young  patrician 
who  interrupts  their  conversation.  —  LociiAart.] 


568 


MARINO  FALIERO,   DOGE    OF   VENICE. 


[act  v. 


With  eyes  averted,  and  with  gloomy  brows  — 
Oh  God  !  this  is  the  silence  of  the  grave  ! 
Ben. {after  a  pause).     Spare  us,  and  spare 
thyself  the  repetition 
Of  our  most  awful,  but  inexorable 
Duty  to  heaven  and  man  ! 

Ang.  Yet  speak;   I  cannot  — 

I  cannot  —  no  —  even  now  believe  these  things. 
Is  he  condemned  ? 
Ben.  Alas ! 

.  lug.  And  was  he  guilty  ? 

Ben.     Lady  !  the  natural  distraction  of 
Thy  thoughts  at  such  a  moment  makes  the 

question 
Merit  forgiveness;  else  a  doubt  like  this 
Against  a  just  and  paramount  tribunal 
Were  deep  offence.     But  question  even  the 

Doge, 
And  if  he  can  deny  the  proofs,  believe  him 
Guiltless  as  thy  own  bosom. 

Aug.  Is  it  so  ? 

My  lord  —  my  sovereign  —  my  poor  father's 

friend  — 
The  mighty  in  the  field,  the  sage  in  council ; 
Unsay  the  words  of  this  man! — -Thou  art  si- 
lent! 
Ben.     He  hath  already  owned  to  his  own 
guilt,1 
Nor,  as  thou  see'st,  doth  he  deny  it  now. 
Ang.  Ay,  but  he  must  not  die !     Spare  his 
few  years, 
Which  grief  and  shame  will  soon  cut  down 

to  days ! 
One  day  of  baffled  crime  must  not  efface 
Near  sixteen  lustres  crowded  with  brave  acts. 
Ben.     His  doom  must  be  fulfilled  without 
remission 
Of  time  or  penalty — 'tis  a  decree. 

Ang.     He  hath  been  guilty,  but  there  may 

be  mercy. 
Ben.     Not  in  this  case  with  justice. 
Ang .  Alas  !  signor, 

He  who  is  only  just  is  cruel ;  who 
Upon  the  earth  would  live  were  all  judged 
justly  ? 
Ben.     His  punishment  is  safety  to  the  state. 
Ang.     He  was  a  subject,  and  hath  served 
the  state ; 
He  was  your  general,  and  hath  saved  the  state  ; 
He  is  your  sovereign,  and  hath  ruled  the  state. 
One  of  the  Council.     He  is  a  traitor,  and  be- 
trayed the  state. 
Ang.    And,  but   for  him,  there   now  had 
been  no  state 
To  save  or  to  destroy ;  and  you  who  sit 
There  to  pronounce  the  death  of  your  deliv- 
erer, 
Had  now  been  groaning  at  a  Moslem  oar, 
Or  digging  in  the  Hunnish  mines  in  fetters  ! 


[MS.— 

"  He  hath  already  granted  his  own  guilt."] 


One  of  ■"•     Council.     No,  lady,  there   ar« 
otheis  who  would  die 
Rather  than  breathe  in  slavery ! 

Aug.  If  there  are  so 

Within  these  walls,  thou  art  not  of  the  number . 
The  truly  brave  are  generous  to  the  fallen  !  — ■ 
Is  there  no  hope  ? 

Ben.  Lady,  it  cannot  be. 

Ang.  {turning  to  the  Doge) .     Then  die,  Fa- 
liero,  since  it  must  be  so  ; 
But  with  the  spirit  of  my  father's  friend. 
Thou  hast  been  guilty  of  a  great  offence, 
Half-cancelled  by  the  harshness  of  these  men. 
I  would  have  sued  to  them — have  prayed  to 

them  — 
Have   begged    as  famished   mendicants    for 

bread  — 
Have  wept  as  they  will  cry  unto  their  God 
For  mercy,  and  be  answered  as  they  answer  — - 
Had  it  been  fitting  for  thy  name  or  mine, 
And  if  the  cruelty  in  their  cold  eyes 
Had    not    announced    the    heartless    wratj 

within. 
Then,  as  a  prince,  address  thee  to  thy  doom  ! 

Doge.     I  have  lived  too  long  not  to  know 
how  to  die ! 
Thy  suing  to  these  men  were  but  the  bleating 
Of  the  lamb  to  the  butcher,  or  the  cry 
Of  seamen  to  the  surge:   I  would  not  take 
A  life  eternal,  grai.ted  at  the  hands 
Of  wretches,  from  "vhose  monstrous  villanies 
I  sought  to  free  the  groaning  nations  ! 

Michel  Steno.  Doge, 

A  word  with  thee,  and  with  this  noble  lady, 
Whom  I  have  grievously  offended.     Would 
Sorrow,  or  shame,  or  penance  on  my  part, 
Could  cancel  the  inexorable  past ! 
But  since  that  cannot  be,  as  Christians  let  us 
Say  farewell,  and  in  peace  :  with  full  contrition 
I  crave,  not  pardon,  but  compassion  from  you, 
And   give,    however  weak,   my  prayers    for 
both. 

Ang.  Sage  Benintende,  now  chief  judge  of 
Venice, 
I  speak  to  thee  in  answer  to  yon  signor. 
Inform  the  ribald  Steno,  that  his  words 
Ne'er    weighed    in    mind    with    Loredano's 

daughter 
Further  than  to  create  a  moment's  pity 
For  such  as  he  is  :  would  that  others  had 
Despised  him  as  I  pity !  I  prefer 
My  honor  to  a  thousand  lives,  could  such 
Be  multiplied  in  mine,  but  would  not  have 
A  single  life  of  others  lost  for  that 
Which    nothing   human   can     impugn  —  the 

sense 
Of  virtue,  looking  not  to  what  is  called 
A  good  name  for  reward,  but  to  itself. 
To  me  the  scorrver's  words  were  as  the  wind 
Unto  the  rock:  but  as  there  are  —  alas! 
Spirits  more  sensitive,  on  which  Such  things 
Light  as  the  whirlwind  on  the  waters;  souls 


SCENE  I.] 


MARINO  FALIERO,   DOGE    OF   VENICE. 


569 


To  whom  dishonor's  shadow  is  a  substance 
More  terrible  than  death,  here  and  hereafter; 
Men  whose  vice  is  to  start  at  vice's  scoffing, 
And  who,  though  proof  against  all  blandish- 
ments 
Of  pleasure,  and  all  pangs  of  pain,  are  feeble 
When  the  proud  name  on  which  they  pinna- 
cled 
Their   hopes   is  breathed  on,  jealous  as  the 

eagle 
Of  her  high  aiery  ;  let  what  we  now 
Behold,  and  feel,  and  suffer,  be  a  lesson 
To  wretches  how  they  tamper  in  their  spleen 
With  beings  of  a  higher  order.     Insects 
Have  made  the  lion  mad  ere  now  ;  a  shaft 
I'  the  heel  o'erthrewthe  bravest  of  the  brave; 
A  wife's  dishonor  was  the  bane  of  Troy  ; 
A  wife's  dishonor  unkinged  Rome  for  ever ; 
An   injured   husband   brought   the  Gauls  to 

Clusium, 
And  thence  to  Rome,  which  perished  for  a 

time ; 
An  obscene  gesture  cost  Caligula 
His  life,  while  Earth  yet  bore  his  cruelties ; 
A   virgin's   wrong    made   Spain   a    Moorish 

province ; 
And  Steno's  lie,  couched  in  two  worthless  lines, 
Hath  decimated  Venice,  put  in  peril 
A  senate  which   hath   stood  eight   hundred 

years, 
Discrowned  a  prince,   cut  off  his  crownless 

head, 
And  forged  new  fetters  for  a  groaning  people  ! 
Let  the  poor  wretch,  like  to  the  courtesan 
Who  fired  Persepolis,  be  proud  of  this, 
If  it  so  please  him  —  'twere  a  pride  fit  for  him  ! 
But  let  him  not  insult  the  last  hours  of 
Him,  who,  whate'er  he  now  is,  was  a  hero, 
By  the  intrusion  of  his  very  prayers  ; 
Nothing   of  good   can    come   from    such   a 

source, 
Nor  would  we  aught  with  him,  nor  now,  nor 

ever. 
We  leave  him  to  himself,  that  lowest  depth 
Of  human  baseness.     Pardon  is  for  men, 
And   not    for   reptiles  —  we   have    none   for 

Steno, 
And   no  resentment:   things   like   him   must 

sting, 
And  higher  beings  suffer ;  'tis  the  charter 
Of  life.  The   man  who  dies   by  the   adder's 

fang 
May  have  the  crawler  crushed,  but  feels  no 

anger : 
'Twas  the  worm's  nature ;  and  some  men  are 

worms 
In  soul,  more  than  the  living  things  of  tombs.1 


1  [The  Duchess  is  formal  and  cold,  without  even 
that  degree  of  love  for  her  old  husband  which  a  child 
might  have  for  her  parent,  or  a  pupil  for  her  in- 
structor. Even  in  this  her  longest  and  best  speech, 
at  the  most  touching  moment  of  the  catastrophe.,  she 


Doge    (to  Ben.).    Signor!     complete    that 

which  you  deem  your  duty. 
Ben.  Before  we  can  proceed  upon  that  duty. 
We  would  request  the  princess  to  withdraw  ; 
'Twill  move  her  too  much  to  be  witness  to  it. 
Ang .  I  know  it  will,  and  yet  I  must  endure 
it, 
For  'tis  a  part  of  mine —  I  will  not  quit, 
Except  by  force,  my  husband's  side. —  Pro- 
ceed ! 
Nay,  fear  not  either  shriek,  or  sigh,  or  tear; 
Though  my  heart  burst,  it  shall  be  silent.  — 

Speak ! 
I  have  that  within  which  shall  o'ermaster  all. 

Ben.  Marino  Faliero,  Doge  of  Venice, 
Count  of  Val  di  Marino,  Senator, 
And  some   time   General   of  the   Fleet  and 

Army, 
Noble  Venetian,  many  times  and  oft 
Intrusted    by  the   state   with    high    employ- 
ments, 
Even  to  the  highest,  listen  to  the  sentence. 
Convict  by  many  witnesses  and  proofs, 
And  by  thine  own  confession,  of  the  guilt 
Of  treachery  and  treason,  yet  unheard  of 
Until  this  trial  —  the  decree  is  death. 
Thy  goods  are  confiscate  unto  the  state, 
Thy  name  is  razed  from  out  her  records,  save 
Upon  a  public  day  of  thanksgiving 
For  this  our  most  miraculous  deliverance, 
When  thou  art  noted  in  our  calendars 
With  earthquakes,  pestilence,  and  foreign  foes, 
And  the  great  enemy  of  man,  as  subject 
Of  grateful   masses   for   Heaven's    grace   in 

snatching 
Our  lives  and  country  from  thy  wickedness. 
The  place  wherein  as  Doge  thou  shouldst  be 

painted 
With  thine  illustrious  predecessors,  is 
To  be  left  vacant,  with  a  death-black  veil 
Flung   over  these  dim  words  engraved   be- 
neath,— 
"  This  place  is  of  Marino  Faliero, 
Decapitated  for  his  crimes." 

Doge.  "  His  crimes  !  " 

But  let  it  be  so:  —  it  will  be  in  vain. 
The  veil  which   blackens  o'er  this  blighted 
name. 


can  moralize,  in  a  strain  of  pedantry  less  natural  to 
a  woman  than  to  any  other  person  similarly  circum- 
stanced, on  lions  stung  by  gnats,  Achilles,  Helen, 
Lucretia,  the  siege  of  Clusium,  Caligula,  Caaba,  and 
Persepolis!  The  lines  are  fine  in  themselves,  in- 
deed; and  if  they  had  been  spoken  by  Benintende 
as  a  funeral  oration  over  the  Duke's  body,  or  still 
more,  perhaps,  if  they  had  been  spoken  by  the 
Duke's  counsel  on  his  trial,  they  would  have  been 
perfectly  in  place  and  character.  But  that  is  not 
the  highest  order  of  female  intellect  which  is  dis- 
posed to  be  long-winded  in  distress;  nor  does  any 
one,  either  male  or  female,  who  is  really  and  deeply 
affected,  find  time  for  wise  saws  and  instances  ai.- 
cient  and  modem.  —  Heber.~\ 


570 


MARINO  FALIERO,   DOGE    OF   VENICE. 


[act  v. 


And  hides,  or  seems  to  hide,  these  lineaments, 
Shall  draw  more  gazers  than  the  thousand 

portraits 
Which  glitter  round  it  in  their  pictured  trap- 
pings— 
Your  delegated  slaves — the  people's  tyrants  ! 
"  Decapita'ed     for      his     crimes!" — What 

crimes  ? 
Were  it  not  better  to  record  the  facts, 
So  that  the  contemplator  might  approve. 
Or  at  the  least  lean)  whence  the  crimes  arose  ? 
When  the  beholder  knows  a  Doge  conspired, 
Let  him  be  told  the  cause  —  it  is  your  history. 
Ben.    Time  must  reply  to  that ;   our  sons 
will  judge 
Their   fathers'   judgment,  which  I  now  pro- 
nounce. 
As  Doge,  clad  in  the  ducal  robes  and  cap, 
Thou  shalt  be  led  hence  to  the  Giants'.  Stair- 
case, 
Where  thou  and  all  our  princes  are  invested ; 
And  there,  the  ducal  crown  being  first  resumed 
Upon  the  spot  where  it  was  first  assumed, 
Thy  head  shall  be  struck  off;    and  Heaven 

have  mercy 
Upon  thy  soul ! 
Doge.  Is  this  the  Giunta's  sentence? 

Ben.     It  is. 

Doge.        I  can  endure  it.  — And  the  time  ? 

Ben.     Must    be    immediate.  —  Make     thy 

peace  with  God  : 

Within  an  hour  thou  must  be  in  His  presence. 

Doge.     I   am  already ;  and  my  blood  will 

rise 

To  Heaven  before  the  souls  of  those  who  shed 

it. — 
Are  all  my  lands  confiscated  ? 

Ben.  They  are ; 

And  goods,  and  jewels,  and  all  kind  of  treasure, 
Except  two  thousand  ducats — these  dispose 
of. 
Doge.     That's  harsh.  —  I  would  have  fain 
reserved  the  lands 
Near  to  Treviso,  which  I  hold  by  investment 
From  Laurence  the  Count-bishop  of  Ceneda, 
In  fief  perpetual  to  myself  and  heirs, 
To  portion  them  (leaving  my  city  spoil, 
My  palace  and  my  treasures,  to  your  forfeit) 
Between  my  consort  and  my  kinsmen. 

Ben.  These 

Lie   under  the  state's  ban ;    their  chief,   thy 

nephew, 
In  peril  of  his  own  life  ;  but  the  council 
Postpones  his  trial  for  the  present.     If 
Thou  will'st  a  state  unto  thy  widowed  princess, 
Fear  not,  for  we  will  do  her  justice. 

Ang.  Signors, 

I  share  not  in  your  spoil !     From  henceforth, 

know 
I  am  devoted  unto  God  alone, 
And  take  my  refuge  in  the  cloister. 
Doge.  Come ! 


The  hour  may  be  a  hard  one,  but  'twill  end. 
Have  I  aught  else  to  undergo  save  death  ? 
Ben.    You  have  nought  to  do,  except  con- 
fess and  die. 
The  priest  is  robed,  the  scimitar  is  bare, 
And  both  await  without.  —  But,  above  all, 
Think  not  to  speak  unto  the  people ;  they 
Are  now  by  thousands  swarming  at  the  gates, 
But  these  are  closed  :  the  Ten,  the  Avogadori, 
The  Giunta,  and  the  chief  men  of  the  Forty, 
Alone  will  be  beholders  of  thy  doom, 
And  they  are  ready  to  attend  the  Doge. 
Doge.     The  Doge ! 

Ben.     Yes,  Doge,  thou  hast  lived  and  thou 
shalt  die 
A  sovereign  ;  till  the  moment  which  precedes 
The  separation  of  that  head  and  trunk, 
That  ducal  crown  and  head  shall  be  united. 
Thou  hast  forgot  thy  dignity  in  deigning 
To  plot  with  petty  traitors;  not  so  we, 
Who  in  the  very  punishment  acknowledge 
The  prince.     Thy  vile  accomplices  have  died 
The  dog's  death,  and  the  wolf's ;    but  thou 

shalt  fall 
As  falls  the  lion  by  the  hunters,  girt 
By  those  who  feel  a  proud  compassion  for  thee, 
And  mourn  even  the  inevitable  death 
Provoked  by  thy  wild  wrath,  and  regal  fierce- 
ness. 
Xow  we  remifr  thee  to  thy  preparation  : 
Let  it  be  brief,  and  we  ourselves  will  be 
Thy  guides  unto  the  place  where  first  we  were 
United  to  thee  as  thy  subjects,  and 
Thy  senate  ;  and  must  now  be  parted  from  thee 
As  such  for  ever,  on  the  self-same  spot.  — 
Guards !  form  the  Doge's  escort  to  his  cham- 
ber. [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. —  The  Doges  Apartment. 

The  DOGE  as  Prisoner,  and  the  DUCHESS  at- 
tending  him. 

Doge.     Now,  that  the  priest  is  gone,  'twere 
useless  all 
To  linger  out  the  miserable  minutes ; 
But  one  pang  more,  the  pang  of  parting  from 

thee, 
And  I  will  leave  the  few  last  grains  of  sand, 
Which  yet  remain  of  the  accorded  hour, 
Still  falling — I  have  done  with  Time. 

Ang.  Alas  \ 

And  I  have  been  the  cause,  the  unconscious 

cause ; 
And  for  this  funeral  marriage,  this  black  union, 
Which  thou,  compliant  with  my  father's  wish, 
Didst  promise  at  his  death,  thou  hast  sealed 
thine  own. 
Doge.    Not  so  :  there  was  that  in  my  spirit 
ever 
Which  shaped  out  for  itself  some  great  re- 
verse : 


SCENE  II.] 


MARINO  FALIERO,   DOGE    OF   VENICE. 


,1\ 


The  marvel  is,  it  came  not  until  now  — 
And  yet  it  was  foretold  me. 

Aug.  H'ow  foretold  vou  ? 

Doge.     Long  years  ago  —  so  long,  they  are 

a  doubt 
In  memory,  and  yet  they  live  in  annals  : 
When  I  was  in  my  youth,  and  served  the  sen- 
ate 
And  signory  as  podesta  and  captain 
Of  the  town  of  Treviso,  on  a  day 
Of  festival,  the  sluggish  bishop  who 
'"onveyed  the  Host  aroused  my  rash  young 

anger 
By  strange  delay,  and  arrogant  reply 
To  my  reproof;  I  raised  my  hand  and  smote 

him 
Until  he  reeled  beneath  his  holy  burden  ; 
And  as  he  rose  from  earth  again,  he  raised 
His  tremulous  hands  in  pious  wrath  towards 

Heaven, 
Thence  pointing  to  the  Host,  which  had  fallen 

from  him, 
He  turned  to  me,  and  said,  "  The  hour  will 

come 
When  he  thou  hast  o'erthrown  shall  overthrow 

thee: 
The  glory  shall  depart  from  out  thy  house, 
The  wisdom  shall  be  shaken  from  thy  soul, 
And  in  thy  best  maturity  of  mind 
A  madness  of  the  heart  shall  seize  upon  thee ;  J 
Passion  shall  tear  thee  when  all  passions  cease 
In  other  men,  or  mellow  into  virtues  ; 
And  majesty,  which  decks  all  other  heads, 
Shall  crown  to  leave  thee  headless;    honors 

shall 
But  prove  to  thee  the  heralds  of  destruction, 
And  hoary  hairs  of  shame,  and  both  of  death, 
But  not  such  death  as  fits  an  aged   man." 
Thus  saying,  he  passed  on.  — That   hour  is 

come. 
Ang.    And  with  this  warning  couldst  thou 

not  have  striven 
To  avert  the  fatal  moment,  and  atone, 
By  penitence  for  that  which  thou  hadst  done  ? 
Doge.     I  own  the  words  went  to  my  heart, 

so  much 
That  I  remembered  them  amid  the  maze 
Of  life,  as  if  they  formed  a  spectral  voice, 
Which  shook  me  in  a  supernatural  dream; 
And  I  repented ;  but  'twas  not  for  me 
To  pull  in  resolution  :  what  must  be 
I  could  not  change,  and  would  not  fear.  —  Nay 

more, 
Thou  canst  not  have  forgot,  what  all  remem- 
ber, 
That  on  my  day  of  landing  here  as  Doge, 
On  my  return  from  Rome,  a  mist  of  such 
Unwonted  density  went  on  before 
The  bucentaur,  like  the  columnar  cloud 


•  [MS.— 
"A  madness  of  the  heart  shall  rise  within."! 


Which  ushered  Israel  out  of  Egypt,  till 
The  pilot  was  misled,  and  disembarked  us 
Between  the  pillars  of  Saint  Mark's,  where  'tis 
The  custom  of  the  state  to  put  to  death 
Its  criminals,  instead  of  touching  at 
The  Riva  della  Paglia,  as  the  wont  is,  — 
So  that  all  Venice  shuddered  at  the  omen. 

Ang.    Ah!  little  boots  it  now  to  recollect 
Such  things. 

Doge.  And  yet  I  find  a  comfort  in 

The  thought  that  these  things  are  the  work  oi 

Fate; 
For  I  would  rather  yield  to  gods  than  men, 
Or  cling  to  any  creed  of  destiny, 
Rather  than  deem  these  mortals,  most  of  whom 
I  know  to  be  as  worthless  as  the  dust, 
And  weak  as  worthless,  more  than  instruments 
Of  an  o'erruling  power ;  they  in  themselves 
Were  all  incapable — they  could  not  be 
Victors  of  him  who  oft  had  conquered  for 
them ! 

Ang.     Employ  the  minutes  left  in  aspira- 
tions 
Of  a  more  healing  nature,  and  in  peace 
Even  with  these  wretches  take  thy  flight  to 
Heaven. 

Doge.     I  am  at  peace  :  the  peace  of  certainty 
That  a  sure  hour  will  come,  when  their  sons' 

sons, 
And  this  proud  city,  and  these  azure  waters, 
And   all   which   makes   them    eminent    and 

bright, 
Shall  be  a  desolation  and  a  curse, 
A  hissing  and  a  scoff  unto  the  nations, 
A  Carthage,  and  a  Tyre,  an  Ocean  Babel ! 

Ang.     Speak  not  thus  now ;    ths  surge  of 
passion  still 
Sweeps  o'er  thee  to  the  last ;  thou  dost  deceive 
Thyself,    and    canst    not    injure    them  —  be 
calmer. 

Doge.     I  stand  within  eternity,  and  see 
Into  eternity,  and  I  behold  — 
Ay,  palpable  as  I  see  thy  sweet  face 
For  the  last  time  —  the  days  which  I  denounce 
Unto  all  time  against  these  wave-girt  walls, 
And  they  who  are  indwellers. 

Guard  {coming  forward).    Doge  of  Venice, 
The  Ten  are  in  attendance  on  your  highness. 

Doge.   Then  farewell,  Angiolina !  —  one  em- 
brace — 
Forgive  the  old  man  who  hath  been  to  thee 
A  fond  but  fatal  husband  —  love  my  mem- 
ory— 
I  would  not  ask  so  much  for  me  s*ill  living, 
But  thou  canst  judge  of  me  more  kindly  now, 
Seeing  my  evil  feelings  are  at  rest. 
Besides,  of  all  the  fruit  of  these  long  years, 
Glory,  and  wealth,  and  power,  and  fame,  and 

name, 
Which  generally  leave  some  flowers  to  blcom 
Even  o'er  the  grave,  I  have  nothing  left,  not 
even 


572 


MARINO  FALIERO,   DOGE    OF   VENICE. 


[act  v. 


A  little  love,  or  friendship,  or  esteem, 
No,  not  enough  to  extract  an  epitaph 
From  ostentatious  kinsmen  ;  in  one  hour 
I  have  uprooted  all  my  former  life, 
And  outlived  every  thing,  except  thy  heart, 
The  pure,  the  good,  the  gentle,  which  will  oft 
With  unimpaired  but  not  a  clamorous  grief1 
Still  keep Thou  turn'st  so  pale !  —  Alas, 

she  faints, 
She  has  no  breath,  no  pulse  !  —  Guards  !  lend 

your  aid  — 
I  cannot  leave  her  thus,  and  yet  'tis  better, 
Since  every  lifeless  moment  spares  a  pang. 
When  she  shakes  off  this  temporary  death, 
I    shall    be    with    the    Eternal.  —  Call    her 

women  — 
One  look !  —  how  cold  her  hand  !  —  as  cold  as 

mine 
Shall  be  ere  she  recovers.  —  Gently  tend  her, 

And  take  my  last  thanks 1  am  ready  now. 

[The  Attendants  o/ANGIOLINA  enter  and 

surround  their  mistress,  who  has  fainted. 

—Exeunt  the  DOGE,  Guards,  etc.  etc. 

SCENE  III. —  The  Court  of  the  Ducal  Palace  : 
the  outer  gates  are  shut  against  the  people. 

—  The  DOGE  enters  in  his  ducal  robes,  in 
procession  with  the  Council  of  Ten  and  other 
Patricians,  attended  by  the  Guards,  till  they 
arrive  at  the  top  of  the  "  Giants'  Staircase" 
(tvhere  the  Doges  took  the  oaths)  ;  the  Ex- 
ecutioner is  stationed  there  with  his  sword. 

—  On  arriving,  a  Chief  of  the  Ten  takes  off 
the  ducal  cap  from  the  Doge's  head. 

Doge.    So  now  the  Doge  is  nothing,  and 
at  last 
I  am  again  Marino  Faliero : 
'Tis  well  to  be  so,  though  but  for  a  moment. 
Here  was  I  crowned,  and  here,  bear  witness, 

Heaven ! 
With  how  much  more  contentment  I  resign 
That  shining  mockery,  the  ducal  bauble, 
Than  I  received  the  fatal  ornament. 

One  of  the  Ten.  Thou  tremblest,  Faliero  ! 
Doge.  'Tis  with  age,  then.2 

Ben.     Faliero !   hast  thou  aught  further  to 
commend, 
Compatible  with  justice,  to  the  senate  ? 


•  [MS.— 

"  With  unimpaired  hut  not  outrageous  grief."] 
2  This  was  the  actual  reply  of  Bailli,  maire  of 
Paris,  to  a  Frenchman  who  made  him  the  same  re- 
proach on  his  way  to  execution,  in  the  earliest  part 
of  their  revolution.  I  find  in  reading  over  (since 
the  completion  of  this  tragedy),  for  the  first  time 
these  six  years,  "  Venice  Preserved,"  a  similar  re- 
ply on  a  different  occasion  by  Renault,  and  other 
coincidences  arising  from  the  subject.  I  need  hardly 
remind  the  gentlest  reader,  that  such  coincidences 
must  be  accidental,  from  the  very  facility  of  their 
detection  by  reference  to  so  popular  a  play  on  the 
stage  and  in  the  closet  as  Otway's  chef-d'ceuvre. 


Doge.     I  would  commend  my  nephew  te 
their  mercy, 
My  consort  to  their  justice  ;  for  methinks 
My  death,  and  such  a  death,  might  settle  all 
Between  the  state  and  me. 

Ben.  They  shall  be  cared  for; 

Even  notwithstanding  thine  unheard-of  crime 

Doge.     Unheard  of!  ay,  there's  not  a  his- 
tory 
But  shows  a  thousand  crowned  conspirators 
Against  the  people  ;  but  to  set  them  free 
One  sovereign  only  died,  and  one  is  dying. 

Ben.     And  who  were  they  who  fell  in  sucl 
a  cause  ? 

Doge.    The  King  of  Sparta,  and  the  Doge 
of  Venice  — 
Agis  and  Faliero ! 

Ben.  Hast  thou  more 

To  utter  or  to  do  ? 

Doge.  May  I  speak  ? 

Ben.  Thou  may'st; 

But  recollect  the  people  are  without, 
Beyond  the  compass  of  the  human  voice. 

Doge.     I  speak  to  Time  and  to  Eternity,3 
Of  which  I  grow  a  portion,  not  to  man. 
Ye  elements !  in  which  to  be  resolved 
I  hasten,  let  my  voice  be  as  a  spirit 
Upon  you !   ye  blue  waves !   which  bore  my 

banner, 
Ye  winds  !  which  fluttered  o'er  as  if  you  loved 

it,  ' 

And  filled  my  swelling  sails  as  they  were  wafted 
To  many  a  triumph  !  Thou,  my  native  earth, 
Which  I  have  bled  for,  and  thou  foreign  earth, 
Which  drank  this  willing  blood  from  many  a 

wound ! 
Ye  stones,  in  which  my  gore  will  not  sink,  bul 
Reek  up  to  Heaven !    Ye  skies,  which  will  re- 
ceive it ! 
Thou  sun  !  which  shinest  on  these  things,  and 

Thou! 
Who  kindlest  and  who  quenchest  suns !  4  — 

Attest ! 
I  am  not  innocent  —  but  are  these  guiltless  ? 
I  perish,  but  not  unavenged ;  far  ages 
Float  up  from  the  abyss  of  time  to  be, 
And  show  these  eyes,  before  they  close,  the 

doom 
Of  this  proud  city,  and  I  leave  my  curse 

On  her  and  hers  for  ever ! Yes,  the  hours 

Are  silently  engendering  of  the  day, 

When  she,  who  built  'gainst  Attila  a  bulwark, 

Shall  yield,  and  bloodlessly  and  basely  yield 

Unto  a  bastard  Attila,  without 

Shedding  so  much  blood  in  her  last  defence 


3  [The  last  speech  of  the  Doge  is  a  grand  pro- 
phetic rant,  something  strained  and  elaborate  —  but 
eloquent  and  terrible.  —  Jeffrey.} 

*  [In  MS.— 

"  and  Thou ! 

Who  makest  and  destroyest  suns!  "J 


SCENE  III.] 


MARINO  FALIERO,   DOGE    OF   VENICE. 


573 


As  these  old  veins,  oft  drained  in  shielding  her, 
Shall  pour  in  sacrifice.  —  She  shall  be  bought 
And  sold,  and  be  an  appanage  to  those 
Who  shall  despise  her!1  — She  shall  stoop 

to  be 
A  province  for  an  empire,  petty  town 
In  lieu  of  capital,  with  slaves  for  senates, 
Beggars  for  nobles,2  panders  for  a  people  ! 
Then  when  the  Hebrew's  in  thy  palaces,3 
The  Hun  in  thy  high  places,  and  the  Greek 
Walks  o'er  thy  mart,  and  smiles  on  it  for  his ! 
When  thy  patricians  beg  their  bitter  bread 


1  Should  the  dramatic  picture  seem  harsh,  let  the 
reader  look  to  the  historical,  of  the  period  prophe- 
sied, or  rather  of  the  few  years  preceding  that 
period.  Voltaire  calculated  their  "  nostre  bene 
merite  meretrici "  at  12,000  of  regulars,  without  in- 
cluding volunteers  and  local  militia,  on  what 
authority  I  know  not;  but  it  is,  perhaps,  the  only 
part  of  the  population  not  decreased.  Venice  once 
-ontained  two  hundred  thousand  inhabitants:  there 
are  now  about  ninety  thousand;  and  these!!  few 
individuals  can  conceive,  and  none  could  describe, 
the  actual  state  into  which  the  more  than  infernal 
tyranny  of  Austria  has  plunged  this  unhappy  city. 
From  the  present  decay  and  degeneracy  of  Venice 
under  the  Barbarians,  there  are  some  honorable  in- 
dividual exceptions.  There  is  Pasqualigo,  the  last, 
and,  alas!  posthumous  son  of  the  marriage  of  the 
Doges  with  the  Adriatic,  who  fought  his  frigate 
with  far  greater  gallantry  than  any  of  his  French 
coadjutors  in  the  memorable  action  off  Lissa.  I 
came  home  in  the  squadron  with  the  prizes  in  1811, 
and  recollect  to  have  heard  Sir  William  Hoste,  and 
the  other  officers  engaged  in  that  glorious  conflict, 
speak  in  the  highest  terms  of  Pasqualigo's  be- 
havior. There  is  the  Abbate  Morelli.  There  is 
Alvise  Querini,  who,  after  a  long  and  honorable 
diplomatic  career,  finds  some  consolation  for  the 
wrongs  of  his  country,  in  the  pursuits  of  literature 
with  his  nephew,  Vittor  Benzon.  the  son  of  the 
celebrated  beauty,  the  heroine  of  "  La  Biondina  in 
Gondoletta."  There  are  the  patrician  poet  Moro- 
sini,  and  the  poet  Lamberti,  the  author  of  the 
"  Biondina,"  etc.  and  many  other  estimable  produc- 
tions; and  not  least  in  an  Englishman's  estimation, 
Madame  Michelli,  the  translator  of  Shakspeare. 
There  are  the  young  Dandolo  and  the  improvvisa- 
tore  Carrer,  and  Giuseppe  Albrizzi,  the  accom- 
'.ished  son  of  an  accomplished  mother.  There 
is  Aglietti,  and  were  there  nothing  else,  there 
>s  the  immortality  of  Canova,  Cicognara,  Mus- 
toxithi,  Bucati,  etc.  etc.  I  do  not  reckon,  be- 
cause the  one  is  a  Greek,  and  the  others 
were  born  at  least  a  hundred  miles  off,  which, 
throughout  Italy,  constitutes,  if  not  a  foreigner,  at 
least  a  stranger  {forestiere). 

2  [MS.—  r    lazars     x 

"  Beggars  for  nobles,  I    lepers    \  for  a  people!  "] 
(  wretches  ) 

3  The  chief  palaces  on  the  Brenta  now  belong  to 
the  Jews;  who  in  the  earlier  times  of  the  republic 
were  only  allowed  to  inhabit  Mestri,  and  not  to 
enter  the  city  of  Venice.  The  whole  commerce  is 
in  the  hands  of  the  Jews  and  Greeks,  and  the  Huns 
form  the  garrison. 


In  narrow  streets,  and  in  their  shameful  need 
Make  their  nobility  a  plea  for  pity! 
Then,  when  the  few  who  still  retain  a  wreck 
Of  their  great  fathers'  heritage  shall  fawn 
Round  a  barbarian  Vice  of  Kings'  Vice-gerent, 
Even  in  the  palace  where  they  swayed  as  sov- 
ereigns, 
Even  in  the  palace  where  they  slew  their  sov- 
ereign, 
Proud  of  some  name  they  have  disgraced,  or 

sprung 
From  an  adulteress  boastful  of  her  guilt 
With  some  large  gondolier  or  foreign  soldier, 
Shall  bear  about  their  bastardy  in  triumph 
To  the  third  spurious  generation  ;  — when 
Thy  sons  are  in  the  lowest  scale  of  being, 
Slaves  turned  o'er  to  the  vanquished  by  the 

victors, 
Despised  by  cowards  for  greater  cowardice, 
And  scorned  even  by  the  vicious  for  such  vices 
As  in  the  monstrous  grasp  of  their  conception 
Defy  all  codes  to  image  or  to  name  them ; 
Then,  when  of  Cyprus,  now  thy  subject  king- 
dom, 
All  thine  inheritance  shall  be  her  shame 
Entailed  on  thy  less  virtuous  daughters,  grown 
A  wider  proverb  for  worse  prostitution  ;  — 
When  all  the  ills  of  conquered  states  shall 

cling  thee, 
Vice  without  splendor,  sin  without  relief 
Even  from  the  gloss  of  love  to  smoothe  it  o'er 
But  in  its  stead,  coarse  lusts  of  habitude, 
Prurient  yet  passionless, cold  studiedlewdness, 
Depraving  nature's  frailty  to  an  art ;  — 
When  these  and  more  are  heavy  on  thee,  when 
Smiles  without  mirth,  and  pastimes  without 

pleasure, 
Youth  without  honor,  age  without  respect, 
Meanness  and  weakness,  and  a  sense  of  woe 
'Gainst  which  thou  wilt  not  strive,  and  dar'st  not 

murmur,4 
Have  made  thee  last  and  worst  of  peopled 

deserts, 
Then,  in  the  last  gasp  of  thine  agony, 
Amidst  thy  many  murders,  think  of  mine/ 


*  If  the  Doge's  prophecy  seem  remarkable,  look 
to  the  following,  made  by  Alamanni  two  hundred 
and  seventy  years  ago:  —  "  There  is  one  very  sin- 
gular prophecy  concerning  Venice:  'If  thou  dost 
not  change,'  it  says  to  that  proud  republic,  '  thy 
liberty,  which  is  already  on  the  wing,  will  not 
reckon  a  century  more  than  the  thousandth  year.' 
If  we  carry  back  the  epocha  of  Venetian  freedom  to 
the  establishment  of  the  government  under  which 
the  republic  flourished,  we  shall  find  that  the  date 
of  the  election  of  the  first  doge  is  697;  and  if  we 
add  one  century  to  a  thousand,  that  is,  eleven  hun- 
dred years,  we  shall  find  the  sense  of  the  prediction 
to  be  literally  this:  'Thy  liberty  will  not  last  till 
1797.'  Recollect  that  Venice  ceased  to  be  free  in 
the  year  1796,  the  fifth  year  of  the  French  republic; 
and  you  will  perceive,  that  there  never  was  predic- 
tion more  pointed,  or  more  exactly  followed  by  the 


574 


MARINO  FALTER O,   DOGE    OF   VENICE. 


[act  V 


Thou  den  of  drunkards   with   the  blood  of 

princes ! 1 
Gehenna  of  the  waters  !  thou  sea  Sodom  !  S 
Thus  I  devote  thee  to  the  infernal  gods ! 
Thee  and  thy  serpent  seed  !  3 

[Here  the  DOGE   turns  and  addresses  the 

Executioner. 

Slave,  do  thine  office  ! 
Strike  as  I  struck  the  foe!  Strike  as  I  would 
Have  struck  those  tyrants !     Strike  deep  as 

my  curse ! 
Strike  —  and  but  once  ! 

[The  DOGE  throws  himself  upon  his  knees, 

and  as  the  Executioner  raises  his  sword 

the  scene  closes. 


event.     You  will,  therefore,  note  as  very  remark- 
able the  three  lines  of  Alamanni  addressed  to  Venice; 
which,  however,  no  one  has  pointed  out:  — 
'  Se  non  cangi  pcnsier,  un  secol  solo 
Non  contera  sopra  '1  millesimo  anno 
Tua  liberta,  che-va  fuggendo  a  volo.' 
Many  prophecies  have  passed  for  such,  and  many 
men  have  been  called  prophets  for  much  less."  — 
Ginguene,  Hist.  Lit.  de  V Italic,  t.  ix.  p.  144. 

1  Of  the  first  fifty  Doges,  five  abdicated  — five 
were  banished  with  their  eyes  put  out — five  were 
massacred  —  and  nine  deposed;  so  that  nineteen 
out  of  fifty  lost  the  throne  by  violence,  besides  two 
who  fell  in  battle:  this  occurred  long  previous  to 
the  reign  of  Marino  Faliero.  One  of  his  more  im- 
mediate predecessors,  Andrea  Dandolo,  died  of 
vexation.  Marino  Faliero  himself  perished  as  re- 
lated. Amongst  his  successors,  Foscari,  after 
seeing  his  son  repeatedly  tortured  and  banished, 
was  deposed,  and  died  of  breaking  a  blood-vessel, 
on  hearing  the  bell  of  Saint  Mark's  toll  for  the  elec- 
tion of  his  successor.  Morosini  was  impeached 
for  the  loss  of  Candia;  but  this  was  previous  to  his 
dukedom,  during  which  he  conquered  the  Morea, 
and  was  styled  the  Peloponnesian.  Faliero  might 
truly  say, 

"  Thou  den  of  drunkards  with  the  blood  of  princes! 

2  [MS.— 

"  The  hi  brothel  of  the  waters!  thou  sea  Sodom!  "] 

3  [The  sentence  is  pronounced,  a  brief  hour  is 
permitted  for  the  last  devotions,  and  then,  —  still 
robed  in  his  ducal  gown,  and  wearing  the  diadem, 

—  preceded  with  all  the  pomp  of  his  station,  from 
which  he  is  to  be  degraded  in  the  moment  only  be- 
fore the  blow  be  struck,  —  Marino  Faliero  is  led  sol- 
emnly to  the  Giants'  Staircase,  at  the  summit  of 
which  he  had  been  crowned.  On  that  spot  he  is  to 
expiate  his  offence  against  the  majesty  of  the  Vene- 
tian state.  His  wife  struggles  to  accompany  him 
to  the  dreadful  spot,  but  she  faints,  and  he  leaves 
her  on  the  marble  pavement,  forbidding  them  to 
raise  her,  until  all  had  been  accomplished  with 
himself.  Lord  Byron  breaks  out  with  all  his  power 
in  the  curse  with  which  he  makes  this  old  man  take 
leave  of  the  scene  of  his  triumphs  and  his  sorrows. 
The  present  abject  condition  of  her  that  "  once  did 
hold  the  gorgeous  East  in  fee"  —  the  barbarian 
sway  under  which  she  is  bowed  down  to  the  dust 

—  the  profligacy  of  manners,  which  ought  rather, 
perhaps,  to  have  been  represented  as  the  cause  than 
the  consequence  of  the  loss  of  Venetian  liberty :  — 


SCEN  E  I V. —  The  Piazza  and  Piazzetta  o/Saini 
Mark's.  —  The  People  in  crowd;  gathered 
round  the  grated  gates  of  the  Ducal  Palace, 
which  are  shut. 

First  Citizen.     I  have  gained  the  gate,  and 
can  discern  the  Ten, 
Robed  in  their  gowns  of  state,  ranged  round 
the  Doge. 
Second  Cit.     I  cannot  reach  thee  with  mine 
utmost  effort. 
How  is  it  ?  let  us  hear  at  least,  since  sight 
Is  thus  prohibited  unto  the  people, 
Except  the  occupiers  of  those  bars. 

First  Cit.     One  has  approached  the  Doge, 
and  now  they  strip 
The  ducal  bonnet  from  his  head  —  at  A  now 
He  raises  his  keen  eyes  to  heaven ;   I  see 
Them   glitter,   and   his   lips    move  —  Hush ! 

Hush !  — no, 
'Twas  but  a  murmur  —  Curse  upon  the  dis- 
tance ! 
His  words  are  inarticulate,  but  the  voice 
Swells  up  like  muttered  thunder;    would  we 

could 
But  gather  a  sole  sentence  ! 

Second  Cit.     Hush!  we  perhaps  may  catch 

the  sound. 
First  Cit.  'Tis  vain, 

I  cannot  hear  him.  —  How  his  hoary  hair 
Streams  on  tl»e  wind  like  foam  upon  the  wave  \ 
Now  —  now  —  he  kneels  —  and  now  they  form 

a  circle 
Round  him,  and  all  is  hidden  —  but  I  see 

The    lifted   sword   in   air Ah!    hark  1    it 

falls!  [The  People  murmur. 

Third  Cit.     Then  they  have  murdered  him 

who  would  have  freed  us. 
Fourth  Cit.    He  was  a  kind  man  to  the  com- 
mons ever. 
Fifth   Cit.     Wisely  they  did  to  keep  their 
portals  barred. 
Would  we  had  known  the  work  they  were 

preparing 
Ere  we  were  summoned  here  —  we  would  have 

brought 
Weapons,  and  forced  them  ! 

Sixth  Cit.  Are  you  sure  he's  dead  ? 

First  Cit.     I  saw  the  sword  fall  —  Lo  !  what 
have  we  here  ? 

Enter  on  the  Balcony  of  the  Palace  which  fronts 
Saint  Mark's  Place  a  CHIEF  OF  THE  TEN,-* 
with  a  bloody  sword.  He  waves  it  thrice  be- 
fore the  People  and  exclaims, 

"Justice  hath  dealt  upon  the  mighty  Traitor !" 
[  77*i?  gates  are  opened;  the  populace  rush  in 


all  these  topics  are  handled  —  and  handled  as  nc 
writer  but  Byron  could  have  dared  to  handle  them. 
—  Lockhart.} 

4  "  Un  Capo  de'  Dieci  "  are  the  words  of  Sanu- 
to's  Chronicle. 


APPENDIX.] 


MARINO   FALIERO,   DOGE    OF   VENICE. 


575 


towards  the  "  Giants'  Staircase,"  where  the 

execution  has  take?i  place.      The  foremost 

of  them  exclaims  to  those  behind, 

The  gory  head *  rolls  down  the  Giants'  Steps  ! 

[The  curtain  falls.'2 

i  [MS.— 

I  "  The  gory  head  is  rolling  down  the  steps!  ) 
j  "  The  head  is  rolling  down  the  gory  steps!  "  ) 
2  [As  a  play,  Marino  Faliero  is  deficient  in  the 
attractive  passions,  in  probability,  and  in  depth  and 
variety  of  interest;  and  revolts  throughout,  by  the 
extravagant  disproportion  which  the  injury  bears 
to  the  unmeasured  resentment  with  which  it  is  pur- 
sued. As  a  poem,  though  it  occasionally  displays 
great  force  and  elevation,  it  obviously  wants  both 
grace  and  facility.  The  diction  is  often  heavy  and 
cumbrous,  and  the  versification  without  sweetness 
or  elasticity.  It  is  generally  very  verbose,  and 
sometimes  exceedingly  dull.  Altogether,  it  gives 
us  the  impression  of  a  thing  worked  out  against  the 
grain,  and  not  poured  forth  from  the  fulness  of  the 
heart  or  the  fancy;  —  the  ambitious  and  elaborate 
work  of  a  powerful  mind  engaged  with  an  unsuit- 
able task  —  not  the  spontaneous  effusion  of  an  exu- 
berant imagination,  sporting  in  the  fulness  of  its 
strength.  Every  thing  is  heightened  and  enforced 
with  visible  effort  and  design;  and  the  noble  author 
is  often  contented  to  be  emphatic  by  dint  of  exag- 
geration, and  eloquent  by  the  common  topics  of 
declamation.  Lord  Byron  is,  undoubtedly,  a  poet 
of  the  very  first  order,  and  has  talents  to  reach  the 
very  highest  honors  of  the  drama.  But  he  must 
not  again  disdain  love,  and  ambition,  and  jealousy: 


he  must  not  substitute  what  is  merely  bizarre  and 
extraordinary,  for  what  is  naturally  and  universally 
interesting,  nor  expect,  by  any  exaggerations,  so  to 
rouse  and  rule  our  sympathies  by  the  senseless 
anger  of  an  old  man,  and  the  prudish  proprieties 
of  an  untempted  woman,  as  by  the  agency  of  the 
great  and  simple  passions  with  which,  in  some  of 
their  degrees,  all  men  are  familiar,  and  by  which 
alone  the  Dramatic  Muse  has  hitherto  wrought  her 
miracles.  —  Jeffrey. 

On  the  whole,  the  Doge  of  Venice  is  the  effect 
of  a  powerful  and  cultivated  mind.  It  has  all  the 
requisites  of  tragedy,  sublimity,  terror,  and  pathos 
—  all  but  that  without  which  the  rest  are  unavail- 
ing, interest !  With  many  detached  passages  which 
neither  derogate  from  Lord  Byron's  former  fame, 
nor  would  have  derogated  from  the  reputation  of 
our  best  ancient  tragedians,  it  is,  as  a  whole,  nei- 
ther sustained  nor  impressive.  The  poet,  except  in 
the  soliloquy  of  Lioni,  scarcely  ever  seems  to  have 
written  with  his  own  thorough  good  liking.  He 
may  be  suspected  throughout  to  have  had  in  his 
eye  some  other  model  than  nature;  and  we  rise 
from  his  work  with  the  same  feeling  as  if  we  had 
been  reading  a  translation.  For  this  want  of  inter- 
est the  subject  itself  is,  doubtless,  in  some  measure 
to  blame;  though,  if  the  same  subject  had  been 
differently  treated,  we  are  inclined  to  believe  a  very 
different  effect  would  have  been  produced.  But  for 
the  constraint  and  stiffness  of  the  poetry,  we  have 
nothing  to  blame  but  the  apparent  resolution  of  it1 
author  to  set  (at  whatever  risk)  an  example  c 
classical  correctness  to  his  uncivilized  countrymej 
and  rather  to  forego  success  than  to  succeed  aft? 
the  manner  of  Shakspeare.  —  Heber.\ 


APPENDIX. 


Note  A. 

I  AM  obliged  for  the  following  excellent  transla- 
tion of  the  old  Chronicle  to  Mr.  F.  Cohen,1  to 
whom  the  reader  will  find  himself  indebted  for  a 
version  that  I  could  not  myself —  though  after 
many  years'  intercourse  with  Italian  —  have  given 
by  any  means  so  purely  and  so  faithfully.2 


1  [Mr.  Francis  Cohen,  now  Sir  Francis  Palgrave, 
K.  H.,  the  learned  author  of  the  "  Rise  and  Prog- 
ress of  the  English  Constitution,"  "  History  of  the 
Anglo-Saxons,"  etc.  etc.] 

2  [In  a  letter  to  Mr.  Murray,  dated  Ravenna, 
July  30,  1821,  Byron  says:  —  "Enclosed  is  the 
best  account  of  the  Doge  Faliero,  which  was  only 
sent  to  me,  from  an  old  MS.,  the  other  day.  Get  it 
translated,  and  append  it  as  a  note  to  the  next 
edition.  You  will,  perhaps,  be  pleased  to  see,  that 
my  conceptions  of  his  character  were  correct,  though 
I  regret  not  having  met  with  the  extract  before. 
You  will  perceive  that  he  himself  said  exactly  what 
he  is  made  to  say  about  the  Bishop  of  Treviso. 
You  will  see  also  that  he  spoke  little,  and  those 
only  wnrds  of  rage  and  disdain  after  his  arrest; 
which   is   the   case  in  the  play,   except  when  he 


STORY  OF  MARINO   FALIERO,  DOGE  XLIX.   MCCCLIV. 

On  the  eleventh  day  of  September,  in  the  year 
of  our  Lord  1354,  Marino  Faliero  was  elected  and 
chosen  to  be  the  Duke  of  the  Commonwealth  of 
Venice.  He  was  Count  of  Valdemarino,  in  the 
Marches  of  Treviso,  and  a  Knight,  and  a  wealthy 
man  to  boot.  As  soon  as  the  election  was  com- 
pleted, it  was  resolved  in  the  Great  Council,  that  a 
deputation  of  twelve  should  be  despatched  to  Ma- 
rino Faliero  the  Duke,  who  was  then  on  his  way 
from  Rome ;  for  when  he  was  chosen,  he  was  em- 
bassador at  the  court  of  the  Holy  Father,  at  Rome, 
—  the  Holy  Father  himself  held  his  court  at  Avig- 
non. When  Messer  Marino  Faliero  the  Duke  was 
about  to  land  in  this  city,  on  the  5th  day  of  October, 
r354,  a  thick  haze  came  on,  and  darkened  the  air; 
and  he  was  enforced  to  land  on  the  place  of  Saint 
Mark,  between  the  two  columns,  on  the  spot  where 
evil  doers  are  put  to  death :  and  all  thought  thai 
this  was  the  worst  of  tokens.  —  Nor  must  I  forget 
to  write  that  which  I  have  read  in  a  chronicle. 
When    Messer  Marino   Faliero  was   Podesta   and 

breaks  out  at  the  close  of  Act  fifth.  But  his  speech 
to  the  conspirators  is  better  in  the  MS.  than  in  the 
play.     I  wish  I  had  met  with  it  in  time."] 


576 


MARINO  FALIERO,   DOGE    OF   VENICE. 


[appendix. 


Captain  of  Treviso,  the  Bishop  delayed  coming  in 
with  the  holy  sacrament,  on  a  day  when  a  proces- 
sion was  to  take  place.  Now,  the  said  Marino 
Faliero  was  so  very  proud  and  wrathful,  that  he 
buffeted  the  Bishop,  and  almost  struck  him  to  the 
ground:  and,  therefore,  Heaven  allowed  Marino 
Faliero  to  go  out  of  his  right  senses,  in  order  that 
he  might  bring  himself  to  an  evil  death. 

When  this  Duke  had  held  the  dukedom  during 
nine  months  and  six  days,  he,  being  wicked  and 
ambitious,  sought  to  make  himself  Lord  of  Venice, 
;  in  the  manner  which  I  have  read  in  an  ancient 
'chronicle.  When  the  Thursday  arrived  upon  which 
they  were  wont  to  hunt  the  bull,  the  bull  hunt  took 
place  as  usual ;  and,  according  to  the  usage  of  those 
times,  after  the  bull  hunt  had  ended,  they  all  pro- 
seeded  unto  the  palace  of  the  Duke,  and  assembled 
together  in  one  of  his  halls;  and  they  disported 
themselves  with  the  women.  And  until  the  first 
bell  tolled  they  danced,  and  then  a  banquet  was 
served  up.  My  Lord  the  Duke  paid  the  expenses 
thereof,  provided  he  had  a  Duchess,  and  after  the 
banquet  they  all  returned  to  their  homes. 

Now  to  this  feast  there  came  a  certain  Ser 
Michele  Steno,  a  gentleman  of  poor  estate  and  very 
young,  but  crafty  and  daring,  and  who  loved  one 
of  the  damsels  of  the  Duchess.  Ser  Michele  stood 
amongst  the  women  upon  the  solajo;  and  he  be- 
haved indiscreetly,  so  that  my  Lord  the  Duke 
ordered  that  he  should  be  kicked  off  the  solajo; 
and  the  esquires  of  the  Duke  flung  him  down  from 
the  solajo  accordingly.  Ser  Michele  thought  that 
such  an  affront  was  beyond  all  bearing;  and  when 
the  feast  was  over,  and  all  other  persons  had  left 
the  palace,  he,  continuing  heated  with  anger,  went 
to  the  hall  of  audience,  and  wrote  certain  unseemly 
words  relating  to  the  Duke  and  the  Duchess  upon 
the  chair  in  which  the  Duke  was  used  to  sit;  for  in 
those  days  the  Duke  did  not  cover  his  chair  with 
cloth  of  sendal  but  he  sat  in  a  chair  of  wood.  Ser 
Michele  wrote  thereon  —  "Marin  Falier,  the 
husband  of  the  fair  -wife;  others  kiss  her,  but 
he  keeps  her."  In  the  morning  the  words  were 
seen,  and  the  matter  was  considered  to  be  very 
scandalous;  and  the  Senate  commanded  the  Avoga- 
dori  of  the  Commonwealth  to  proceed  therein  with 
the  greatest  diligence.  A  largess  of  great  amount 
was  immediately  proffered  by  the  Avogadori,  in 
order  to  discover  who  had  written  these  words. 
And  at  length  it  was  known  that  Michele  Steno 
had  written  them.  It  was  resolved  in  the  Council 
of  Forty  that  he  should  be  arrested;  and  he  then 
confessed  that  in  the  fit  of  vexation  and  spite, 
occasioned  by  his  being  thrust  off  the  solajo  in  the 
presence  of  his  mistress,  he  had  written  the  words. 
Therefore  the  Council  debated  thereon.  And  the 
Council  took  his  youth  into  consideration,  and  that 
he  was  a  lover;  and  therefore  they  adjudged  that 
he  should  be  kept  in  close  confinement  during  two 
months,  and  that  afterwards  he  should  be  banished 
from  Venice  and  the  state  during  one  year.  In 
consequence  of  this  merciful  sentence  the  Duke 
became  exceedingly  wroth,  it  appearing  to  him, 
that  the  Council  had  not  acted  in  such  a  manner  as 
was  required  by  the  respect  due  to  his  ducal  dig- 
nity; and  he  said  they  ought  to  have  condemned 
Ser  Michele  to  be  hanged  by  the  neck,  or  at  least 
to  be  banished  for  life. 

Now  it  was  fated  that  my  Lord  Duke  Marino  was 
to  have  his  head  cut  off.  And  as  it  is  necessary  when 
any  effect  is  to  be  brought  about,  that  the  cause  of 


such  effect  must  happen,  it  therefore  came  to  pass, 
that  on  the  very  day  after  sentence  had  been  pro- 
nounced on  Ser  Michele  Steno,  being  the  first  day 
of  Lent,  a  gentleman  of  the  house  of  Barbaro,  a 
choleric  gentleman,  went  to  the  arsenal,  and  re- 
quired certain  things  of  the  masters  of  the  galleys. 
This  he  did  in  the  presence  of  the  Admiral  of  the 
arsenal,  and  he,  hearing  the  request,  answered, — 
No,  it  cannot  be  done.  High  words  arose  between 
the  gentleman  and  the  Admiral,  and  the  gentleman 
struck  him  with  his  fist  just  above  the  eye;  and  as 
he  happened  to  have  a  ring  on  his  finger,  the  ring 
cut  the  Admiral  and  drew  blood.  The  Admiral,  all 
bruised  and  bloody,  ran  straight  to  the  Duke  to 
complain,  and  with  the  intent  of  praying  him  to 
inflict  some  heavy  punishment  upon  the  gentleman 
of  Ca  Barbaro.  —  "  What  wouldst  thou  have  me  do 
for  thee?"  answered  the  Duke:  "think  upon  the 
shameful  gibe  which  hath  been  written  concerning 
me;  and  think  on  the  manner  in  which  they  have 
punished  that  ribald  Michele  Steno,  who  wrote  it; 
and  see  how  the  Council  of  Forty  respect  our 
person."  —  Upon  this  the  Admiral  answered, — 
"  My  Lord  Duke,  if  you  would  wish  to  make  your- 
self a  prince,  and  to  cut  all  those  cuckoldy  gentle- 
men to  pieces,  I  have  the  heart,  if  you  do  but  help 
me,  to  make  you  prince  of  all  this  state;  and  then 
you  may  punish  them  all."  —  Hearing  this,  the 
Duke  said,  —  "  How  can  such  a  matter  be  brought 
about?"  —  and  so  they  discoursed  thereon. 

The  Duke  called  for  his  nephew,  Ser  Bertuccici 
Faliero,  who  lived  with  him  in  the  palace,  and  they 
communed  about  this  plot.  And  without  leaving 
the  place,  they  sent  for  Philip  Calendaro,  a  seaman 
of  great  repuje,  and  for  Bertuccio  Israello,  who  was 
exceedingly  wiiy  and  cunning.  Then  taking  coun- 
sel amongst  themselves,  they  agreed  to  call  in  some 
others;  and  so,  for  several  nights  successively,  they 
met  with  the  Duke  at  home  in  his  palace.  And  the 
following  men  were  called  in  singly;  to  wit;  — 
Niccolo,  Fagiuolo,  Giovanni  da  Corfu,  Stefano 
Fagiono,  Niccolo  dalle  Bende,  Niccolo  Biondo,  and 
Stefano  Trivisano.  —  It  was  concerted  that  sixteen 
or  seventeen  leaders  should  be  stationed  in  various 
parts  of  the  city,  each  being  at  the  head  of  forty 
men,  armed  and  prepared;  but  the  followers  were 
not  to  know  their  destination.  On  the  appointed 
day  they  were  to  make  affrays  amongst  themselves 
here  and  there,  in  order  that  the  Duke  might  have 
a  pretence  for  tolling  the  bells  of  San  Marco:  these 
bells  are  never  rung  but  by  the  order  of  the  Duke. 
And  at  the  sound  of  the  bells,  these  sixteen  or 
seventeen,  with  their  followers,  were  to  come  to  San 
Marco,  through  the  streets  which  open  upon  the 
Piazza.  And  when  the  noble  and  leading  citizens 
should  come  into  the  Piazza,  to  know  the  cause  of 
the  riot,  then  the  conspirators  were  to  cut  them  in 
pieces,  and  this  work  being  finished,  my  Lord  Ma- 
rino Faliero  the  Duke  was  to  be  proclaimed  the 
Lord  of  Venice.  Things  having  been  thus  settled, 
they  agreed  to  fulfil  their  intent  on  Wednesday,  the 
15th  day  of  April,  in  the  year  1355.  So  covertly 
did  they  plot,  that  no  one  ever  dreamt  of  their 
machinations. 

But  the  Lord,  who  hath  always  helped  this  most 
glorious  city,  and  who,  loving  its  righteousness  and 
holiness,  hath  never  forsaken  it,  inspired  one  Bel- 
tramo  Bergamasco  to  be  the  cause  of  bringing  the 
plot  to  light,  in  the  following  manner.  This  Bel- 
tramo,  who  belonged  to  Ser  Niccolo  Liono  of  Santo 
Stefano,  had  heard  a  word  or  two  of  what  was  to 


APPKNDIX.] 


MARINO  FALIERO,   DOGE    OF   VENICE. 


577 


take  place;  and  so,  in  the  before-mentioned  month 
of  April,  he  went  to  the  house  of  the  aforesaid  Ser 
Niccolo  Liono,  and  told  him  all  the  particulars  of 
the  plot.  Ser  Niccolo,  when  he  heard  all  these 
things,  was  struck  dead,  as  it  were,  with  affright. 
He  heard  all  the  particulars;  and  Beltramo  prayed 
him  to  Vzep  it  all  secret;  and  if  he  told  Ser  Niccolo, 
it  was  in  order  that  Ser  Niccolo  might  stop  at  home 
on  the  15th  of  April,  and  thus  save  his  life.  Bel- 
tramo was  going,  but  Ser  Niccolo  ordered  his  ser- 
vants to  lay  hands  upon  him,  and  lock  him  up. 
Ser  Niccolo  then  went  to  the  house  of  Messer 
Giovanni  Gradenigo  Nasoni,  who  afterwards  be- 
came Duke,  and  who  also  lived  at  Santo  Stefano, 
and  told  him  all.  The  matter  seemed  to  him  to  be 
of  the  very  greatest  importance,  as  indeed  it  was; 
and  they  two  went  to  the  house  of  Ser  Marco  Cor- 
naro,  who  lived  at  San  Felice;  and,  having  spoken 
with  him,  they  all  three  then  determined  to  go  back 
to  the  house  of  Ser  Niccolo  Lioni,  to  examine  the 
said  Beltramo;  and  having  questioned  him,  and 
heard  all  that  he  had  to  say,  they  left  him  in  con- 
finement. And  then  they  all  three  went  into  the 
sacristy  of  San  Salvatore,  and  sent  their  men  to 
summon  the  Councillors,  the  Avogadori,  the  Capi 
de'  Dieci,  and  those  of  the  Great  Council. 

When  all  were  assembled,  the  whole  story  was 
told  to  them.  They  were  struck  dead,  as  it  were, 
with  affright.  They  determined  to  send  for  Bel- 
tramo. He  was  brought  in  before  them.  They 
examined  him,  and  ascertained  that  the  matter  was 
true ;  and,  although  they  were  exceedingly  troubled, 
yet  they  determined  upon  their  measures.  And 
they  sent  for  the  Capi  de'  Quarante,  the  Signori  di 
Notte,  the  Capi  de'  Sestieri,  and  the  Cinque  della 
Pace;  and  they  were  ordered  to  associate  to  their 
men  other  good  men  and  true,  who  were  to  proceed 
to  the  houses  of  the  ringleaders  of  the  conspiracy, 
and  secure  them.  And  they  secured  the  foreman 
of  the  arsenal,  in  order  that  the  conspirators  might 
not  do  mischief.  Towards  nightfall  they  assembled 
in  the  palace.  When  they  were  assembled  in  the 
palace,  they  caused  the  gates  of  the  quadrangle  of 
the  palace  to  be  shut.  And  they  sent  to  the  keeper 
of  the  Bell-tower,  and  forbade  the  tolling  of  the 
bells.  All  this  was  carried  into  effect.  The  before- 
mentioned  conspirators  were  securt'd,  and  they  were 
brought  to  the  palace;  and,  as  the  Council  of  Ten 
saw  that  the  Duke  was  in  the  plot,  tl:°.y  resolved 
that  twenty  of  the  leading  men  of  the  state  should 
be  associated  to  them  for  the  purpose  of  consulta- 
tion and  deliberation,  but  that  they  should  not  be 
allowed  to  ballot. 

The  counsellors  were  the  following:  —  Ser  Giov- 
anni Mocenigo,  of  the  Sestiero  of  San  Marco;  Ser 
Almoro  Veniero  da  Santa  Marina,  of  the  Sestiero  of 
Castello;  Ser  Tomaso  Viadro,  of  the  Sestiero  of 
Canaregio;  Ser  Giovanni  Sanudo,  of  the  Sestiero  of 
Santa  Croce ;  Ser  Pietro  Trivisano,  of  the  Sestiero 
of  San  Paolo;  Ser  Pantalione  Barbo  il  Grando,  of 
the  Sestiero  of  Ossoduro.  The  Avogadori  of  the 
Commonwealth  were  Zufredo  Morosini,  and  Ser 
Orio  Pasqualigo;  and  these  did  not  ballot.  Those 
of  the  Council  of  Ten  were  Ser  Giovanni  Marcello, 
Ser  Tommaso  Sanudo,  and  Ser  Micheletto  Dolfino, 
the  heads  of  the  aforesaid  Council  of  Ten.  Ser 
Luca  da  Legge,  and  Ser  Pietro  da  Mosto,  inquisi- 
tors of  the  aforesaid  Council.  And  Ser  Marco 
Polani,  Ser  Marino  Veniero,  Ser  Lando  Lombardo, 
uid  Ser  Nicoletto  Trivisano,  of  Sant'  Angelo. 

Late  in  the  night,  just  before  the  dawning,  they 


chose  a  junta  of  twenty  noblemen  of  Venice  from 
amongst  the  wisest,  and  the  worthiest,  and  the 
oldest.  They  were  to  give  counsel,  but  not  to 
ballot.  And  they  would  not  admit  any  one  of  Ca 
Faliero.  And  Niccolo  Faliero,  and  another  Niccolo 
Faliero,  of  San  Tomaso,  were  expelled  from  the 
Council,  because  they  belonged  to  the  family  of 
the  Doge.  And  this  resolution  of  creating  the 
junta  of  twenty  was  much  praised  throughout  the 
state.  The  following  were  the  members  of  the 
junta  of  twenty:  —  Ser  Marco  Giustiniani,  Procura- 
tore,  Ser  Andrea  Erizzo,  Procuratore,  Ser  Lionardo 
Giustiniani,  Procuratore,  Ser  Andrea  Contarini,  Set 
Simone  Dandolo,  Ser  Nicolo  Volpe,  Ser  Giovanni 
Loredano,  Ser  Marco  Diedo,  Ser  Giovanni  Gradeni- 
go, Ser  Andrea  Cornaro,  Cavaliere,  Ser  Marco  So- 
ranzo,  Ser  Rinieri  du  Mosto,  Ser  Gazano  M.ircello, 
Ser  Marino  Morosini,  Ser  Stefano  Belegno,  Ser 
Nicolo  Lioni,  Ser  Filippo  Orio,  Ser  Marco  Trivi- 
sano, Ser  Jacopo  Bragadino,  Ser  Giovanni  Fosca- 
rini. 

These  twenty  were  accordingly  called  in  to  the 
Council  of  Ten;  and  they  sent  for  My  Lord  Marino 
Faliero  the  Duke:  and  My  Lord  Marino  was  then 
consorting  in  the  palace  with  people  of  great  estate, 
gentlemen,  and  other  good  men,  none  of  whom 
knew  yet  how  the  fact  stood. 

At  the  same  time  Bertucci  Israello,  who,  as  one 
of  the  ring-leaders,  was  to  head  the  conspirators  in 
Santa  Croce,  was  arrested  and  bound,  and  brought 
before  the  Council.  Zanello  del  Brin,  Nicoletto 
di  Rosa,  Nicoletto  Alberto,  and  the  Guardiaga, 
were  also  taken,  together  with  several  seamen,  and 
people  of  various  ranks.  These  were  examined, 
and  the  truth  of  the  plot  was  ascertained. 

On  the  16th  of  April  judgment  was  given  in  the 
Council  of  Ten,  that  Filippo  Calendaro  and  Bertuc- 
cio  Israello  should  be  hanged  upon  the  red  pillars 
of  the  balcony  of  the  palace,  from  which  the  Duke 
is  wont  to  look  at  the  bull  hunt:  and  they  were 
hanged  with  gags  in  their  mouths. 

The  next  day  the  following  were  condemned:  — 
Niccolo  Zuccuolo,  Nicoletto  Blondo,  Nicoletto 
Doro,  Marco  Giuda,  Jacomello  Dagolino,  Nico- 
letto Fidele,  the  son  of  Filippo  Calendaro,  Marco 
Torello,  called  Israello,  Stefano  Trivisano,  the 
money  changer  of  Santa  Margherita,  and  Antonio 
dalle  Bende.  These  were  all  taken  at  Chiozza,  for 
they  were  endeavoring  to  escape.  Afterwards,  by 
virtue  of  the  sentence  which  was  passed  upon  them 
in  the  Council  of  Ten,  they  were  hanged  on  suc- 
cessive days;  some  singly  and  some  in  couples, 
upon  the  columns  of  the  palace,  beginning  from 
the  red  columns,  and  so  going  onwards  towards  the 
canal.  And  other  prisoners  were  discharged,  be- 
cause, although  they  had  been  involved  in  the 
conspiracy,  yet  they  had  not  assisted  in  it :  for  they 
were  given  to  understand  by  some  of  the  heads  of 
the  plot,  that  they  were  to  come  armed  and  pre- 
pared for  the  service  of  the  state,  and  in  order  to 
secure  certain  criminals;  and  they  knew  nothing 
else.  Nicoletto  Alberto,  the  Guardiaga,  and  Bar- 
tolommeo  Ciricolo  and  his  son,  and  several  others, 
who  were  not  guilty,  were  discharged. 

On  Friday,  the  16th  day  of  April,  judgment  was 
also  given,  in  the  aforesaid  Council  of  Ten,  that 
my  Lord  Marino  Faliero,  the  Duke,  should  have 
his  head  cut  off;  and  that  the  execution  should  be 
■  done  on  the  landing-place  of  the  stone  staircase, 
where  the  Dukes  take  their  oath  when  they  first 
I  enter  the  palace.     On  the  following  day,  the  17th 


578 


MARINO  FALIERO,   DOGE    OF   VENICE. 


[appendix. 


of  April,  the  doors  of  the  palace  being  shut,  the 
Duke  had  his  head  cut  off,  about  the  hour  of  noon. 
And  the  cap  of  estate  was  taken  from  the  Duke's 
head  before  he  came  down  stairs.  When  the  exe- 
cution was  over,  it  is  said  that  one  of  the  Council 
of  Ten  went  to  the  columns  of  the  palace  over 
against  the  place  of  St.  Mark,  and  that  he  showed 
the  bloody  sword  unto  the  people,  crying  out  with 
a  loud  voice — "The  terrible  doom  hath  fallen 
upon  the  traitor!"  —  and  the  doors  were  opened, 
and  the  people  all  rushed  in,  to  see  the  corpse  of 
the  Duke,  who  had  been  beheaded. 

It  must  be  known  that  Ser  Giovanni  Sanudo,  the 
councillor,  was  not  present  when  the  aforesaid 
sentence  was  pronounced;  because  he  was  unwell 
and  remained  at  home.  So  that  only  fourteen 
balloted:  that  is  to  say,  five  councillors,  and  nine 
of  the  Council  of  Ten.  And  it  was  adjudged,  that 
all  the  lands  and  chattels  of  the  Duke,  as  well  as  of 
the  other  traitors,  should  be  forfeited  to  the  state. 
And  as  a  grace  to  the  Duke,  it  was  resolved  in  the 
Council  of  Ten,  that  he  should  be  allowed  to  dis- 
pose of  two  thousand  ducats  out  of  his  own  prop- 
erty. And  it  was  resolved,  that  all  the  councillors 
and  all  the  Avogadori  of  the  Commonwealth,  those 
of  the  Council  of  Ten,  and  the  members  of  the 
iunta,  who  had  assisted  in  passing  sentence  on  the 
Duke  and  the  other  traitors,  should  have  the  privi- 
lege of  carrying  arms  both  by  day  and  by  night  in 
Venice,  and  from  Grado  to  Cavazere.  And  they 
were  also  to  be  allowed  two  footmen  carrying  arms, 
the  aforesaid  footmen  living  and  boarding  with 
them  in  their  own  houses.  And  he  who  did  not 
keep  two  footmen  might  transfer  the  privilege  to 
his  sons  or  his  brothers;  but  only  to  two.  Permis- 
sion of  carrying  arms  was  also  granted  to  the  four 
Notaries  of  the  Chancery,  that  is  to  say,  of  the 
Supreme  Court,  who  took  the  depositions;  and 
they  were,  Amedio,  Nicoletto  di  Lorino,  Steffa- 
nello,  and  Pietro  de  Compostelli,  the  secretaries  of 
the  Signori  di  Notte. 

After  the  traitors  had  been  hanged,  and  the 
Duke  had  had  his  head  cut  off,  the  state  remained 
in  great  tranquillity  and  peace.  And,  as  I  have 
read  in  a  Chronicle,  the  corpse  of  the  Duke  was 
removed  in  a  barge,  with  eight  torches,  to  his  tomb 
in  the  church  of  San  Giovanni  e  Paolo,  where  it 
was  buried.  The  tomb  is  now  in  that  aisle  in  the 
middle  of  the  little  church  of  Santa  Maria  della 
Pace,  which  was  built  by  Bishop  Gabriel  of  Ber- 
gamo. It  is  a  coffin  of  stone,  with  these  words  en- 
graven thereon:  —  "  Heic  jacet  Dominus  Mari- 
>t us  Faletro  Z)«.r."  —  And  they  did  not  paint  his 
portrait  in  the  hall  of  the  Great  Council:  — but  in 
the  place  where  it  ought  to  have  been,  you  see 
these  words:  —  "Hie  est  locus  Marini  Faletro, 
decapitati  pro  criniinibus." —  And  it  is  thought 
that  his  house  was  granted  to  the  church  of  Sant' 
Apostolo ;  it  was  that  great  one  near  the  bridge. 
Yet  this  could  not  be  the  case,  or  else  the  family 
bought  it  back  from  the  church ;  for  it  still  belongs 
to  Ca  Faliero.  I  must  not  refrain  from  noting,  that 
some  wished  to  write  the  following  words  in  the 
place  where  his  portrait  ought  to  have  been,  as 
aforesaid:  —  "  Marinas  Faletro  Dux,  temeritas 
me  cepit.  Poenas  lui,  decapitatus  pro  crimin?'- 
Ous."  —  Others,  also,  indited  a  couplet,  worthy  of 
being  inscribed  upon  his  tomb. 

"  Dux  Venetum  jacet  heic,  patriam  qui prodcre 
tentans, 
Sceptra,  decus,  censum  perdidit.  atque  caput." 


Note  B. 

PETRARCH    ON"   THE   CONSPIRACY   OF    MARINO 
FALIERO.1 

"  Al  giovane  Doge  Andrea  Dandolo  succedette 
un  vecchio,  il  quale  tardi  si  pose  al  timone  della 
repubblica,  ma  sempre  prima  di  quel  che  facea  d' 
uopo  a  lui,  ed  alia  patria :  egli  e  Marino  Faliero, 
personaggio  a  me  noto  per  antica  dimestichezza. 
Falsa  era  1'  opinione  intorno  a  lui,  gtacche  egli  si 
mostr6  fornito  phi  di  corraggio,  che  di  senno. 
Non  pago  della  prima  dignita,  entrd  con  sinistro 
piede  nel  pubblico  Palazzo:  imperciocche  questo 
Doge  dei  Veneti,  magistrato  sacro  in  tutti  i  secoli, 
che  dagli  antichi  fu  sempre  venerato  qual  mime  in 
quella  citta,  1'  altr'  jeri  fu  decollato  nel  vestibolo 
dell'  istesso  Palazzo.  Discorrerei  fin  dal  principio 
le  cause  di  un  tale  evvento,  se  cosl  vario  ed  ambi- 
guo  non  ne  fosse  il  grido.  Nessuno  perd  lo  scusa, 
tutti  affermano,  che  egli  abbia  voluto  cangiar 
qualche  cosa  nell'  ordine  della  repubblica  a  lui 
tramandato  dai  maggiori.  Che  desiderava  egli  di 
piu?  Io  son  d'  avviso,  che  egli  abbia  ottenuto  cio 
che  non  si  concedette  a  nessun  altro :  mentre 
adempiva  gli  ufficj  di  legato  presso  il  Pontefice,  e 
sulle  rive  del  Rodano  trattava  la  pace,  che  io 
prima  di  lui  aveva  indarno  tentato  di  conchiudere, 
gli  fu  conferito  1'  onore  del  Ducato,  che  ne  chiedeva, 
ne  s'  aspettava.  Tomato  in  patria,  pensd  a  quello 
cui  nessuno  non  pose  mente  giammai,  e  soffrl 
quello  che  a  niuno  accadde  mai  di  soffrire:  giac- 
che in  quel  luogo  celeberrimo,  e  chiarissimo,  e  bel- 
lissimo  infra  tutti  quelli  che  io  vidi,  ove  i  suoi 
antenati  avevano  ricevuti  grandissimi  onori  in 
mezzo  alle  porrfpe  trionfali,  ivi  egli  fu  trascinato  in 
modo  servile,  e  spogliato  delle  insegne  ducali,  per- 
dette  la  testa,  e  macchi6  col  proprio  sangue  le 
soglie  del  tempio,  1'  atrio  del  Palazzo,  e  le  scale 
marmoree  rendute  spesse  volte  illustri,  o  dalle 
solenni  festivita,  o  dalle  ostili  spoglie.  H6  notato 
il  luogo,  ora  noto  il  tempo:  e  1'  anno  del  Natale  di 
Cristo  1355,  fu  il  giorno  18  d'  Aprile.  Si  alto  e  il 
grido  sparso,  che  se  alcuno  esaminera  la  disciplina, 
e  le  costumanze  di  quella  citta,  e  quanto  muta- 
mento  di  cose  venga  minacciato  dalla  morte  di  un 
sol  uomo  (quantunque  molti  altri,  come  narrano, 
essendo  complici,  o  subirono  1'  istesso  supplicio,  o  lo 
aspettano)  si  accorgera,  che  nulla  di  piu  grande 
avvenne  ai  nostri  tempi  nella  Italia.  Tu  forse  qui 
attendi  il  mio  giudizio:  assolvo  il  popolo,  se  cre- 
dere alia  fama,  benche  abbia  potuto  e  castigare  piCi 
mitemente,  e  con  maggior  dolcezza  vendicare  il  suo 
dolore:  ma  non  cosl  facilmente  si  modera  un'  ira 
giusta  insieme  e  grande,  in  un  numeroso  popolo 
principalmente,  nel  quale  il  precipitoso  ed  instabile 
volgo  aguzza  gli  stimoli  dell'  irracondia  con 
rapidi  e  sconsigliati  clamori.  Compatisco,  e  nell' 
istesso  tempo  mi  adiro  con  quell'  infelice  uomo, 
il  quale  adorno  di  un'  insolito  onore,  non  so 
che  cosa  si  volesse  negli  estremi  anni  della  sua 
vita:  la  calamita  di  lui  diviene  sempre  piu 
grave,  perche  dalla  sentenza  contradi  esso  pro- 
mulgata  aperira,  che  egli  fii  non  solo  misero, 
ma     insano,  e    demente,  e    che  con    vane   arti  si 

1  ["  Had  a  copy  taken  of  an  extract  from  Pe- 
trarch's Letters,  with  reference  to  the  conspiracy  of 
the  Doge  Marino  Faliero,  containing  the  poet's 
opinion  of  the  matter."  —  Byron's  Diary,  February 
n,  1821.] 


APPENDIX.] 


MARINO  FALIERO,  DOGE    OF   VENICE. 


579 


usurp6  per  tanti  anni  una  falsa  fama  di  sapienza. 
Ammonisco  i  Dogi,  i  quali  gli  succederano,  che 
questo  e  un'  esempio  posto  inanzi  ai  loro  occhj, 
quale  specchio,  nel  quale  veggano  d'  essere  non 
Signori,  ma  Duci,  anzi  nemmeno  Duci,  ma  onorati 
servi  della  Repubblica.  Tu  sta  sano;  e  giacche 
mittuano  le  pubbliche  cose,  sforsiamosi  di  governar 
modestissimamente  i  privati  nostri  affari."  —  Le- 
vati,  liaggi  di  Petrarca,  vol.  iv.  p.  323. 

The  above  Italian  translation  from  the  Latin 
epistles  of  Petrarch  proves  — 

istly,  That  Marino  Faliero  was  a  personal  friend 
of  Petrarch's;  "  antica  dimestichezza,"  old  inti- 
macy, is  the  phrase  of  the  poet. 

2dly,  That  Petrarch  thought  that  he  had  more 
courage  than  conduct,  "  piu  di  corraggio  che  di 
senno." 

3dly,  That  there  was  some  jealousy  on  the  part 
of  Petrarch;  for  he  says  that  Marino  Faliero  was 
treating  of  the  peace  which  he  himself  had  "  vainly 
attempted  to  conclude."  • 

4thly.  That  the  honor  of  the  Dukedom  was  con- 
ferred upon  him,  which  he  neither  sought  nor  ex- 
pected, "  che  ne  chiedeva  ne  aspettava,"  and  which 
had  never  been  granted  to  any  other  in  like  circum- 
stances, "  cid  che  non  si  concedette  a  nessun  altro," 
a  proof  of  the  high  esteem  in  which  he  must  have 
been  held. 

5thly,  That  he  had  a  reputation  for  wisdom, 
only  forfeited  by  the  last  enterprise  of  his  life,  "  si 
usurp6  per  tanti  anni  una  falsa  fama  di  sapienza." 
—  "  He  had  usurped  for  so  many  years  a  false  fame 
of  wisdom,"  rather  a  difficult  task,  I  should  think. 
People  are  generally  found  out  before  eighty  years 
of  age,  at  least  in  a  republic. 

From  these  and  the  other  historical  notes  which 
I  have  collected,  it  may  be  inferred,  that  Marino 
Faliero  possessed  many  of  the  qualities,  but  not  the 
success  of  a  hero;  and  that  his  passions  were  too 
violent.  The  paltry  and  ignorant  account  of  Dr. 
Moore  falls  to  the  ground.  Petrarch  says,  "  that 
there  had  been  no  greater  event  in  his  times  "  {our 
times  literally),  "  nostri  tempi,"  in  Italy.  He  also 
differs  from  the  historian  in  saying  that  Faliero  was 
"on  the  banks  of  the  Rhone,"  instead  of  at  Rome, 
when  elected;  the  other  accounts  say,  that  the  dep- 
utation of  the  Venetian  senate  met  him  at  R  'venna. 
How  this  may  have  been,  it  is  not  for  me  to  decide, 
and  is  of  no  great  importance.  Had  the  man  suc- 
ceeded, he  would  have  changed  the  face  of  Venice, 
and  perhaps  of  Italy.   As  it  is,  what  are  they  both? 


Note  C. 

VENETIAN   SOCIETY   AND    MANNERS. 

"  Vice  without  splendor,  sin  without  relief 
Even  from  the  gloss  of  love  to  smoothe  it  o'er ; 
But,  in  its  stead,  coarse  lusts  of  habitude,"  etc. 
—  (See  p.  173.) 

"  To  these  attacks  so  frequently  pointed  by  the 
government  against  the  clergy,  —  to  the  continual 
struggles  between  the  different  constituted  bodies, 
—  to  these  enterprises  carried  on  by  the  mass  of  the 
nobles  against  the  depositaries  of  power,  —  to  all 
those  projects  of  innovation,  which  always  ended 
by  a  stroke  of  state  policy ;  we  must  add  a  cause 
not  less  fitted  to  spread  contempt  for  ancient  doc- 
trines; i/iis  was  the  excess  0/  corruption. 


"  That  freedom  of  manners,  which  had  been  long 
boasted  of  as  the  principal  charm  of  Venetian  soci- 
ety, had  degenerated  into  scandalous  licentiousness: 
the  tie  of  marriage  was  less  sacred  in  that  Catholic 
country,  than  among  those  nations  where  the  laws 
and  religion  admit  of  its  being  dissolved.  Because 
they  could  not  break  the  contract,  they  feigned  that 
it  had  not  existed;  and  the  ground  of  nullity,  im- 
modestly alleged  by  the  married  pair,  was  admitted 
with  equal  facility  by  priests  and  magistrates,  alike 
corrupt.  These  divorces,  veiled  under  another 
name,  became  so  frequent,  that  the  most  important 
act  of  civil  society  was  discovered  to  be  amenable 
to  a  tribunal  of  exceptions;  and  to  restrain  the  open 
scandal  of  such  proceedings  became  the  office  of 
the  police.  In  17S2,  the  Council  of  Ten  decreed, 
that  every  woman  who  should  sue  for  a  dissolution 
of  her  marriage  should  be  compelled  to  await  the 
decision  of  the  judges  in  some  convent,  to  be 
named  by  the  court.1  Soon  afterwards  the  same 
council  summoned  all  causes  of  that  nature  before 
itself.2  This  infringement  on  ecclesiastical  juris- 
diction having  occasioned  some  remonstrance  from 
Rome,  the  council  retained  only  the  right  of  reject- 
ing the  petition  of  the  married  persons,  and  con- 
sented to  refer  such  causes  to  the  holy  office  as  it 
should  not  previously  have  rejected.3 

"  There  was  a  moment  in  which,  doubtless,  the 
destruction  of  private  fortunes,  the  ruin  of  youth, 
the  domestic  discord  occasioned  by  these  abuses, 
determined  the  government  to  depart  from  its  es- 
tablished maxims  concerning  the  freedom  of  man- 
ners allowed  the  subject.  All  the  courtesans  were 
banished  from  Venice;  but  their  absence  was  not 
enough  to  reclaim  and  bring  back  good  morals  to  a 
whole  people  brought  up  in  the  most  scandalous 
licentiousness.  Depravity  reached  the  very  bosoms 
of  private  families,  and  even  into  the  cloister;  and 
they  found  themselves  obliged  to  recall,  and  even 
to  indemnify*  women  who  sometimes  gained  pos- 
session of  important  secrets,  and  who  might  be 
usefully  employed  in  the  ruin  of  men  whose  for- 
tunes might  have  rendered  them  dangerous.  Since 
that  time  licentiousness  has  gone  on  increasing; 
and  we  have  seen  mothers,  not  only  selling  the 
innocence  of  their  daughters,  but  selling  it  by  a 
contract,  authenticated  by  the  signature  of  a  pub- 
lic officer,  and  the  performance  of  which  was  se- 
cured by  the  protection  of  the  laws.6 

"  The  parlors  of  the  convents  of  noble  ladies, 
and  the  houses  of  the  courtesans,  though  the  police 
carefully  kept  up  a  number  of  spies  about  them, 
were  the  only  assemblies  for  society  in  Venice;  and 
in  these  two  places,  so  different  from  each  other, 
there  was  equal  freedom.  Music,  collations,  gal- 
lantry, were  not  more  forbidden  in  the  parlors  than 
at  the  casinos.  There  were  a  number  of  casinos 
for  the  purpose  of  public  assemblies,  where  gaming 
was  the  principal  pursuit  of  the  company.     It  was 


1  Correspondence  of  M.  Schlick,  French  charge 
d'affaires.     Despatch  of  24th  August,  1782. 

2  Hid.     Despatch,  31st  August. 

3  Ibid.     Despatch  of  3d  September,  1785. 

*  The  decree  for  their  recall  designates  them  as 
nostre  benemerite  meretrici :  a  fund  and  some 
houses,  called  Case  rampane ,  were  assigned  to 
them ;  hence  the  opprobrious  appellation  of  Caram- 
pane. 

5  Mayer,  Description  of  Venice,  vol.  ii.,  and  M« 
Archenholz,  Picture  of  Italy,  vol.  i.  ch.  2, 


580 


SARDANAPAL  US. 


a  strange  sight  to  see  persons  of  either  sex  masked, 
or  grave  in  their  magisterial  robes,  round  a  table, 
invoking  chance,  and  giving  way  at  one  instant  to 
the  agonies  of  despair,  at  the  next  to  the  illusions 
of  hope,  and  that  without  uttering  a  single  word. 

"  The  rich  had  private  casinos,  but  they  lived 
incognito    in   them;    and   the    wives   whom   they 


abandoned  found  compensation  in  the  liberty  iney 
enjoyed.  The  corruption  of  morals  had  deprived 
them  of  their  empire.  We  have  just  reviewed 
the  whole  history  of  Venice,  and  we  have  not  once 
seen  them  exercise  the  slighted  influence."  — 
Daru  :  Hist,  de  la  Repub.  a\  vinite,  vol.  v. 
p.  95. 


SARDANAPALUS:1   A    TRAGEDY. 


TO   THE   ILLUSTRIOUS   GOETHE 

A  STRANGER  PRESUMES  TO   OFFER  THE  HOMAGE  OF  A 

LITERARY  VASSAL  TO   HIS   LIEGE  LORD,  THE  FIRST  OF  EXISTING  WRITERS, 

WHO  HAS   CREATED  THE  LITERATURE  OF  HIS  OWN   COUNTRY, 

AND   ILLUSTRATED   THAT   OF   EUROPE. 

THE  UNWORTHY  PRODUCTION 

WHICH  THE  AUTHOR  VENTURES  TO   INSCRIBE  TO   HIM   IS   ENTITLED 

r 

SARDANAPALUS.2 


1  [Sardanapalus  is,  beyond  all  doubt,  a  work  of  great  beauty  and  power;  and  though  the  heroine 
has  many  traits  in  common  with  the  Medoras  and  Gulnares  of  Lord  Byron's  undramatic  poetry,  the 
hero  must  be  allowed  to  be  a  new  character  in  his  hands.  He  has,  indeed,  the  scorn  of  war,  and 
glory,  and  priestcraft,  and  regular  morality,  which  distinguishes  the  rest  of  his  lordship's  favorites; 
but  he  has  no  misanthropy,  and  very  little  pride — and  may  be  regarded,  on  the  whole,  as  one  of  the 
most  truly  good-humored,  amiable,  and  respectable  voluptuaries  to  whom  we  have  ever  been  presented. 
In  this  conception  of  his  character,  the  author  has  very  wisely  followed  nature  and  fancy  rather  than 
history.  His  Sardanapalus  is  not  an  effeminate,  worn-out  debauchee,  with  shattered  nerves  and  ex- 
hausted senses,  the  slave  of  indolence  and  vicious  habits;  but  a  sanguine  votary  of  pleasure,  a 
princely  epicure,  indulging,  revelling  in  boundless  luxury  while  he  can,  but  with  a  soul  so  inured  to 
voluptuousness,  so  saturated  with  delights,  that  pain  and  danger,  when  they  come  uncalled  for, 
give  him  neither  concern  nor  dread;  and  he  goes  forth  from  the  banquet  to  the  battle,  as  to  a  dance 
or  measure,  attired  by  the  Graces,  and  with  youth,  joy,  and  love  for  his  guides.  He  dallies  with 
Bellona  as  bridegroom — for  his  sport  and  pastime;  and  the  spear  or  fan,  the  shield  or  shining  mirror, 
become  his  hands  equally  well.  He  enjoys  life,  in  short,  and  triumphs  in  death;  and  whether  in  pros- 
perous or  adverse  circumstances,  his   soul  smiles  out  superior  to  evil.  —  Jeffrey. 

The  Sardanapalus  of  Lord  Byron  is  pretty  nearly  such  a  person  as  the  Sardanapalus  of  history  may 
be  supposed  to  have  been.  Young,  thoughtless,  spoiled  by  flattery  and  unbounded  self-indulgence, 
but  with  a  temper  naturally  amiable,  and  abilities  of  a  superior  order,  he  affects  to  undervalue  the 
sanguinary  renown  of  his  ancestors  as  an  excuse  for  inattention  to  the  most  necessary  duties  of  his 
rank;  and  flatters  himself,  while  he  is  indulging  his  own  sloth,  that  he  is  making  his  people  happy. 
Yet,  even  in  his  fondness  for  pleasure,  there  lurks  a  love  of  contradiction.  Of  the  whole  picture,  sel- 
fishness is  the  prevailing  feature  —  selfishness  admirably  drawn  indeed;  apologized  for  by  every 
palliating  circumstance  of  education  and  habit,  and  clothed  in  the  brightest  colors  of  which  it  is 
susceptible  from  youth,  talents,  and  placability.  But  it  is  selfishness  still;  and  we  should  have  been 
tempted  to  quarrel  with  the  art  which  made  vice  and  frivolity  thus  amiable,  if  Lord  Byron  had  not 
at  the  same  time  pointed  out  with  much  skill  the  bitterness  and  weariness  of  spirit  which  inevitably 
wait  on  such  a  character;  and  if  he  had  not  given  a  fine  contrast  to  the  picture  in  the  accompanying 
portraits  of  Salemenes  and  of  Myrrha.  —  Bishop  Heber.] 

-  [''  Well  knowing  myself  and  my  labors,  in  my  old  age,  I  could  not  but  reflect  with  gratitude  and  dif- 
fidence on  the  expressions  contained  in  this  dedication,  nor  interpret  them  but  as  the  generous  tribute  of 
a  superior  genius,  no  less  original  in  the  choice  than  inexhaustible  in  the  materials  of  his  subjects."  — 
Goethe.] 


SARDANAPALUS.  581 


INTRODUCTION. 

On  the  original  MS.  Byron  wrote: — "Mem.  Ravenna,  May  27,  1821.  —  I  began  this  drama  on  the 
13th  of  January,  1821;  and  continued  the  two  first  acts  very  slowly,  and  by  intervals.  The  three  last 
acts  were  written  since  the  13th  of  May,  1821  (this  present  month) ;  that  is  to  say,  in  a  fortnight."  The 
following  are  extracts  from  Byron's  diary  and  letters:  — 

"January  13,  1821.  Sketched  the  outline  and  Dram.  Pers.  of  an  intended  tragedy  of  Sardanapalus. 
which  I  have  for  some  time  meditated.  Took  the  names  from  Diodorus  Siculus,  (I  know  the  history  of 
Sardanapalus,  and  have  known  it  since  I  was  twelve  years  old,)  and  read  over  a  passage  in  the  ninth 
volume  of  Mitford's  Greece,  where  he  rather  vindicates  the  memory  of  this  last  of  the  Assyrians.  Carried 
Teresa  the  Italian  translation  of  Grillparzer's  Sappho.  She  quarrelled  with  me,  because  I  said  that  love 
was  not  the  loftiest  theme  for  a  tragedy;  and,  having  the  advantage  of  her  native  language,  and  natural 
female  eloquence,  she  overcame  my  fewer  arguments.  I  believe  she  was  right.  I  must  put  more  love 
into  '  Sardanapalus  '  than  I  intended." 

"May  25.  I  have  completed  four  acts.  I  have  made  Sardanapalus  brave,  (though  voluptuous,  as 
history  represents  him,)  and  also  as  amiable  as  my  poor  powers  could  render  him.  I  have  strictly  pre- 
served all  the  unities  hitherto,  and  mean  to  continue  them  in  the  fifth,  if  possible;  but  not  for  the  stage." 

"  May  30.  By  this  post  I  send  you  the  tragedy.  You  will  remark  that  the  unities  are  all  strictly  pre- 
served. The  scene  passes  in  the  same  hall  always:  the  time,  a  summer's  night,  about  nine  hours  or  less; 
though  it  begins  before  sunset,  and  ends  after  sunrise.  It  is  not  for  the  stage,  any  more  than  the  other 
was  intended  for  it;  and  I  shall  take  better  care  this  time  that  they  don't  get  hold  on't." 

"July  14.  I  trust  that  '  Sardanapalus' will  not  be  mistaken  for  a  political  play;  which  was  so  far 
from  my  intention,  that  I  thought  of  nothing  but  Asiatic  history.  My  object  has  been  to  dramatize,  like 
the  Greeks  (a  modest  phrase),  striking  passages  of  history  and  mythology.  You  will  find  all  this  very 
-Kwlike  Shakspeare;  and  so  much  the  better  in  one  sense,  for  I  look  upon  him  to  be  the  worst  of  models, 
:hough  the  most  extraordinary  of  writers.  It  has  been  my  object  to  be  as  simple  and  severe  as  Alfieri, 
and  I  have  broken  down  the  poetry  as  nearly  as  I  could  to  common  language.  The  hardship  is  that,  in 
these  times,  one  can  neither  speak  of  kings  nor  queens  without  suspicion  of  politics  or  personalities.  I 
intended  neither. 

"  July  22.  Print  away,  and  publish.  I  think  they  must  own  that  I  have  more  styles  than  one.  '  Sar- 
danapalus' is,  however,  almost  a  comic  character;  but,  for  that  matter,  so  is  Richard  the  Third.  Mind 
the  unities,  which  are  my  great  object  of  research.  I  am  glad  Gifford  likes  it:  as  for  the  million,  you 
see  I  have  carefully  consulted  any  thing  but  the  taste  of  the  day  for  extravagant  '  coups  de  theatre." " 

Sardanapalus  was  published  in  December,  1821,  and  was  received  with  very  great  approbation. 

The  following  is  an  extract  from  The  Life  of  Dr.  Parr:  —  "  In  the  course  of  the  evening  the  Doctci 
cried  out  — '  Have  you  read  Sardanapalus?'  —  'Yes,  Sir.' —  '  Right;  and  you  couldn't  sleep  a  wink  afte! 
it?'  — '  No.'  — '  Right,  right  —  now  don't  say  a  word  more  about  it  to-night.'  — The  memory  of  that  fine 
poem  seemed  to  act  like  a  spell  of  horrible  fascination  upon  him." 


DRAMATIS   PERSONS. 


MEN. 
SARDANAPALUS,  King  of  Nineveh  and  As- 
syria, etc. 
Arkaces,  the  Mede  who  aspired  to  the  Throne. 
BELESES,  a  Chaldean  and  Soothsayer. 
fSALEMENES,  the  King's  Brother-in-law. 
iAltada,  an  Assyrian  Officer  of  the  Palace. 
Pania,         Zames.         Sfero.         Balea. 


WOMEN. 

ZARINA,  the  Queen. 

Myrrha,  an  Ionian  female  Slave,  and  the 
Favorite  of  SARDANAPALUS. 

Women  composing  the  Harem  of  SARDA- 
NAPALUS, Guards,  Attendants,  Chaldean 
Priests,  Medes,  etc.  etc. 


Scene  —  a  Hall  in  the  Royal  Palace  of  Nineveh. 


582 


SARDANAPALUS. 


[act  i. 


Scene 


ACT   I. 

•  A  Hall  in  the  Palace. 


Salemenei   (solus).     He   hath  wronged  his 
queen,  but  still  he  is  her  lord; 
He   hath  wronged   my  sister,  still  he  is  my 

brother ; 
He  hath  wronged  his  people,  still  he  is  their 

sovereign, 
And  I  must  be  his  friend  as  well  as  subject : 
He  must  not  perish  thus.     I  will  not  see 
The  blood  of  Nimrod  and  Semiramis 
Sink  in  the  earth,  and  thirteen  hundred  years 
Of  empire  ending  like  a  shepherd's  talc  ; 
He  must  be  roused.     In  his  effeminate  heart 
There  is  a  careless  courage  which  corruption 
Has  not  all  quenched,  and  latent  energies, 
Repressed     by    circumstance,    but    not    de- 
stroyed — 
Steeped,  but  not  drowned,  in  deep  voluptu- 
ousness. 
If  born  a  peasant,  he  had  been  a  man 
To   have  reached  an  empire :  to  an  empire 

born, 
He  will  bequeathe  none  ;  nothing  but  a  -.am.', 
Which  his  sons  will  not  prize  in  heritage  :  — 
Yet,  not  all  lost,  even  yet  he  may  redeem 
His  sloth  and  shame,  by  only  being  that 
Which  he  should  be,  as  easily  as  the  thing 
He  should  not  be  and  is.     Were  it  less  toil 
To  sway  his  nations  than  consume  his  life  ? 
To  head  an  army  than  to  rule  a  harem  ? 
He  sweats  in  palling  pleasures,  dulls  his  soul,1 
And  saps  his  goodly  strength,  in  toils  which 

yield  not 

Health  like  the  chase,  nor  glory  like  the  war  — 

He  must  be  roused.    Alas  !  there  is  no  sound 

[Sound  of  soft  music  heard  from  within. 

To  rouse  him  short  of  thunder.'    Hark !  the 

lute, 
The  lyre,  the  timbrel;  the  lascivious  tinklings 
Of  lulling  instruments,  the  softening  voices 
Of  women,  and  of  beings  less  than  women, 
Must  chime  in  to  the  echo  of  his  revel, 
While  the  great  king  of  all  we  know  of  earth 
Lolls  crowned  with  roses,  and  his  diadem 
Lies  negligently  by  to  be  caught  up 
By  the  first  manly  hand  which  dares  to  snatch 

it. 
Lo,  where  they  come !  already  I  perceive 
The  reeking  odors  of  the  perfumed  trains, 
And  see  the  bright  gems  of  the  glittering  girls,2 
At  once  his  chorus  and  his  council,  flash 
Along  the  gallery,  and  amidst  the  damsels, 
As  femininely  garbed,  and  scarce  less  female, 
The     grandson     of    Semiramis,    the     man- 
queen. — 


He   comes!     Shall  I    await   him?    yes,  and 

front  him, 
And  tell   him  what  all  good  men  tell   each 

other, 
Speaking  of  him  and  his.     They  come,  the 

slaves, 
Led  by  the  monarch  subject  to  his  slaves.3 

SCENE  II.  —  Enter  SardaNAPAIAJS  effemi- 
nately dressed,  his  Head  crowned  with 
Flowers,  and  his  Robe  negligently  flowing, 
attended  by  a  Tram  of  Women  and  young 
Slaves. 

Sar.    (speaking  to  some  of  his  attendants). 
Let  the  pavilion  over  the  Euphrates 
Be  garlanded,  and  lit,  and  furnished  forth 
For  an  especial  banquet;  at  the  hour 
Of  midnight  we  will  sup  there:   see  nought 

wanting, 
And  bid  the  galley  be  prepared.    There  is 
A  cooling  breeze  which  crisps  the  broad  clear 

river : 
We   will   embark  anon.     Fair  nymphs,  who 

deign 
To  share  the  soft  hours  of  Sardanapalus, 
We'll  meet  again  in  that  the  sweetest  hour, 
When  we  shail  gather  like  the  stars  above  us. 
And   you  will   form  a  heaven  as  bright  as 

theirs ; 
Till  then,  let  each  be  mistress  of  her  time, 
And  thou,  my  own  Ionian  Myrrha,4  choose. 
Wilt  thou  along  with  them  or  me  ? 


i[MS.— 

"  He  sweats  in  dreary,  dulled  effeminacy."] 

2  (MS.  — 

"And  see  the  gewgaws  of  the  glittering  girls."] 


3  [Salemenes  is  the  direct  opposite  to  selfishness; 
and  the  character,  though  slightly  sketched,  dis- 
plays little  less  ability  than  that  of  Sardanapalus. 
He  is  a  stern,  loyal,  plain-spoken  soldier  and  sub- 
ject; clear-sighted,  just,  and  honorable  in  his  ulti- 
mate views,  though  not  more  punctilious  about  the 
means  of  obtaining  them  than  might  be  expected 
from  a  respectable  satrap  of  ancient  Nineveh,  or  a 
respectable  vizier  of  the  modern  Turkish  empire. 
To  his  king,  in  spite  of  personal  neglect  and  family 
injuries,  he  is,  throughout,  pertinaciously  attached 
and  punctiliously  faithful.  To  the  king's  rebels  he 
is  inclined  to  be  severe,  bloody,  and  even  treacher- 
ous; an  imperfection,  however,  in  his  character, 
to  want  which  would,  in  his  situation,  be  almost 
unnatural,  and  which  is  skilfully  introduced  as  a 
contrast  to  the  instinctive  perception  of  virtue  and 
honor  which  flashes  out  from  the  indolence  of  his 
master.  Of  the  satrap,  however,  the  faults  as  well 
as  the  virtues  are  alike  the  offspring  of  disinterested 
loyalty  and  patriotism.  It  is  for  his  country  and 
king  that  he  is  patient  of  injury;  for  them  he  is 
valiant;  for  them  cruel.  He  has  no  ambition  of 
personal  power,  no  thirst  of  individual  fame.  In 
battle  and  in  victory,  "  Assyria!  "  is  his  only  war- 
cry.  When  he  sends  off  the  queen  and  princes,  he 
is  less  anxious  for  his  nephews  and  sister  than  for 
the  preservation  of  the  line  of  Nimrod;  and,  in  his 
last  moments,  it  is  the  supposed  flight  of  his  sov- 
ereign which  alone  distresses  and  overcomes  him.  — 
Heber.\ 

4  "  The  Ionian  name  had  been  still  more  com- 
Drehensive,  having  included  the  Achaians  and  the 


SCENE   II.] 


SARDANAPAL  US. 


58S 


Myr.  My  lord 

Sar.     My    lord,    my   life!    why   answerest 
thou  so  coldly  ? 
It  is  the  curse  of  kings  to  be  so  answered. 
Rule  thy  own  hours,  thou  rulest  mine  —  say, 

wouldst  thou 
Accompany  our  guests,  or  charm  away 
The  moments  from  me  ? 
Myr.  The  king's  choice  is  mine.1 

Sar.     I  pray  thee  say  not  so  :  my  chiefest 
joy 
Is  to  contribute  to  thine  every  wish. 
I  do  not  dare  to  breathe  my  own  desire, 
Lest  it  should  clash  with  thine ;  for  thou  art 

still 
Too  prompt  to   sacrifice    thy   thoughts    for 
others.2 
Myr.    I  would  remain  :  I  have  n»  happiness 

Save  in  beholding  thine;  yet > 

Sar.  Yet !  what  YET  ? 

Thy  own  sweet  will  shall  be  the  only  barrier 
vVhich  ever  rises  betwixt  thee  and  me. 

Myr.    I  think  the  present  is  the  wonted  hour 
Of  council ;  it  were  better  I  retire. 
Sal.    (comes  forward  and  says).  The  Ionian 

slave  says  well :  let  her  retire. 
Sar.     Who  answers  ?     How  now,  brother  ? 
Sal.  The  queen's  brother, 

And  your  most  faithful  vassal,  royal  lord. 
Sar.     (addressing  his  train).      As  I  have 
said,  let  all  dispose  their  hours 
Till  midnight,  when  again  we  pray  your  pres- 
ence. [  The  court  retiring. 


Boeotians,  ,vho,  together  with  those  to  whom  it  was 
afterwards  confined,  would  make  nearly  the  whole 
of  the  Greek  nation ;  and  among  the  orientals  it  was 
always  the  general  name  for  the  Greeks."  —  Mit- 
ford's  Greece,  vol.  i.  p.  199. 

1  [The  chief  charm  and  vivifying  angel  of  the 
piece  is  Myrrha,  the  Greek  slave  of  Sardanapalus 
—  a  beautiful,  heroic,  devoted,  and  ethereal  being  — 
in  love  with  the  generous  and  infatuated  monarch  — 
ashamed  of  loving  a  barbarian  —  and  using  all  her 
influence  over  him  to  ennoble  as  well  as  to  adorn 
his  existence,  and  to  arm  him  against  the  terrors  of 
his  close.     Her  voluptuousness  is  that  of  the  heart 

-  her  heroism  of  the  affections.  If  the  part  she 
takes  in  the  dialogue  be  sometimes  too  subdued 
and  submissive  for  the  lofty  daring  of  her  character, 
it  is  still  such  as  might  become  a  Greek  slave  —  a 
lovely  Ionian  girl,  in  whom  the  love  of  liberty  and 
the  scorn  of  death  were  tempered  by  the  conscious- 
ness of  what  she  regarded  as  a  degrading  passion, 
and  an  inward  sense  of  fitness  and  decorum  with 
reference  to  her  condition.  —  Jeffrey.] 

2  [Myrrha  is  a  female  Salemenes,  in  whom,  with 
admirable  skill,  attachment  to  the  individual  Sar- 
danapalus is  substituted  for  the  gallant  soldier's 
loyalty  to  the  descendant  of  kings;  and  whose 
energy  of  expostulation,  no  less  than  the  natural 
high  tone  of  her  talents,  her  courage,  and  her 
Grecian  pride,  is  softened  into  a  subdued  and  win- 
ning tenderness  by  the  constant  and  painful  recol- 
lection of  her  abasement  as  a  slave  in  the  royal 
harsm ;  and    still  more  by  the  lowliness  of  perfect 


(To  Myrrha,3  who  is  going.)   Myrrha!     I 
thought  thou  wouldst  remain. 
Myr.  Great  king, 

Thou  didst  not  say  so. 

Sar.  But  thou  lookedst  it : 

I  know  each  glance  of  those  Ionic  eyes,4 
Which  said  thou  wouldst  not  leave  me. 

Myr.  Sire  !  your  brother ■■ 

Sal.    His  consort's  brother,  minion  of  Ionia! 
How  darest  thou  name  me  and  not  blush  ? 

Sar.  Not  blush . 

Thou  hast  no  more  eyes  than  heart  to  make 

her  crimson 
Like  to  the  dying  day  on  Caucasus, 
Where  sunset  tints  the  snow  with  rosy  shadows, 
And  then  reproach  her  with  thine  own  cold 

blindness, 
Which  will  not  see  it.     What,  in  tears,  my 
Myrrha  ? 
Sal.     Let   them   flow   on ;    she  weeps   for 
more  than  one, 
And  is  herself  the  cause  of  bitterer  tears. 
Sar.     Cursed  be  he  who  caused  those  tears 

to  flow ! 
Sal.     Curse  not  thyself — millions  do  that 

already. 
Sar.    Thou  dost  forget  thee  :  make  me  not 
remember 
I  am  a  monarch. 
Sal.  Would  thou  couldst ! 

Myr.  My  sovereign, 

I  pray,  and  thou,  too,  prince,  permit  my  ab- 
sence. 
Sar.  ■  Since  it  must  be  so,  and  this  churl 
has  checked 
Thy  gentle  spirit,  go  ;  but  recollect 
That  we  must  forthwith  meet :  I  had  rather  lose 
An  empire  than  thy  presence. 

[Exit  Myrrha. 
Sal.  It  may  be, 

Thou  wilt  lose  both,  and  both  for  ever ! 

Sar.  Brother, 

I  can  at  least  command  myself,  who  listen 
To  language  such  as  this:  yet  urge  me  not 
Beyond  my  easy  nature. 

Sal.  'Tis  beyond 

That  easy,  far  too  easy,  idle  nature, 
Which  I  would  urge  thee.     O  that  I   could 

rouse  thee ! 
Though  'twere  against  myself. 


womanly  love  in  the  presence  of  and  towards  the 
object  of  her  passion.  No  character  can  be  drawn 
more  natural  than  hers;  few  ever  have  been  drawn 
more  touching  and  amiable.  Of  course  she  is  not, 
nor  could  be,  a  Jewish  or  a  Christian  heroine;  but 
she  is  a  model  of  Grecian  piety  and  nobility  of  spirit, 
and  she  is  one  whom  a  purer  faith  would  have 
raised  to  the  level  of  a  Rebecca  or  a  Miriam. — 
Heber.} 

3  [In  the  original  draught,  "  Byilis."] 
*  [MS.  —  "I   know  each  glance  of  those   deep 
Greek-souled  eyes."] 


584 


SARDANAPALUS. 


[act  i, 


Sar.  By  the  god  Baal ! 

The  man  would  make  me  tyrant. 

Sal.  So  thou  art. 

Think'st  thou  there  is  no  tyranny  but  that 
Of  blood  and  chains?     The   despotism   of 

vice  — 
The  weakness  and  the  wickedness  of  luxury  — 
The  negligence  —  the  apathy — the  evils 
Of  sensual  sloth  —  produce  ten  thousand  ty- 
rants, 
Whose  delegated  cruelty  surpasses 
The  worst  acts  of  one  energetic  master, 
However  harsh  and  hard  in  his  own  bearing. 
The  false  and  fond  examples  of  thy  lusts 
Corrupt  no  less  than  they  oppress,  and  sap 
In  the  same  moment  all  thy  pageant  power 
And   those  who  should   sustain   it;   so   that 

whether 
A  foreign  foe  invade,  or  civil  broil 
Distract  within,  both  will  alike  prove  fatal : 
The  first  thy  subjects  have  no  heart  to  con- 
quer ; 
The  last  they  rather  would  assist  than  van- 
quish. 
Sar.     Why,  what  makes  thee  the  mouth- 
piece of  the  people  ? 
Sal.     Forgiveness  of  the  queen,  my  sister's 
wrongs ; 
A  natural  love  unto  my  infant  nephews ; 
Faith  to  the  king,  a  faith  he  may  need  shortly, 
In  more  than  words;    respect  for  Nimrod's 

line; 
Also,  another  thing  thou  knowest  not. 
Sar.    What's  that  ? 

Sal.  To  thee  an  unknown  word. 

Sar.  Yet  speak  it ; 

I  love  to  learn. 
Sal.  Virtue. 

Sar.  Not  know  the  word  ! 

Never  was  word  yet  rung  so  in  my  ears  — 
Worse   than   the  rabble's  shout,  or  splitting 

trumpet : 
J've  heard  thy  sister  talk  of  nothing  else. 
Sal.     To  change  the  irksome  theme,  then, 

hear  of  vice. 
Sar.     From  whom  ? 

Sal.     Even  from  the  winds,  if  thou  couldst 
listen 
Unto  the  echoes  of  the  nation's  voice. 

Sar.     Come,  I'm  indulgent,  as  thou  know- 
est, patient, 
As  thou  hast  often  proved — speak  out,  what 
moves  thee  ? 
Sal.    Thy  peril. 
Sar.  Say  on. 

Sal.  Thus,  then  :  all  the  nations, 

For  they  are  many,  whom  thy  father  left 
In  heritage,  are  loud  in  wrath  against  thee. 
Sar.    'Gainst  me!  What  would  the  slaves  ? 

A  king. 


"iar. 
."Si  I  then  ? 


And  what 


Sal.  In  their  eyes  a  nothing;  but 

In  mine  a  man  who  might  be  something  stiil. 

Sar.     The   railing   drunkards!    why,  what 
would  they  have  ? 
Have  they  not  peace  and  plentv  ? 

Sal.  Of  the  first 

More  than  is  glorious  ;  of  the  last,  far  less 
Than  the  king  recks  of. 

Sar.  Whose  then  is  the  crime, 

But  the  false  satraps,  who  provide  no  better  ? 

Sal.     And  somewhat  in  the  monarch  who 
ne'er  looks 
Beyond  his  palace  walls,  or  if  he  stirs 
Beyond  them,  'tis  but  to  some  mountain  palace, 
Till  summer  heats  wear  down.     O  glorious 

Baal! 
Who  built  up  this  vast  empire,  and  wert  made 
A  god,  or  at  the  least  shinest  like  a  god 
Through  the  long  centuries  of  thy  renown, 
This,  thy  presumed  descendant,  ne'er  beheld 
As   king  the  kingdoms  thou  didst  leave  as 

■     hero, 
Won  with  thy  blood,  and  toil,  and  time,  and 

peril ! 
For  what  ?  to  furnish  imposts  for  a  revel, 
Or  multiplied  extortions  for  a  minion. 

Sar.      I    understand   thee  —  thou    wouldst 
have  me  go 
Forth  as  a  conqueror.     By  all  the  stars 
Which    the    Chaldeans    read  —  the    restless 

slaves  t     f 
Deserve  that  I  should  curse  them  with  theii 

wishes, 
And  lead  them  forth  to  glory. 

Sal.  Wherefore  not? 

Semiramis  —  a  woman  only  —  led 
These  our  Assyrians  to  the  solar  shores 
Of  Ganges. 

Sar      'Tis  most  true.     And  hozo  returned! 

Sal.     Why,  like  a  man  —  a  hero;    baffled, 
but 
Not  vanquished.    With  but   twenty  guards, 

she  made 
Good  her  retreat  to  Bactria. 

Sar.  And  how  many 

Left  she  behind  in  India  to  the  vultures  ? 

Sal.    Our  annals  say  not. 

Sar.  Then  I  will  say  for  them  — 

That  she  had  better  woven  within  her  palace 
Some    twenty   garments,    than   with    twenty 

guards 
Have  fled  to  Bactria,  leaving  to  the  ravens, 
And  wolves,  and  men  —  the  fiercer  of  the  threa 
Her  myriads  of  fond  subjects.     Is  this  glory7 
Then  let  me  live  in  ignominy  ever. 

Sal.     All  warlike  spirits  have  not  the  same 
fate. 
Semiramis,  the  glorious  parent  of 
A  hundred  kings,  although  she  failed  in  India, 


1  [MS.  "  I  have  a  mind 

T"  curse  the  restless  slaves  with  their  own  wishes.  "I 


SCENE    II. J 


SARDANAPAL  US. 


585 


Brought  Persia,  Media,  Bactria,  to  the  realm 
Which  she  once  swayed — and  thou  might' st 
sway. 
Sar.  I  sway  them  — 

She  but  subdued  them. 

Sal.  It  may  be  ere  long 

That  they  will  need  her  sword  more  than  your 

sceptre. 

Sar.    There  was   a   certain   Bacchus,  was 

there  not  ? 

I've  heard  my  Greek  girls  speak  of  such  — 

they  say 
He  was  a  god,  that  is,  a  Grecian  god, 
An  idol  foreign  to  Assyria's  worship, 
Who  conquered  this  same  golden  realm  of 

Ind 
Thou  prat'st  of,  where  Semiramis  was  van- 
quished. 
Sal.     I   have  heard  of  such   a  man;    and 
thou  perceiv'st 
That  he  is  deemed  a  god  for  what  he  did. 
Sar.     And  in  his  godship   I  will    honor 
him  — 
Not   much    as    man.    What,   ho !    my  cup- 
bearer ! 
Sal.     What  means  the  king? 
Sar.  To  worship  your  new  god 

And  ancient  conqueror.     Some  wine,  I  say. 
Enter  Cupbearer. 
Sar.  {addressing  the  Cupbearer) .    Bring  me 
the  golden  goblet  thick  with  gems, 
Which  bears  the  name  of  Nimrod's  chalice. 

Hence, 
Fill  full,  and  bear  it  quickly.    [Exit  Cupbearer. 
Sal.  In  this  moment 

A  fitting  one  for  the  resumption  of 
Thy  yet  unslept-ofF  revels? 

Re-enter  Cupbearer,  with  wine. 
Sar.    {taking  the  cup  from  him).     Noble 

kinsman, 
If  these  barbarian  Greeks  of  the  far  shores 
And  skirts  of  these  our  realms  lie  not,  this 

Bacchus 
Conquered  the  whole  of  India,  did  he  not? 
Sal.     He   did,  and  thence  was  deemed  a 

deity.1 
Sar.     Not  so  :  —  of  all  his  conquests  a  few 

columns, 
Which  may  be  his,  and  might  be  mine,  if  I 
Thought  them  worth  purchase  and  convey- 
ance, are 
The  landmarks  of  the  seas  of  gore  he  shed, 
The   realms  he  wasted,   and  the   hearts   he 

broke. 
But  here,  here  in  this  goblet  is  his  title 
To  immortality  —  the  immortal  grape 
From  which  he  first  expressed  the  soul,  and 

gave 


1  [MS.— 
'  He  did,  and  thence  was  deemed  a  god  in  story."] 


To  gladden  that  of  man,  as  some  atonement 
For  the  victorious  mischiefs  he  had  done. 
Had  it  not  been  for  this,  he  would  have  been 
A  mortal  still  in  name  as  in  his  grave; 
And,  like  my  ancestor  Semiramis, 
A  sort  of  semi-glorious  human  monster. 
Here's  that  which  deified  him —  let  it  now 
Humanize  thee  ;  my  surly,  chiding  brother, 
Pledge  me  to  the  Greek  god  ! 

Sal.  For  all  thy  realms 

I   would    not    so  blaspheme    our  country's 
creed. 
Sar.     That  is  to  say,  thou  thinkest  him  a 
hero, 
That  he  shed  blood  by  oceans ;  and  no  god, 
Because  he  turned  a  fruit  to  an  enchantment, 
Which   cheers  the  sad,  revives  the  old,  in- 
spires 
The  young,  makes  weariness  forget  his  toil, 
And  fear  her  danger;  opens  a  new  world 
When  this,  the  present,  palls.     Well,  then  / 

pledge  thee 
And  him  as  a  true  man,  who  did  his  utmost 
In  good  or  evil  to  surprise  mankind.    [Drinks. 
Sal.    Wilt  thou  resume  a  revel  at  this  hour? 
Sar.    And   if  I    did,   'twere  better  than  a 
trophy, 
Being  bought  without  a  tear.    But  that  is  not 
My  present  purpose :    since    thou  wilt    not 

pledge  me, 
Continue  what  thou  pleasest. 
(  To  the  Cupbearer.)  Boy,  retire. 

[Exit  Cupbearer. 
Sal.     I  would  but  have  recalled  thee  from 
thy  dream ; 
Better  by  me  awakened  than  rebellion. 

Sar.     Who  should  rebel  ?   or  why  ?   what 
cause  ?  pretext  ? 
I  am  the  lawful  king,  descended  from 
A  race  of  kings  who  knew  no  predecessors. 
What  have  I  done  to  thee,  or  to  the  people, 
That  thou  shouldst  rail,  or  they  rise  up  against 
me  ? 
Sal.    Of  what  thou  hast  done  to  me,  I 

speak  not. 
Sar.  But 

Thou  think'st  that  I  have  wronged  the  queen  : 
is't  not  so  ? 
Sal.     Think/    Thou  hast  wronged  her !  2 
Sar.  Patience,  prince,  and  hear  me. 

She  has  all  power  and  splendor  of  her  sta- 
tion, 
Respect,  the  tutelage  of  Assyria's  heirs, 
The  homage  and  the  appanage  of  sovereignty. 
I  married  her  as  monarchs  wed  —  for  state, 


2  [In  many  parts  of  this  play,  it  strikes  me  that 
Lord  Byron  has  more  in  his  eye  the  case  of  a 
sinful  Christian  that  has  but  one  wife,  and  a  sly 
business  or  so  which  she  and  her  kin  do  not  ap- 
prove of,  than  a  bearded  Oriental,  like  Sardanapa- 
Ius,  with  three  hundred  wives  and  seven  hundred 
concubines.  — Hogg.\ 


586 


SARDANAPAL  US. 


[act  i. 


And  loved  her  as  most  husbands  love  their 

wives. 
If  she  or  thou  supposedst  I  could  link  me 
Like  a  Chaldean  peasant  to  his  mate. 
Ye  knew  nor  me,  nor  monarchs,  nor  mankind. 
Sal.     I   pray  thee,  change  the  theme :  my 
blood  disdains 
Complaint,  and  Salemenes'  sister  seeks  not 
Reluctant  love  even  from  Assyria's  lord  ! 
Nor  would  she  deign  to  accept  divided  pas- 
sion 
With  foreign  strumpets  and  Ionian  slaves. 
The  queen  is  silent. 

Sar.  And  why  not  her  brother  ? 

Sal.     I  only  echo  thee  the  voice  of  empires, 
Which  he  who  long  neglects  not  long  will  gov- 
ern. 
Sar.  The  ungrateful  and  ungracious  slaves ! 
they  murmur 
Because  I  have  not  shed  their  blood,  nor  led 

them 
To  dry  into  the  desert's  dust  by  myriads, 
Or  whiten  with  their    bones    the  banks  of 

Ganges ; 
Nor  decimated  them  with  savage  laws, 
Nor  sweated  them  to  build  up  pyramids, 
Or  Babylonian  walls. 

Sal.  Yet  these  are  trophies 

More  worthy  of  a  people  and  their  prince 
Than  songs,  and  lutes,  and  feasts,  and  concu- 
bines, 
And  lavished  treasures,  and  contemned  vir- 
tues. 
Sar.    Oh,  for  my  trophies  I  have  founded 
cities  : 
There's  Tarsus  and  Anchialus,  both  built 
In  one   day  —  what   could  that  blood-loving 

beldame, 
My  martial  grandam,  chaste  Semiramis, 
Do  more,  except  destroy  them  ? 

Sal.  Tis  most  true ; 

I  own  thy  merit  in  those  founded  cities, 
Built  for  a  whim,  recorded  with  a  verse 
Which  shames  both  them  and  thee  to  coming 
ages. 
Sar.   Shame  me!  By  Baal,  the  cities,  though 
well  built, 
Are  not  more  goodly  than  the  verse!     Say 

what 
Thou  wilt  'gainst  me,  my  mode  of  life  or  rule, 
But   nothing   'gainst   the   truth   of  that   brief 

record. 
Why,  those  few  lines  contain  the  history 
Of  all  things  human:  hear  —  "  Sardanapalus, 
The  king,  and  son  of  Anacyndaraxes, 
In  one  day  built  Anchialus  and  Tarsus. 
Eat,  drink,  and  love ;  the  rest's  not  worth  a 
fillip."!  

1  "  For  this  expedition  he  took  only  a  small 
chosen  body  of  the  phalanx,  but  all  his  light  troops. 
In  the  first  day's  march  he  reached  Anchialus,  a 
town  said  to  have  been  founded  by  the  king  of  As- 


Sal.    A  worthy  moral,  and  a  wise  inscrip- 
tion, 
For  a  king  to  put  up  before  his  subjects ! 
Sar.     Oh,  thou  wouldst  have  me  doubtless 
set  up  edicts  — 
"  Obey  the  king  —  contribute  to  his  treasure  — 
Recruit  his  phalanx  —  spill  your  blood  at  bid- 
ding- 
Fall  down  and  worship,  or  get  up  and  toil." 
Or  thus  —  "  Sardanapalus  on  this  spot 
Slew  fifty  thousand  of  his  enemies. 
These  are  their  sepulchres,  and  this  his  tro- 
phy." 
I  leave  such  things  to  conquerors ;  enough 
For  me,  if  I  can  make  my  subjects  feel 
The  weight  of  human  misery  less,  and  glide 
Ungroaning  to  the  tomb  :  I  take  no  license 
Which  I  deny  to  them.     We  all  are  men. 
Sal.  Thy  sires  have  been  revered  as  gods  — 
Sar.  In  dust 

And  death,  where  they  are  neither  gods  nor 

men. 
Talk  not  of  such  to  me !  the  worms  are  gods ; 


syria,  Sardanapalus.  The  fortifications,  in  their 
magnitude  and  extent,  still  in  Arrian's  time,  bore 
the  character  of  greatness,  which  the  Assyrians 
appear  singularly  to  have  affected  in  works  of  the 
kind.  A  monument  representing  Sardanapalus  was 
found  there,  warranted  by  an  inscription  in  Assyrian 
characters,  of  course  in  the  old  Assyrian  language, 
which  the  Greeks,  whether  well  or  ill,  interpreted 
thus:  '  Sardanapalus,  son  of  Anacyndaraxes,  in  one 
day  founded  Anchialus  and  Tarsus.  Eat,  drink, 
play:  all  other  human  joys  are  not  worth  a  fillip.' 
Supposing  this  version  nearly  exact  (for  Arrian  says 
it  was  not  quite  so),  whether  the  purpose  has  not 
been  to  invite  to  civil  order  a  people  disposed  to 
turbulence,  rather  than  to  recommend  immoderate 
luxury,  may  perhaps  reasonably  be  questioned. 
What,  indeed,  could  be  the  object  of  a  king  of  As- 
syria in  founding  such  towns  in  a  country  so  distant 
from  his  capital,  and  so  divided  from  it  by  an  im- 
mense extent  of  sandy  deserts  and  lofty  mountains, 
and,  still  more,  how  the  inhabitants  could  be  at 
once  in  circumstances  to  abandon  themselves  to  the 
intemperate  joys  which  their  prince  has  been  sup- 
posed to  have  recommended,  is  not  obvious:  but  it 
may  deserve  observation  that,  in  that  line  of  coast, 
the  southern  of  Lesser  Asia,  ruins  of  cities,  evident- 
ly of  an  age  after  Alexander,  yet  barely  named  in 
history,  at  this  day  astonish  the  adventurous  travel- 
ler by  their  magnificence  and  elegance.  Amid  the 
desolation  which,  under  a  singularly  barbarian 
government,  has  for  so  many  centuries  been  daily 
spreading  in  the  finest  countries  of  the  globe, 
whether  more  from  soil  and  climate,  or  from  oppor- 
tunites  for  commerce,  extraordinary  means  must 
have  been  found  her  communities  to  flourish  there; 
whence  it  may  seem  that  the  measures  of  Sardana- 
palus were  directed  by  juster  views  than  have  been 
commonly  ascribed  to  him:  but  that  monarch  hav- 
ing been  the  last  of  a  dynasty,  ended  by  a  revolu- 
tion, obloquy  on  his  memory  would  follow  of  course 
from  the  policy  of  his  successors  and  their  parti- 
sans. The  inconsistency  of  traditions  concerning 
Sardanapalus  is  striking  in  Diodorus's  account  of 
him."  —  Mitford's  Greece,  vol.  x.  p.  311. 


SCENE   II.] 


SARDANAPALUS. 


587 


At  least  they  banqueted  upon  your  gods, 
And  died  for  lack  of  farther  nutriment. 
Those  gods  were  merely  men  ;  look  to  their 

issue  — ■ 
I  feel  a  thousand  mortal  things  about  me, 
Rut  nothing  godlike, —  unless  it  may  be 
The  thing  which  you  condemn,  a  disposition 
To  love  and  to  be  merciful,  to  pardon 
The  follies  of  my  species,  and  (that's  human) 
To  be  indulgent  to  my  own. 

Sal.  Alas ! 

The  doom  of   Nineveh  is  sealed. —  Woe  — 

woe 
To  the  unrivalled  city ! 

Sar.  What  dost  dread  ? 

Sal.     Thou  art  guarded  by  thy  foes :  in  a 
few  hours 
The  tempest  may  break  out  which  overwhelms 

thee, 
And  thine  and  mine ;  and  in  another  day 
What  is  shall  be  the  past  of  Belus'  race. 
Sar.     What  must  we  dread  ? 
Sal.  Ambitious  treachery, 

Which  has  environed  thee  with  snares ;  but 

yet 
There   is  resource :    empower  me  with   thy 

signet 
To  quell  the  machinations,  and  I  lay 
The  heads  of  thy  chief  foes  before  thy  feet. 
Sar.     The  heads  —  how  many  ? 
Sal.  Must  I  stay  to  number 

When  even  thine  own's  in  peril  ?     Let  me  go  ; 
Sive  me  thy  signet  —  trust  me  with  the  rest. 
Sar.     I  will  trust  no  man  with    unlimited 
lives. 
When  we  take  those  from  others,  we  nor  know 
What  we  have  taken,  nor  the  thing  we  give. 
Sal.     Wouldst  thou  not  take  their  lives  who 

seek  for  thine  ? 
Sar.     That's  a  hard  question  —  But  I  an- 
swer, Yes. 
Cannot  the  thing  be  done  without  ?     Who  are 

they 
Whom  thou  suspectest  ?  —  Let  them  be  ar- 
rested. 
Sal.     I   would  thou  wouldst  not  ask  me ; 
the  next  moment 
Will  send  my  answer  through  thy  babbling 

troop 
Of  paramours,  and  thence  fly  o'er  the  palace, 
Even  to  the  city,  and  so  baffle  all.  — 
Trust  me. 

Sar.      Thou  knowest  I  have  done  so  ever: 
Take  thou  the  signet.  [Gives  the  signet. 

Sal.  I  have  one  more  request.  — 

Sar.     Name  it. 

Sal.     That  thou  this  night  forbear  the  ban- 
quet 
In  the  pavilion  over  the  Euphrates. 

Sar.     Forbear  the    banquet!    Not  for  all 
the  plotters 
That  ever  shook  a  kingdom  !    Let  them  come, 


And  do  their  worst :    I  shall  not  blench  for 

them ; 
Nor  rise  the  sooner;  nor  forbear  the  goblet ; 
Nor  crown  me  with  a  single  rose  the  less ; 
Nor  lose  one  joyous  hour. — ■  I  fear  them  not. 
Sal.     But  thou  wouldst  arm  thee,  wouldst 

thou  not,  if  needful  ? 
Sar.     Perhaps.    I  have  the  goodliest  armor, 
and 
A  sword  of  such  a  temper ;  and  a  bow 
And  javelin,   which   might   furnish    Nimrod 

forth: 
A  little  heavy,  but  yet  not  unwieldy. 
And  now  I  think  on't,  'tis  long  since  I've  used 

them, 
Even   in   the   chase.     Hast  ever  seen  them, 
brother  ? 
Sal.     Is   this  a  time  for  such  fantastic  tri- 
fling?— 
If  need  be,  wilt  thou  wear  them  ? 

Sar.  Will  I  not  ? 

Oh !  if  it  must  be  so,  and  these  rash  slaves 
Will  not  be  ruled  with  less,  I'll  use  the  sword 
Till  they  shall  wish  it  turned  into  a  distaff. 
Sal.     They  say  thy  sceptre's  turned  to  that 

already. 
Sar.     That's  false !  but  let  them  say  so  :  the 
old  Greeks, 
Of  whom  our  captives  often  sing,  related 
The  same  of  their  chief  hero,  Hercules, 
Because  he  loved  a  Lydian  queen  :  thou  seest 
The  populace  of  all  the  nations  seize 
Each  calumny  they  can  to  sink  their  sover- 
eigns. 
Sal.     They  did  not  speak  thus  of  thv  fathers. 
Sar.  No ; 

They  dared  not.     They  were  kept  to  toil  and 

combat ; 
And  never  changed  their  chains  but  for  their 

armor. 
Now  they  have  peace  and  pastime,  and  the 

license 
To  revel  and  to  rail ;  it  irks  me  not. 
I  would  not  give  the  smile  of  one  fair  girl 
For  all  the  popular  breath  that  e'er  divided 
A  name  from  nothing.     What  are  the  rank 

tongues 
Of  this  vile  herd,  grown  insolent  with  feeding, 
That  I  should  prize  their  noisy  praise,  or  dread 
Their  noisome  clamor  ? 

Sal.  You  have  said  they  are  men  ; 

As  such  their  hearts  are  something. 

Sar.  So  my  dogs'  are  ; 

And  better,  as  more  faithful :  —  but,  proceed  ; 
Thou  hast  my  signet :  — since  they  are  tumul- 
tuous, 
Let  them  be  tempered,  yet  not  roughly,  till 
Necessity  enforce  it.     I  hate  all  pain, 
Given  or  received  ;  we  have  enough  within  us, 
The  meanest  vassal  as  the  loftiest  monarch. 
Wot  to  add  to  each  other's  natural  burden 
Of  mortal  misery,  but  rather  lessen, 


588 


SARDANAPALUS. 


[act  I. 


By  mild  reciprocal  alleviation, 

The  fatal  penalties  imposed  on  life  : 

But  this  they  know  not,  or  they  will  not  know. 

I  have,  by  Baal !   done  all  I  could  to  soothe 

them  : 
I  made  no  wars,  I  added  no  new  imposts, 
I  interfered  not  with  their  civic  lives, 
I  let  them  pass  their  days  as  best  might  suit 

them, 
Passing  my  own  as  suited  me. 

Sal.  Thou  stopp'st 

Short  of  the  duties  of  a  king ;  and  therefore 
They  say  thou  art  unfit  to  be  a  monarch. 

Sar.     They  lie.  —  Unhappily,  I  am  unfit 
To  be  aught  save  a  monarch ;  else  for  me 
The  meanest  Mede  might  be  the  king  instead. 
Sal.    There  is  one  Mede,  at  least,  who  seeks 

to  be  so. 
Sar.     What  mean'st  thou  ?  —  'tis  thy  secret ; 

thou  desirest 
Few  questions,  and  I'm  not  ef  curious  nature. 
Take  the  fit  steps ;  and,  since  necessity 
Requires,  I  sanction  and  support  thee.     Ne'er 
Was  man  who  more  desired  to  rule  in  peace 
The  peaceful  only:  if  they  rouse  me,  better 
They  had  conjured  up  stern  Nimrodfrom  his 

ashes, 
"  The  mighty  hunter."    I  will  turn  these  realms 
To  one  wide  desert  chase  of  brutes,  whoiw«, 
But  would  no  more,  by  their  own  choice,  be 

human. 
What  they  have  found  me,  they  belie ;  that 

which 
They  yet  may  find  me  —  shall  defy  their  wish 
To  speak  it  worse ;  and  let  them  thank  them- 
selves. 
Sal     Then  thou  at  last  canst  feel  ? 
Sar.  Feel !  who  feels  not 

Ingratitude  ? 

Sal.  I  will  not  pause  to  answer 

With  words,  but  deeds.     Keep   thou  awake 

that  energy 
Which  sleeps  at  times,  but  is  not  dead  within 

thee, 
And  thou  may'st  yet  be  glorious  in  thy  reign, 
As  powerful  in  thy  realm.     Farewell ! 

[Exit  Salem  en  es. 
Sar.  (solus).  Farewell! 

He's  gone  ;  and  on  his  finger  bears  my  signet, 
Which  is  to  him  a  sceptre.     He  is  stern 
As  I  am  heedless ;  and  the  slaves  deserve 
To  feel  a  master.    What  may  be  the  danger, 
I  know  not :  he  hath  found  it,  let  him  quell  it 
Must  I  consume  my  life —  this  little  life  — 
In  guarding  against  all  may  make  it  less  ?  1 
It  is  not  worth  so  much  !     It  were  to  die 


1  [The  epicurean  philosophy  of  Sardanapalus 
gives  him  a  fine  opportunity,  in  his  conferences 
with  his  stern  and  confidential  adviser,  Salemenes, 
to  contrast  his  own  imputed  and  fatal  vices  of  ease 
and  love  of  pleasure  with  the  boasted  virtues  of  his 
predecessors,  war  and  conquest.  —  Jeffrey. .] 


Before  my  hour,  to  live  in  dread  of  death, 
Tracing  revolt ;  suspecting  all  about  me, 
Because  they  are  near  ;  and  all  who  are  remote; 
Because  they  are  far.     But  if  it  should  be  so  — 
If  they  should  sweep  me  off  from  earth  and 

empire, 
Why,  what  is  earth  or  empire  of  the  earth  ? 
I  have  loved,  and  lived,  and  multiplied  my 

image : 
To  die  is  no  less  natural  than  those 
Acts  of  this  clay !  'Tis  true  I  have  not  shed 
Blood  as  I  might  have  done,  in  oceans,  till 
My  name  became  the  synonyme  of  death  — 
A  terror  and  a  trophy.     But  for  this 
I  feel  no  penitence ;  my  life  is  love  : 
If  I  must  shed  blood,  it  shall  be  by  force. 
Till  now,  no  drop  from  an  Assyrian  vein 
Hath  flowed  for  me,  nor  hath  the  smallest  coin 
Of  Nineveh's  vast  treasures  e'er  been  lavished 
On  objects  which  could  cost  her  sons  a  tear : 
If  then  they  hate  me,  'tis  because  I  hate  not: 
If  they  rebel,  'tis  because  I  oppress  not. 
Oh,  men!  ye  must  be  ruled  with  scythes,  not 

sceptres, 
And  mowed  down  like  the  grass,  else  all  we 

reap 
Is  rank  abundance,  and  a  rotten  harvest 
Of  discontents  infecting  the  fair  soil, 
Making  a  desert  of  fertility. — 
I'll  think  no  more. Within  there,  ho! 

Enter  an  ATTENDANT. 

Sar.  Slave,  telJ 

The  Ionian  Myrrha  we  would  crave  her  pres- 
ence. 
Attend.     King,  she  is  here. 

Myrrha  enters. 

Sar.  (apart  to  Attendant).     Away ! 
(Addressing  MYRRHA.)  Beautiful  being! 

Thou  dost  almost  anticipate  my  heart ; 
It  throbbed  for  thee,  and  here  thou  comest: 

let  me 
Deem  that  some  unknown   influence,  some 

sweet  oracle, 
Communicates  between  us,  though  unseen, 
In  absence,  and  attracts  us  to  each  other. 

Afyr.     There  doth. 

Sar.     I  know  there  doth,  but  not  its  name: 
What  is  it  ? 

Myr.  In  my  native  land  a  God, 

And  in  my  heart  a  feeling  like  a  God's, 
Exalted ;  yet  I  own  'tis  only  mortal ; 
For  what  I  feel  is  humble,  and  yet  happy — 

That  is,  it  would  be  happy ;  but 

[Myrrha  pauses. 

Sar.  There  comes 

For  ever  some  thing  between  us  and  what 
We  deem  our  happiness  :  let  me  remove 
The  barrier  which  that  hesitating  accent 
Proclaims  to  thine,  and  mine  is  sealed. 

Myr.  My  lord  i  - 


SCENE   II.] 


SARDANAPALUS. 


589 


Sar.      My   lord  —  my   king — sire  —  sover- 
eign;  thus  it  is  — 
For  ever  thus,  addressed  with-  awe.     I  ne'er 
Can  see  a  smile,  unless  in  some  broad  banquet's 
Intoxicating  glare,  when  the  buffoons 
Have  gorged  themselves  up  to  equality, 
Or  I  have  quaffed  me  down  to  their  abase- 
ment. 
Myrrha,   I    can  hear  all   these   things,  these 

names, 
Lord  —  king  —  sire  —  monarch  —  nay,  time 

was  I  prized  them  ; 
That  is,  I  suffered  them  —  from   slaves   and 

nobles; 
But  when  they  falter  from  the  lips  I  love. 
The  lips  which  have  been  pressed  to  mine,  a 

chill 
Comes  o'er  my  heart,  a  cold  sense  of  the  false- 
hood 
Of  this  my  station,  which  represses  feeling 
In  those  for  whom  I  have  felt  most,  and  makes 

me 
Wish  that  I  could  lay  down  the  dull  tiara, 
And  share  a  cottage  on  the  Caucasus 
With  thee,  and  wear  no  crowns  but  those  of 
flowers. 
Myr.     Would  that  we  could  ! 
Sar.  And  dost  thou  feel  this  ?  —  Why  ? 

Atyr.     Then  thou  wouldst  know  what  thou 
canst  never  know. 

Sar.    And  that  is 

Myr.  The  true  value  of  a  heart ; 

At  least,  a  woman's. 

Sar.  I  have  proved  a  thousand  — 

A  thousand,  and  a  thousand. 
Myr.  Hearts  ? 

Sar.  I  think  so. 

Myr.  Not   one !    the  time  may  come  thou 

may'st. 
Sar.  It  will. 

Here,  Myrrha;  Salemenes  has  declared  — 
Or  why  or  how  he  hath  divined  it,  Belus, 
Who  founded  our  great  realm,  knows  more 

than  I  — 
But  Salemenes  hath  declared  my  throne 
In  peril. 
Myr.       He  did  well. 

Sar.  And  say'st  thou  so  ? 

Thou  whom  he  spurned  so  harshly,  and  now 

dared l 
Drive  from  our  presence  with  his  savage  jeers, 
And  made  thee  weep  and  blush  ? 

Myr.  I  should  do  both 

More  frequently,  and  he  did  well  to  call  me 
Back  to  my  duty.     But  thou  spakest  of  peril — 

Peril  to  thee 

Sar.  Ay,  from  dark  plots  and  snares 

From  Medes  —  and  discontented  troops  and 
nations. 


1  [MS.  "  and  even  dared 

Profane  our  presence  with  his  savage  jeers."] 


I  know  not  what  —  a  labyrinth  of  things  — 
A  maze  of  muttered  threats  and  mysteries  : 
Thou  know'st  the  man  —  it  is  his  usual  custom. 
But  he  is  honest.    Come,  we'll  think  no  more 

on't  — 
But  of  the  midnight  festival. 

Myr.  "Tis  time 

To  think  of  aught  save  festivals.   Thou  hast  not 
Spurned  his  sage  cautions  ? 

Sar.  What  ?  —  and  dost  thou  fear  ? 

Myr.    Fear  ?  —  I'm  a  Greek,  and  how  should 
I  fear  death  ? 
A  slave,  and  wherefore  should  I    dread   my 
freedom  > 
Sar.  Then  wherefore  dost  thou  turn  so  pale  ? 
Myr.  I  love. 

Sar.     And   do   not    I  ?  I  love   thee   far — 
far  more 
Than  either  the  brief  life  or  the  wide  realm. 
Which,  it  maybe,  are  menaced  ;  — yet  I  blench 
not. 
Myr.     That  means  thou  lovest  not  thyself 
nor  me ; 
For  he  who  loves  another  loves  himself, 
Even  for  that  other's  sake.     This  is  too  rash  : 
Kingdoms  and  lives  are  not  to  be  so  lost. 
Sar.  Lost  !  — why,  who  is  the  aspiring  chief 
who  dared 
Assume  to  win  them  ? 

Myr.  Who  is  he  should  dread 

To  try  so  much  ?    When  he  who  is  their  ruler 
Forgets  himself,  will  they  remember  him  ? 
Sar.     Myrrha ! 

Myr.   Frown  not  upon  me:  you  have  smiled 
Too  often  on  me  not  to  make  those  frowns 
Bitterer  to  bear  than  any  punishment 
Which  they  may  augur.  —  King,  I  am  your 

subject ! 
Master,  I  am  your  slave !  Man,  I  have  loved 

you!  — 
Loved  you,  I  know  not  by  what  fatal  weakness, 
Although  a  Greek,  and  born  a  foe  to  mon- 

archs  — 
A  slave,  and  hating  fetters  —  an  Ionian, 
And,  therefore,  when  I  love  a  stranger,  more 
Degraded  by  that  passion  than  by  chains  ! 
Still  I  have  loved  you.     If  that  love  were  strong 
Enough  to  overcome  all  former  nature, 
Shall  it  not  claim  the  privilege  to  save  you  ? 
Sar.     Save  me,  my  beauty  !     Thou  art  very 
fair, 
And  what  I  seek  of  thee  is  love  —  not  safety. 
Myr.     And  without  love  where  dwells  se- 
curity ? 
Sar.     I  speak  of  woman's  love. 
Myr.  The  very  first 

Of  human    life   must   spring  from   woman's 

breast, 
Your  first  small  words  are  taught  you  from 

her  lips, 
Your  first  tears  quenched  by  her,  and  youl 
last  sighs 


590 


SARDANAPALUS. 


[aci  t 


Too  often  breathed  out  in  a  woman's  hearing, 
When  men  have  shrunk  from  the  ignoble  care 
Of  watching  the  last  hour  of  him  who  led 
them. 
Sar.     My  eloquent  Ionian !    thou  speak'st 
music, 
The  very  chorus  of  the  tragic  song  l 
I  have  heard  thee  talk  of  as  the  favorite  pas- 
time 
Of  thy  far  father-land.    Nay,  weep  not  —  calm 
thee. 
Myr.    I  weep  not.  —  But  I  pray  thee,  do  not 
speak 
About  my  fathers  or  their  land. 

Sar.     '  Yet  oft 

Thou  speakest  of  them. 

Myr.  True  —  true:  constant  thought 

Will  overflow  in  words  unconsciously ; 
But  when  another  speaks  of  Greece,  it  wounds 
me. 
Sar.     Well,  then,  how  wouldst   thou  save 

me,  as  thou  saidst  ? 
Myr.     By  teaching  thee  to  save  thyself,  and 
not 
Thyself  alone,  but  these  vast  realms,  from  all 
The   rage   of    the    worst   war  —  the    war   of 
brethren. 
Sar.     Why,   child,  I    loathe   all  war,  and 
warriors ; 
I  live  in  peace  and  pleasure :  what  can  man 
Do  more  ? 

Myr.     Alas !  my  lord,  with  common  men 

There  needs  too  oft  the  show  of  war  to  keep 

The  substance  of  sweet  peace  ;  and,  for  a  king, 

'Tis  sometimes  better  to  be  feared  than  loved. 

Sar.    And  I  have  never  sought  but  for  the 

last. 
Myr.     And  now  art  neither. 
Sar.  Dost  thou  say  so,  Myrrha? 

Myr.    I  speak  of  civic  popular  love,  se'//-\ove. 
Which  means  that  men  are  kept  in  awe  and 

law, 
Yet   not   oppressed  —  at  least  they  must  not 

think  so ; 
Or  if  they  think  so,  deem  it  necessary, 
To   ward   off   worse    oppression,   their   own 

passions. 
A  king  of  feasts,  and  flowers,  and  wine,  and 

revel, 
And  love,  and  mirth,  was  never  king  of  glory. 
Sar.     Glory  1  what's  that  ? 
Myr.  Ask  of  the  gods  thy  fathers. 

Sar.   They  cannot  answer ;  when  the  priests 
speak  for  them, 
'Tis  for  some  small  addition  to  the  temple. 


1  [To  speak  of  "  the  tragic  song  "  as  the  favorite 
pastime  of  Greece,  two  hundred  years  before  Thes- 
pis,  is  an  anachronism.  Nor  could  Myrrha,  at  so 
early  a  period  of  her  country's  history,  have  spoken 
of  their  national  hatred  of  kings,  or  of  that  which 
was  equally  the  growth  of  a  later  age,  —  their  con- 
tempt for  "  barbarians."  —  Heber.\ 


Myr.     Look  to  the  annals  of  thine  empire's 

founders. 
Sar.     They  are  so  blotted  o'er  with  blood, 
I  cannot. 
But  what  wouldst  have  ?  the  empire  has  beeA 

founded. 
I  cannot  go  on  multiplying  empires. 
Myr.     Preserve  thine  own. 
Sar.  At  least,  I  will  enjoy  it. 

Come,  Myrrha,  let  us  go  on  to  the  Euphrates 
The  hour  invites,  the  galley  is  prepared, 
And  the  pavilion,  decked  for  our  return, 
In  fit  adornment  for  the  evening  banquet, 
Shall  blaze  with  beauty  and  with  light,  until 
It  seems  unto  the  stars  which  are  above  us 
Itself  an  opposite  star;  and  we  will  sit 

Crowned  with  fresh  flowers  like 

Myr.  Victims. 

Sar.  No,  like  sovereigns, 

The  shepherd  kings  of  patriarchal  times, 
Who  knew  no  brighter  gems   than  summer 

wreaths,2 
And  none  but  tearless  triumphs.    Let  us  on. 

Enter  PANIA. 

Pan.     May  the  king  live  for  ever ! 

Sar.  Not  an  hour 

Longer  than  he  can  love.    How  my  soul  hates 
This  language,  which  makes  life  itself  a  lie, 
Flattering  dust  with  eternity.3     Well,  Pania.' 
Be  brief.         f 

Pan.        I  am  charged  by  Salemenes  to 
Reiterate  his  prayer  unto  the  king, 
That  for  this  day,  at  least,  he  will  not  quit 
The  palace :  when  thv  general  returns, 
He  will  adduce  such   ■easons  as  will  warrant 
His  daring,  and  perhaps  obtain  the  pardon 
Of  his  presumption. 

Sar.  What 5  am  I  then  cooped? 

Already  captive  ?  can  I  not  even  breathe 
The  breath  of  heaven  ?  Tell  prince  Salemenes, 
Were  all  Assyria  raging  round  the  walls 
In  mutinous  myriads,  I  would  still  <=;o  forth. 

Pan.     I  must  obey,  and  yet  — 

Myr.  Oh,  monarch,  listen.- — 

How  many  a  day  and  moon  thou  hast  reclined 
Within  these  palace  walls  in  silken  dalliance, 
And  never  shown  thee  to  thy  people's  longing ; 
Leaving  thy  subjects'  eyes  ungratified, 
The   satraps   uncontrolled,  the  gods   unwor- 

shipped, 
And  all  things  in  the  anarchy  of  sloth, 
Till    all,   save    evil,   slumbered    through    the 

realm ! 
And  wilt  thou  not  now  tarry  for  a-  *lay, — 
A  day  which  may  redeem  thee  ?     Wilt  thou 

not 
Yield  to  the  few  still  faithful  for  a  few  hours, 


*  [MS.— 
"  Who  loved  no  gems  so  well  as  those  of  nat're.'  ' 
3  [MS.  —  "  Wishing  eternity  to  dust."] 


SCENE   II.  j 


SARDANAPALUS. 


591 


For  them,  for  thee,  for  thy  past  father's  race, 
And  for  thy  son's  inheritance  ? 

Pan.  '     "Pis  true ! 

From  the  deep  urgency  with  which  the  prince 
Despatched  me  to  your  sacred  presence,  I 
Must  dare  to  add  my  feeble  voice  to  that 
Which  now  has  spoken. 

Sar.  No,  it  must  not  be. 

Myr.     For  the  sake  of  thy  realm  ! 

Sar.  Away ! 

Pan.  For  that 

Of  all  thy  faithful  subjects,  who  will  rally 
Round  thee  and  thine. 

Sar.  These  are  mere  fantasies ; 

There  is  no  peril :  —  'tis  a  sullen  scheme 
Of  Salemenes,  to  approve  his  zeal, 
And  show  himself  more  necessary  to  us. 

Myr.     By  all  that's  good  and  glorious  take 
this  counsel. 

Sar.     Business  to-morrow. 

Myr.  Ay,  or  death  to-night. 

Sar.     Why  let  it  come  then  unexpectedly 
'Midst  joy  and  gentleness,  and  mirth  and  love  ; 
So  let  me  fall  like  the   plucked  rose! — far 

better 
Thus  than  be  withered. 

Myr.  Then  thou  wilt  not  yield, 

'    Even  for  the  sake  of  all  that  ever  stirred 
iV  monarch  into  action,  to  forego 
A.  trifling  revel. 

Sar.  No. 

Myr.  Then  yield  for  mine; 

For  my  sake ! 

Sar.  Thine,  my  Myrrha  ! 

Myr.  'Tis  the  first 

Boon  which  I  ever  asked  Assyria's  king. 

Sar.     That's  true,  and  wer't  my  kingdom 
must  be  granted. 
Well,  for  thy  sake,  I  yield  me.    Pania,  hence ! 
Thou  hear'st  me. 

Pan.  And  obey.        [Exit  PANIA. 

Sar.  I  marvel  at  thee. 

What  is  thy  motive,  Myrrha,  thus  to  urge  me  ? 

Myr.     Thy  safety ;    and  the  certainty  that 
nought 
Could  urge  the  prince  thy  kinsman  to  require 
Thus  much  from  thee,  but  some  impending 
danger. 

Sar.    And  if  I  do  not  dread  it,  why  shouldst 
thou  ? 

Myr.     Because  thou  dost  not  fear,  I  fear 
for  thee. 

Sar.     To-morrow  thou  wilt  smile  at  these 
vain  fancies. 

Myr.     If  the  worse  come,  I  shall  be  where 
none  weep, 
And  that  is  better  than  the  power  to  smile. 
<\.nd  thou? 

Sar.  I  shall  be  king,  as  heretofore. 

Myr.     Where  ? 

Sar.      With  Baal,  Nimrod,  and  Semiramis, 
Sole  in  Assyria,  or  with  them  elsewhere. 


Fate  made  me  what  I  am  —  may  make  mt 

nothing — 
But  either  that  or  nothing  must  I  be  : 
I  will  not  live  degraded. 

Myr.  Hadst  thou  felt 

Thus  always,  none  would  ever  dare  degrade 

thee. 
Sar.    And  who  will  do  so  now  ? 
Myr.  Dost  thou  suspect  none  } 

Sar.     Suspect! — that's  a  spy's  office.    Oh! 

we  lose 
Ten    thousand    precious    moments    in  vain 

words, 
And  vainer  fears.    Within  there  !  — ye  slaves, 

deck 
The  hall  of  Nimrod  for  the  evening  revel : 
If  I  must  make  a  prison  of  our  palace, 
At  least  we'll  wear  our  fetters  jocundly  ; 
If  the  Euphrates  be  forbid  us,  and 
The  summer  dwelling  on  its  beauteous  border. 
Here  we  are  still  unmenaced.     Ho !    within 

there !  [Exit  Sardanapalu^ 

Myr.  (sola).     Why  do   I    love   this  man? 

My  country's  daughters 
Love  none  but  heroes.     But  I  have  no  coun- 
try! 
The  slave  hath  lost  all  save  her  bonds.     I  love 

him  ; 
And  that's  the  heaviest  link  of  the  long  chain—- 
To  love  whom  we  esteem  not.     Be  it  so  : 
The  hour  is  coming  when  he'll  need  all  love, 
And  find  none.    To  fall  from  him  now  were 

baser 
Than  to  have  stabbed  him  on  his  throne  when 

highest 
Would   have  been  noble    in    my   country's 

creed : 
I  was  not  made  for  either.     Could  I  save  him, 
I  should  not  love  him  better,  but  myself; 
And    I    have   need   of  the   last,   for   I    have 

fallen 
In  my  own  thoughts,  by  loving  this  soft  stran- 
ger: 
And  yet  methinks  I  love  him  more,  perceiv- 
ing 
That  he  is  hated  of  his  own  barbarians, 
The  natural  foes  of  all  the  blood  of  Greece. 
Could  I  but  wake  a  single  thought  like  those 
Which  even  the  Phrygians  felt  when  battling 

long 
'Twixt  I  lion  and  the  sea,  within  his  heart, 
He  would  tread  down  the  barbarous  crowds, 

and  triumph. 
He   loves   me,   and    I    love   him ;    the   slave 

loves 
Her  master,  and  would   free   him   from   his 

vices. 
If  not,  I  have  a  means  of  freedom  still, 
And  if  I  cannot  teach  him  how  to  reign, 
May  show  him  how  alone  a  king  can  leave 
His  throne.     I  must  not  lose  him  from  my 

sight.  [ExiU 


593 


SARDANAPAL  US. 


[act  n. 


ACT  II> 

SCENE  I.—  The  Portal  of  the  same  Hall  of 
the  Palace. 

Bcleses  (solus).    The  sun  goes  down:  me- 

thinks  he  sets  more  slowly, 
Taking  his  last  look  of  Assyria's  empire. 
How  red  he  glares  amongst  those  deepening 

clouds, 
Like  the  blood  he  predicts.     If  not  in  vain, 
Thou  sun  that  sinkest,  and  ye  stars  which 

rise, 
I  have  outwatched  ye,  reading  ray  by  ray 
The  edicts  of  your  orbs,  which  make  Time 

tremble 
For  what  he  brings  the  nations,  'tis  the  fur- 
thest 
Hour  of  Assyria's  years.    And  yet  how  calm ! 
An  earthquake  should  announce  so  great  a 

fall  — 
A  summer's  sun  discloses  it.    Yon  disk, 
To  the  star-read  Chaldean,  bears  upon 
Its  everlasting  page  the  end  of  what 
Seemed  everlasting;  but  oh!  thou  true  sun! 
The  burning  oracle  of  all  that  live, 
As  fountain  of  all  life,  and  symbol  of 
Him  who  bestows  it,  wherefore  dost  thou  limit 
Thy  lore  unto  calamity  ?     Why  not 
Unfold  the  rise  of  days  more  worthy  thine 
All-glorious  burst  from  ocean  ?  why  not  dart 
A  beam  of  hope  athwart  the  future  years, 
As  of  wrath  to  its  days  ?    Hear  me !  oh,  hear 

me ! 
I  am  thy  worshipper,  thy  priest,  thy  servant  — 
I  have  gazed  on  thee  at  thy  rise  and  fall, 
And  bowed  my  head  beneath  thy  mid-day 

beams, 
When  my  eye  dared  not  meet  thee.     I  have 

watched 
For  thee,  and  after  thee,  and  prayed  to  thee, 
And  sacrificed  to  thee,  and  read,  and  feared 

thee, 
And  asked  of  thee,  and  thou  hast  answered  — 

but 
Only  to  thus  much  :  while  I  speak,  he  sinks  — 
Is  gone  —  and  leaves  his  beauty,  not  his  knowl- 


To  the  delighted  west,  which  revels  in 
Its  hues  of  dying  glory.     Yet  what  is 
Death,  so  it  be  but  glorious  ?     'Tis  a  sunset ; 
And  mortals  may  be  happy  to  resemble 
The  gods  but  in  decay. 

Enter  ARBACES,  by  an  inner  door. 

Arb.  Beleses,  why 

So  rapt  in  thy  devotions  ?     Dost  thou  stand 
Gazing  to  trace  thy  disappearing  god 
Into  some  realm  of  undiscovered  day  ? 
Our  business  is  with  night — 'tis  come. 

Bel.  But  not 

Gone. 

Arb.    Let  it  roll  on — we  are  ready. 


Bel.  Yes. 

Would  it  were  over! 

Arb.  Does  the  prophet  doubt, 

To  whom  the  very  stars  shine  victory  ? 
Bel.     I  do  not  doubt  of  victory  — but  the 

victor. 
Arb.     Well,   let    thy  science    settle    that. 
Meantime 
I  have  prepared  as  many  glittering  spears 
As  will  out-sparkle  our  allies  —  your  planets. 
There  is  no  more  to  thwart  us.     The  she- 
king, 
That  less  than  woman,  is  even  now  upon 
The  waters  with  his  female  mates.     The  order 
Is  issued  for  the  feast  in  the  pavilion. 
The  first  cup  which  he  drains  will  be  the  last 
Quaffed  by  the  line  of  Nimrod. 
Bel.  'Twas  a  brave  one. 

Arb.    And  is  a  weak  one —  'tis  worn  out  — 

we'll  mend  it. 
Bel.    Art  sure  of  that  ? 
Arb.  Its  founder  was  a  hunter  — 

I  am  soldier  —  what  is  there  to  fear  ? 
Bel.     The  soldier. 

Arb.  And  the  priest,  it  may  be :  but 

If  you  thought  thus,  or  think,  why  not  retain 
Your  king  of  concubines?  why  stir  me  up? 
Why  spur  me  to  this  enterprise  ?  your  own 
No  less  than  mine  ? 
Bel.  Look  to  the  sky ! 

Arb.  I  look. 

Bel.    What  seest  thou  ? 
Arb.  A  fair  summer's  twilight,  and 

The  gathering  of  the  stars. 

Bel.  And  midst  them,  mark 

Yon  earliest,  and  the  brightest.which  soquivers, 
As  it  would  quit  its  place  in  the  blue  ether. 
Arb.     Well  ? 

Bel.     'Tis  thy  natal  ruler  —  thy  birth  planet. 
Arb.  {touching  his  scabbard) .     My  star  is  in 
this  scabbard  :  when  it  shines, 
It  shall  out-dazzle  comets.     Let  us  think 
Of  what  is  to  be  done  to  justify 
Thy  planets  and  their  portents.     When  we 

conquer, 
They  shall  have  temples  —  ay,  and  priests  — 

and  thou 
Shalt  be  the  pontiff  of — what  gods  thou  wilt; 
For  I  observe  that  they  are  ever  just, 
And  own  the  bravest  for  the  most  devout. 
Bel.    Ay,  and  the  most  devout  for  brave  — 
thou  hast  not 
Seen  me  turn  back  from  battle. 

Arb.  No ;  I  own  thee 

As  firm  in  fight  as  Babylonia's  captain, 
As  skilful  in  Chaldea's  worship :  now, 
Will  it  but  please  thee  to  forget  the  priest, 
And  be  the  warrior  ? 

Bel.  Why  not  both  ? 

Arb.  The  better; 

And  yet  it  almost  shames  me,  we  shall  have 
So  little  to  effect.    This  woman's  warfare 


SCENE   I.] 


SARDANAPALUS. 


593 


Degrades    the    very  conqueror.    To    have 

plucked 
A  bold  and  bloody  despot  from  his  throne, 
And  grappled  with  him,  clashing  steel  with 

steel, 
That  were  heroic  or  to  win  or  fall ; 
But  to  upraise   my  sword  against  this  silk- 
worm, 

And  hear  him  whine,  it  may  be 

Bel.  Do  not  deem  it : 

He  has  that  in  him  which  may  make  you  strife 

yet; 
And  were  he  all  you  think,  his  guards  are 

hardy, 
And  headed  by  the  cool,  stern  Salemenes. 
At  b.     They'll  not  resist. 
Bel.  Why  not  ?  they  are  soldiers. 

Arb.  True, 

And  therefore  need  a  soldier  to  command 
them. 
Bel.    That  Salemenes  is. 
Arb.  But  not  their  king. 

Besides,  he  hates  the  effeminate  thing  that 

governs, 
For  the  queen's  sake,  his  sister.    Mark  you  not 
He  keeps  aloof  from  all  the  revels  ? 

Bel.  But 

Not  from  the  council — -there  he  is  ever  con- 
stant. 
Arb.    And  ever  thwarted :  what  would  you 
have  more 
To  make  a  rebel  out  of?     A  fool  reigning, 
His  blood  dishonored,  and  himself  disdained  : 
VVhv,  it  is  his  revenge  we  work  for. 

Bel.  Could 

4e  but  be  brought  to  think  so  :  this  I  doubt  of. 
Arb.     What,  if  we  sound  him  ? 
Bel.  Yes  —  if  the  time  served. 

Enter  BALEA. 

Bal.    Satraps !    The  king  commands  your 
presence  at 
The  feast  to-night. 

Bel.  To  heai  is  to  obey. 

In  the  pavilion  ? 
Bal.  No  ;  here  in  the  palace. 

Arb.    How !  in  the  palace  ?  it  was  not  thus 

ordered. 
Bal.     It  is  so  ordered  now. 
Arb.  And  why  ? 

Bal.  I  know  not : 

May  I  retire  ? 
Arb.  Stay. 

Bel.    (to  Arb.  aside).  Hush!  let  him  go  his 
way. 
{Alternately  to  Bal.)    Yes,  Balea,  thank  the 

monarch,  kiss  the  hem 
Of  his  imperial  robe,  and  say,  his  slaves 
Will  take  the  crumbs  he  deigns   to   scatter 

from 
His   royal    table   at   the   hour  —  was't    mid- 
night ? 


Bal.   It  was  :  the  place,  the  hall  of  Nimrod. 
Lords, 
I  humble  me  before  you,  and  depart. 

[Exit  BALEA. 

Arb.     I  like  not  this  same  sudden  change  oi 
place ; 
There  is  some  mystery  :  wherefore  should  he 
change  it  ? 
Bel.     Doth  he  not  change  a  thousand  times 
a  day  ? 
Sloth  is  of  all  things  the  most  fanciful  — 
And  moves  more  parasangs  in  its  intents 
Than  generals  in  their  marches,  when   they 

seek 
To  leave  their  foe  at  fault. —  Why  dost  thou 
muse  ? 
Arb.     He  loved  that  gay  pavilion,  —  it  was 
ever 
His  summer  dotage. 

Bel.  And  he  loved  his  queen  — 

And  thrice  a  thousand  harlotry  besides  — 
And  he  has  loved  all  things  by  turns,  except 
Wisdom  and  glory. 

Arb.  Still  —  I  like  it  not. 

If  he  has  changed — why,  so  must  we:   the 

attack 
Were  easy  in  the  isolated  bower, 
Beset  with  drowsy  guards  and  drunken  cour- 
tiers ; 

But  in  the  hall  of  Nimrod 

Bel.  Is  it  so  ? 

Methoughtthehaughtysoldier  feared  to  mount 
A  throne  too  easily  —  does  it  disappoint  thee 
To  find  there  is  a  slipperier  step  or  two 
Than  what  was  counted  on  ? 

Arb.  When  the  hour  comes, 

Thou  shalt  perceive  how  far  I  fear  or  no. 
Thou  hast  seen  my  life  at  stake  —  and  gaily 

played  for : 
But  here  is  more  upon  the  die  —  a  kingdom. 
Bel.     I  have  foretold   already  —  thou   wilt 
win  it : 
Then  on,  and  prosper. 

Arb.  Now  were  I  a  soothsayer, 

I  would  have  boded  so  much  to  myself. 
But  be  the  stars  obeyed  —  I  cannot  quarrel 
With  them,  nor  their  interpreter.  Who's  here  ? 

Enter  SALEMENES. 

Sal.  Satraps ! 

Bel.  My  prince ! 

Sal.  Well  met — I  sought  ye  both, 
But  elsewhere  than  the  palace. 

Arb.  Wherefore  so  ? 

Sal.  'Tis  not  the  hour. 

Arb.  The  hour !  —  what  hour  ? 

Sal.  Of  midnight, 

Bel.  Midnight,  my  lord  ! 

Sal.  What,  are  you  not  invited  ? 

Bel.  Oh  !  yes  —  we  had  forgotten. 

Sal.  Is  it  usual 
Thus  to  forget  a  sovereign's  invitation  ? 


594 


SARDANAPALUS. 


[act  il 


Arb.    Why  — we  but  now  received  it. 
Sal.  Then  why  here  ? 

Arb.    On  duty. 
Sal.  On  what  duty  ? 

Bel.  On  the  state's. 

We  have  the  privilege  to  approach  the  pres- 
ence ; 
But  found  the  monarch  absent.1 

Sal.  And  I  too 

Am  upon  duty. 

Arb.  May  we  crave  its  purport  ? 

Sal.  To  arrest  two  traitors.  Guards!  With- 
in there ! 

Enter  Guards. 

Sal.  (continuing).  Satraps, 

Your  swords. 
Bel.    (delivering his).   My  lord,  behold  my 

scimitar. 
Arb.    (drawing  his  sword).     Take  mine. 
Sal.    (advancing).  I  will. 

Arb.  But  in  your  heart  the  blade  — 

The  hilt  quits  not  this  hand.'2 

Sal.  (drawing).  How!  dost  thou  brave  me? 
'Tis  well  —  this  saves  a  trial,  and  false  mercy. 
Soldiers,  hew  down  the  rebel ! 

Arb.  Soldiers!  Ay  — 

Alone  you  dare  not. 

Sal.  Alone!  foolish  slave  — 

What  is  there  in  thee  that  a  prince  should 

shrink  from 
Of  open  force  ?     We  dread  thy  treason,  not 
Thy  strength  :   thy  tooth  is  nought  without  its 

venom  — 
The  serpent's,  not  the  lion's.    Cut  him  down. 
Bel.  (interposing).  Arbaces!  Are  you  mad? 
Have  I  not  rendered 
My  sword  ?     Then  trust  like  me  our  sover- 
eign's justice. 
Arb.     No  —  I  will  sooner  trust   the  stars 
thou  prat'st  of, 
And  this  slight  arm,  and  die  a  king  at  least 
Of  my  own  breath  and  body  —  so  far  that 
None  else  shall  claim  them. 

Sal.  (to  the  Guards) .  You  hear  him  and  me. 

Take  him  not,  —  kill. 
[The  Guards  attack  ARBACES,  who  defends 
himself  valiantly  and  dexterously  till  they 
waver. 
Sal.  Is  it  even  so ;  and  must 

I  do  the  hangman's  office  ?     Recreants !    See 
How  you  should  fell  a  traitor. 

[Salemenes  attacks  Arbaces. 

Enter  SARDANAPALUS  and  Train. 

Sar.  Hold  your  hands  — 

Upon    your    lives,    I  say.     What,    deaf   or 
drunken  ? 


1  [MS.  — 

•*  But  found  the  monarch  claimed  his  privacy."] 

S[MS.  "not  else 

It  quits  this  living  hand."] 


My  sword !    Oh  fool,  I  wear  no  sword :  here, 

fellow, 
Give  me  thy  weapon.  [  To  a  Guard. 

[SARDANAPALUS  snatches  a  sword  from  one 
of  the  soldiers,  and  rushes  between  the  com- 
batants  —  they  separate. 
Sar.  In  my  very  palace ! 

What  hinders  me  from  cleaving  you  in  twain, 
Audacious  brawlers  ? 
Bel.  Sire,  your  justice. 

Sal.  Or  — 

Your  weakness. 

Sar.  (raising  the  sword).     How! 
Sal.  Strike !  so  the  blow's  repeated 

Upon  yon  traitor  —  whom  you  spare  a  mo- 
ment, 
I  trust,  for  torture  —  I'm  content. 

Sar.  What  —  him  1 

Who  dares  assail  Arbaces  ? 
Sal.  I ! 

Sar.  Indeed ! 

Prince,  you  forget  yourself.    Upon  what  war- 
rant ? 
Sal.     (shoTving the  signet).    Thine. 
Arb.  (confused).  The  king's! 

Sal.  Yes  !  and  let  the  king  confirm  it. 

Sar.    I  parted  not  from  this  for  such  a  pur- 
pose. 
Sal.    You  parted  with  it  for  your  safety  —  I 
Employed  it  for  the  best.     Pronounce  in  per- 
son. * 
Here  I  am  but  your  slave  —  a  moment  past 
I  was  your  representative. 

Sar.  Then  sheathe 

Your  swords. 

[Arbaces  and  Salemenes  return  their 

swords  to  the  scabbards. 
Sal.     Mine's  sheathed ;  I  pray  you  sheathe 
not  yours : 
'Tis  the  sole  sceptre  left  you  now  with  safety. 
Sar.    A  heavy  one ;    the  hilt,  too,  hurts  my 
hand. 
(To  a  Guard.)    Here,  fellow,  take  thy  weapon 
back. 

Well,  sirs, 
What  doth  this  mean  ? 
Bel.  The  prince  must  answer  that. 

Sal.    Truth   upon   my  part,  treason  upon 

theirs. 
Sar.    Treason  —  Arbaces!    treachery  and 
Beleses ! 
That  were  an  union  I  will  not  believe. 
Bel.    Where  is  the  proof? 
Sal.  I'll  answer  that,  if  once 

The  king  demands  your  fellow-traitor's  sword. 
Arb.  (to  Sal.).    A  sword  which  hath  been 
drawn  as  oft  as  thine 
Against  his  foes. 

Sal.  And  now  against  his  brother, 

And  in  an  hour  or  so  against  himself. 
Sar.    That  is  not  possible :  he  dared  not; 
no  — 


SCENE  I.J 


SARDANAPALUS. 


595 


No  —  I'll  not  heal  of  such  things.    These  vain 

bickerings 
Are  spawned  in  courts  by  base  intrigues,  and 

baser 
Hirelings,  who  live  by  lies  on  good  men's  lives. 
You  must  have  been  deceived,  my  brother. 

Sal.  First 

Let  him  deliver  up  his  weapon,  and 
Proclaim  himself  your  subject  by  that  duty, 
And  I  will  answer  all. 

Sar.  Why,  if  I  thought  so  — 

But  no,  it  cannot  be  :  tne  Mede  Arbaces  — 
The  trusty,  rough,  true  soldier  —  the  best  cap- 
tain 

Of  all  who  discipline  our  nations ■  No, 

I'll  not  insult  him  thus,  to  bid  him  render 

The  scimitar  to  me  he  never  yielded 

Unto  our  enemies.    Chief,  keep  your  weapon. 

Sal.  {delivering  back  the  signet).    Monarch, 
take  back  your  signet. 

Sar.  No,  retain  it ; 

But  use  it  with  more  moderation. 

Sal.  Sire, 

I  used  it  for  your  honor,  and  restore  it 
Because  I  cannot  keep  it  with  my  own. 
Bestow  it  on  Arbaces. 

Sar.  So  I  should: 

He  never  asked  it. 

Sal.  Doubt  not,  he  will  have  it, 

Without  that  hollow  semblance  of  respect. 

Bel.     I  know  not  what  hath  prejudiced  the 
prince 
So  strongly  'gainst  two  subjects,  than  whom 

none 
Have  been  more  zealous  for  Assyria's  weal. 

Sal.     Peace,  factious   priest,  and   faithless 
soldier !  thou 
Unit'st  in  thy  own  person  the  worst  vices 
Of  the  most  dangerous  orders  of  mankind. 
Keep  thy  smooth  words  and  juggling  homilies 
For  those  who  know  thee  not.     Thy  fellow's 

sin 
Is,  at  the  least,  a  bold  one,  and  not  tempered 
By  the  tricks  taught  thee  in  Chaldea. 

Bel.  Hear  him, 

My  liege  —the  son  of  Belus!  he  blasphemes 
The  worship  of  the  land,  which  bows  the  knee 
Before  your  fathers. 

Sar.  Oh  !  for  that  I  pray  you 

Let  him  have  absolution.     I  dispense  with 
The  worship  of  dead  men  ;  feeling  that  I 
Am  mortal,  and  believing  that  the  race 
From  whence  I  sprung  are  —  what  I  see  them 
—  ashes. 

Bel.    King !     Do  not  deem  so :    they  are 
with  the  stars, 
ftnd 

Sar.    You  shall  join  them  there  ere  they 
will  rise, 
fj  you  preach   further  —  Why,  this  is  rank 
treason. 

&/.    My  lord  1 


Sar.  To  school  me  in  the  worship  ct 

Assyria's  idols  !     Let  him  be  released  — 
Give  him  his  sword. 

Sal.  My  lord,  and  king,  and  brother, 

I  pray  ye  pause. 

Sar.  Yes,  and  be  sermonized, 

And  dinned,  and  deafened  with  dead  men  and 

Baal, 
And  all  Chaldea's  starry  mysteries. 
Bel.     Monarch  !  respect  them. 
Sar.  Oh!  for  that —  I  love  them. 

I  love  to  watch  them  in  the  deep  blue  vault, 
And  to  compare  them  with  my  Myrrha's  eyes; 
I  love  to  see  their  rays  redoubled  in 
The  tremulous  silver  of  Euphrates'  wave, 
As   the  light  breeze  of  midnight    crisps  the 

broad 
And  rolling  water,  sighing  through  the  sedges 
Which  fringe   his  banks :    but  whether  they 

may  be 
Gods,  as  some  say,  or  the  abodes  of  gods, 
As  others  hold,  or  simply  lamps  of  night, 
Worlds,  or  the  lights  of  worlds,  I   know  nor 

care  not. 
There's  something  sweet  in  my  uncertainty 
I  would  not  change  for  your  Chaldean  lore ; 
Besides,  I  know  of  these  all  clay  can  know 
Of  aught  above  it,  or  below  it  —  nothing. 
I  see  their  brilliancy  and  feel  their  beauty —  1 
When  they  shine  on  my  grave  I   shall  know 

neither. 
Bel.    For  neither,  sire,  say  better. 
Sar.  I  will  wait, 

If  it  so  please  you,  pontiff,  for  that  knowledge. 
In  the  mean  time  receive  your  sword,  and 

know 
That  I  prefer  your  service  militant 
Unto  your  ministry  —  not  loving  either. 

Sal.  (aside).   His  lusts  have  made  him  mad. 

Then  must  I  save  him, 
Spite  of  himself. 

Sar.  Please  you  to  hear  me,  Satraps ! 

And  chiefly  thou,  my  priest,  because  I  doubt 

thee 
More  than  the  soldier ;  and  would  doubt  thee 

all 
Wert  thou  not  half  a  warrior :  let  us  part 
In  peace —  I'll  not  say  pardon  —  which  must 

be 
Earned  by  the  guilty;  this  I'll  not  pronounce 

ye. 

Although  upon  this  breath  of  mine  depends 
Your  own  ;  and,  deadlier  for  ye,  on  my  fears. 
But  fear  not — 'for  that  I  am  soft,  not  fearful  — 
And  so  live  on.    Were  I  the  thing  some  think 

me, 
Your  heads  would  now  be  dripping  the  las' 

drops 
Of  their  attainted  gore  from  the  high  gates 

'[MS.— 
"  I  know  them  beautiful,  and  see  them  brilliant. "J 


59£ 


SARDANAPALUS. 


^ACT 


Of  this  our  palace,  into  the  dry  dust, 
Their  only  portion  of  the  coveted  kingdom 
They  would  be  crowned  to  reign  o'er  —  let 

that  pass. 
As  I  have  said,  I  will  not  deem  ye  guilty, 
Nor  doom  ye  guiltless.     Albeit  better  men 
Than  ye  or  I  stand  ready  to  arraign  you; 
And  should  I  leave  your  fate  to  sterner  judges, 
And  proofs  of  all  kinds,  I  might  sacrifice 
Two  men,  who,  whatsoe'er  they  now  are,  were 
O.ice  honest.     Ye  are  free,  sirs. 

Arb,  Sire,  this  clemency 

Bel.      {interrupting    him).      Is  worthy   of 
yourself  and,  although  innocent, 

We  thank 

Sar.     Priest !  keep  your  thanksgivings  for 
Belus ; 
His  offspring  needs  none. 

Bel.  But  being  innocent 

Sar.    Be  silent  —  Guilt  is  loud.     If  ye  are 
loyal, 
Ye  are  injured  men,  and  should  be  sad,  not 
grateful. 
Bel.    So  we  should  be,  were  justice  always 
done 
By  earthly  power  omnipotent ;  but  innocence 
Must  oft  receive  her  right  as  a  mere  favor. 

Sar.     That's  a  good  sentence  for  a  homily, 
Though  not  for  this  occasion.    Prithee  keep  it 
To  plead   thy  sovereign's   cause   before   his 
people. 
Bel.     I  trust  there  is  no  cause. 
Sar.  No  cause,  perhaps  ; 

But  many  causers  :  —  if  ye  meet  with  such 
In  the  exercise  of  your  inquisitive  function 
On  earth,  or  should  you  read  of  it  in  heaven 
In  some  mysterious  twinkle  of  the  stars, 
Which  are  your  chronicles,  I  pray  you  note, 
That  there  are  worse  things  betwixt  earth  and 

heaven 
Than  him  who  ruleth  many  and  slays  none; 
And,  hating  not  himself,  yet  loves  his  fellows 
Enough  to  spare  even  those  who  would  not 

spare  him 
Were  they  once  masters  —  but  that's  doubtful. 

Satraps ! 
Your  swords  and  persons  are  at  liberty 
To  use  them  as  ye  will  — but  from  this  hour 
I  have  no  call  for  either.     Salemenes, 
Follow  me.1 

[Exeunt    Sardanapalus,    Salemenes, 
and  the  Train,  etc.  leaving  ARBACES  and 
Beleses. 
Arb.  Beleses ! 


1  [The  second  Act  is,  we  think,  a  failure.  The 
conspirators  have  a  tedious  dialogue,  which  is  in- 
terrupted by  Salemenes  with  a  guard.  Salemenes 
is  followed  by  the  king,  who  reverses  all  his  meas- 
ures, pardons  Arbaces,  because  he  will  not  believe 
him  guilty,  and  Beleses,  in  order  to  escape  from 
his  long  speeches  about  the  national  religion.  This 
incident  only  is  well  managed.  —  Heber.\ 


Bel.  Now,  what  think  you  ? 

Arb.    That  we  are  lost. 

Bel.  That  we  have  won  the  kingdom. 

Arb.     What  ?    thus    suspected  —  with    the 
sword  slung  o'er  us 
But  by  a  single  hair,  and  that  still  wavering, 
To  be  blown  down  by  his  imperious  breath 
Which  spared  us  —  why,  I  know  not. 

Bel.  Seek  not  why ; 

But  let  us  profit  by  the  interval. 
The  hour  is  still  our  own  —  our  power  the 

same  — 
The  night  the  same  we  destined.     He  ha*h 

changed 
Nothing  except  our  ignorance  of  all 
Suspicion  into  such  a  certainty 
As  must  make  madness  of  delay. 

Arb.  And  yet 

Bel.     What,  doubting  still  ? 

Arb.  He  spared  our  lives,  nay,  more, 

Saved  them  from  Salemenes. 

Bel.  And  how  long 

Will  he  so  spare?  till  the  first  drunken  minute. 

Arb.     Or  sober,  rather.   Yet  he  did  it  nobly  ; 
Gave  royally  what  we  had  forfeited 
Basely 

Bel.     Say  bravely. 

Arb.  Somewhat  of  both,  perhaps. 

But  it  has  touched  me,  and,  whate'er  betide, 
I  will  no  further  on. 

Bel.  t  And  lose  the  world  ! 

Arb.     Lose  any  thing  except  my  own  esteem. 

Bel.     I  blush  that  we  should  owe  our  lives 
to  such 
A  king  of  distaffs  ! 

Arb.  Eut  no  less  we  owe  them  ; 

And  I   should  blush  far   more   to   take   the 
grantor's 

Bel.    Thou   may'st   endure  whate'er  thou 
wilt —  the  stars 
Have  written  otherwise. 

Arb.  Though  they  came  down, 

And  marshalled  me  the  way  in  all  their  bright- 
ness, 
I  would  not  follow. 

Bel.  This  is  weakness  —  worse 

Than  a  scared  beldam's  dreaming  of  the  dead, 
And  waking  in  the  dark.  — Go  to — go  to. 

Arb.    Methought  he  looked  like  Nimrod  as 
he  spoke, 
Even  as  the  proud  imperial  statue  stands 
Looking  the  monarch  of  the  kings  around  it, 
And  sways,  while  they  but  ornament,  the  tem- 
ple. 

Bel.       I  told  you  that  you  had  too  much 
despised  him, 
And  that  there  was  some  royalty  within  him  -— 
What  then  ?  he  is  the  nobler  foe. 

Arb.  But  we 

The  meaner.  —  Would  he  had  not  spared  us! 

Bel.  So  — 

Wouldst  thou  be  sacrificed  thus  readily  ? 


SCENE  I.] 


SARDANAPALUS. 


597 


Arb.  No  —  but  it  had  been  better  to  have 
died 
Than  live  ungrateful. 

Bel.  Oh,  the  souls  of  some  men  ! 

Thou  wouldst  digest  what  some  call  treason, 

and 
Fools    treachery  —  and,    behold,    upon    the 

sudden, 
Because  for  something   or  for   nothing,  this 
Rash  reveller  steps,  ostentatiously, 
'Twixt  thee  and  Salemenes,  thou  art  turned 
Into — what  shall  I  say  ?  —  Sardanapalus  ! 
I  know  no  name  more  ignominious. 

Arb.  But 

An  hour  ago,  who  dared  to  term  me  such 
Had  held  his  life  but  lightly  — as  it  is, 
I  must  forgive  you,  even  as  he  forgave  us  — 
Semiramis  herself  would  not  have  done  it. 

Bel.  No  —  the  queen  liked  no  sharers  of  the 
kingdom, 
Not  even  a  husband. 

Arb.  I  must  serve  him  truly 

Bel.     And  humbly  ? 

Arb.  No,  sir,  proudly — being  honest. 

I  shall  be  nearer  thrones  than  you  to  heaven  ; 
And  if  not  quite  so  haughty,  yet  more  lofty. 
You  may  do  your  own  deeming — you  have 

codes, 
And  mysteries,  and  corollaries  of 
Right  and  wrong,  which  I  lack  for  my  direction, 
And   must   pursue   but    what   a   plain   heart 

teaches. 
And  now  you  know  me. 

Bel.  Have  you  finished  ? 

Arb.  Yes  — 

With  you. 

Bel.        And  would,  perhaps,  betray  as  well 
As  quit  me  ? 

Arb.  That's  a  sacerdotal  thought 

And  not  a  soldier's. 

Bel.         #  Be  it  what  you  will  — 

Truce  with  these  wranglings,  and  but  hear  me. 

Arb.  No  — 

There  is  more  peril  in  your  subtle  spirit 
Than  in  a  phalanx. 

Bel.  If  it  must  be  so  — 

I'll  on  alone. 

Arb.  Alone ! 

Bel.  Thrones  hold  but  one. 

Arb.    But  this  is  filled. 

Bel.  With  worse  than  vacancy  — 

A  despised  monarch.     Look  to  it,  Arbaces  : 
I  have  still  aided,  cherished,  loved,  and  urged 

you ; 
Was  willing  even  to  serve  you,  in  the  hope 
To  serve  and  save  Assyria.     Heaven  itself 
Seemed    to    consent,    and    all    events    were 

friendly, 
Even  to  the  last,  till  that  your  spirit  shrunk 
Into  a  shallow  softness;  but  now,  rather 
Than  see  my  country  languish,  I  will  be 
Her  savior  or  the  victim  of  her  tyrant, 


Or  one  or  both,  for  sometimes  both  are  one ; 
And  if  I  win,  Arbaces  is  my  servant. 

Arb.     Your  servant ! 

Bel.  Why  not  ?  better  than  be  slave, 

The  pardoned  slave  of  she  Sardanapalus  ! 

Enter  Pania. 

Pan.     My  lords,  I  bear  an  order  from  the 
king. 

Arb.     It  is  obeyed  ere  spoken. 

Bel.  Notwithstanding 

Let's  hear  it. 

Pan.  Forthwith,  on  this  very  night, 

Repair  to  your  respective  satrapies 
Of  Babylon  and  Media. 

Bel.  With  our  troops  ? 

Pan.     My  order  is  unto  the  satraps  and 
Their  household  train. 

Arb.  But 

Bel.  It  must  be  obeyed : 

Say,  we  depart. 

Pan.  My  order  is  to  see  you 

Depart,  and  not  to  bear  your  answer. 

Bel  (aside).  Ay! 

Well,  sir,  we  will  accompany  you  hence. 

Pan.     I  will  retire  to  marshal  forth  the  guard 
Of  honor  which  befits  your  rank,  and  wait 
Your  leisure,  so  that  it  the  hour  exceeds  not. 
[Exit  Pania, 

Bel.    Now  then  obey ! 

Arb.  Doubtless. 

Bel.  Yes,  to  the  gates 

That  grate   the    palace,   which   is    now   our 

prison  — 
No  further. 

Arb.      Thou  hast  harped  the  truth  indeed  ! 
The  realm  itself,  in  all  its  wide  extension, 
Yawns  dungeons  at  each  step  for  thee  and  me. 

Bel.     Graves ! 

Arb.      If   I    thought   so,   this  good   sword 
should  dig 
One  more  than  mine. 

Bel.  It  shall  have  work  enough, 

Let  me  hope  better  than  thou  augurest ; 
At  present,  let  us  hence  as  best  we  may. 
Thou  dost  agree  with  me  in  understanding 
This  order  as  a  sentence  ? 

Arb.  Why,  what  other 

Interpretation  should  it  bear  ?  it  is 
The  very  policy  of  orient  monarchs  — 
Pardon  and  poison  —  favors  and  a  sword— 
A  distant  voyage,  and  an  eternal  sleep. 
How  many  satraps  in  his  father's  time  — 
For  he  I  own  is,  or  at  least  w,is,  bloodless  — 

Bel.     But  will  not,  can  not  be  so  now. 

Arb.  I  doubt  it. 

How  many  satraps  have  I  seen  set  out 
In  his  sire's  day  for  mighty  vice-royalties, 
Whose  tombs  are  on  their  path !     I  know  no) 

how, 
But  they  all  sickened  by  the  way,  it  was 
So  long  and  heayy. 


598 


SARDANAPAL  US. 


(ACT  II 


Bel.  Let  us  but  regain 

The  free  air  of  the  city,  and  we'll  shorten 
The  journey. 

Arb.  "Twill  be  shortened  at  the  gates, 

It  may  be. 

Bel.  No  ;  they  hardly  will  risk  that. 

They  mean  us  to  die  privately,  but  not 
Within  the  palace  or  the  city  walls, 
Where  we  are  known,  and  may  have  partisans  : 
If  they  had  meant  to  slay  us  here,  we  were 
No  longer  with  the  living.     Let  us  hence. 

Arb.     If  I  but  thought  he  did  not  mean  my 
life 

Bel.    Fool!  hence — what  else  should  des- 
potism alarmed 
Mean  ?      Let  us  but  rejoin  our  troops  and 
march. 

Arb.    Towards  our  provinces  ? 

Bel.  No ;  towards  your  kingdom. 

There's   time,  there's   heart,   and   hope,  and 

power  and  means, 
Which   their  half  measures  leave  us  in  full 

scope. — 
Away! 

Arb.     And  I  even  yet  repenting  must 
Relapse  to  guilt ! 

Bel.  Self-defence  is  a  virtue, 

Sole  bulwark  of  the  right.    Away,  I  say  ! 
Let's  leave  this  place,  the  air  grows  thick  and 

choking, 
And  the  walls  have  a  scent  of  night-shade  — 

hence ! 
Let  us  not  leave  them  time  for  further  counsel. 
Our  quick  departure  proves  our  civic  zeal ; 
Our  quick  departure  hinders  our  good  escort, 
The  worthy  Pania,  from  anticipating 
The  orders  of  some  parasangs  from  hence  : 

Nay,  there's  no  other  choice,  but hence,  I 

say. 
[Exit  with  ARBACES,  who  folloivs  reluctantly.1 


1  [Arbaces  is  a  mere  common-place  warrior;  and 
Beleses,  on  whom,  we  suspect,  Lord  Byron  has 
bestowed  more  than  usual  pains,  is  a  very  ordinary 
and  uninteresting  villain.  Sardanapalus,  indeed, 
and  Salemenes,  are  both  made  to  speak  of  the  wily 
Chaldean  as  the  master-mover  of  the  plot,  as  a 
politician  in  whose  hands  Arbaces  is  but  a  "  war- 
like puppet;  "  and  Diodorus  Siculus  has  repre- 
sented him,  in  fact,  as  the  first  instigator  of  Arbaces 
to  his  treason,  and  as  making  use  of  his  priestly 
character,  and  his  supposed  power  of  foretelling 
future  events,  10  inflame  the  ambition,  to  direct  the 
measures,  to  sustain  the  hopes,  and  to  reprove  the 
despondency  of  his  comrade.  But  of  all  this  noth- 
ing appears  in  the  tragedy.  Lord  Byron  has 
been  so  anxious  to  show  his  own  contempt  for  the 
priest,  that  he  has  not  even  allowed  him  that  share 
of  cunning  and  evil  influence  which  was  necessary 
for  the  part  which  he  had  to  fill.  Instead  of  being 
the  original,  the  restless  and  unceasing  prompter  to 
bold  and  wicked  measures,  we  find  him,  on  his  first 
appearance,  hanging  back  from  the  enterprise,  and 
chilling  the  energy  of  Arbaces  by  an  enumeration 
sf  the  real  or  possible  difficulties  which  might  yet 


Enter  SARDANAPALUS  and  SALEMJ  NES. 

Sar.     Well,  all  is   remedied,  and  without 
bloodshed. 
That  worst  of  mockeries  of  a  remedy; 
We  are  now  secure  by  these  men's  exile. 

Sal.  Yes, 

As  he  who  treads  on  flowers  is  from  the  adder 
Twined  round  their  roots. 

Sar.  Why,  what  wouldst  have  me  do  ? 

Sal.     Undo  what  you  have  done. 

Sar.  Revoke  my  pardon  ? 

Sal.    Replace  the  crown  now  tottering  on 
your  temples. 

Sar.     That  were  tyrannical. 

Sal.  But  sure. 

Sar.  We  are  so. 

What  danger  can  they  work  upon  the  fr<  intier  ? 

Sal.     They  are  not  there  yet  —  never  should 
they  be  so, 
Were  I  well  listened  to. 

Sar.  Nay,  I  nave  listened 

Impartially  to  thee  — why  not  to  tnem  ? 

Sal.     You  may  know  that  hereafter  ;  as  it  is, 
I  take  my  leave  to  order  forth  the  guard. 

Sar.    And  you  will  join  us  at  the  banquet  ? 

Sal.  Sire, 

Dispense  with  me  —  I  am  no  wassailer: 
Command    me  in  all   service   save  the  Bac- 
chant's. 

Sar.     Nay,  but  'tis  fit  to  revel  now  and  then. 

Sal.    And  fit  that  some  should  watch  for 
those  who  revel 
Too  oft.    Am  I  permitted  to  depart  ? 

Sar.    Yes Stay  a   moment,   my  good 

Salemenes, 
My  brother,  my  best  subject,  better  prince 
Than  I  am  king.     You  should  have  been  the 

monarch, 
And  I  —  I  know  not  what,  and  care  not ;  but 


impede  its  execution.  Instead  of  exercising  that 
power  over  the  mind  of  his  comrade  which  a  re- 
ligious imposter  may  well  possess  over  better  and 
more  magnanimous  souls  than  his  own,  Beleses  is 
made  to  pour  his  predictions  into  incredulous 
ears;  and  Arbaces  is  as  mere  an  epicurean  in  his 
creed  as  Sardanapalus.  When  we  might  have  ex- 
pected to  find  him  gazing  with  hope  and  reverence 
on  the  star  which  the  Chaldean  points  out  as  his 
natal  planet,  the  Median  warrior  speaks,  in  the 
language  of  Mezentius,  of  the  sword  on  which  his 
confidence  depends,  and  instead  of  being  a  tool  in 
the  hand  of  the  pontiff,  he  says  almost  every  thing 
which  is  likely  to  affront  him.  Though  Beleses 
is  introduced  to  us  as  engaged  in  devotion,  and  as 
a  fervent  worshipper  of  the  Sun,  he  is  nowhere 
ma  1e  either  to  feel  or  to  counterfeit  that  profes- 
sional zeal  against  Sardanapalus  which  his  open 
contempt  of  the  gods  would  naturally  call  for;  and 
no  reason  appears,  throughout  the  play,  why 
Arbaces  should  follow,  against  his  own  conscience 
and  opinion  the  counsels  of  a  man  of  whom  he 
speaks  with  dislike  and  disgust,  and  whose  pre- 
tences to  inspiration  and  sanctity  he  treats  with 
uomingled  ridicule.  —  Heber.\ 


SCENE  I.] 


SARDAMAPALUS. 


599 


Think  not  I  am  insensible  to  all 

Thine   honest  wisdom,   and   thy  rough    yet 

kind, 
Though  oft  reproving,  sufferance  of  my  follies, 
[f  I  have  spared  these  men  against  thy  counsel, 
That  is,  their  lives  —  it  is  not  that  I  doubt 
;   The  advice  was  sound ;  but,  let  them  live  :  we 
will  not 
Cavil   about  their  lives  —  so  let  them  mend 

them. 
Their  banishment  will   leave  me  still  sound 

sleep, 
Which  their  death  had  not  left  me. 

Sal.  Thus  you  run 

The  risk  to  sleep  for  ever,  to  save  traitors  — 
A  moment's  pang  now  changed  for  years  of 

crime. 
Still  let  them  be  made  quiet. 

Sar.  Tempt  me  not : 

My  word  is  past. 
Sal.  But  it  may  be  recalled. 

Sar.     "Tis  royal. 

Sal.  And  should  therefore  be  decisive. 

This  half  indulgence  of  an  exile  serves 
But  to  provoke —  a  pardon  should  be  full, 
Or  it  is  none. 

Sar.  And  who  persuaded  me 

j    After  I  had  repealed  them,  or  at  least 
Only  dismissed  them  from  our  presence,  who 
Urged  me  to  send  them  to  their  satrapies  ? 
Sal.    True ;  that  I  had  forgotten ;  that  is, 
sire, 
If  they  e'er  reached  their  satrapies  —  why, 

then, 
Reprove  me  more  for  my  advice. 

Sar.  And  if 

They  do  not  reach  them  —  look  to  it !  —  in 

safety, 
In  safety,  mark  me —  and  security  — 
Look  to  thine  own. 

Sal.  Permit  me  to  depart ; 

Their  safety  shall  be  cared  for. 

Sar.  Get  thee  hence,  then  ; 

And,  prithee,  think  more  gently  of  thy  brother. 
Sal.     Sire,  I  shall  ever  dulv  serve  my  sover- 
eign. [Exit  Salemenes. 
Sar.  (solus).     That  man  is  of  a  temper  too 
severe ; 
Hard  but  as  lofty  as  the  rock,  and  free 
From  all  the  taints  of  common  earth  —  while  I 
Am  softer  clay,  impregnated  with  flowers: 
But  as  our  mould  is,  must  the  produce  be. 
If  I  have  erred  this  time,  'tis  on  the  side 
Where  error  sits  most  lightly  on  that  sense, 
I  know  not  what  to  call  it-,  but  it  reckons 
With   me   ofttimes  for   pain,  and  sometimes 

pleasure. 
A  spirit  which  seems  placed  about  my  heart 
To  count  its  throbs,  not  quicken  them,  and 

ask 
Questions  which  mortal  never  dared  to  ask 
me. 


Nor  Baal,  though  an  oracular  deity  — 1 
Albeit  his  marble  face  majestical 
Frowns  as  the  shadows  of  the  evening  dim. 
His  brows  to  changed  expression,  till  at  times 
I  think  the  statue  looks  in  act  to  speak. 
Away  with  these  vain  thoughts,  I  will  be  joy- 
ous — 
And  here  comes  Joy's  true  herald. 

Enter  MYRRHA. 
Myr.  King !  the  sky 

Is  overcast,  and  musters  muttering  thunder, 
In   clouds   that  seem   approaching  fast,  and 

show 
In  forked  flashes  a  commanding  tempest.2 
Will  you  then  quit  the  palace  ? 
Sar.  Tempest,  say'st  thou  ? 

Myr.    Ay,  my  good  lord. 
Sar.  For  my  own  part,  I  should  be 

Not  ill  content  to  vary  the  smooth  scene, 
And  watch  the  warring  elements;  but  this 
Would  little  suit  the  silken  garments  and 
Smooth    faces   of    our   festive   friends.     Say, 

Myrrha, 
Art  thou   of  those  who   dread   the   roar  of 
clouds  ? 
Myr.     In  my  own  country  we  respect  their 
voices 
As  auguries  of  Jove.3 

Sar.  Jove !  — ay,  your  Baal  — 

Ours  also  has  a  property  in  thunder, 
And  ever  and  anon  some  falling  bolt 
Proves  his  divinity,  —  and  yet  sometimes 
Strikes  his  own  altars. 

Myr.  That  were  a  dread  omen. 

Sar.     Yes — for  the  priests.     Well,  we  will 
not  go  forth 
Beyond  the  palace  walls  to-night,  but  make 
Our  feast  within. 

Myr.  Now,  Jove  be  praised  !  that  he 

Hath  heard  the  prayer  thou  wouldst  not  hear. 

The  gods 
Are  kinder  to  thee  than  thou  to  thyself, 
And   flash  this  storm  between  thee  and  thy 

foes, 
To  shield  thee  from  them. 

Sar.  Child,  if  there  be  peril. 

Methinks  it  is  the  same  within  these  walls 
As  on  the  river's  brink. 

Myr.  Not  so  ;  these  walls 

Are  high  and  strong,  and  guarded.    Treason 

has 
To  penetrate  through  many  a  winding  way, 


«  [MS.— 

"  Nor  silent  Baal,  our  imaged  deity, 

Although  his  marble  face  looks  frowmngly 

As  the  dull  shadows,"  etc.] 

2  [MS.— 

In  distant  flashes  j  E^gS*  j  tempest.") 

3  [MS.  —  "As  from  the  gods  to  augur.  "J 


600 


SARDANAPALUS. 


[act  iil 


And  massy  portal ;  but  in  the  pavilion 
There  is  no  bulwark. 

Sar.  No,  nor  in  the  palace, 

Nor  in  the  fortress,  nor  upon  the  top 
Of  cloud-fenced   Caucasus,  where  the  eagle 

sits 
Nested  in  pathless  clefts,  if  treachery  be  : 
Even  as  the  arrow  finds  the  airy  king. 
The  steel  will  reach  the  earthly.    But  be  calm  : 
The  men,  or  innocent  or  guilty,  are 
Banished,  and  far  upon  their  way. 

Myr.  They  live,  then  ? 

Sar.    So  sanguinary  ?     Thou  / 

Myr.  I  would  not  shrink 

From  just  infliction  of  due  punishment 
On  those  who  seek  your  life  :  wer't  otherwise, 
I  should  not  merit  mine.     Besides,  you  heard 
The  princely  Salemenes. 

Sar.  This  is  strange ; 

The  gentle  and  the  austere  are  both  against 

me, 
And  urge  me  to  revenge. 
.     Myr.  'Tis  a  Greek  virtue. 

Sar.     But  not  a  kingly  one  —  I'll  none  on't ; 
or 
If  ever  I  indulge  in't,  it  shall  be 
With  kings  —  my  equals. 

Myr.  These  men  sought  to  be  so. 

Sar.     Myrrha,  this   is   too    feminine,   and 
springs 
From  fear 

Myr.  For  you. 

Sar.  No  matter,  still  'tis  fear. 

I  have   observed  your  sex,   once  roused   to 

wrath, 
Are  timidly  vindictive  to  a  pitch 
Of  perseverance,  which  I  would  not  copy. 
I  thought  you  were  exempt  from  this,  as' from 
The  childish  helplessness  of  Asian  women.1 

Myr.      My   lord,   I    am  no  boaster  of  my 
love, 
Nor  of  my  attributes;    I   have  shared  your 

splendor 
And  will  partake  your  fortunes.     You  may 

live 
To   find   one   slave   more   true  than  subject 

myriads : 
But  this  the  gods  avert!     I  am  content 
To  be  beloved  on  trust  for  what  I  feel, 
Rather  than  prove  it  to  you  in  your  griefs,2 
Which  might  not  yield  to  any  cares  of  mine. 

Sar.     Grief  cannot  come  where  perfect  love 
exists, 
Except  to  heighten  it,  and  vanish  from 
That  which  it  could  not  scare  away.     Let's 


1  [MS.— 

"  The  weaker  merit  of  our  Asian  women."] 
»  [MS.— 
"  Rather  than  prove  that  love  to  you  in  griefs."] 


The  hour  approaches,  and  we  must  prepare 
To  meet  the  invited  guests  who  grace  our 
feast.  \Exeunt? 


ACT   III. 

SCENE  I.—  The  Hall- of  the  Palace  illumi- 
nated.—  SARDANAPALUS  and  his  Guests  at 
Table.  —  A  Storm  without,  and  Thunder 
occasionally  heard  during  the  Banquet. 

Sar.     Fill  full!  why  this  is  as  it  should  be  : 
here 
Is  my  true  realm,  amidst  bright  eyes  and  faces 
Happy  as  fair !     Here  sorrow  cannot  reach. 
Zam.     Nor  elsewhere  —  where  the  king  is, 

pleasure  sparkles. 
Sar.     Is  not  this  better  now  than  Nimrod's 
huntings, 
Or  my  wild  grandam's  chase  in  search  of  king- 
doms 
She  could  not  keep  when  conquered  ? 

Alt.  Mighty  though 

They  were,  as  all  thy  royal  line  have  been, 
Yet  none   of  those  who   went   before    have 

reached 
The  acme  of  Sardanapalus,  who 
Has  placed  his  joy  in  peace  —  the  sole  true 
glory. 
Sar.    And  pleasure,  good  Altada,  to  which 
glory 
Is  but  the  path.    What  is  it  that  we  seek  ? 
Enjoyment !     We  have  cut  the  way  short  to 

it, 
And   not  gone   tracking   it  through   human 

ashes, 
Making  a  grave  with  every  footstep. 

Zam.  No ; 

All  hearts  are  happy,  and  all  voices  bless 
The  king  of  peace,  who  holds  a  world  in  jubi- 
lee. 
Sar.    Artsureofthat  ?     I  have  heard  other- 
wise ; 
Some  say  that  there  be  traitors. 

Zam.  Traitors  they 

Who  dare  to  say  so  !  —  'Tis  impossible. 
What  cause  ? 
Sar.     What  cause?    true,  —  fill  the  goblet 
up; 
We  will  not  think  of  them :  there  are  none 

such, 
Or  if  there  be,  they  are  gone. 

Alt.  Guests,  to  my  pledge ! 

Down  on  your  knees,  and  drink  a  measure  to 
The  safety  of  the  king  —  the  monarch,  say  I  ? 
The  god  Sardanapalus ! 


3  [The  second  Act,  which  contains  the  details  of 
the  conspiracy  of  Arbaces,  its  detection  by  the  vigi- 
lance of  Salemenes,  and  the  too  rash  and  hasty  for- 
giveness of  the  rebels  by  the  king,  is,  on  the  whole, 
heavy  and  uninteresting.  —  Jeffrey.] 


SCENE   I.] 


SARDANAPAL  US. 


601 


[ZAMES  and  the  Guests  kneel  and  exclaim  — 
■  Mightier  than 
His  father  Baal,  the  god  Sardanapalus ! 

[ft  thunders   as   they  kneel ;  some  start  tip 
in  confusion. 

Zam.     Why  do  you  rise,  my  friends  ?   in 
that  strong  peal 
His  father  gods  consented. 

Myr.  Menaced,  rather. 

King,  wilt  thou  bear  this  mad  impiety  ? 

Sar.     Impiety!  —  nay,    if   the    sires    who 
reigned 
Before  me  can  be  gods,  I'll  not  disgrace 
Their  lineage.     But  arise,  my  pious  friends ; 
Hoard  your  devotion  for  the  thunderer  there. 
I  seek  but  to  be  loved,  not  worshipped. 

Alt.  Both  — 

Both  you  must  ever  be  by  all  true  subjects. 

Sar.     Methinks  the  thunders  still  increase  : 
it  is 
An  awful  night. 

Myr.  Oh  yes,  for  those  who  have 

No  palace  to  protect  their  worshippers. 

Sar.     That's  true,  my  Myrrha  ;  and  could  I 
convert 
My  realm  to  one  wide  shelter  for  the  wretched, 
I'd  do  it. 

Myr.        Thou'rt  no  god,  then,  not  to  be 
Able  to  work  a  will  so  good  and  general, 
As  thy  wish  would  imply. 

Sar.  And  your  gods,  then, 

Who  can,  and  do  not  ? 

Myr.  Do  not  speak  of  that, 

Lest  we  provoke  them. 

Sar.  True,  they  love  not  censure 

Better  than  mortals.     Friends,  a  thought  has 

struck  me : 
Were  there  no  temples,  would  there,  think  ye, 

be 
Air  worshippers  ?  that  is,  when  it  is  angry, 
And  pelting  as  even  now. 

Myr.  The  Persian  prays 

Upon  his  mountain. 

Sar.  Yes,  when  the  sun  shines. 

Myr.    And  I  would  ask  if  this  your  palace 
were 
Unroofed  and  desolate,  how  many  flatterers 
Would  lick  the  dust  in  which  the  king  lay  low  ? 

Alt.     The  fair  Ionian  is  too  sarcastic 
Upon  a  nation  whom  she  knows  not  well ; 
The  Assyrians  know  no  pleasure  but  their 

king's, 
And  homage  is  their  pride. 

Sar.  Nay,  pardon,  guests, 

The  fair  Greek's  readiness  of  speach. 

Alt.  Pardon  I  sire  : 

We  honor  her  of  all  things  next  to  thee. 
Hark  !  what  was  that  ? 

Zam.  That !  nothing  but  the  jar 

Of  distant  portals  shaken  by  the  wind. 

Alt.     It  seunded  like  the  clash  of — hark 
again ! 


Zam.     The  big  rain  pattering  on  the  roof. 

Sar.  No  more. 

Myrrha,  my  love,  hast  thou  thy  shell  in  order  ? 
Sing  me  a  song  of  Sappho,  her,  thou  know'st, 
Who  in  thy  country  threw 

Enter  PANIA,  with  his  sword  and  garments 
bloody,  and  disordered.  The  Guests  rise  in 
confusion,"*- 

Pan.  {to  the  Guards) .  Look  to  the  portals  ; 
And  with  your  best  speed  to  the  walls  without. 
Your  arms  !  To  arms  !  The  king's  in  danger. 

Monarch ! 
Excuse  this  haste,  —  'tis  faith. 

Sar.  Speak  on. 

Pan.  It  is 
As  Salemenes  feared ;  the  faithless  satraps 

Sar.     You  are  wounded  —  give  some  wine. 
Take  breath,  good  Pania. 

Pan.     'Tis  nothing  —  a  mere  flesh  wound. 
I  am  worn 
More  with  my  speed  to  warn  my  sovereign, 
Than  hurt  in  his  defence. 

Myr.  Well,  sir,  the  rebels  ? 

Pan.     Soon  as  Arbaces  and  Beleses  reached 
Their  stations  in  the  city,  they  refused 
To  march  ;  and  on  my  attempt  to  use  the  power 
Which  I  was  delegated  with,  they  called 
Upon  their  troops,  who  rose  in  fierce  defiance. 

Myr.     All  ? 

Pan.  Too  many. 

Sar.  Spare  not  of  thy  free  speech, 

To  spare  mine  ears  the  truth. 

Pan.  My  own  slight  guard 

Were  faithful,  and  what's  left  of  it  is  still  so. 

Myr.   And  are  these  all  the  force  still  faithful? 

Pan.  No  — 

The  Bactrians,  now  led  on  by  Salemenes, 
Who  even  then  was  on  his  way,  still  urged 
By  strong  suspicion  of  the  Median  chiefs, 
Are  numerous,  and  make  strong  head  against 
The  rebels,  fighting  inch  by  inch,  and  forming 
An  orb  around  the  palace,  where  they  mean 
To  centre  all  their  force,  and  save  the  king. 
{He  hesitates.)     I  am  charged  to 

Myr.  'Tis  no  time  for  hesitation. 

Pan.     Prince  Salemenes  doth  implore  the 
king 
To  arm  himself,  although  but  for  a  moment, 
And  show  himself  unto  the  soldiers  :  his 
Sole  presence  in  this  instant  might  do  more 
Than  hosts  can  do  in  his  behalf. 

Sar.  What,  ho ! 

My  armor  there. 

Myr.  And  wilt  thou  ? 

Sar.  Will  I  not  ? 

Ho,  there  !  —  but  seek  not  for  the  buckler :  'tis 


1  [Early  in  the  third  Act,  the  royal  banquet  is 
disturbed  by  sudden  tidings  of  treason  and  revolt; 
and  then  the  reveller  blazes  out  into  the  hero,  and 
the  Greek  blood  of  Myrrha  mounts  to  its  propel 
office!  —  Jeffrey.] 


602 


SARDANAPALUS. 


[ACT  III 


Too  heavy:  —  a  light  cuirass  and  my  sword. 
Where  are  the  rebels  ? 

Pan.  Scarce  a  furlong's  length 

From  the  outward  wall  the  fiercest  conflict 
rages. 
Sar.     Then  I  may  charge  on   horseback. 
Sfero,  ho ! 
Order  my  horse  out.  —  There  is  space  enough 
liven  in  our  courts,  and  by  the  outer  gate, 
To  marshal  half  the  horsemen  of  Arabia. 

[Exit  SFERO  for  the  armor. 
Myr.     How  I  do  love  thee ! 
Sar.  I  ne'er  doubted  it. 

Myr.     But  now  I  know  thee. 
Sar.     (to  his  Attendant).     Bring  down  my 
spear  too. — 
Where's  Salemenes  ? 

Pan.  Where  a  soldier  should  be, 

In  the  thick  of  the  fight. 

Sar.  Then  hasten  to  him Is 

The  path  still  open,  and  communication 
Left  'twixt  the  palace  and  the  phalanx  ? 

Pan.  'Twas 

When  I  late  left  him,  and  I  have  no  fear: 
Our  troops   were  steady,   and    the   phalanx 
formed. 
Sar.    Tell  him  to  spare  his  person  for  the 
present, 
A.nd  that  I  will  not  spare  my  own  —  and  say, 
I  come. 
Pan.     There's  victory  in  the  very  word. 

[Exit  PaNIA. 
Sar.    Altada  —  Zames  —  forth,  and  arm  ye ! 
There 
Is  all  in  readiness  in  the  armory. 
See  that  the  women  are  bestowed  in  safety 
In  the  remote  apartments  :  let  a  guard 
Be  set  before  them,  with  strict  charge  to  quit 
The  post  but  with  their  lives  —  command  it, 

Zames. 
Altada,  arm  yourself,  and  return  here ; 
Your  post  is  near  our  person. 

[Exeunt  ZAMES,   ALTADA,    and   all  save 
Myrrha. 

Enter  SFERO  and  others  with  the  King's 
Arms,  etc. 

Sfe.  King!  your  armor. 

Sar.  {arming  himself).     Give  me  the  cui- 
rass —  so  my  baldric  ;  now 

My  sword:  I  had  forgot  the  helm  —  where  is 
it? 

That's  well — no,  'tis  too  heavy:  you  mistake, 
too  — 

It  was  not  this  I  meant,  but  that  which  bears 

A  diadem  around  it. 

Sfe.  Sire,  I  deemed 

That    too    conspicuous    from,  the    precious 
stones 

To  risk  your  sacred  brow  beneath  —  and  trust 
me, 

This  is  of  better  metal,  though  less  rich. 


Sar.     You  deemed !     Are  you  too  turned  3 
rebel  ?   Fellow  ! 
Your  part  is  to  obey:  return,  and  —  no  — 
It  is  too  late  —  I  will  go  forth  without  it. 
Sfe.    At  least,  wear  this. 
Sar.  Wear  Caucasus !  why,  'tis 

A  mountain  on  my  temples. 

Sfe.  Sire,  the  meanesi 

Soldier  goes  not  forth  thus  exposed  to  battle. 
All  men  will  recognize  you  —  for  the  storm 
Has  ceased,  and  the  moon  breaks  forth  in  her 
brightness. 
Sar.     I    go   forth   to    be   recognized,   and 
thus 
Shall  be  so  sooner.     Now — my  spear!     I'm 
armed. 

[In  going  stops  short,  and  turns  to  SFERO. 
Sfero  —  I  had  forgotten  —  bring  the  mirror.1 
Sfe.    The  mirror,  sire  ? 
Sar.  Yes,  sir,  of  polished  brass, 

Brought  from  the  spoils   of  India  —  but  be 
speedy.2  [Exit  Sfero. 

Sar.     Myrrha,  retire  unto  a  place  of  safety. 
Why  went  you  not  forth  with  the  other  dam- 
sels ? 
Myr.     Because  my  place  is  here. 

Sar.  And  when  I  am  gone ■ 

Myr.     I  follow. 

Sar.  You/  to  battle? 

Myr.  t  I  f  it  were  so, 

'Twere  not  the  first  Greek  girl  had  trod  the 

path. 
I  will  await  here  your  return. 

Sar.  The  place 

Is  spacious,  and  the  first  to  be  sought  out, 
If  they  prevail ;  and,  if  it  be  so, 

And  I  return  not 

Myr.  Still  we  meet  again. 

Sar.     How  ? 


1  ["  In  the  third  Act,  where  Sardanapalus  calls 
for  a  mirror  to  look  at  himself  in  his  armor,  /ecol- 
lect  to  quote  the  Latin  passage  from  Juvenal  upon 
Otho  (a  similar  character,  who  did  the  same  thing). 
Gifford  will  help  you  to  it.  The  trait  is,  perhaps, 
too  familiar,  but  it  is  historical  (of  Otho,  at  least), 
and  natural  in  an  effeminate  character."  —  Byrst: 
to  Mr.  M.] 

2  ["  Hie  tenet  speculum  pathicigestamenOthonis, 

Actoris  Arunci  spolium,  quo  se  ille  videbat 
Armatum,  cum  jam  tolli  vexilla  juberet. 
Res     memoranda     novis    annalibus,    atqae 

recenti 
Historia,  speculum  civilis  farcina  belli."  _ 
Juv.  Sat.  ii. 
"  This  grasps  a  mirror —  pathic  Otho's  boast 
(Auruncan  Actor's  spoil),  where,  while  hi= 

host, 
With  shouts,  the  signal  of  the  fight  required, 
He  viewed   his  mailed    form;    viewed,  and 

admired ! 
Lo,  -  new  subject  for  the  historic  pace. 
A  mirror,  midst  the  arms  of  civil  nee  ' 

Gi£nrd-\ 


SCENE  I.] 


SARDANAPALUS. 


603 


Myr.     In  the  spot  where  all  must  meet  at 
last  — 
In  Hades !  if  there  be,  as  I  believe, 
A  shore  beyond  the  Styx  :  and  if  there  be  not, 
In  ashes. 

Sar.        Darest  thou  so  much? 

Myr.  I  dare  all  things 

Except  survive  what  I  have  loved,  to  be 
A.  rebel's  booty  :  forth,  and  do  your  bravest. 

Re-enter  SFERO  with  the  tnirror. 

Sar.     {looking  at  himself).     This   cuirass 
fits  me  well,  the  baldric  better; 
And  the  helm  not  at  all.     Methinks  I  seem 
[Flings   away   the  helmet   after    trying    it 
again. 
Passing  well  in  these  toys ;  and  now  to  prove 

them. 
Altada !     Where's  Altada  ? 

Sfe.  Waiting,  sire, 

Without :  he  has  your  shield  in  readiness. 

Sar.     True  ;  I  forgot  he  is  my  shield-bearer 
By  right  of  blood,  derived  from  age  to  age. 
Myrrha,   embrace  me; — yet    once    more  — 

once  more  — 
Love,  me,  whate'er  betide.     My  chiefest  glory 
Shall  be  to  make  me  worthier  of  your  love. 
Myr.     Go  forth,  and  conquer ! 

[Exeunt  SARDANAPALUS  and  Sfero.1 
Now,  I  am  alone. 
AH  are  gone  forth,  and  of  that  all  how  few 
Perhaps  return.     Let  him  but  vanquish,  and 
Me  perish!     If  he  vanquish  not,  I  perish; 
For  I  will  not  outlive  him.     He  has  wound 
About  my  heart,  I  know  not  how  nor  why. 
Not  for  that  he  is  king ;  for  now  his  kingdom 
Rocks  underneath  his  throne,  and  the  earth 

yawns 
To  yield  him  no  more  of  it  than  a  grave; 
And  yet  I  love  him  more.     Oh,  mighty  Jove! 
Forgive  this  monstrous  love  for  a  barbarian, 
Who  knows  not  of  Olympus  !  yes,  I  love  him 

Now,  now,  far  more  than Hark  —  to  the 

war  shout ! 
Methinks  it  nears  me.     If  it  should  be  so, 

[She  draws  forth  a  small  vial. 
This    cunning   Colchian   poison,   which    my 

father 
Learned  to  compound  on  Euxine  shores,  and 

taught  me 
How  to  preserve,  shall  free  me !  It  had  freed 

me 
Long  ere  this  hour,  but  that  I  loved,  until 


1  [In  the  third  Act,  the  king  and  his  courtiers  are 
disturbed  at  their  banquet  by  the  breaking  out  of 
the  conspiracy.  The  battle  which  follows,  if  we 
OTerlook  the  absurdity,  which  occurs  during  one 
part  of  it,  of  hostile  armies  drawn  up  against  each 
ether  in  a  dining-room,  is  extremely  well  told;  and 
Sardanapalus  displays  the  precise  mixture  of  effem- 
inacy and  courage,  levity  and  talent,  which  belongs 
10  his  character.  —  Heber.\ 


I  half  forgot  I  was  a  slave:  —  where  all 
Are  slaves  save  one,  and  proud  of  servitude, 
So  they  are  served  in  turn  by  something  lowei 
In  the  degree  of  bondage,  we  forget 
That  shackles  worn  like  ornaments  no  less 
Are  chains.    Again  that  shout !  and  now  the 

clash 
Of  arms  —  and  now  —  and  now 

Enter  ALTADA. 

Alt.  Ho  Sfero,  ho ! 

Myr.     He  is  not  here ;  what  wouldst  tho» 
with  him  ?     How 
Goes  on  the  conflict  ? 

Alt.  Dubiously  and  fiercely. 

Myr.     And  the  king? 

Alt.  Like  a  king.     I  must  find  Sfero 

And  bring  him  a  new  spear  and  his  own  hel- 
met. 
He  fights  till  now  bare-headed,  and  by  far 
Too  much  exposed.     The  soldiers  knew  his 

face, 
And  the  foe  too  ;  and  in  the  moon's  broad  light, 
His  silk  tiara  and  his  flowing  hair 
Make  him  a  mark  too  royal.     Every  arrow 
Is  pointed  at  the  fair  hair  and  fair  features, 
And  the  broad  fillet  which  crowns  both. 

Myr.  Ye  gods, 

Who  fulminate  o'er  my  father's  land,  protect 

him ! 
Were  you  sent  by  the  king  ? 

Alt.  By  Salemenes, 

Who  sent  me  privily  upon  this  charge, 
Without  the  knowledge  of  the  careless  sover- 
eign. 
The  king !  the  king  fights  as  he  revels  !  ho ! 
What,  Sfero  !  I  will  seek  the  armory  — 
He  must  be  there.  [Exit  ALTADA. 

Myr.  'Tis  no  dishonor—  no  — 

'Tis  no  dishonor  to  have  loved  this  man. 
I  almost  wish  now,  what  I  never  wished 
Before,  that  he  were  Grecian.     If  Alcides 
Were  shamed  in  wearing  Lydian  Omphale's 
She-garb,  and  wielding  her  vile  distaff;  surely 
He,  who  springs  up  a  Hercules  at  once, 
Nursed  in  effeminate  arts  from  youth  to  man- 
hood, 
And  rushes  from  the  banquet  to  the  battle, 
As  though  it  were  a  bed  of  love,  deserves 
That  a  Greek  girl  should  be  his  paramour, 
And  a  Greek  bard  his  minstrel,  a  Greek  tomb 
His  monument.     How  goes  the  strife,  sir  ? 

Enter  an  Officer. 
Officer.  Lost, 

Lost  almost  past  recovery.    Zames )     Whera 
Is  Zames  ? 

Myr.  Posted  with  the  guard  appointed 

To  watch  before  the  apartment  of  the  women. 

[Exit  Officer. 

Myr.  (sola).     He's  gone;  and  told  no  morn 

than  that  all's  lost! 


604 


SARDANAPALUS. 


[act  iil 


What  need  have  I  to  know  more  ?  In  those 
words, 

Those  little  words,  a  kingdom  and  a  king, 
A  line  of  thirteen  ages,  and  the  lives 
Of  thousands,  and  the  fortune  of  all  left 
With  life,  are  merged  ;  and  I, too,  with  thegreat, 
Like  a  small  bubble  breaking  with  the  wave 
Which  bore  it,  shall  be  nothing.     At  the  least, 
My  fate  is  in  my  keeping  :  no  proud  victor 
Shall  count  me  with  his  spoils. 

Enter  Pania. 

Pan.  Away  with  me, 

Myrrha,  without  delay ;  we  must  not  lose 
A  moment—  all  that's  left  us  now. 

Myr.  The  king  ? 

Pan.    Sent  me  here  to  conduct  you  hence, 
beyond 
The  river,  by  a  secret  passage. 

Myr.  Then 

He  lives 

Piin.      And  charged  me  to  secure  your  life, 
And  beg  you  to  live  on  for  his  sake,  till 
He  can  rejoin  you. 

Myr.  Will  he  then  give  way  ? 

Pan.    Not  till  the  last.    Still,  still  he  does 
whate'er 
Despair  can  do;  and  step  by  step  disputes 
The  very  palace. 

Myr.  They  are  here,  then:  —  ay, 

Their  shouts  come  ringing  through  the  ancient 

halls, 
Never  profaned  by  rebel  echoes  till 
This  fatal  night.     Farewell,  Assyria's  line! 
Farewell  to  all  of  Nimrod!     Even  the  name 
Is  now  no  more. 

Pan.  Away  with  me  —  away  ! 

Myr.     No:  I'll  die  here!  —  Away,  and  tell 
your  king 
I  loved  him  to  the  last. 

Enter  SARDANAPALUS  and  SALEMENES  with 
Soldiers.  Pania  quits  MYRRHA,  and 
ranges  himself  with  them. 

Sar.  Since  it  is  thus, 

We'll  die  where  we  were  born —  in  our  own 

halls. 
Serry    your    ranks  —  stand    firm.       I    have 

despatched 
A  trusty  satrap  for  the  guard  of  Zames, 
All  fresh  and  faithful ;  they'll  be  here  anon. 
All  is  not  over. —  Pania,  look  to  Myrrha. 

[Pania  returns  towards  Myrrha. 
Sal.     We  have  breathing  time;  yet  once 
more  charge,  my  friends  — 
One  for  Assyria ! 

Sar.     Rather  say  for  Bactria ! 
My  faithful  Bactrians,  I  will  henceforth  be 
King  of  your  nation,  and  we'll  hold  together 
This  realm  as  province. 

Sal.  Hark!  they  come  —  they  come. 

Enter  BELESES and  ARBACES  with  the  Rebels. 


Arb.     Set  on,  we  have   them  in  the  toil. 

Charge !  charge ! 
Bel.     On!  on!  —  Heaven  fights  for  us  and 

with  us  —  On! 
[They  charge   the  King   and  SALEMENES 
with  their  Troops,  who  defend  themselves 
till  the  Arrival of  Zames,  with  the  Guard 
before  mentioned.     The    Rebels  are  then 
driven  off,  andpursuedby  SALEMENES,  etc. 
As  the  King  is  going  to  join  the  pursuit, 
BELESES  crosses  him. 
Bel.     Ho!  tyrant  —  /  will  end  this  war. 
Sar.         '  Even  so, 

My  warlike  priest,  and  precious  prophet,  and 
Grateful  and  trusty  subject: — yield,   I   pray 

thee. 
I  would  reserve  thee  for  a  fitter  doom, 
Rather  than  dip  my  hands  in  holy  blood. 
Bel.     Thine  hour  is  come. 
Sar.  No,  thine. —  I've  lately  read, 

Though  but  a  young  astrologer,  the  stars  ; 
And  ranging  round  the  zodiac,  found  thy  fate 
In  the  sign  of  the  Scorpion,  which  proclaims 
That  thou  wilt  now  be  crushed. 

Bel.  But  not  by  thee. 

[  They  fight ;  BELESES  is  wounded  and  dis- 
armed. 
Sar.  (raising  his  sword  to  dispatch  him,  ex- 
claims) — 
Now  call  upon  thy  planets,  will  they  shoot 
From  the  sky  to'prescrve  their  seer  and  credit  ? 
[A  party  of  Rebels  enter  and  rescue  BELESES. 
They  assail  the  King,  who,  in  turn,  is  res- 
cued by  a  Party  of  his  Soldiers,  who  drive 
the  Rebels  off. 
The  villain  was  a  prophet  after  all. 
Upon  them  —  ho  !  there  —  victory  is  ours. 

[Exit  in  pursuit. 
Myr.  (to Pan.).   Pursue!   Why stand'st thou 
here,  and  leavest  the  ranks 
Of  fellow  soldiers  conquering  without  thee  ? 
Pan.     The  king's  command  was  not  to  quit 

thee. 
Myr.  Me ! 

Think  not  of  me  —  a  single  soldier's  arm 
Must  not  be  wanting  now.     I  ask  no  guard, 
I  need  no  guard  :  what,  with  a  world  at  stake, 
Keep  watch  upon  a  woman  ?     Hence,  I  say, 
Or  thou  art  shamed!    Nay,  then,  /will  go  forth, 
A  feeble  female,  'midst  their  desperate  strife, 
And  bid  thee  guard  me  there  —  where  thou 

shouldst  shield 
Thy  sovereign.  [Exit  Myrrha. 

Pan.  Yet  stay,  damsel!     She  is  gone, 

If  aught  of  ill  betide  her,  better  I 
Had  lost  my  life.     Sardanapalus  holds  her 
Far  dearer  than  his  kingdom,  yet  he  fights 
For  that  too ;  and  can  I  do  less  than  he, 
Who  never  flashed  a  scimitar  till  now? 
Myrrha,  return,  and  I  obey  you,  though 
In  disobedience  to  the  monarch. 

[Exit  Pania, 


SCENE   I.J 


SARDANAPALUS. 


605 


Enter  Altada  and  Sfero  by  an  opposite  door. 

.  [It.  ,  Myrrha ! 

What,  gone  ?  yet  she  was  here  when  the  fight 

raged, 
And    Pania   also.     Can  aught  have  befallen 
them  ? 

Sfe.     I  saw  both  safe,  when  late  the  rebels 
'fled: 
They  probably  are  but  retired  to  made 
Their  way  back  to  the  harem. 

Alt.  If  the  king 

Prove  victor,  as  it  seems  even  now  he  must, 
And  miss  his  own  Ionian,  we  are  doomed 
To  worse  than  captive  rebels. 

Sfe.  Let  us  trace  them  ; 

She  cannot  be  fled  far ;  and,  found,  she  makes 
A  richer  prize  to  our  soft  sovereign 
Than  his  recovered  kingdom. 

Alt.  Baal  himself 

Ne'er  fought  more  fiercely  to  win  empire,  than 
His  silken  son  to  save  it:  he  defies 
All  augury  of  foes  or  friends  ;  and  like 
The   close  and   sultry  summer's  day,  which 

bodes 
A  twilight  tempest,  bursts  forth  in  such  thunder 
As  sweeps  the  air  and  deluges  the  earth. 
The  man's  inscrutable. 

Sfe.  Not  more  than  others. 

All  are  the  sons  of  circumstance  :  away  — 
Let's  seek  the  slave  out,  or  prepare  to  be 
Tortured  for  his  infatuation,  and 
Condemned  without  a  crime.  [Exeunt. 

Enter  SALEMENES  and  Soldiers,  etc. 

Sal.  The  triumph  is 

Flattering :  they  are  beaten  backward  from 

the  palace, 
And  we  have  opened  regular  access 
To  the  troops  stationed  on  the  other  side 
Euphrates,  who  may  still  be  true  ;  nay,  must 

be, 
When  they  hear  of  our  victory.     But  where 
Is  the  chief  victor  ?  where's  the  king. 

Enter  SARDANAPALUS,  cum  suis,  etc.  and 
Myrrha. 

Sar.  Here,  brother.1 

Sal.     Unhurt,  I  hope. 

Sar-                        Not  quite  ;  but  let  it  pass. 
We've  cleared  the  palace 

Sal.  And  I  trust  the  city. 

Our  numbers  gather :  and  I've  ordered  on- 
ward 
A  cloud  of  Parthians,  hitherto  reserved, 
All  fresh  and  fiery,  to  be  poured  upon  them 
In  their  retreat,  which  soon  will  be  a  flight. 

Sar.     It  is  already,  or  at  least  they  marched 
Faster  than  I  could  follow  with  my  Bactrians, 


1  [The  king,  by  his  daring  valor,  restores  the 
fortune  of  the  fight,  and  returns,  with  all  his  train, 
to  the  palace.  The  scene  that  ensues  is  very  mas- 
terly and  characteristic.  —  Jeffrey.} 


Who  spared  no  speed.     I  am  spent :  give  me 
a  seat. 

Sal.     There  stands  the  throne,  sire. 

Sar.  'Tis  no  place  to  rest  on 

For  mind  nor  body  :  let  me  have  a  couch, 

[  They  place  a  seat. 
A  peasant's  stool,  I  care  not  what:  so— now 
I  breathe  more  freely. 

Sal.  This  great  hour  has  proved 

The  brightest  and  most  glorious  of  your  life. 

Sar.      And  the  most   tiresome.     Where's 
my  cupbearer  ? 
Bring  me  some  water. 

Sal.  {smiling-) .  'Tis  the  first  time  he 

Ever  had  such  an  order  :  even  I, 
Your  most  austere  of  counsellors,  would  now 
Suggest  a  purpler  beverage. 

Sar.  Blood  —  doubtless. 

But  there's  enough  of  that  shed ;  as  for  wine, 
I  have  learned  to-night  the  price  of  the  pure 

element : 
Thrice  have  I  drank  of  it,  and  thrice  renewed, 
With  greater  strength  than  the  grape  ever  gave 

me, 
My  charge  upon  the  rebels.    Where's  the  sol- 
dier 
Who  gave  me  water  in  his  helmet  ? 

One  of  the  Guards.  Slain,  sire  ! 

An  arrow  pierced  his  brain,  while,  scattering 
The  last  drops  from  his  helm,  he  stood  in  act 
To  place  it  on  his  brows. 

Sar.  Slain  1  unrewarded  ! 

And  slain  to  serve  my  thirst :  that's  hard,  poor 

slave. 
Had  he  but  lived,  I  would  have  gorged  him 

with 
Gold  :  all  the  gold  of  earth  could  ne'er  repay 
The   pleasure  of   that   draught ;    for    I   was 

parched 
As  I  am  now.     [  They  bring  water  —  he  drinks. 
I  live  again  —  from  henceforth 
The  goblet  I  reserve  for  hours  of  love, 
But  war  on  water. 

Sal.  And  that  bandage,  sire, 

Which  girds  your  arm  ? 

Sar.  A  scratch  from  brave  Beleses. 

Myr.     Oh  !   he  is  wounded ! 

Sar.  Not  too  much  of  that ; 

And  yet  it  feels  a  little  stiff  and  painful, 
Now  I  am  cooler. 

Myr.  You  have  bound  it  with 

Sar.    The  fillet  cl  my  diadem  :  the  first  time 
That  ornament  was  ever  aught  to  me, 
Save  an  incumbrance. 

Myr.    [to  the  attendants') .     Summon  speed- 
ily 
A  leech  of  the  most  skilful :  pray,  retire : 
I  will  unbind  your  wound  and  tend  it. 

Sar.  Do  so; 

For  now  it  throbs  sufficiently :  but  what 
Know'st  thou  of  wounds  ?  yet  wherefore  do 
I  ask? 


606 


SARDANAPALUS. 


[act  IV 


Knovv's*    thou,  my  brother,  where  I  lighted 

on 
This  minion  ? 

Sal.  Hording  with  the  other  females, 

Like  frightened  antelopes. 

Sar.  No  :  like  the  dam 

Of  the  young  lion,  femininely  raging, 
(And  femininely  meaneth  furiously, 
Because  all  passions  in  excess  are  female,) 
Against  the  hunter  flying  with  her  cub, 
She  urged  on  with  her  voice  and  gesture,  and 
Her  floating  hair  and  flashing  eyes,  the  sol- 
diers, 
In  the  pursuit. 
Sal.  Indeed ! 

Sar.  You  see,  this  night 

Made  warriors  of  more  than  me.     I  paused 
To  look  upon  her,  and  her  kindled  cheek ; 
Her  large  black  eyes,  that  flashed  through  her 

long  hair 
As  it  streamed  o'er  her ;  her  blue  veins  that 

rose 
Along  her  most  transparent  brow ;  her  nos- 
tril 
Dilated  from  its  symmetry;  her  lips 
Apart ;  her  voice  that  clove  through  all  the  din, 
As  a   lute's    pierceth    through    the    cymbal's 

clash, 
Jarred  but  not  drowned  by  the  loud  brattling; 

her 
Waved  arms,  more   dazzling  with  their  own 

burn  whiteness 
Than    the   steel    her  hand   held,  which    she 

caught  up 
From   a   dead    soldier's    grasp ;  —  all    these 

things  made 
Her  seem  unto  the  troops  a  prophetess 
Of  victory,  or  Victory  herself, 
Come  down  to  hail  us  hers. 

Sal.  (aside').  This  is  too  much. 

Again  the  love  fit's  on  him,  and  all's  lost, 
Unless  we  turn  his  thoughts. 

(Aloud.)  But  pray  thee,  sire, 

Think  of  your  wound  —  you  said  even  now 
'twas  painful. 
Sar.     That's   true,   too ;     but    I    must  not 

think  of  it. 
Sal.     I   have  looked  to  all  things  needful, 
and  will  now 
Receive  reports  of  progress  made  in  such 
Orders  as  I  had  given,  and  then  return 
To  hear  your  further  pleasure. 

Sar.     '  Be  it  so. 

Sal.  (in  retiring-).     Myrrha  ! 
Myr.  Prince ! 

Sal.  You  have  shown  a  soul  to-night, 

Which,  were  he  not  my  sister's  lord But 

now 
1  have  no  time  :  thou  lovest  the  king? 

Myr.  I  love 

Sardanapalus. 
Sal.  But  wouldst  have  him  king  still  ? 


Myr.     I  would  not  have  him  less  than  what 

he  should  be. 
Sal.     Well    then,   to   have   him  king,  and 
yours,  and  all 
He  should,  or  should  not  be;  to  have  him 

live, 
Let  him  not  sink  back  into  luxury. 
You  have  more  power  upon  his  spirit  than 
Wisdom  within  these  walls,  or  fierce  rebellion 
Raging  without :  look  well  that  he  relapse  not. 
Myr.    There  needed  not  the  voice  of  Sale- 
'  menes 
To  urge  me  on  to  this  :   I  will  not  fail. 

All  that  a  woman's  weakness  can 

Sal.  Is  power 

Omnipotent  o'er  such  a  heart  as  his  : 
Exert  it  wisely.  [Exit  SALEMENES. 

Sar.  Myrrha!  what,  at  whispers 

With    my   stern   brother  ?     I    shall  soon  be 
jealous.1 
Myr.   (smiling-).     You  have  cause,  sire ;  for 
on  the  earth  there  breathes  not 
A  man  more  worthy  of  a  woman's  love  — 
A  soldier's  trust  —  a  subject's  reverence  — 
A  king's  esteem  —  the  whole  world's  admira- 
tion !  - 
Sar.     Praise   him,  but   not   so   warmly.     I 
must  not 
Hear  those  sweet  lips  grow  eloquent  in  aught 
That  throws  me  into  shade ;  vet  you  speak 
truth.  * 

Myr.     And  now  retire,  to  have  your  wound 
looked  to. 
Pray,  lean  on  me. 
Sar.  Yes,  love !  but  not  from  pain. 

[Exeunt  omnes. 


ACT   IV. 

Scene  I.  —  Sardanapalus  discovered  sleep- 
ing upon  a  Couch,  and  occasionally  disturbed 
in  his  Slumbers,  with  Myrrha  watching. 

Myr.  (sola,  gazing).    I  have  stolen  upon  his 

rest,  if  rest  it  be, 
Which  thus  convulses  slumber:  shall  I  wake 

him  ? 
No,   he  seems    calmer.      Oh,  thou   God   of 

Quiet ! 

1  [The  rebels  are  at  length  repulsed.  The  king 
reenters  wounded,  and  retires  to  rest,  after  a  short 
and  very  characteristic  conversation  between  Sale- 
menes  and  Myrrha,  in  which  the  two  kindred  spir- 
its show  their  mutual  understanding  of  each  other, 
and  the  loyal  warrior,  postponing  all  the  selfish 
domestic  feelings  which  led  him  to  dislike  the  fair 
Ionian,  exhorts  her  to  use  her  utmost  power  tc 
keep  her  lover  from  relaxing  into  luxury.  The 
transient  effect  which  their  whispers  produce  on 
Sardanapalus  is  well  imagined.  —  Heber.\ 

[MS.  —  (  admiration 

A  king's  esteem  —  the  whole  world's  \  veneration 
reverence.") 


SCEKE   I.] 


SARDAMAPALUS. 


607 


Whose  reign  is  o'er  sealed  eyelids  and  soft 

dreams, 
Or  deep,  deep  sleep,  so  as  to  be  unfathomed, 
Look  like  thy  brother,  Death,  —  so  still  —  so 

stirless — ■ 
For  then  we  are  happiest,  as  it  may  be,  we 
Are  happiest  of  all  within  the  realm 
Of  thy  stern,  silent,  and  unwakening  twin. 
Again  he  moves  —  again  the  play  of  pain 
Shoots  o'er  his  features,  as  the  sudden  gust 
Crisps  the  reluctant  lake  that  lay  so  calm  1 
Beneath  the  mountain  shadow;  or  the  blast 
Ruffles  the  autumn  leaves,  that  drooping  cling 
Faintly  and  motionless  to  their  loved  boughs. 
I  must  awake  him  —  yet  not  yet :  who  knows 
From   what  I  rouse  him  ?     It   seems   pain ; 

but  if 
I  quicken  him  to  heavier  pain  ?     The  fever 
Of  this  tumultuous  might,  the  grief  too  of 
His  wound,  though  slight,  may  cause  all  this, 

and  shake 
Me  more  to  see  than  him  to  suffer.     No : 
Let  Nature  use  her  own  maternal  means,  — 
And  I  await  to  second,  not  disturb  her.2 

Sar.   (awakening).    Not    so  —  although   ye 

multiplied  the  stars, 
And  gave  them  to  me  as  a  realm  to  share 
From  you  and  with  you !     I   would  not  so 

purchase 
The  empire  of  eternity.     Hence  —  hence  — 
Old  hunter  of  the  earliest  brutes  !  and  ye, 
Who  hunted  fellow-creatures  as  if  brutes! 
Once    bloody   mortals  —  and    now   bloodier 

idols, 
If  your  priests  lie  not!     And  thou,  ghastly 

beldame ! 
Dripping  with  dusky  gore,  and  trampling  on 
The  carcasses  of  Inde  —  away  !  away ! 
Where  am  I  ?     Where  the  spectres  ?    /Vhere 

No  — that 

Is  no  false  phantom  :  I  should  know  it  'midst 
All  that  the  dead  dare  gloomily  raise  up 
From  their  black  gulf  to  daunt   the   living. 

Myrrha ! 
Myr.  Alas !  thou  art  pale,  and  on  thy  brow 

the  drops 
Gather  like  night  dew.     My  beloved,  hush  — 
Calm   thee.     Thy  speech   seems   of  another 

world, 
And  thou  art  lord  of  this.     Be  of  good  cheer; 
All  will  go  well. 

Sar.  Thy  hand —  so  —  'tis  thy  hand  ; 

'Tis flesh  ;  grasp — -clasp  —  yet  closer, till  I  feel 
Myself  that  which  I  was. 


1  [MS.  —  "Crisps  the  unswelling  wave,"  etc.] 

2  [The  fourth  Act  opens  with  Myrrha  watching 
over  the  slumbers  of  Sardanapalus.  He  wakens 
and  tells  a  horrid  dream,  which  we  do  not  much  ad- 
mire, except  that  part  of  it  which  describes  the  form 
of  his  warlike  ancestress  Semiramis,  with  whom, 
and  the  rest  of  his  regal  predecessors,  he  had  fan- 
cied himself  at  a  ghostly  banquet.  —  Heber.~\ 


Myr.  At  least  know  me 

For  what  I  am,  and  ever  must  be  —  thine. 

Sar.  I  know  it  now.    I  know  this  life  again. 
Ah,  Myrrha!  I  have  been  where  we  shall  be. 

Myr.  My  lord ! 

Sar.  I've  been  i'  the  grave  —  where  worms 
are  lords, 

And  kings  are But  I  did  not  deem  it  so  ; 

I  thought  'twas  nothing. 

Myr.  So  it  is;  except 

Unto  the  timid,  who  anticipate 
That  which  may  never  be.3 

Sar.  Oh,  Mvrrhal  if 


3  [The  general  tone  of  Myrrha's  character  (in 
perfect  consistency  with  the  manners  of  her  age 
and  nation,  and  with  her  own  elevated  but  pure  and 
feminine  spirit,)  is  that  of  a  devout  worshipper  of 
her  country's  gods.  She  reproves,  with  dignity,  the 
impious  flattery  of  the  Assyrian  courtiers  and  the 
libertine  scoffs  of  the  king.  She  does  not  forget, 
while  preparing  for  death,  that  libation  which  was 
the  latest  and  most  solemn  act  of  Grecian  piety: 
and  she,  more  particularly,  expresses  her  belief  in 
a  future  state  of  existence.  Yet  this  very  Myrrhs, 
when  Sardanapalus  is  agitated  by  his  evil  dream, 
and  by  the  natural  doubt  as  to  what  worse  visions 
death  may  bring,  is  made  to  console  him,  in  the 
strain  of  his  own  Epicurean  philosophy,  with  the 
doctrine  that  death  is  really  nothing,  except 

"  Unto  the  timid  who  anticipate 
That  which  may  never  be," 

and  with  the  insinuation  that  all  which  remains  of 
"  the  dead  is  the  dust  we  tread  upon."  We  do  not 
wish  to  ask,  we  do  not  like  to  conjecture,  whose 
sentiments  these  are,  but  they  are  certainly  not  the 
sentiments  of  an  ancient  Grecian  heroine.  They 
are  not  the  sentiments  which  Myrrha  might  have 
learned  from  the  heroes  of  her  native  land,  or  from 
the  poems  whence  those  heroes  derived  their  hero- 
ism, their  contempt  of  death,  "  and  their  love  of 
virtue."  Myrrha  would  rather  have  told  her  iover 
of  those  happy  islands  where  the  benevolent  and 
the  brave  reposed  after  the  toils  of  their  mortal  ex- 
istence ;  of  that  venerable  society  of  departed  war- 
riors and  sages  to  which,  if  he  renounced  his  sloth 
and  lived  for  his  people  and  for  glory,  he  might  yet 
expect  admission.  She  would  have  told  him  of  that 
joy  with  which  his  warlike  ancestors  would  isoTe 
along  their  meads  of  asphodel,  when  the  news 
reached  them  of  their  descendant's  prowess;  she 
would  have  anticipated  those  songs  which  denied 
that  "  Harmodius  was  dead,"  however  he  might  be 
removed  from  the  sphere  of  mortality;  which  told 
her  countrymen  of  the  "  roses  and  the  golden- 
fruited  bowers,  where  beneath  the  light  of  a  lower 
sun,  departed  warriors  reined  their  shadowy  cars, 
or  struck  their  harps  amid  altars  steaming  with 
frankincense."*  Such  were  the  doctrines  which 
naturally  led  men  to  a  contempt  for  life  and  a 
thirst  for  glory :  but  the  opposite  opinions  were  the 
doubts  of  a  later  day,  and  of  those  sophists  under 
whose  influence  Greece  soon  ceased  to  be  free,  oi 
valiant,  or  virtuous."  —  Heber.] 


*  Horn.  Odyss.  A.  539.      Callistratus  ap.  Athe- 
naeum, 1.  xv.     Pindar  Fragm.  Heyne,  vol.  iii.  p.  31. 


608 


SARDANAPALUS. 


[act  IV. 


Sleep  shows  such  things,  what  may  not  death 

disclose  ? 
Myr.  I  know  no  evil  death  can  show,  which 

life 
Has  not  already  shown  to  those  who  live 
Embodied  longest.     If  there  be  indeed 
A  shore  where   mind   survives,  'twill  be   as 

mind, 
All  unincorporate  :  or  if  there  flits 
A  shadow  of  this  cumbrous  clog  of  clay, 
Which    stalks,  methinks,  between   our   souls 
1         and  heaven, 

And  fetters  us  to  earth  —  at  least  the  phantom, 
Whate'er  it  have  to  fear,  will  not  fear  death. 
Sar.  I    fear  it  not ;  but  I  have  felt  —  have 

seen  — 
A  legion  of  the  dead. 

Myr.  And  so  have  I. 

The  dust  we  tread  upon  was  once  alive, 
And  wretched.    But  proceed  :  what  hast  thou 

seen  ? 
Speak  it,  'twill  lighten  thy  dimmed  mind. 
Sar.  Methought  — 

Myr.  Yet  pause,  thou  art  tired  —  in  pain  — 

exhausted ;  all 
Which  can  impair  both  strength  and  spirit : 

seek 
Rather  to  sleep  again. 

Sar.  Not  now —  I  would  not 

Dream  ;  though  I  know  it  now  to  be  a  dream 
What  have  I  dreamt: — and  canst  thou  bear 

to  hear  it  ? 
Afyr.  I  can  bear  all  things,  dreams  of  life  or 

death, 
Which  I  participate  with  you  in  semblance 
Or  full  reality. 

Sar.  And  this  looked  real, 

I  tell  you  :  after  that  these  eyes  were  open, 
I  saw  them  in  their  flight — for  then  they  fled. 
Myr.  Say  on. 

Sar.  I  saw,  that  is,  I  dreamed  myself 

Here  —  here  —  even  where  we  are,  guests  as 

we  were, 
Myself  a  host  that  deemed  himself  but  guest, 
Willing  to  equal  all  in  social  freedom  ; 
But,  on  rav  right  hand  and  my  left,  instead 
Of  thee  and  Zames,  and  our  customed  meeting, 
Was  ranged  on  my  left  hand  a  haughty,  dark, 
And  deadly  face —  I  could  not  recognize  it, 
Yot  I  had  seen  it,  though  I  knew  not  where  : 
The  features  were  a  giant's,  and  the  eye 
Was  still,  yet  lighted ;  his  long  locks  curled 

down 
On  his  vast  bust,  whence  a  hugh  quiver  rose 
With  shaft-heads  feathered  from  the  eagle's 

wingl 
That  peeped  up  bristling  through  his  serpent 

hair. 
I  invited  him  to  fill  the  cup  which  stood 


»  [MS.— 

"  With  arrows  peeping  through  his  falling  hair."] 


Between  us,  but  he  answered  not  —  I  filled  it  — 

He  took  it  not,  but  stared  upon  me,  till 

I  trembled  at  the  fixed  glare  of  his  eye : 

I  frowned  upon  him  as  a  king  should  frown  — 

He  frowned  not  in  his  turn,  but  looked  upon  me 

With    the    same   aspect,  which  appalled   me 

more, 
Because  it  changed  not;  and  I  turned  for  refuge 
To  milder  guests,  and  sought  them  on  the 

right, 

Where  thou  wert  wont  to  be.     But 

\He  pauses. 
Myr.  What  instead  ? 

Sar.  In  thy  own  chair — thy  own  place  in 

the  banquet  — 
I  sought  thy  sweet  face  in  the  circle  —  but 
Instead — a    gray-haired,   withered,    bloody- 
eyed, 
And  bloody-handed,  ghastly,  ghostly  thing, 
Female  in  garb,  and  crowned  upon  the  brow, 
Furrowed  with  years,  yet  sneering  with    the 

passion 
Of  vengeance,  leering  too  with  that  of  lust, 
Sate :  —  my  veins  curdled. 

Afyr.  Is  this  all  ? 

Sar.  Upon 

Her   right  hand — her   lank,  bird-like   right 

hand  —  stood 
A  goblet,  bubbling  o'er  with  blood ;  and  on 
Her  left,  another,  filled  with  — what  I  saw  not, 
But  turned  frorn  it  and  her.     But  all  along 
The  table  sate  a  range  of  crowned  wretches, 
Of  various  aspects,  but  of  one  expression. 
Myr.     And  felt  you  not  this  a  mere  vision  ? 
Sar.  No  : 

It  was   so   palpable,  I  could  have   touched 

them. 
I  turned  from  one  face  to  another,  in 
The  hope  to  find  at  last  one  which  I  knew 
Ere  I  saw  theirs :  but  no  —  all  turned  upon 

me, 
And  stared,  but  neither  ate  nor  drank,  but 

stared, 
Till  I  grew  stone,  as  they  seemed  half  to  be. 
Yet  breathing  stone,  for  I  felt  life  in  them, 
And  life  in  me  :  there  was  a  horrid  kind 
Of  sympathy  between  us,  as  if  they 
Had  lost  a  part  of  death  to  come  to  me, 
And  I  the  half  of  life  to  sit  by  them. 
We  were  in  an  existence  all  apart 
From  heaven  or  earth And  rather  let  me 

see 
Death  all  than  such  a  being ! 
Myr.  And  the  end  ? 

Sar.    At  last  I  sate,  marble,  as  they,  when 

rose 
The  hunter  and  the  crone;  and  smiling  oi 

me  — 
Yes,  the  enlarged  but  noble  aspect  of 
The  hunter  smiled  upon  me — I  should  say, 
His  lips,  for  his  eyes  moved  not  —  and  th« 

woman's 


SCENE   I.] 


SA  RD ANAPA  L  US. 


609 


Thin  lips  relaxed  to  something  like  a  smile. 
Both  rose,  and  the  crowned  figures  on  each 

hand 
Rose  also,  as  if  aping  their  chief  shades  — 
Mere  mimics  even  in  death —  but  I  sate  still : 
A   desperate   courage    crept    through   every 

limb, 
And  at  the  last  I  feared  them  not,  but  laughed 
Full  in  their  phantom  faces.  But  then  —  then 
The  hunter  laid  his  hand  on  mine :  I  took  it, 
And  grasped  it  — ■  but  it  melted  from  my  own  ; 
While  he  too  vanished,  and  left  nothing  but 
The  memory  of  a  hero,  for  he  looked  so. 

Myr.     And  was:  the  ancestor  of  heroes,  too, 
And  thine  no  less. 

Sar.  Ay,  Myrrha,  but  the  woman, 

The  female  who  remained,  she  flew  upon  me, 
And  burnt  my  lips  up  with  her  noisome  kisses  ; 
And,  flinging  down  the  goblets  on  each  hand, 
Methought  their  poisons  flowed  around  us,  till 
Each  formed  a  hideous  river.    Still  she  clung  ; 
The  other  phantoms,  like  a  row  of  statues, 
Stood  dull  as  in  our  temples,  but  she  still 
Embraced  me,  while  I  shrunk  from  her,  as  if, 
In  lieu  of  her  remote  descendant,  I 
Had  been  the  son  who  slew  her  for  her  incest. 
Then  —  then  —  a  chaos  of  all  loathsome  things 
Thronged  thick  and  shapeless :  I  was  dead, 

yet  feeling  — 
Buried     and    raised    again  —  consumed    by 

worms, 
Purged  by  the  flames,  and  withered  in  the  air ! 
I  can  fix  nothing  further  of  my  thoughts, 
Save  that  I  longed  for  thee,  and  sought  for 

thee, 
In  all  these  agonies,  —  and  woke  and  found 

thee. 
Myr.     So  shalt  thou  find  me  ever  at  thy 

side. 
Here  and  hereafter,  if  the  last  may  be. 
But  think  not  of  these  things  —  the  mere  crea- 
tions 
Of  late  events,  acting  upon  a  frame 
Unused  to  toil,  yet  over-wrought  by  toil 
Such  as  might  try  the  sternest. 

Sar.  I  am  better. 

Now  that  I  see  thee  once  more,  what  was  seen 
Seems  nothing. 

Enter  SALEMENES. 

Sal.  Is  the  king  so  soon  awake  ? 

Sar.    Yes,  brother,  and  I  would  I  had  not 
slept ; 
For  all  the  predecessors  of  our  line 
Rose  up,  methought,  to  drag  me  down   to 

them. 
My  father  was  amongst  them,  too  ;  but  he, 
I  know  not  why,  kept  from  me,  leaving  me 
Between  the  hunter-founder  of  our  race, 
And  her,  the  homicide  and  husband-killer, 
Whom  you  call  glorious. 

Sal.  So  I  term  you  also, 


Now  you  have  shown  a  spirit  like  to  hers. 
By  day-break  I  propose  that  we  set  forth, 
And  charge  once  more  the  rebel  crew,  who  stili 
Keep  gathering  head,  repulsed,  but  not  quite 
quelled. 

Sar.     How  wears  the  night  ? 

Sal.  There  yet  remain  some  hours 

Of  darkness  :  use  them  for  your  further  rest. 

Sar.     No,  not  to-night,  if  'tis  not  gone  :  me- 
thought I  passed  hours  in  that  vision. 

Myr.  Scarcely  one; 

I  watched  by  you  :  it  was  a  heavy  hour, 
But  an  hovir  only. 

Sar.  Let  us  then  hold  council  ; 

To-morrow  we  set  forth. 

Sal.  But  ere  that  time, 

I  had  a  grace  to  seek. 

Sar.  'Tis  granted. 

Sal.  Hear  it 

Ere  you  reply  too  readily ;  and  'tis 
For  your  ear  only. 

Myr.  Prince,  I  take  my  leave. 

[Exit  Myrrha. 

Sal.    That  slave  deserves  her  freedom. 

Sar.  Freedom  only ! 

That  slave  deserves  to  share  a  throne. 

Sal.  Your  patience  — 

'Tis  not  yet  vacant,  and  'tis  of  its  partner 
I  come  to  speak  with  you. 

Sar.  How  !  of  the  queen  ? 

Sal.     Even  so.     I  judged  it  fitting  for  their 
safety, 
That,  ere  the  dawn,  she  sets  forth  with  her 

children 
For  Paphlagonia,  where  our  kinsman  Cotta 
Governs  ;  and  there  at  all  events  secure 
My  nephews  and  your  sons  their  lives,  and 

with  them 
Their  justpretensions  to  the  crown  in  case 

Sar.      I     perish  —  as     is    probable :     well 
thought— 
Let  them  set  forth  with  a  sure  escort. 

Sal.  That 

Is  all  provided,  and  the  galley  ready 
To  drop  down  the  Euphrates  ;  l  but  ere  they 
Depart,  will  you  not  see 

Sar.  My  sons  ?     It  may 

Unman   my  heart,  and   the   poor   boys  will 

weep; 
And  what  can  I  reply  to  comfort  them, 
Save  with  some  hollow  hopes,  and  ill-worn 

smiles  ? 
You  know  I  cannot  feign. 

Sal.  But  you  can  feel ; 


1  [We  hardly  know  why  Lord  Byron,  who  has 
not  in  other  respects  shown  a  slavish  deference  for 
Diodorus  Siculus,  should  thus  follow  him  in  the 
manifest  geographical  blunder  of  placing  Nineveh 
on  the  Euphrates  instead  of  the  Tigris,  in  opposi- 
tion not  only  to  the  uniform  tradition  of  the  East, 
but  to  the  express  assertions  of  Herodotus-  Pliny, 
and  Ptolemy.  —  Heber.\ 


610 


SARDANAPAL  US. 


[act  IV, 


At  least,  I  trust  so :  in  a  word,  the  queen 
Requests  to  see  you  ere  you  part  —  for  ever. 

Sar.     Unto  what  end  ?   what    purpose  ?   I 
will  grant 
Aught  —  all  that  she   can  ask  —  but  such  a 
meeting. 

Sal.     You  know,  or  ought  to  know,  enough 
of  women, 
Since  you  have  studied  them  so  steadily, 
That  what  they  ask  in  aught  that  touches  on 
The  heart,  is  dearer  to  their  feelings  or 
Their  fancy,  than  the  whole  external  world. 
I  think  as  you  do  of  my  sister's  wish  ; 
But  'twas  her  wish  —  she  is  my  sister  —  you 
Her  husband  —  will  you  grant  it  ? 

Sa>.  'Twill  be  useless  : 

But  let  her  come. 

Sal.  I  go.    [Z?.*7'/Salemenes. 

Sar.  We  have  lived  asunder 

Too  long  to  meet  again  — •  and  now  to  meet ! 
Have  I  not  cares  enow,  and  pangs  enow, 
To  bear  alone,  that  we  must  mingle  sorrows, 
Whc  have  ceased  to  mingle  love  ? 

Re-enter  SALEMENES  and  Z.YRINA. 

Sal.  My  sister !  Courage : 

Shame  not  our  blood  with  trembling,  but  re- 
member 
From  whence  we  sprung.     The  queen  is  pres- 
ent, sire. 
Zar.     I  pray  thee,  brother,  leave  me. 
Sal.  Since  you  ask  it. 

[Exit  SALEMENES. 

Zar.    Alone  with  him  !     How  many  a  year 
has  passed, 
Though  we  are  still  so  young,  since  we  have 

met, 
Which  I  have  worn  in  widowhood  of  heart. 
He    loved    me    not :    yet    he    seems    little 

changed  — 
Changed  to  me  only  —  would  the  change  were 

mutual ! 
He  speaks  not  —  scarce  regards  me  —  not  a 

word  — 
Nor  look  —  yet  he  was  soft  of  voice  and  as- 
pect, 
Indifferent,  not  austere.     My  lord  ! 
Sar.  Zarina ! 

Zar.  No,  not  Zarina  —  do  not  say  Zarina. 
That  tone  —  that  word  —  annihilate  long  years, 
And  things  which  make  them  longer. 

Sar.  'Tis  too  late 

To  think   of  these   past  dreams.     Let's   not 

reproach  — 
That    is,   reproach    me    not  —  for    the    last 

time 

Zar.    And  first.     I  ne'er  reproached  you. 

Sar.  'Tis  most  true  ; 

And  that  reproof  comes  heavier  on  my  heart 

Than But  our    hearts    are   not  in   our 

owii  power. 
Zar.     Nor  hands-  but  I  gave  both. 


Sar.  Your  brother  said 

It  was  your  will  to  see  me,  ere  you  went 

From  Nineveh  with {He  hesitates.) 

Zar.  Our  children  :  it  is  true. 

I   wished  to  thank  you  that  you  have  not 

divided 
My  heart  from  all  that's  left  it  now  to  love  — 
Those  who   are   yours   and  mine,  who  look 

like  you, 
And  look  upon  me  as  you  looked  upon  me 

Once But  they  have  not  changed. 

Sar.  Nor  ever  wifl. 

I  fain  would  have  them  dutiful. 

Zar.  1  cherish 

Those  infants,  not  alone  from  the  blind  love 
Of  a  fond  mother,  but  as  a  fond  woman. 
They  are  now  the  only  tie  between  us. 

Sar.  Deem  not 

I  have  not  done  you  justice:    rather  make 

them 
Resemble  your  own  line  than  their  own  sire. 
1  trust  them  with  you  —  to  you  :  fit  them  for 
A  throne,  or,  if  that  be  denied You  have 

heard 
Of  this  night's  tumults  ? 

Z,ar.  I  had  half  forgotten 

And  could   have  welcomed  any  grief  save 

yours, 
Which  gave  me  to  behold  your  face  again. 
Sar.    The  throne  —  I  say  it  not  in  fear  — 

but  'tis     t 
In  peril ;  they  perhaps  may  never  mount  it  : 
But  let  them  not  for  this  lose  sight  of  it. 
I  will  dare  all  things  to  bequeathe  it  them ; 
But  if  I  fail,  then  they  must  win  it  back 
Bravely  — and,  won,  wear  it  wisely,  not  as  I 
Have  wasted  down  my  royalty. 

Zar.  They  ne'er 

Shall  know  from  me  of  aught  but  what  may 

honor 
Their  father's  memory. 

Sar.  Rather  let  them  hear 

The  truth  from   you  than   from  a  trampling 

world. 
If  they  be  in  adversity,  they'll  learn 
Too  soon  the  scorn  of  crowds  for  crownless 

princes, 
And  find  that  all  their  father's  sins  are  theirs. 
My  boys!  —  I  could   have   borne   it  were   I 

childless. 
Zar.    Oh !  do  not  say  so  —  do  not  poison 

all 
My  peace  left,  by  unwishing  that  thou  wert 
A  father.    If  thou  conquerest,  they  shall  reign, 
And  honor  him  who  saved  the  realm  for  them. 

So  little  cared  for  as  his  own  ;  and  if 

Sar.     'Tis  lost,  all  earth  will  cry  out,  thank 

your  father ! 
And  they  will  swell  the  echo  with  a  curse. 
Zar.     That  they  shall  never  do  ;  but  rather 

honor 
The  name  of  him,  who,  dying  like  a  king, 


SCENE   1.1 


SARDANAPALUS, 


611 


In  his  last  hours  did  more  for  his  own  mem- 
ory 
Than  many  monarchs  in  a  length  of  days, 
Which  date  the  flight  of  time,  but  make  no 
annals. 
Sar.     Our    annals    draw  perchance    unto 
their  close ; 
But  at  the  least,  whate'er  the  past,  their  end 
Shall  be  like  their  beginning —  memorable. 
Zar.     Yet,  be  not  rash  —  be  careful  of  your 
life, 
Live  but  for  those  who  love. 

Sar.  And  who  are  they  ? 

A  slave, who  loves  from  passion  —  I'll  not  say 
Ambition  —  she  has  seen  thrones  shake,  and 

loves ; 
A  few  friends  who  have  revelled  till  we  are 
As  one,  for  they  are  nothing  if  I  fall ; 
A  brother  I  have  injured  —  children  whom 

I  have  neglected,  and  a  spouse 

Zar.  Who  loves. 

Sar.    And  pardons  ? 

Zar.  I  have  never  thought  of  this, 

And  cannot  pardon  till  I  have  condemned. 
Sar.     My  wife ! 

Zar.     Now  blessings  on  thee  for  that  word  ! 
I  never  thought  to  hear  it  more  —  from  thee. 
Sar.     Oh !  thou  wilt  hear  it  from  my  sub- 
jects.   Yes  — 
These  slaves  whom  I   have   nurtured,  pam- 
pered, fed, 
And  swoln  with  peace,  and  gorged  with  plen- 
ty, till 
They   reign    themselves  —  all    monarchs    in 

their  mansions  — 
Now  swarm  forth  in  rebellion,  and  demand 
His  death,  who  made  their  lives  a  jubilee  ; 
While  the  few  upon  whom  I  have  no  claim 
Are  faithful !     This  is  true,  yet  monstrous. 

Zar.  'Tis 

Perhaps  too  natural ;  for  benefits 
Turn  poison  in  bad  minds. 

Sar.  And  good  ones  make 

Good  out  of  evil.     Happier  than  the  bee, 
Which  hives  not  but  from  wholesome  flowers. 
Zar.  Then  reap 

The  honey,  nor  inquire  whence  'tis  derived. 
Be  satisfied  —  you  are  not  all  abandoned. 
Sar.     My  life  insures  me  that.     How  long, 
bethink  you, 
Were  not  I  yet  a  king,  should  I  be  mortal ; 
That  is,  where  mortals  are,  not  where  they 
must  be  ? 
Zar.     I  know  not.     But  yet  live  for  my  — 
that  is, 
Your  children's  sake ! 

Sar.  My  gentle,  wronged  Zarina !  i 

J  am  the  very  slave  of  circumstance 


1  [We  are  not  sure,  whether  there  is  not  a  con- 
siderable violation  of  costume  in  the  sense  of  degra- 
dation with  which  Myrrha  seems  to  regard  her  sit- 
uation in  the  harem,  no  less  than  in  the  resentment 


And    impulse  —  borne     away    with     every 

breath ! 
Misplaced   upon  the   throne  —  misplaced  in 

life. 
I  know  not  what  I  could  have  been,  but  fee! 
I  am  not  what  I  should  be  —  let  it  end. 
But  take  this  with  thee  :  if  I  was  not  formed 
To  prize  a  love  like  thine,  a  mind  like  thine, 
Nor  dote  even  on  thy  beauty — as  I've  doted 
On  lesser  charms,  for  no  cause  save  that  such 
Devotion  was  a  duty,  and  I  hated 
All  that  looked  like  a  chain  for  me  or  others 
(This  even  rebellion  must  avouch)  ;  yet  hear 
These  words,  perhaps  among  my  last  —  that 

none 
E'er  valued  more  thy  virtues,  though  he  kne\C 

not 
To  profit  by  them  —  as  the  miner  lights 
Upon  a  vein  of  virgin  ore,  discovering 
That  which   avails    him    nothing:    he   hath 

found  it, 
But  'tis  not  his  —  but  some  superior's,  who 
Placed  him  to  dig,  but  not  divide  the  wealth 
Which  sparkles  at  his  feet ;  nor  dare  he  lift 
Nor  poise  it,  but  must  grovel  on,  upturning 
The  sullen  earth. 

Zar.  Oh  !  if  thou  hast  at  length 

Discovered  that  my  love  is  worth  esteem, 
I  ask  no  more  —  but  let  us  hence  together, 
And  /  —  let  me  say  we —  shall  yet  be  happy. 
Assyria  is  not  all  the  earth  —  we'll  find 
A  world  out  of  our  own  —  and  be  more  blessed 
Than  I  have  ever  been,  or  thou,  with  all 
An  empire  to  indulge  thee. 

Enter  SALEMENES. 

Sal.  I  must  part  ye  ■— 

The  moments,  which  must  not  be   lost,  are 
passing. 

Zar.     Inhuman    brother!    wilt    thou    thus 
weigh  out 
Instants  so  high  and  blest  ? 

Sal.  Blest ! 

Zar.  He  hath  been 

So  gentle  with  me,  that  I  cannot  think 
Of  quitting. 

Sal.  So — this  feminine  farewell 

Ends  as  such  partings  end,  in  no  departure. 


of  Salemenes,  and  the  remorse  of  Sardanapalus  on 
the  score  of  his  infidelity  to  Zarina.  Little  as  we 
know  of  the  domestic  habits  of  Assyria,  we  have 
reason  to  conclude,  from  the  habits  of  contempo- 
rary nations,  and  from  the  manners  of  the  East  in 
every  age,  that  polygamy  was  neither  accounted  a 
crime  in  itself,  nor  as  a  measure  of  which  the  prin- 
cipal wife  was  justified  in  complaining.  And  even 
in  Greece,  in  those  times  when  Myrrha's  character 
must  have  been  formed  —  to  be  a  captive,  and  sub- 
ject to  the  captor's  pleasure,  was  accounted  a  mis- 
fortune indeed,  but  could  hardly  be  regarded  as  an 
infamy.  But  where  is  the  critic  who  would  object 
to  an  inaccuracy  which  has  given  occasion  to  such 
sentiments  and  such  poetry?  —  Heber.\ 


612 


SARDANAPAL  US. 


[act  IV. 


I  thought  as  much,  and  yielded  against  all 
My  better  bodings.     But  it  must  not  be. 

Zar.     Not  be? 

Sal.  Remain,  and  perish 

Zar.     With  my  husband 

Sal.     And  children. 

Zar.  Alas ! 

Sal.  Hear  me,  sister,  like 

My   sister :  —  all's   prepared    to   make    your 

safety 
Certain,  and  of  the  boys  too,  our  last  hopes; 
'Tis  not  a  single  quesiion  of  mere  feeling, 
Though  that  were  much  —  but  'tis  a  point  of 

state  : 
The  rebels  would  do  more  to  seize  upon 
The    offspring    of   their   sovereign,   and    so 
crush  

Zar.    Ah  !  do  not  name  it. 

Sal.  Well,  then,  mark  me:  when 

They  are  safe  beyond  the  Median's  grasp,  the 

rebels 
Have  missed  their  chief  aim  —  the  extinction  of 
The  line  of  Nimrod.    Though  the  present  king 
Fall,  his  sons  live  for  victory  and  vengeance. 

Zar.     But  could  not  I  remain,  alone  ? 

Sal.  What !   leave 

Your  children,  with  two  parents  and  yet  or- 
phans — 
In  a  strange  land  —  so  young,  so  distant  ? 

Zar.  No  — 

My  heart  will  break. 

Sal.  Now  you  know  all  —  decide. 

Sar.     Zarina,  he  hath  spoken  well,  and  we 
Must  yield  awhile  to  this  necessity. 
Remaining  here,  you  may  lose  all ;  departing, 
You  save  the  better  part  of  what  is  left, 
To  both  of  us,  and  to  such  loyal  hearts 
As  yet  beat  in  these  kingdoms. 

Sal.  The  time  presses. 

Sar.     Go,  then.     If  e'er  we   meet  again, 
perhaps 
I  may  be  worthier  of  you  —  and,  if  not, 
Remember  that  my  faults,  though  not  atoned 

for, 
Are  ended.     Yet,  I  dread  thy  nature  will 
Grieve  more  above  the   blighted   name  and 

ashes 
Which   once  were    mightiest    in   Assyria  — 

than 

But  I  grow  womanish  ngain,  and  must  not ; 
I  must  learn  sternness  now.    My  sins  have  all 

Been  of  the  softer  order hide  thy  tears  — 

I  do  not  bid  thee  not  to  shed  them  —  'twere 
Easier  to  stop  Euphrates  at  its  source 
Than  one  tear  of  a  true  and  tender  heart  — 
But  let  me  not  behold   them ;    they  unman 

me 
Here   when    I    had   remanned   myself.      My 

brother, 
Lead  her  away. 

Zar.  Oh,  God !  I  never  shall 

Behold  him  more ! 


Sal.  (striving'  to  conduct  her).    Nay,  sister, 
I  must  be  obeyed. 

Zar.    I  must  remain  —  away!  you  shall  not 
hold  me. 
What,  shall  he  die  alone  ? —  /  live  alone  ? 

Sal.     He  shall  not  die  alone  ;  but  lonely  you 
Have  lived  for  years. 

Zar.  That's  false  !   I  knew  he  lived, 

And  lived  upon  his  image  —  let  me  go! 

Sal.  (conducting  her  off  the  stage).     Nay, 
then,  I  must  use  some  fraternal  force, 
Which  you  will  pardon. 

Z.ar.  Never.     Help  me !     Oh ! 

Sardanapalus,  wilt  thou  thus  behold  me 
Torn  from  thee  ? 

Sal.  Nay  —  then  all  is  lost  again, 

If  that  this  moment  is  not  gained. 

Zar.  My  brain  turns  — 

My  eyes  fail  —  where  is  he  ?  [She  faints. 

Sar.  (advancing).      No  —  set  her  down  — 
She's  dead  —  and  you  have  slain  her. 

Sal.  'Tis  the  mere 

Faintness  of  o'erwrought  passion  :  in  the  air 
She  will  recover.   Pray,  keep  back.  —  [Aside.] 

I  must 
Avail  myself  of  this  sole  moment  to 
Bear  her  to  where  her  children  are  embarked, 
I'  the  royal  galley  on  the  river. 

[SaLEMENES  dears  her  off> 

Sar.  (solus).  This,  too  — 

And  this  too  must  I  suffer — I,  who  never 
Inflicted  purposely  on  human  hearts 
A  voluntary  pang!     But  that  is  false  — 
She  loved  me,  and  I  loved  -her.  —  Fatal  pas- 
sion ! 
Why  dost  tl  ou  not  expire  at  once  in  hearts 
Which  thou  hast  lighted  up  at  once  ?   Zarina ! 
I  must  pay  dearly  for  the  desolation 
Now  brought  upon  thee.     Had  I  never  loved 
But  thee,  1  should  have  been  an  unopposed 
Monarch  of  honoring  nations.    To  what  gulfs 
A  single  deviation  from  the  track 
Of  human  duties  leads  even  those  who  claim 
The  homage  of  mankind  as  their  born  due, 
And  find  it,  till  they  forfeit  it  themselves ! 

Enter  MYRRHA. 


1  [This  scene  has  been,  we  know  not  why,  called 
"  useless,"  "  unnatural,"  and  "  tediously  written."  * 
For  ourselves,  we  are  not  ashamed  to  own  that  we 
have  read  it  with  emotion.  It  is  an  interview  be- 
tween Sardanapalus  and  his  neglected  wife,  whom, 
with  her  children,  he  is  about  to  send  to  a  place  of 
safety.  Here,  too,  however,  he  is  represented,  with 
much  poetical  art  and  justice  of  delineation,  as,  in 
the  midst  of  his  deepest  regrets  for  Zarina,  chiefly 
engrossed  with  himself  and  his  own  sorrows,  and 
inclined,  immediately  afterwards,  to  visit  on  poor 
Myrrha  the  painful  feelings  which  his  own  re 
proaches  of  himself  have  occasioned.  —  Heber.\ 


*  [These  expressions  occurred  in  the  EdinburgV 
Review.] 


SCENE   I.] 


SARDANAPAL  US. 


613 


Sar.'    You  here  !     Who  called  you  ? 

Myr.  No  one  —  but  I  heard 

Far  off  a  voice  of  wail  and  lamentation, 
And  thought 

Sar.  It  forms  no  portion  of  your  duties 

To  enter  here  till  sought  for. 

Myr.  Though  I  might, 

Perhaps,  recall  some  softer  words  of  yours 
(Although   they /oo  were  chiding),  which  re- 
proved me, 
Because  I  ever  dreaded  to  intrude ; 
Resisting  my  own  wish  and  your  injunction 
To  heed  no  time  nor  presence,  but  approach 

you 
Uncalled  for  :  —  I  retire. 

Sar.  Yet  stay  —  being  here. 

I  prav  you  pardon  me  :   events  have  soured 

me 
Till  I  wax  peevish  —  heed  it  not:  I  shall 
Soon  be  myself  again. 

Myr.  I  wait  with  patience, 

What  I  shall  see  with  pleasure. 

Sar.  Scarce  a  moment 

Before  your  entrance  in  this  hall,  Zarina, 
Queen  of  Assyria,  departed  hence. 

Myr.    Ah ! 

Sar.  Wherefore  do  you  start  ? 

Myr.  Did  I  do  so  ? 

Sar.     'Twas  well  you  entered  by  another 
portal, 
••ilse  you  had  met.  That  pang  at  least  is  spared 
her. 

Myr.     I  know  to  feel  for  her. 

Sar.  That  is  too  much 

And  beyond  nature — 'tis  nor  mutual  * 
Nor  possible.     You  cannot  pity  her, 
Nor  she  aught  but ■ 

Myr.  Despise  the  favorite  slave  ? 

Not  more  than  I  have  ever  scorned  myself. 

Sar.     Scorned!    what,  to  be  the   envy  of 
your  sex, 
And  lord  it  o'er  the  heart  of  the  world's  lord  ? 

Myr.     Were  you  the  lord  of  twice  ten  thou- 
sand worlds  — 
As  you  are  like  to  lose  the  one  you  swayed  — 
1  did  abase  myself  as  much  in  being 
Your  paramour,  as  though  you  were  a  peas- 
ant— 
Nay,  more,  if  that  the  peasant  were  a  Greek. 

Sar.    You  talk  it  well 

Myr.  And  truly. 

Sar.  In  the  hour 

Of  man's  adversity  all  things  grow  daring 
Against  the  falling ;  but  as  I  am  not 
Quite  fallen,  nor   now  disposed  to  bear  re- 
proaches, 
■Perhaps  because  I  merit  them  too  often, 
/Let  us  then  part  while  peace  is  still  between  us. 
I     Myr.     Part ! 


1  [For   mutual   the  MS.   has  natural;    which 
:rtainly  seems  better.] 


Sar.     Have   not    all    past    human    beings 
parted, 
And  must  not  all  the  present  one  day  part  ? 

Myr.     Why  ? 

Sar.     For  your  safety,  which  I  will  have 
looked  to, 
With  a  strong  escort  to  your  native  land; 
And  such  gifts,  as,  if  you  had  not  been  all 
A  queen,  shall   make   your   dowry  worth   * 
kingdom. 

Myr.     I  pray  you  talk  not  thus. 

Sar.  The  queen  is  gone 

You  need  not  shame  to  fol'ow.     I  would  fall 
Alone —  I  seek  no  partners  but  in  pleasure. 

Myr.     And  I  no  pleasure  but  in  parting  not 
You  shall  not  force  me  from  vou. 

Sar.  Think  well  of  it  — 

It  soon  may  be  too  late. 

Myr.  So  let  it  be ; 

For  then  you  cannot  separate  me  from  you. 

Sar.    And  will   not;    but    I    thought    you 
wished  it. 

Myr.  I! 

Sar.    You  spoke  of  your  abasement. 

Myr.  And  I  feel  it 

Deeply — more  deeply  than  all  things  but  love. 

Sar.     Then  fly  from  it. 

Myr.  'Twill  not  recall  the  past  — 

'Twill  not  restore  my  honor,  nor  my  heart. 
No  —  here  I  stand  or  fall.    If  that  you  conquer, 
I  live  to  joy  in  your  great  triumph  :  should 
Your  lot  be  different,  I'll  not  weep,  but  share  it. 
You  did  not  doubt  me  a  few  hours  ago. 

Sar.     Your  courage  never  —  nor  your  love 
till  now, 
And  none  could  make  me  doubt  it  save  your- 
self. 
Those  words 

Myr.     Were  words.      I  pray  you,  let  the 
proofs 
Be  in  the  past  acts  you  were  pleased  to  praise 
This  very  night,  and  in  my  further  bearing, 
Beside,  wherever  you  were  borne  by  fate. 

Sar.     I  am  content:    and,  trusting  in  my 
cause, 
Think  we  may  yet  be  victors  and  return 
To  peace  —  the  only  victory  I  covet. 
To  me  war  is  no  glory  —  conquest  no 
Renown.  To  be  forced  thus  to  uphold  my  righ 
Sits  heavier  on  my  heart  than  all  the  wrongs 
These  men  would  bow  me  down  with.    Never 

never 
Can  I  forget  this  night,  even  should  I  live 
To  add  it  to  the  memory  of  others. 
I  thought  to  have  made  mine  inoffensive  rule 
An  era  of  sweet  peace  'midst  bloody  annals 
A  green  spot  amidst  desert  centuries, 
On  which  the  future  would  turn   back   anc 

smile, 
And  cultivate,  or  sigh  when  it  could  not 
Recall  Sardanapalus'  golden  reign. 
I  thought  to  have  made  my  realm  a  paradise. 


614 


SARDANAPALUS. 


[act  v. 


And  every  moon  an  epoch  of  new  pleasures. 
I  took  the  rabble's  shouts  for  love  —  the  breath 
Of  friends  for  truth  —  the  lips  of  woman  for 
My  only  guerdon  —  so  they  are,  my  Myrrha  : 
[lie  kisses  her. 
Kiss  me      Now  let  them  take  my  realm  and 

life ! 
They  shall  have  both,  but  never  thee ! 

Myr.  No,  never! 

Man  may  despoil  his  brother  man  of  all 
That's  great  or  glittering  —  kingdoms  fall  — 

hosts  yield  — 
Friends  fail  —  slaves  fly  —  and   all   betray  — 

and  more 
Than  all,  the  most  indebted  —  but  a  heart 
That  loves  without  self-love  !    'Tis  here  —  now 

prove  it. 

Enter  Salemenes. 

Sal.  I  sought  you  —  How  ?  she  here  again  ? 

Sar.  Return  not 

Now  to  reproof:  methinks  your  aspect  speaks 
Of  higher  matter  than  a  woman's  presence. 

Sal .     The  only  woman  whom  it  much  im- 
ports me 
At  such  a  moment  now  is  safe  in  absence  — 
The  queen's  embarked. 

Sar.  And  well  ?  sav  that  much. 

Sal.  Yes. 

Her  transient  weakness  has  passed  o'er ;    at 

least, 
It  settled  into  tearless  silence :  her 
Pale  face  and  glittering  eye,  after  a  glance 
Upon  her  sleeping  children,  were  still  fixed 
Upon  the  palace  towers  as  the  swift  galley 
Stole  down  the  hurrying  stream  beneath  fhe 

starlight ; 
But  she  said  nothing. 

Sar.  Would  I  felt  no  more 

Than  she  has  said  ! 

Sal.  'Tis  now  too  late  to  feel ! 

Your  feelings  cannot  cancel  a  sole  pang: 
To  change  them,  my  advices  bring  sure  tidings 
That  the  rebellious  Medes  and  Chaldees,  mar- 
shalled 
Bv  their  two  leaders,  are  already  up 
In  arms  again  ;  and,  serrying  their  ranks, 
Prepare  to  attack  :  they  have  apparently 
Been  joined  by  other  satraps. 

Sar.  What !  more  rebels  ? 

Let  us  be  first,  then. 

Sal.  That  were  hardly  prudent 

Now,  though  it  was  our  first  intention.     If 
By  noon  to-morrow  we  are  joined  by  those 
I've  sent  for  by  sure  messengers,  we  shall  be 
In  strength  enough  to  venture  an  attack, 
Ay,  and  pursuit  too ;  but  till  then,  my  voice 
Is  to  await  the  onset. 

Sar.  I  detest 

That  waiting ;  though  it  seems  so  safe  to  fight 
Behind  high  walls,  and  hurl  down  foes  into 
Deep  fosses,  or  behold  them  sprawl  on  spikes 


Strewed  to  receive  them,  still  I  like  it  not  — 
My  soul  seems  lukewarm ;  but  when  I  set  on 

them; 
Though  they  were  piled  on  mountains,  I  would 

have 
A  pluck  at  them,  or  perish  in  hot  blood !  — 
Let  me  then  charge. 

Sal.  You  talk  like  a  young  soldier. 

Sar.    I  am  no  soldier,  but  a  man  :  speak  not 
Of  soldiership,  I  loathe  the  word,  and  those 
Who  pride  themselves  upon  it ;  but  direct  me 
Where  I  may  pour  upon  them. 

Xi/.  You  must  spare 

To  expose  your  life  too  hastily  ;  'tis  not 
Like  mine  or  any  other  subject's  breath. 
The  whole  war  turns  upon  it  —  with  it;  this 
Alone  creates  it,  kindles,  and  may  quench  it^ 
Prolong  it  —  end  it. 

Sar.  Then  let  us  end  both  ! 

'Twere  better  thus,    perhaps,  than   prolong 

either ; 
I'm  sick  of  one,  perchance  of  both. 

[A  trumpet  sounds  ivithout. 

Sal.  Hark! 

Sar.  Let  us 

Reply,  not  listen. 

Sal.  And  your  wound  ! 

Sar.  'Tis  bound  — 

'Tis  healed — I  had  forgotten  it.     Away! 
A  leech's  lancet  would    have   scratched   me 

deeper ; W 
The  slave  that  gave  it  might  be  well  ashamed 
To  have  struck  so  weakly. 

Sal.  Now,  may  none  this  hour 

Strike  with  a  better  aim  ! 

Sar.  Ay,  if  we  conquer ; 

But  if  not,  they  will  only  leave  to  me 
A  task  they  might  have  spared  their   king. 
Upon  them  !  [Trumpet  sounds  again. 

Sal.     I  am  with  you. 

Sar.  Ho,  my  arms  !  again,  my  arms ! 

\_Exeunt. 


ACT  V. 

SCENE  I. —  The  same  Hall  in  the  Palace. 

Myrrha  and  Balea. 

Myr.     (at  a  window).     The  day  at  last  has 
broken.     What  a  night 
Hath  ushered  it!     How  beautiful  in  heaven! 
Though  varied  with  a  transitory  storm, 
More  beautiful  in  that  variety  ! 
How  hideous  upon  earth!    where  peace  and 

hope. 
And  love  and  revel,  in  an  hour  were  trampled 
By  human  passions  to  a  human  chaos, 
Not  vet  resolved  to  separate  elements  — 


[MS.— 
'  A  leech's  lancet  would  have  done  as  much."] 


SCENE   I.J 


SARDANAPAL  US. 


615 


Tis  warring  still !     And  can  the  sun  so  rise, 
So  bright,  so  roiling  back  the  clouds  into 
Vapors  more  lovely  than  the  unclouded  sky, 
With  golden  pinnacles,  and  snowy  mountains, 
And  billows  purpler  than  the  ocean's,  making 
In  heaven  a  glorious  mockery  of  the  earth, 
So  like  we  almost  deem  it  permanent ; 
So  fleeting,  we  can  scarcely  call  it  aught 
Beyond  a  vision,  'tis  so  transiently 
Scattered  along  the  eternal  vault :  *  and  yet 
It  dwells  upon  the  soul  and  soothes  the  soul, 
And  blends  itself  into  the  soul,  until 
Sunrise  and  sunset  form  the  haunted  epoch 
Of  sorrow  and  of  love ;  which  they  who  mark 

not, 
Know  not  the  realms  where  those  twin  genii  2 
(Who  chasten  and  who  purify  our  hearts, 
So   that  we  would   not   change   their  sweet 

rebukes 
For  all  the  boisterous  joys  that  ever  shook 
The  air  with  clamor)  build  the  palaces 
Where  their  fond  votaries  repose  and  breathe 
Briefly  ;  —but  in  that  brief  cool  calm  inhale 
Enough  of  heaven  to  enable  them  to  bear 
The  rest  of  common,  heavy,  human  hours, 
Anil  dream  them  through  in  placid  sufferance  ; 
Though  seemingly  employed  like  all  the  rest 
Of  toiling  breathers  in  allotted  tasks3 
Of  pain  or  pleasure,  two  names  for  one  feeling, 
Which  our  internal,  restless  agony 
Would  vary  in  the  sound,  although  the  sense 
Escapes  our  highest  efforts  to  be  happy. 

Bal.    You  muse  right  calmly  :  and  can  you 
so  watch 
The  sunrise  which  may  be  our  last  ? 

Myr.  It  is 

Therefore  that  I  so  watch  it,  and  reproach 
Those  eyes,  which  never  may  behold  it  more, 
For  having  looked  upon  it  oft,  too  oft, 
Without  the  reverence  and  the  rapture  due 
To  that  which  keeps  all  earth  from  being  as 

fragile 
As  I  am  in  this  form.     Come,  look  upon  it, 
The  Chaldee's  god,  which,  when  I  gaze  upon, 
I  grow  almost  a  convert  to  your  Baal. 


1  [This  description  of  the  sun  rolling  back  the 
vapors  is  apparently  imitated  from  a  magnificent 
scene  in  the  second  book  of  Wordsworth's  Excur- 
sion :  —         „  Rounj  (),£,„  ancj  above, 

Glitter,  with  dark  recesses  interposed, 
Casement,  and  cottage-roof,  and  stems  of  trees 
Half-veiled  in  vaporing  cloud,  the  silver  steam 
Of  dews  fast  melting  on  their  leafy  boughs 
By  the  strong  sunbeams  smitten."] 

2  [MS.— 

"  Sunrise  and  sunset  form  the  epoch  of 
Sorrow  and  love  ;  and  they  who  mark  them  not 
Can  ne'er  hold  converse  with,"  etc.] 

s  [MS.— 

"  Of  laboring  wretches  in  allotted  tasks."] 


Bal.    As  now  he  reigns  in  heaven,  so  once 
on  earth 
He  swayed. 

Myr.      He   sways   it  now  far  more,  then; 
never 
Had  earthlymonarch  half  the  power  and  glory  - 
Which  centres  in  a  single  ray  of  his. 

Bal.     Surely  he  is  a  god  ! 

Myr.  So  we  Greeks  deem  too ; 

And  yet  I  sometimes  think  that  gorgeous  orb 
Must  rather  be  the  abode  of  gods  than  one 
Of  the  immortal  sovereigns.     Now  he  breaks 
Through  all  the  clouds,  and  fills  my  eyes  with 

light 
That  shuts  the  world  out.     I  can  look  no  more. 
.  Bal.     Hark !  heard  you  not  a  sound  ? 

Myr.  No,  'twas  mere  fancy  ; 

They  battle  it  beyond  the  wall,  and  not 
As  in  late  midnight  conflict  in  the  very 
Chambers :  the  palace  has  become  a  fortress 
Since  that  insidious  hour;  and  here,  within 
The  very  centre,  girded  by  vast  courts 
And  regal  halls  of  pyramid  proportions, 
Which  must  be  carried  one  by  one  before 
They  penetrate  to  where  they  then  arrived, 
We   are  as   much   shut  in   even    from    the 

sound 
Of  peril  as  from  glory. 

Bal.  But  they  reached 

Thus  far  before. 

Myr.  Yes,  by  surprise,  and  were 

Beat  back  by  valor:  now  at  once  we  have 
Courage  and  vigilance  to  guard  us. 

Bal.  May  they 

Prosper ! 

Myr.        That  is  the  prayer  of  many,  and 
The  dread  of  more  :  it  is  an  anxious  hour; 
I  strive  to  keep  it  from  my  thoughts.    Alas ! 
How  vainly ! 

Bal.  It  is  said  the  king's  demeanor 

In  the  late  action  scarcely  more  appalled 
The  rebels  than  astonished  his  true  subjects. 

Myr.     'Tis  easy  to  astonish  or  appall 
The  vulgar  mass  which  moulds  a  horde  of 

slaves ; 
But  he  did  bravely. 

Bal.  Slew  he  not  Beleses  ? 

I  heard  the  soldiers  say  he  struck  him  down. 

Myr.     The  wretch  was  overthrown,  but  res- 
cued to 
Triumph,  perhaps,  o'er  one  who  vanquished 

him 
In  fight,  as  he  had  spared  him  in  his  peril ; 
And  by  that  heedless  pity  risked  a  crown. 

Bal.     Hark ! 

Myr.     You  are  right ;  some  steps  approach, 
but  slowly. 
Enter  Soldiers,  bearing  in  SALEMENES  wound- 
ed, with  a  broken  Javelin  in  his  Side  :  they 

*  [Misprinted  hitherto  — 
"  Had  earthly  monarch  half  the  peace  and  glory."] 


616 


SARDANAPALUS. 


[ACT  v. 


seat  him  upon  one  of  the  Couches  which  fur- 
nish the  Apartment. 

Myr.     Oh,  Jovel 

Bal.  Then  all  is  over. 

Sal.  That  is  false. 

Hew  down  the  slave  who  says  so,  if  a  soldier. 
Myr.     Spare    him — he's    none:    a    mere 
court  butterfly, 
That  flutters  in  the  pageant  of  a  monarch. 
Sal.     Let  him  live  on,  then. 
Myr.  So  wilt  thou,  I  trust. 

Sal.     I  fain  would  live  this  hour  out,  and 
the  event, 
But  doubt  it.     Wherefore  did  ye  bear  me  here  ? 
Sol.     By  the  king's  order.     When  the  jave- 
lin struck  you, 
You  fell  and  fainted :  'twas  his  strict  command 
To  bear  you  to  this  hall. 

Sal.  'Twas  not  ill  done  : 

For  seeming  slain  in  that  cold  dizzy  trance, 
The  sight  might  shake  our  soldiers  —  but  — 

'tis  vain, 
I  feel  it  ebbing! 

Myr.  Let  me  see  the  wound  ; 

J  am  not  quite  skilless :  in  my  native  land 
'Tis  part  of  our  instruction.     War  being  con- 
stant, 
We  are  nerved  to  look  on  such  things.1 

Sol.  Best  extract 

The  javelin. 
Myr.  Hold !  no,  no,  it  cannot  be. 

Sal.     I  am  sped,  then ! 

Myr.  With  the  blood  that  fast  must 

follow 
The  extracted  weapon,  I  do  fear  thy  life. 
Sal.     And  I«<tfdeath.     Where  was  the  king 
when  you 
Conveyed   me   from   the   spot   where   I   was 
stricken  ? 
Sol.     Upon  the  same  ground,  and  encour- 
aging 
With  voice  and  gesture  the  dispirited  troops 
Who  had  seen  you  fall,  and  faltered  back. 

Sal.  Whom  heard  ye 

Named  next  to  the  command  ? 
Sol.  I  did  not  hear. 

Sal.     Fly,  then,  and  tell  him,  'twas  my  last 
request 
That  Zames  take  my  post  until  the  junction, 
So  hoped  for,  yet  delayed,  of  Ofratanes, 
Satrap  of  Susa.     Leave  me  here  :  our  troops 
Are  not  so  numerous  as  to  spare  your  absence. 

Sol.     But  prince 

Sal.  Hence,  I  sayl     Here's  a  cour- 

tier and 
A  woman,  the  best  chamber  company. 
As  you  would  not  permit  me  to  expire 
Upon  the  field,  I'll  have  no  idle  soldiers 
About  my  sick  couch.     Hence!  and  do  my 
bidding.  [Exeunt  the  Soldiers,  i 

x  [MS.  — "  We  are  used  to  such  inflictions."] 


Myr.     Gallant  and  glorious  spirit !  must  fne 
earth 
So  soon  resign  thee  ? 

Sal.  Gentle  Myrrha,  'tis 

The  end  I  would  have  chosen,  had  I  saved 
The  monarch  or  the  monarchy  by  this; 
As  'tis,  I  have  not  outlived  them. 

Myr.  You  wax  paler. 

Sal.     Your  hand ;  this  broken  weapon  but 
prolongs 
My  pangs,  without  sustaining  life  enough 
To  make  me  useful :  I  would  draw  it  forth 
And  my  life  with  it,  could  I  but  hear  how 
The  fight  goes. 

Enter  SARDANAPALUS  and  Soldiers. 


My  best  brother ! 

And  the  battle 


Sar. 

Sal. 

Is  lost  ? 

Sar.   {despondingly) .     You  see  me  here. 
Sal.  I'd  rather  see  you  thus} 

[He  draws  out  the  weapon  from  the  wound, 

and  dies. 
Sar.    And  thus  I  will  be  seen ;  unless  th« 
succor, 
The  last  frail  reed  of  our  beleaguered  hopes, 
Arrive  with  Ofratanes. 

Myr.  Did  you  not 

Receive  a  token  from  your  dying  brother, 
Appointing  Zames  chief? 
Sar.  I  did. 

Myr.  Where's  Zames  ? 

Sar.     Dead. 

Myr.  And  Altada  ? 

Sar.  Dying. 

Myr.     Pania  ?  Sfero  ? 
Sar.     Pania  yet  lives:  but  Sfero  "s  fled  or 
captive. 
I  am  alone. 
Myr.  And  is  all  lost  ? 

Sar.  Our  walls, 

Though   thinly  manned,  may  still   hold  out 

against 
Their  present  force,  or  aught  save  treachery: 

But  i'  the  field 

Myr.  I  thought  'twas  the  intent 

Of  Salemenes  not  to  risk  a  sally 
Till   ye   were   strengthened  by  the   expected 
succors. 
Sar.     I  over-ruled  him. 
Myr.  Well,  the  fault's  a  brave  one. 

Sar.     But  fatal.     Oh,  my  brother!   I  would 
give 
These  realms,  of  which  thou  wert  the  orna- 
ment, 
The  sword  and  shield,   the  sole-redeeming 
honor, 

To  call  back But  I  will  not  weep  for  thee ; 

Thou  shalt  be  mourned  for  as  thou  wouldst 

be  mourned. 
It  grieves  me  most  that  thou  couldst  quit  this 
life 


SCENE   I.J 


SARDANAPALUS. 


617 


Believing  that  I  could  survive  what  thou 
Hast  died  for  —  our  long  royalty  of  race. 
If  I  redeem  it,  I  will  give  thee  blood 
Of  thousands,  tears  of  millions,  for  atonement 
(The  tears  of  all  the  good  are  thine  already). 
If  not,  we  meet  again  soon,  — ■  if  the  spirit 
Within  us  lives  beyond  :  —  thou  readest  mine, 
And  dost  me  justice  now.     Let  me  once  clasp 
That  yet  warm  hand,  and  fold  that  throbless 
heart  [Embraces  the  body. 

To  this  which  beats  so  bitterly.     Now,  bear 
The  body  hence. 
Soldier.  Where  ? 

Sar.  To  my  proper  chamber. 

Place  it  beneath  my  canopy,  as  though 
The  king  lay  there  :  when  this  is  done,  we  will 
Speak  further  of  the  rites  due  to  such  ashes. 
[Exeunt  Soldiers  with  the  body  c/"SALEMENES. 
Enter  Pania. 
Sar.     Well,  Pania !    have   you  placed  the 
guards,  and  issued 
The  orders  fixed  on  ? 

Pan.  Sire,  I  have  obeyed. 

Sar.     And  do  the  soldiers  keep  their  hearts 

up  ? 
Pan.         Sire  ? 

Sar.     I'm  answered !     When  a  king  asks 
twice,  and  has 
A  question  as  an  answer  to  his  question, 
it  is  a  portent.    What!  they  are  disheartened  ? 
Pan.     The  death   of  Salemenes,    and   the 
shouts 
Of  the  exulting  rebels  on  his  fall, 

Have  made  them 

Sar.     Rage — not  droop  —  it   should  have 
been. 
We'll  find  the  means  to  rouse  them. 

Pan.  Such  a  loss 

Might  sadden  even  a  victory. 

Sar.  Alas! 

Who  can  so  feel  it  as  I  feel  ?  but  yet, 
Though  cooped  within  these  walls,  they  are 

strong,  and  we 
Have    those   without  will    break    their  way 

through  hosts, 
To  make   their  sovereign's  dwelling  what  it 

was  — 
A  palace ;  not  a  prison,  nor  a  fortress. 
Enter  an  Officer,  hastily. 
Sar.     Thy  face  seems  ominous.     Speak ! 
Offi.  I  dare  not. 

Sar.  Dare  not  ? 

While  millions  dare  revolt  with  sword  in  hand  ! 
That's  strange.     I  pray  thee  break  that  loyal 

silence 
Which  loathes  to  shock  its  sovereign  ;  we  can 

hear 
vVorse  than  thou  hast  to  tell. 
Pan.  Proceed,  thou  hearest. 

Offi.     The  wall  which  skirted  near  the  river's 
brink 


Is  thrown  down  by  the  sudden  inundation 
Of  the  Euphrates,  which  now  rolling,  swoln 
From  the  enormous  mountains  where  it  rises, 
By  the  late  rains  of  that  tempestuous  region, 
O'erfioods  its  banks,  and  hath  destroyed  the 
bulwark. 

Pan.     That's  a  black  augury  !    it  has  been 
said 
For  ages,  "That  the  city  ne'er  should  yield 
To  man,  until  the  river  grew  its  foe." 

Sar.     I  can  forgive  the  omen,  not  the  ravage. 
How  much  is  swept  down  of  the  wall  ? 

Offi.  About 

Some  twenty  stadii.1 

Sar.  And  all  this  is  left 

Pervious  to  the  assailants  ? 

Offi.  For  the  present 

The  river's  fury  must  impede  the  assault; 
But  when  he  shrinks  into  his  wonted  channel. 
And  maybe  crossed  by  the  accustomed  barks. 
The  palace  is  their  own. 

Sar.  That  shall  be  never. 

Though  men,  and  gods,  and  elements,  and 

omens, 
Have  risen   up    'gainst   one  who   ne'er  pro- 
voked them, 
My  father's  house  shall  never  be  a  cave 
For  wolves  to  horde  and  howl  in. 

Pan.  With  your  sanction, 

I  will  proceed  to  the  spot,  and  take  such  meas- 
ures 
For  the  assurance  of  the  vacant  space 
As  time  and  means  permit. 

Sar.  About  it  straight 

And  bring  me  back,  as  speedily  as  full 
And  fair  investigation  may  permit, 
Report  of  the  true  state  of  this  irruption 
Of  waters.         [Exeunt  Pania  and  the  Officer. 

Myr.  Thus  the  very  waves  rise  up 

Against  you. 

Sar.  They  are  not  my  subjects,  girl, 

And  may  be   pardoned,  since  they  can't  be 
punished. 

Myr.     I  joy  to  see  this  portent  shakes  you 
not. 

Sar.     I  am  past  the  fear  of  portents :  they 
can  tell  me 
Nothing  I  have   not   told  myself  since  mid- 
night : 
Despair  anticipates  such  things. 

Myr.  Despair ! 

Sar.     No ;    not  despair  precisely.     When 
we  know 
All  that  can  come,  and  how  to  meet  it,  our 
Resolves,  if  firm,  may  merit  a  more  noble 
Word  than  this  is  to  give  it  utterance. 
But  what  are  words  to  us  ?  we  have  wellnigh 

done 
With  them  and  all  things. 

Myr.  Save  one  deed —  the  last 


1  About  two  miles  and  a  half. 


618 


SARDAXAPALUS. 


[act  v. 


And  greatest  to  all  mortals ;  crowning  act 
Of  all  that  was —  or  is  —  or  is  to  be  — 
The  only  thing  common  to  all  mankind, 
So  different   in   their  births,   tongues,  sexes, 

natures, 
Hues,  features,  climes,  times,  feelings,  intel- 
lects,1 
Without  one  point  of  union  save  in  this, 
To  which  we  tend,  for  which  we're  born,  and 

thread 
The  labyrinth  of  mystery,  called  life. 
Sar.     Our  clew  being  wellnigh  wound  out, 
let's  be  cheerful. 
They  who  have  nothing  more  to  fear  may  well 
Indulge  a  smile  at  that  which  once  appalled ; 
As  children  at  discovered  bugbears. 

Reenter  PANIA. 
Pan.  'Tis 

As  was  reported  :   I  have  ordered  there 
A  double  guard,  withdrawing  from  the  wall 
Where  it  was  strongest  the  required  addition 
To  watch  the  breach  occasioned  by  the  waters. 
Sar.     You  have  done  your  duty  faithfully, 

and  as 
My  worthy  Pania  !  further  ties  between  us 
Draw  near  a  close.     I  pray  you  take  this  key  : 
[  Gives  a  key. 
It  opens  to  a  secret  chamber,  placed 
Behind  the  couch  in  my  own  chamber.    (Now 
Pressed  by  a  nobler  weight  than  e'er  it  bore  — 
Though  a  long  line  of  sovereigns  have  lain 

down 
Along  its  golden  frame  —  as  bearing  for 
A  time  what  late  was  Salemenes).     Search 
The  secret  covert  to  which  this  will  lead  you  ; 
'Tis  full  of  treasure ;  2  take  it  for  yourself 
And    your   companions :    there's   enough   to 

load  ye 
Though    ye   be   many.3     Let   the   slaves   be 

freed,  too ; 
And  all  the  inmates  of  the  palace,  of 
Whatever  sex,  now  quit  it  in  an  hour. 
Thence  launch  the  regal  barks,  once  formed 

for  pleasure, 
And  now  to  serve  for  safety,  and  embark. 
The   river's    broad   and   swoln,  and  uncom- 

manded 


i  [MS.— 

"  Complexions,  climes,  eras,  and  intellects."] 

2  ["  Athenseus  makes  these  treasures  amount  to 
a  thousand  myriads  of  talents  of  gold,  and  ten 
times  as  many  talents  of  silver,  which  is  a  sum  that 
exceeds  all  credibility.  A  man  is  lost  if  he  attempts 
to  sum  up  the  whole  value;  which  induces  me  to 
believe,  that  Athenaeus  must  have  very  much  ex- 
aggerated: however,  we  may  be  assured,  from  his 
account,  that  the  treasures  were  immensely  great." 
—  A>//j».] 


[MS. 
To  whi 


"  Ye  will  find  the  crevice 

hich  the  key  fits,  with  a  little  care."! 


(More  potent  than  a  king)  by  these  besiegers. 
Fly  !  and  be  happy ! 

Pan,  Under  your  protection '. 

So  you  accompany  your  faitiiful  guard. 

Sar.     No,   Pania!    that  must   not  be;    get 
thee  hence, 
And  leave  me  to  my  fate. 

Pan.                                     'Tis  the  first  time 
I  ever  disobeyed:  but  now 

Sar.  So  all  men 

Dare  beard  me  now,  and  Insolence  within 
Apes   Treason  from   without.     Question   no 

further; 
'Tis  my  command,  my  last  command.    Will 

thou 
Oppose  it  ?  thou  ! 

Pan.  But  yet  —  not  yet. 

Sar.  Well,  then, 

Swear  that  you  will  obey  when  I  shall  give 
The  signal. 

I\ui.  With  a  heavy  but  true  heart, 

1  promise. 

Sar.  "Tis  enough.     Now  order  here 

Fagots,  pine-nuts,  and  withered  leaves,  and 

such  4 
Things  as  catch  fire  and  blaze  with  one  sole 

spark ; 
Bring    cedar,  too,  and   precious  drugs,  and 

spices, 
And  mighty  planks,  to  nourish  a  tall  pile; 
Bring  frankincense  and  myrrh,  too,  for  it  is 
For  a  great  sacrifice  I  build  the  pyre ; 
And  heap  them  round  yon  throne. 

Pan.  My  lord'. 

Sar.  I  have  said  it, 

And  you  have  sworn. 

Pan.  And  could  keep  my  faith 

Without  a  vow.  [Exit  PANIA, 

Myr.  What  mean  you  ? 

Sar.  You  shall  know 

Anon  —  what  the  whole  earth  shall  ne'er  forget. 

PANIA,  returning  with  a  Herald. 

Pan.    My  king,  in  going  forth  upon  my  duty 
This   herald   has   been   brought   before    me 

craving 
An  audience. 

Sar.  Let  him  speak. 

Her.  The  King  Arbaces  — — 

Sar     What,  crowned  already  ?  —  But,  prG 
ceed. 

Her.         Beleses, 
The  anointed  high-priest 

Sar.  Of  what  god  or  demon  ? 

With  new  kings  rise  new  altars.    But,  proceed ; 
You  are  sent  to  prate  your  master's  will,  and 

not 
Reply  to  mine. 

Her.  And  Satrap  Ofritanes • 


[MS. 


"  Now  order  here 

Enough  of  dry  wood,"  etc.] 


SCENE   I.] 


SARDANAPALUS. 


619 


Sar.     Why,  he  is  ours. 

Her.     {showing  a  ring).     Be  sure  that  he 
is  now 
In  the  camp  of  the  conquerors  ;  behold 
His  signet  ring. 

Sar.  'lis  his.    A  worthy  triad ! 

Poor  Salemenes!  thou  hast  died  in  time 
Tc  see  one  treachery  the  less :  this  man 
Was  thy  true  friend  and  my  most  trusted  sub- 
ject. 
Proceed. 

Her.     They  offer  thee  thy  life,  and  freedom 
Of  choice  to  single  out  a  residence 
In  any  of  the  further  provinces, 
Guarded  and  watched,  but  not  confined  in 

person, 
Where  thou  shalt  pass  thy  days  in  peace  ;  but 

on 
Condition  that  the  three  young  princes  are 
Given  up  as  hostages. 

Sar.  {ironically).       The  generous  victors  ! 

Her.     I  wait  the  answer. 

Sar.  Answer,  slave  !     How  long 

Have  slaves  decided  on  the  doom  of  kings  ? 

Her.     Since  they  were  free. 

Sar.  Mouthpiece  of  mutiny  ! 

Thou  at  the  least  shalt  learn  the  penalty 
Of  treason,  though  its  proxy  only.     Pania  ! 
Let  his  head  be  thrown  from  our  walls  within 
The  rebels'  lines,  his  carcass  down  the  river. 
Away  with  him ! 

[PANIA  and  the  Guards  seizing  him. 

Pan.  I  never  yet  obeyed 

Your  orders  with  more  pleasure  than  the  pres- 
ent. 
Hence  with  him,  soldiers  !  do  not  soil  this  hall 
Of  royalty  with  treasonable  gore  ; 
Put  him  to  rest  without. 

Her.  A  single  word ; 

My  office,  king,  is  sacred. 

Sar.  And  what's  mine? 

That  thou  shouldst  come  and  dare  to  ask  of  me 
To  lay  it  down  ? 

Her.  I  but  obeyed  my  orders, 

At  the  same  peril  if  refused,  as  now 
Incurred  by  my  obedience. 

Sar.  So  there  are 

New  monarchsof  an  hour's  growth  as  despotic 
As    sovereigns     swathed      in     purple,    and 

enthroned 
From  birth  to  manhood! 

Her.  My  life  waits  your  breath. 

Yours  (I  speak  humbly)  — but  it  may  be  — 

yours 
May  also  be  in  danger  scarce  less  imminent : 
Would  it  then  suit  the  last  hours  of  a  line 
Such  as  is  that  of  Nimrod,  to  destroy 
A  peaceful  herald,  unarmed,  in  his  office; 
And  violate  not  only  all  that  man 
Holds  sacred  between  man    and  man  —  but 

that 
More  holy  tie  which  links  us  with  the  gods  ? 


Sar.     He's  right.  —  Let  him  go  free. —  My 
life's  last  act 
Shall  not  be  one  of  wrath.     Here,  fellow,  take 
[Gives  him  a  golden  cup  from  a  table  near. 
This  golden  goblet,  let  it  hold  your  wine: 
And  think  of  me  ;  or  melt  it  into  ingots, 
And  think  of  nothing  but  their  weight  and 
value. 

Her.    I  thank  you  doubly  for  my  life,  and 
this 
Most  gorgeous  gift,  which   renders  it  more 

precious. 
But  must  I  bear  no  answer  ? 

Sar.  Yes, —  I  ask 

An  hour's  truce  to  consider. 

Her.  But  an  hour's  ? 

Sar.     An  hour's  :  if  at  the  expiration  of 
That  time  your  masters  hear  no  further  from 

me, 
They  are  to  deem  that  I  reject  their  terms, 
And  act  befittingly. 

Her.  I  shall  not  fail 

To  be  a  faithful  legate  of  your  pleasure. 

Sar.     And  hark !  a  word  more. 

Her.  I  shall  not  forget  it, 

Whate'er  it  be. 

Sar.  Commend  me  to  Beleses ; 

And  tell  him,  ere  a  year  expire,  I  summon 
Him  hence  to  meet  me. 

Her.  Where  ? 

Sar.  At  Babylon. 

At  least  from  thence  he  will  depart  to  meet  me. 

Her.     I  shall  obey  you  to  the  letter. 

[Exit  Herald. 

Sar.  Pania !  — 

Now,  my  good  Pania !  —  quick  —  with  what  I 
ordered. 

Pan.     My  lord,  —  the  soldiers  are  already 
charged. 
And  see  !  they  enter. 

[Soldiers  enter,  and  form  a  Pile  about  the 
Throne,  etc. 

Sar.  Higher,  my  good  soldiers. 

And  thicker  yet ;   and  see  that  the  foundation 
Be  such  as  will  not  speedily  exhaust 
Its  own  too  subtle  flame  ;  nor  yet  be  quenched 
With  aught  officious  aid  would  bring  to  quel] 

it. 
Let  the  throne  form  the  core  of  it ;   I  would  not 
Leave  that,  save  fraught  with  fire  unquench- 
able, 
To  the  new  comers.     Frame  the  whole  as  if 
'Twere  to  enkindle  the  strong  tower  of  our 
Inveterate  enemies.     Now  it  bears  an  aspect! 
How  say  you,  Pania,  will  this  pile  suffice 
For  a  king's  obsequies  ? 

Pan.  Ay,  for  a  kingdom's. 

I  understand  you,  now. 

Sar.  And  blame  me? 

Pan.  No- 

Let  me  but  fire  the  pile,  and  share  it  with  yotfc 

Myr.    That  duty's  mine. 


620 


SARDANAPAL  US. 


[act  v. 


Pan.  A  weman's ! 

A/yr.  'Tis  the  soldier's 

Part  to  die/or  his  sovereign,  and  why  not 
The  woman's  with  her  lover  ? 

Pan.  'Tis  most  strange  ! 

Myr.    But  not  so  rare,  my  Pania,  as  thou 
think'st  it. 
In  the  mean  time,  live  thou.  —  Farewell !   the 

pile 
Is  ready. 

Pan.     I  should  shame  to  leave  my  sovereign 
With  but  a  single  female  to  partake 
His  death. 

Sar.  Too  many  far  have  heralded 

Me  to  the  dust,  already.    Get  thee  hence ; 
Enrich  thee. 

Pan.  And  live  wretched ! 

Sar.  Think  upon 

Thy  vow: — 'tis  sacred  and  irrevocable. 

Pan.     Since  it  is  so,  farewell. 

Sar.  Search  well  my  chamber, 

Feel  no  remorse  at  bearing  off  the  gold; 
Remember  what  you  leave  you  leave  the  slaves 
Who  slew  me  :  and  when  you  have  borne  away 
All  safe  oft  to  your  boats,  blow  one  long  blast 
Upon  the  trumpet  as  you  quit  the  palace. 
The  river's  brink  is  too  remote,  its  stream 
Too  loud  at  present  to  permit  the  echo 
To  reach  distinctly  from  its  banks.   Then  fly,  — 
And  as  you  sail,  turn  back;  but  still  keep  on 
Your  way  along  the  Euphrates:   if  you  reach 
The  land  of  Paphlagonia,  where  the  queen 
Is  safe  with  my  three  sons  in  Cotta's  court, 
Say,  what  you  saw  at  parting,  and  request 
That  she  remember  what  I  said  at  one 
Parting  more  mournful  still. 

Pan.  That  royal  hand  ! 

Let  me  then  once  more  press  it  to  my  lips ; 
And  these  poor  soldiers  who  throng  round 

you, and 
Would  fain  die  with  you ! 

[The  soldiers  and  Pania  throng  round  him, 
kissing  his  hand  and  the  hem  0/  his  robe. 

Sar.  My  best !  my  last  friends  ! 

Let's  not  unman  each  other  :  part  at  once  : 
All  farewells  should  be  sudden,  when  for  ever, 
Else  they  make  an  eternity  of  moments, 
&nd  clog  the  last  sad  sands  of  life  with  tears. 
Hence,  and  be  happy :  trust  me,  I  am  not 
Noiv  to  be  pitied ;  or  far  more  for  what 
Is  past  than  present ;  —  for  the  future,  'tis 
In  the  hands  of  the  deities,  if  such 
There  be :    I   shall  know  soon.     Farewell  — 
Farewell.      [Exeunt  Pania  and  Soldiers. 

Myr.     These  men  were  honest :   it  is  com- 
fort still 
That  our  last  looks  should  be  on  loving  faces. 

Sar.     And  lovely  ones,  my  beautiful !  — but 
hear  me  1 
If  at  this  moment,  —  for  we  now  are  on 
The  brink,  —  thou  feel'st  an  inward  shrinking 
trom 


This  leap  through  flame  into  the  future,  say  it : 
I  shall  not  love  thee  less ;  nay,  perhaps  more, 
For  yielding  to  thy  nature  :  and  there's  time 
Yet  for  thee  to  escape  hence. 

Myr.  Shall  I  light 

One  of  the  torches  which  lie  heaped  beneath 
The  ever-burning  lamp  that  burns  without, 
Before  Baal's  shrine,  in  the  adjoining  hall  ? 

Sar.     Do  so.     Is  that  thy  answer  ? 

Myr.  Thou  shalt  see< 

[Exit  Myrrha. 

Sar.    (solus).      She's    firm.     My     fathers! 
whom  I  will  rejoin, 
It  may  be,  purified  by  death  from  some 
Of  the  gross  stains  of  too  material  being, 
I  would  not  leave  your  ancient  first  abode 
To  the  defilement  of  usurping  bondmen; 
If  I  have  not  kept  your  inheritance 
As  ye  bequeathed  it,  this  bright  part  of  it, 
Your  treasure,  your  abode,  your  sacred  relics 
Of  arms,  and  records,  monuments,  and  spoils, 
In  which  they  would  have  revelled,  I  bear  with 

me 
To  you  in  that  absorbing  element, 
Which  most  personifies  the  soul  as  leaving 
The  least  of  matter  unconsumed  before 
Its  fiery  workings:  —  and  the  light  of  this 
Most  royal  of  funereal  pyres  shall  be 
Not  a  mere  pillar  formed  of  cloud  and  flame, 
A  beacon  in  the  horizon  for  a  day, 
And  then  a  mcfunt  of  ashes,  but  a  light 
To  lesson  ages,  rebel  nations,  and 
Voluptuous  princes.     Time  shall  quench  full 

many 
A  people's  records,  and  a  hero's  acts; 
Sweep  empire  after  empire,  like  this  first 
Of  empires,  into  nothing;  but  even  then 
Shall  spare  this  deed  of  mine,  and  hold  it  up 
A  problem  few  dare  imitate,  and  none 
Despise  —  but,  it  may  be,  avoid  the  life 
Which  led  to  such  a  consummation. 

MYRRHA  returns  with  a  lighted  Torch  in  ont 
Hand,  and  a  Cup  in  the  other. 

Myr.  Lo ! 

I've  lit  the  lamp  which  lights  us  to  the  stars. 

Sar.    And  the  cup  ? 

Myr.  'Tis  my  country's  custom  t© 

Make  a  libation  to  the  gods. 

Sar.  And  mine 

To  make  libations  amongst  men.     I've  not 
Forgot  the  custom  ;  and  although  alone, 
Will  drain  one  draught  in  memory  of  many 
A  joyous  banquet  past. 

[SARDANAPALUS  takes  the  cup,  and  after 
drinking  and  tinkling  the  reversed  cup,  as 
a  drop  falls,  exclaims — 

And  this  libation 
Is  for  the  excellent  Beleses. 

Myr.  Why 

Dwells  thy  mind  rather  upon  that  man's  name 
That  on  his  mate's  in  villany  ? 


SCENE   I.] 


SARDANAPALUS. 


621 


Sar.  The  one 

Is  a  mere  soldier,  a  mere  tool,  a  kind 
Of  human  sword  in  a  friend's- hand  ;  the  other 
Is  master-mover  of  his  warlike  puppet : 
But    I    dismiss  them   from    my  mind.  —  Yet 

pause, 
My  Myrrha!  dost  thou  truly  follow  me, 
Freely  and  fearlessly  ? 

Afyr.  And  dost  thou  think 

A.  Greek  girl  dare  not  do  for  love,  that  which 
An  Indian  widow  braves  for  custom  ?  1 

Sar.  Then 

We  but  await  the  signal. 

Afyr.  It  is  long 

in  sounding. 
Sar.  Now,  farewell ;  one  last  embrace. 

Afyr.     Embrace,  but  not  the  last ;  there  is 

one  more. 
Sar.     True,  the  commingling  fire  will  mix 

our  ashes. 
Afyr.    And  pure  as  is  my  love  to  thee,  shall 
they, 
Purged  from  the  dross  of  earth,  and  earthly 

passion, 
Mix  pale  with   thine.    A  single   thought  yet 
irks  me. 
Sar.     Say  it. 

Myr.  It  is  that  no  kind  hand  will 

gather 
The  dust  of  both  into  one  urn. 

Sar.  The  better : 

Rather  let  them  be  borne  abroad  upon 
The  winds  of  heaven,  and  scattered  into  air, 
Than  be  polluted  more  by  human  hands 
Of  slaves  and  traitors.     In  this  blazing  palace, 
And  its  enormous  walls  of  reeking  ruin, 
We  leave  a  nobler  monument  than  Egypt 
Hath  piled  in  her  brick  mountains,  o'er  dead 

kings,2 
Or  kine,  for  none  know  whether  those  proud 

piles 
Be  for  their  monarch,  or  their  ox-god  Apis : 


1  [MS.  "  And  what  is  there 

An  Indian  widow  dares  for  custom,  which 
A  Greek  girl  dare  not  do  for  love?  "] 

2  [These  lines  are  in  bad  taste  enough,  from 
ingle  between  kings  and  kine,  down  to  the  absurd- 
ity of  believing  that  Sardanapalus  at  such  a  mo- 
ment would  be  likely  to  discuss  a  point  of  antiqua- 
rian curiosity.  But  they  involve  also  an  anachro- 
nism, inasmuch  as,  whatever  date  be  assigned  to 
ihe  erection  of  the  earlier  pyramids,  there  can  be 
no  reason  for  apprehending  that,  at  the  fall  of 
Nineveh,  and  while  the  kingdom  and  hierarchy  of 
Egypt  subsisted  in  their  full  splendor,  the  destina- 
tion of  those  immense  fabrics  could  have  been  a 
matter  of  doubt  to  any  who  might  inquire  concern- 
ing them.  Herodotus,  three  hundred  years  later, 
may  have  been  misinformed  of  these  points;  but, 
when  Sardanapalus  lived,  the  erection  of  pyramids 
must,  in  all  probability,  have  not  been  still  of  un- 
frequent  occurrence,  and  the  nature  of  their  con- 
tents no  subject  of  mistake  or  mystery.  —  Heber.\ 


So  much  for  monuments  that  have  forgotten 
Their  very  record ! 

Myr.  Then  farewell,  thou  earth  t 

And  loveliest  spot  of  earth  !  farewell,  Ionia! 
Be  thou  still  free  and  beautiful,  and  far 
Aloof  from  desolation  !     My  last  prayer 
Was   for   thee,  my   last   thoughts,  save   one \ 
were  of  thee ! 

Sar.     And  that? 

Afyr.  Is  yours. 

\_The  trumpet  of  Pania  sounds  without. 

Sar.  Hark ! 

Myr.  Now! 

Sar.  Adieu,  Assyria! 

I  loved  thee  well,  my  own,  my  fathers'  land, 
And  better  as  my  country  than  my  kingdom. 
I  sated  thee  with  peace  and  joys ;  and  this 
Is  my  reward !  and  now  I  owe  thee  nothing, 
Not  even  a  grave.  [He  mounts  the  pile. 

Now,  Myrrha! 

Myr.  Art  thou  ready  ? 

Sar.    As  the  torch  in  thy  grasp. 

[MYRRHAy&-«  the  pile. 

Afyr.  'Tis  fired  !   I  come. 

[As   MYRRHA   springs  forward  to   throw 
herself  into  the  fames,  the  Curtain  falls? 


3  [In  "  Sardanapalus"  Lord  Byron  has  been  far 
more  fortunate  than  in  the  "  Doge  of  Venice,"  inas- 
much as  his  subject  is  one  eminently  adapted  not 
only  to  tragedy  in  general,  but  to  that  peculiar  kind 
of  tragedy  which  Lord  Byron  is  anxious  to  recom- 
mend. The  history  of  the  last  of  the  Assyrian  kings 
is  at  once  sufficiently  well  known  to  awaken  that 
previous  interest  which  belongs  to  illustrious  names 
and  early  associations;  and  sufficiently  remote  and 
obscure  to  admit  of  any  modification  of  incident  or 
character  which  a  poet  may  find  convenient.  All 
that  we  know  of  Nineveh  and  its  sovereigns  is 
majestic,  indistinct,  and  mysterious.  We  read  of 
an  extensive  and  civilized  monarchy  erected  in  the 
ages  immediately  succeeding  the  deluge,  and  exist- 
ing in  full  might  and  majesty  while  the  shores  of 
Greece  and  Italy  were  unoccupied,  except  by  roving 
savages.  We  read  of  an  empire  whose  influence 
extended  from  Samarcand  to  Troy,  and  from  the 
mountains  of  Judah  to  those  of  Caucasus,  subverted, 
after  a  continuance  of  thirteen  hundred  years,  and  a 
dynasty  of  thirty  generations,  in  an  almost  incredi- 
bly short  space  of  time,  less  by  the  revolt  of  two 
provinces  than  by  the  anger  of  Heaven  and  the  pre- 
dicted fury  of  natural  and  inanimate  agents.  And 
the  influence  which  both  the  conquests  and  the  mis- 
fortunes of  Assyria  appear  to  have  exerted  over  the 
fates  of  the  people  for  whom,  of  all  others  in  ancient 
history,  our  strongest  feelings  are  (from  religious 
motives)  interested,  throws  a  sort  of  sacred  pomp 
over  the  greatness  and  the  crimes  of  the  descend- 
ants of  Nimrod,  and  a  reverence  which  no  other 
equally  remote  portion  of  profane  history  is  likely 
to  obtain  with  us.  At  the  same  time,  all  which  we 
know  is  so  brief,  so  general,  and  so  disjointed,  that 
we  have  few  of  those  preconceived  notions  of  the 
persons  and  facts  represented  which  in  classical 
dramas,  if  servilely  followed,  destroy  the  interest, 
and  if  rashly  departed  from  offend  the  prejudices,  of 
the  reader  or  the  auditor.     An  outline  is  given  of 


622 


THE    TWO   FOSCARI. 


the  most  majestic  kind;  but  it  is  an  outline  only, 
which  the  poet  may  (ill  up  at  pleasure;  and  in 
ascribing,  as  Lord  Byron  has  done  for  the  sake  of 
his  favorite  unities,  the  destruction  of  the  Assyrian 
empire  to  the  treason  of  one  night,  instead  of  the 
war  of  several  years,  he  has  neither  shocked  our 
better  knowledge,  nor  incurred  any  conspicuous 
improbability.  .  .  .  c>till,  however,  the  development 
of  Sardanapalus's  character  is  incidental  only  to 
the  plot  of  Lord  Byron's  drama,  and  though  the 
unities  have  confined  his  picture  within  far  nar- 
rower limits  than  he  might  otherwise  have  thought 
advisable,  the  character  is  admirably  sketched;  nor 
is  there  any  one  of  the  portraits  of  this  great  master 
which  gives  us  a  more  favorable  opinion  of  his 
talents,  his  force  of  conception,  his  delicacy  and 
vigor  of  touch,  or  the  richness  and  harmony  of  his 
coloring.  He  had,  indeed,  no  unfavorable  ground- 
work, even  in  a  few  hints  supplied  by  the  ancient 
historians,  as  to  the  conduct  and  history  of  the  last 
and  most  unfortunate  of  the  line  of  Belus.  Though 
accused  (whether  truly  or  falsely),  by  his  trium- 
phant enemies,  of  the  most  revolting  vices,  and  an 
effeminacy  even  beyond  what  might  be  expected 
from  the  last  dregs  of  Asiatic  despotism,  we  find 
Sardanapalus,  when  roused  by  the  approach  of 
danger,  conducting  his  armies  with  a  courage,  a 
skill,  and.  for  some  time  at  least,  with  a  success  not 
inferior  to  those  of  his  most  warlike  ancestors.  We 
find  him  retaining  to  the  last  the  fidelity  of  his  most 


trusted  servants,  his  nearest  kindred,  and  no  amal'. 
proportion  of  his  hardiest  subjects.  We  see  him 
providing  for  the  safety  of  his  wife,  his  children, 
and  his  capital  city,  with  all  the  calmness  and  pru- 
dence of  an  experienced  captain.  We  see  him  at 
length  subdued,  not  by  man,  but  by  Heaven  and 
the  elements,  and  seeking  his  death  with  a  mixture 
of  heroism  and  ferocity  which  little  accords  with 
our  notions  of  a  weak  or  utterly  degraded  charac- 
ter. And  even  the  strange  story,  variously  told, 
and  without  further  explanation  scarcely  intelli- 
gible, which  represents  him  as  building  (or  fortify. 
ing)  two  cities  in  a  single  day,  and  then  deforming 
his  exploits  with  an  indecent  image  and  inscription, 
would  seem  to  imply  a  mixture  of  energy  with  his 
folly  not  impossible,  perhaps,  to  the  madness  of 
absolute  power,  and  which  may  lead  us  to  impute 
his  fall  less  to  weakness  than  to  an  injudicious  and 
ostentatious  contempt  of  the  opinions  and  preju- 
dices of  mankind.  Such  a  character,  —  luxuri- 
ous,  energetic,  misanthropical,  —  affords,  beyond  a 
doubt,  no  common  advantages  to  the  work  of  poetic 
delineation;  and  it  is  precisely  the  character  which 
Lord  Byron  most  delights  to  draw,  and  which  he 
has  succeeded  best  in  drawing.  — Hcber. 

I  remember  Lord  Byron's  mentioning,  that  the 
story  of  Sardanapalus  had  been  working  in  his 
brain  for  seven  years  before  he  commenced  it.  — ■ 
Trelawney.\ 


THE  TWO  FOSCARI:   AN   HISTORICAL  TRAGEDY.1 

The  father  softens,  but  the  governor's  resolved. —  Critic. 


["The  Two  Foscari "  was  composed  at  Ravenna,  between  the  nth  of  June  and  the  loth  of  July, 
1821.  and  published  with  "  Sardanapalus  "  in  the  following  December.  '' The  Venetian  story,"  Byron 
wrote  to  Mr.  Murray,  "  is  strictly  historical.  I  am  much  mortified  that  Gifford  don't  take  to  my  new 
dramas.  To  be  sure,  they  are  as  opposite  to  the  English  drama  as  one  thing  can  be  to  another;  but  I 
have  a  notion  that,  if  understood,  they  will,  in  time,  find  favor  (though  not  on  the  stage)  with  the 
reader.  The  simplicity  of  plot  is  intentional,  and  the  avoidance  of  rant  also,  as  also  the  compression  of 
the  speeches  in  the  more  severe  situations.  What  I  seek  to  show  in  '  the  Foscaris '  is  the  suppressed 
passions,  rather  than  the  rant  of  the  present  day.     For  that  matter  — 

'  Nay,  if  thou'lt  mouth, 
I'll  rant  as  well  as  thou  —  ' 

would  not  be  difficult,  as  I  think  I  have  shown  in  my  younger  productions  —  not  dramatic  ones,  to  be 
sure."  The  best  English  account  of  the  incidents  on  which  this  play  is  founded,  is  in  Smedley's 
"Sketches  of  Venetian  History:"  — 

"  The  reign  of  Francesco  Foscari  had  now  been  prolonged  to  the  unusual  period  of  thirty-four  years, 
and  these  years  were  marked  by  almost  continual  warfare;  during  which,  however,  the  courage,  the  firm- 
ness, and  the  sagacity  of  the  illustrious  Doge  had  won  four  rich  provinces  for  his  country,  and  increased 
her  glory  not  less  than  her  dominion.  Ardent,  enterprising,  and  ambitious  of  the  glory  of  conquest,  it 
was  not  without  much  opposition  that  Foscari  had  obtained  the  Dogeship;  and  he  soon  discovered  that 


[MS.  —  "  Begun  June  the  12th,  completed  July  the  9th,  Ravenna,  1821.  —  Byron.\ 


THE    TWO   FOSCAKl.  623 


the  throne  which  he  had  coveted  with  so  great  earnestness  was  far  from  being  a  seat  of  repose.  Accord- 
ingly, at  the  peace  of  Ferrara,  which  in  1433  succeeded  a  calamitous  w;»r,  foreseeing  the  approach  of 
fresh  and  still  greater  troubles,  and  wearied  by  the  factions  which  ascribed  all  disasters  to  the  Prince,  he 
tendered  his  abdication  to  the  senate,  and  was  refused.  A  like  offer  was  renewed  by  him  when  nine 
years'  further  experience  of  sovereignty  had  confirmed  his  former  estimate  of  its  cares;  and  the  Council, 
on  this  second  occasion,  much  more  from  adherence  to  existing  institutions  than  from  anv  attachment  to 
the  person  of  the  Doge,  accompanied  their  negative  with  the  exaction  of  an  oath  that  he  would  retain 
his  buroensome  dignity  for  life.  Too  early,  alas!  was  he  to  be  taught  that  life,  on  such  conditions,  was 
the  heaviest  of  curses!  Three  out  of  his  four  sons  were  already  dead:  to  Giacopo,  the  survivor,  he 
Jooked  for  the  continuation  of  his  name  and  the  support  of  his  declining  age;  and,  from  that  youth's 
intermarriage  with  the  illustrious  house  of  Conlarini,  and  the  popular  joy  with  which  his  nuptials  were 
celebrated,  the  Doge  drew  favorable  auspices  for  future  happiness.  Four  years,  however,  had  scarcely 
elapsed  from  the  conclusion  of  that  well-omened  marriage,  when  a  series  of  calamities  began,  from  w  hicli 
death  alone  was  to  relieve  either  the  son  or  his  yet  more  wretched  father.  In  1445,  Giropo  Foscari  was 
denounced  to  the  Ten,  as  having  received  presents  from  foreign  potentates,  and  especially  from  Filippo- 
Maria  Visconti.  The  offence,  according  to  the  law,  was  one  of  the  most  heinous  which  a  noble  could 
commit.  Even  if  Giacopo  were  guiltless  of  infringing  that  law,  it  was  not  easy  to  establish  innocence 
before  a  Venetian  tribunal.  Under  the  eyes  of  his  own  father,  compelled  to  preside  at  the  unnatuial 
examination,  a  confession  was  extorted  from  the  prisoner,  on  the  rack;  and,  from  the  lips  of  that  father, 
he  received  the  sentence  which  banished  him  for  life  to  Napoli  di  Romania.  On  his  passage,  severe  ill- 
ness delayed  him  at  Trieste;  and,  at  the  special  prayer  of  the  Doge,  a  less  remote  district  was  assigned 
for  his  punishment;  he  was  permitted  to  reside  at  Treviso,  and  his  wife  was  allowed  to  participate  his 
exile. 

It  was  in  the  commencement  of  the  winter  of  1450,  while  Giacopo  Foscari  rested,  in  comparative  tran- 
quillity, within  the  bounds  to  which  he  was  restricted,  that  an  assassination  occurred  in  the  streets  of 
Venice.  Hermolao  Donato,  the  Chief  of  the  Ten,  was  murdered  on  his  return  from  a  sitting  of  that 
council,  at  his  own  door,  by  unknown  hands.  The  magnitude  of  the  offence  and  the  violation  of  the 
high  dignity  of  the  Ten  demanded  a  victim;  and  the  coadjutors  of  the  slain  magistrate  caught  with 
eager  grasp  at  the  slightest  clue  which  suspicion  could  afford.  A  domestic  in  the  service  of  Giacopo 
Foscari  had  been  seen  in  Venice  on  the  evening  of  the  murder,  and  on  the  following  morning,  when  met 
in  a  boat  off  Mestre  by  a  Chief  of  the  Ten,  and  asked,  '  What  news?  '  he  had  answered  by  reporting  the 
assassination,  several  hours  before  it  was  generally  known.  It  might  seem  that  such  frankness  of 
itself  disproved  all  participation  in  the  crime;  for  the  aulhor  of  it  was  not  likely  thus  unseasonably  and 
prematurely  to  disclose  its  committal.  But  the  Ten  thought  differently,  and  matters  which  to  others  bore 
conviction  of  innocence,  to  them  savored  strongly  of  guilt.  The  servant  was  arrested,  examined,  and 
barbarously  tortured;  but  even  the  eightieth  application  of  the  strappado  failed  to  elicit  one  syllable 
which  might  justify  condemnation.  That  Giacopo  Foscari  had  experienced  the  severity  of  the  Council's 
judgment,  and  that  its  jealous  watchfulness  was  daily  imposing  some  new  restraint  upon  his  father's 
authority,  powerfully  operated  to  convince  the  Ten  that  they  must  themselves  in  return  be  objects  of  his 
deadly  enmity.  Who  else,  they  said,  could  be  more  likely  to  arm  the  hand  of  an  assassin  agianst  a 
Chief  of  the  Ten,  than  one  whom  the  Ten  have  visited  with  punishment?  On  this  unjust  and  unsup- 
ported surmise,  the  young  Foscari  was  recalled  from  Treviso,  placed  on  the  rack  which  his  servant  had 
just  vacated,  tortured  again  in  his  father's  presence,  and  not  absolved  even  after  he  resolutely  persisted 
in  denial  unto  the  end. 

The  wrongs,  however,  which  Giacopo  Foscari  endured  hau  by  no  means  chilled  the  passionate  love 
with  which  he  continued  to  regard  his  ungrateful  country.  He  was  now  excluded  from  all  communica- 
tion with  his  family,  torn  from  the  wife  of  his  affections,  debarred  from  the  society  of  his  children,  hopeless 
of  again  embracing  those  parents  who  had  already  far  outstripped  the  natural  term  of  human  existence; 
and  to  his  imagination,  for  ever  centering  itself  on  the  single  desire  of  return,  life  presented  no  other 
object  deserving  pursuit;  till,  for  the  attainment  of  this  wish,  life  itself  at  length  appeared  to  be  scarcely- 
more  than  an  adequate  sacrifice.  Preyed  upon  by  this  fever  of  the  heart,  after  six  years'  unavailing  suit 
for  a  remission  of  punishment,  in  the  summer  of  1456,  he  addressed  a  letter  to  the  Duke  of  Milan,  implor- 
ing his  good  offices  with  the  senate.  That  letter,  purposely  left  open  in  a  place  obvious  to  the  spies  by 
whom,  even  in  his  exile,  he  was  surrounded,  and  afterwards  entrusted  to  an  equally  treacherous  hand  for 
delivery  to  Sforza,  was  conveyed,  as  the  writer  intended,  to  the  Council  of  Ten;  and  the  result,  which 
equally  fulfilled  his  expectation,  was  a  hasty  summons  to  Venice  to  answer  for  the  heavy  crime  of 
soliciting  foreign  intercession  with  his  native  government. 

For  a  third  time,  Francesco  Foscari  listened  to  the  accusation  of  his  son;  for  the  first  time  he  heard 
him  openly  avow  the  charge  of  his  accusers,  and  calmly  state  that  his  offence,  such  as  it  was,  had  been 
committed  designedly  and  aforethought,  with  the  sole  object  of  detection,  in  order  that  he  might  be 
brought  back,  even  as  a  malefactor,  to  Venice.  This  prompt  and  voluntary  declaration,  however,  was 
not  sufficient  to  decide  the  nice  hesitation  of  his  judges.  Guilt,  they  said,  might  be  too  easily  admitted 
as  well  as  too  pertinaciously  denied;  and  the  same  process  therefore  by  which,  at  other  times,  confession 
was  wrested  from  the  hardened  criminal  might  now  compel  a  too  facile  self-accuser  to  retract  his  ac- 
knowledgment. The  father  again  looked  on  while  his  son  was  raised  on  the  accursed  cord  no  less  than 
thirty  times,  in  order  that,  under  his  agony  he  might  be  induced  to  utter  a  lying  declaration  of  innocence. 
But  this  cruelty  was  exercised  in  vain;  and,  when  nature  gave  way,  the  sufferer  was  carried  to  the 
apartments  of  the  Doge,  torn,  bleeding,  senseless,  and  dislocated,  but  firm  in  his  original  purpose.  Nor 
had  his  persecutors  relaxed  in  theirs;  they  renewed  his  sentence  of  exile,  and  added  that  its  first  year 
should  be  passed  in  prison.  Before  he  embarked,  one  interview  was  permitted  with  his  family.  The 
Doge,  as  Sanuto,  perhaps  unconscious  of  the  pathos  oi  his  simplicity,  has  narrated,  was  an  aged  and 


624  THE    TWO  FOSCARI. 


decrepit  man,  who  walked  with  the  support  of  a  crutch,  and  when  he  came  into  the  chamber,  he  spak* 
with  great  firmness,  so  that  it  might  seem  it  was  not  his  son  whom  he  was  addressing,  but  it  was  his 
son  —  his  only  ^n.  'Go,  Giacopo,'  was  his  reply,  when  prayed  for  the  last  time  to  solicit  mercy:  '  Go( 
Giacopo,  submit  to  the  will  of  your  country,  and  seek  nothing  further.'  This  effort  of  self-restraint  was 
beyond  the  powers,  not  of  the  old  man's  enduring  spirit,  but  of  his  exhausted  frame ;  and  when  he  retired, 
he  swooned  in  the  arms  of  his  attendants.  Giacopo  reached  his  Candian  prison,  and  was  shortly  after- 
wards released  by  death. 

Francesco  Foscari.  far  less  happy  in  his  survival,  continued  to  live  on,  but  it  was  in  sorrow  and  feeble- 
ness which  prevented  attention  to  the  duties  of  his  high  office:  he  remained  secluded  in  his  chamber, 
never  went  abroad,  and  absented  himself  even  from  the  sittings  of  the  councils.  No  practical  incon- 
venience could  result  from  this  want  of  activity  in  the  chief  magistrate;  for  the  constitution  sufficiently 
provided  against  any  accidental  suspension  of  his  personal  functions,  and  his  place  in  council,  and  on 
state  occasions,  was  supplied  by  an  authorized  deputy.  Some  indulgence,  moreover,  might  be  thought 
due  to  the  extreme  age  and  domestic  griefs  of  Foscari ;  since  they  appeared  to  promise  that  any  favor 
which  might  be  granted  would  be  claimed  but  for  a  short  period.  But  yet  further  trials  were  in  store. 
Giacopo  Loredano,  who  in  1467  was  appointed  one  of  the  Chiefs  of  the  Ten,  belonged  to  a  family  between 
which  and  that  of  Foscari  an  hereditary  feud  had  long  existed.  His  uncle  Pietro,  after  gaining  high  dis- 
tinction in  active  service,  as  Admiral  of  Venice,  on  his  return  to  the  capital,  headed  the  political  faction 
which  opposed  the  warlike  projects  of  the  Doge;  divided  applause  with  him  by  his  eloquence  in  the 
councils;  and  so  far  extended  his  influence  as  frequently  to  obtain  majorities  in  their  divisions.  In  an 
evil  moment  of  impatience,  Foscari  once  publicly  avowed  in  the  senate,  that  so  long  as  Pietro  Loredano 
lived  he  should  never  feel  himself  really  to  be  Doge.  Not  long  afterwards,  the  Admiral  engaged  as 
Provveditore  with  one  of  the  armies  opposed  to  Filippo-Maria,  died  suddenly  at  a  military  banquet  given 
during  a  short  suspension  of  arms;  and  the  evil-omened  words  of  Foscari  were  connected  with  his  decease. 
It  was  remarked,  also,  that  his  brother  Marco  Loredano,  one  of  the  Avvogadori,  died  in  a  somewhat 
similar  manner,  while  engaged  in  instituting  a  legal  process  against  a  son-in-law  of  the  Doge,  for  pecula- 
tion upon  the  state.  The  foul  rumors  partially  excited  by  these  untoward  coincidences,  for  they  appea' 
in  truth  to  have  been  no  more,  met  with  little  acceptation,  and  were  rejected  or  forgotten  except  by  a 
single  bosom.  Giacopo,  the  son  of  one,  the  nephew  of  the  other  deceased  Loredano,  gave  full  credit  to 
the  accusation,  inscribed  on  his  father's  tomb  at  Sta.  Elena,  that  he  died  by  poison,  bound  himself  by  a 
solemn  vow  to  the  most  deadly  and  unrelenting  pursuit  of  revenge,  and  fulfilled  that  vow  to  the  uttermost. 

During  the  lifetime  of  Pietro  Loredano,  Foscari,  willing  to  terminate  the  feud  by  a  domestic  alliance, 
had  tendered  the  hand  of  his  daughter  to  one  of  his  rival's  sons.  The  youth  saw  his  proffered  bride, 
openly  expressed  dislike  of  her  person,  and  rejected  her  with  marked  discourtesy;  so  that,  in  the  quarrel 
thus  heightened,  Foscari  might  now  conceive  himself  to  be  the  mos*  injured  party.  Not  such  was  the 
impression  of  Giacopo  Loredano:  year  after  year  he  grimly  awaited  the  season  most  fitted  for  his  un- 
bending purpose;  and  it  arrived  at  length  when  he  found  himself  in  authority  among  the  Ten.  Relying 
upon  the  ascendency  belonging  to  that  high  station,  he  hazarded  a  proposal  for  the  deposition  of  the 
aged  Doge,  which  was  at  first,  however,  received  with  coldness;  for  those  who  had  twice  before  refused 
a  voluntary  abdication,  shrank  from  the  strange  contradiction  of  now  demanding  one  on  compulsion. 
A  junta  was  required  to  assist  in  their  deliberations,  and  among  the  assessors  elected  by  the  Great  Coun- 
cil, in  complete  ignorance  of  the  purpose  for  which  they  were  needed,  was  Marco  Foscari,  a  Procuratore 
of  St.  Mark,  and  brother  of  the  Doge  himself.  The  Ten  perceived  that  to  reject  his  assistance  might 
excite  suspicion,  while  to  procure  his  apparent  approbation  would  give  a  show  of  impartiality  to  their 
process-  his  nomination,  therefore,  was  accepted,  but  he  was  removed  to  a  separate  apartment,  excluded 
from  the  debate,  sworn  to  keep  that  exclusion  secret,  and  yet  compelled  to  assent  to  the  final  decree  in 
the  discussion  of  which  he  had  not  been  allowed  to  participate.  The  council  sat  during  eight  days  and 
nearly  as  many  nights;  and,  at  the  close  of  their  protracted  meetings,  a  committee  was  deputed  to  request 
the  abdication  of  the  Doge.  The  old  man  received  them  with  surprise,  but  with  composure,  and  replied 
that  he  had  sworn  not  to  abdicate,  and  therefore  must  maintain  his  faith.  It  was  not  possible  that  he 
could  resign;  but  if  it  appeared  fit  to  their  wisdom  that  he  should  cease  to  be  Doge,  they  had  it  in  thei- 
power  to  make  a  proposal  to  that  effect  to  the  Great  Council.  It  was  far,  however,  from  the  intention  of 
the  Ten  to  subject  themselves  to  the  chances  of  debate  in  that  larger  body,  and,  assuming  to  their  own 
magistracy  a  prerogative  not  attributed  to  it  by  the  constitution,  they  discharged  Foscari  from  his  oath, 
declared  his  office  vacant,  assigned  to  him  a  pension  of  two  thousand  ducats,  and  enjoined  him  to  quit  the 
palace  within  three  days,  on  pain  of  confiscation  of  all  his  property.  Loredano,  to  whom  the  right  be. 
longed,  according  to  the  weekly  routine  of  office,  enjoyed  the  barbarous  satisfaction  of  presenting  this  decree 
with  his  own  hand.  '  Who  are  you,  Signor?  '  inquired  the  Doge  of  another  Chief  of  the  Ten  who  accompanied 
him,  and  whose  person  he  did  not  immediately  recognize.  '  I  am  a  son  of  Marco  Memmo.'  '  Ah,  your 
father,'  replied  Foscari, '  is  my  friend.'  Then  declaring  that  he  yielded  willing  obedience  to  the  most  excel- 
lent Council  of  Ten,  and  laying  aside  the  ducal  bonnet  and  robes,  he  surrendered  his  ring  of  office,  which  was 
broken  in  his  presence.  On  the  morrow,  when  he  prepared  to  leave  the  palace,  it  was  suggested  to  him 
that  he  should  retire  by  a  private  staircase,  and  thus  avoid  the  concourse  assembled  in  the  court-yard  be- 
low. With  calm  dignity  he  refused  the  proposition:  he  would  descend,  he  said,  by  no  other  than  the 
self-same  steps  by  which  he  had  mounted  thirty  years  before.  Accordingly,  supported  by  his  brother,  he 
slowly  traversed  the  Giant's  Stairs,  and,  at  their  foot,  leaning  on  his  staff  and  turning  round  to  the  palace 
he  accompanied  his  last  look  to  it  with  these  parting  words,  '  My  services  established  me  within  your 
walls;   it  is  the  malice  of  my  enemies  which  tears  me  from  them!  ' 

It  was  to  the  Oligarchy  alone  that  Foscari  was  obnoxious;  by  the  populace  he  had  always  been  be- 
loved, and  strange  indeed  would  it  have  been  had  he  now  failed  to  excite  their  sympathy.  But  even 
the  regrets  of  the  people  of  Venice  were  fettered  by  their  tyrants;  and  whatever  pity  they  might  secretlj 


THE    TWO  FCSCARI. 


625 


contrnue  10  cherish  for  their  wronged  and  humiliated  prince,  all  expression  of  it  was  silenced  by  a  per- 
emptory decree  of  the  Council,  forbidding  any  mention  of  his  name,  and  annexing  death  as  a  penalty  to 
disobedience.  On  the  fifth  day  after  Foscari's  deposition,  Pascale  Malipieri  was  elected  Doge.  The  de- 
throned prince  heard  the  announcement  of  his  successor  by  the  bell  of  the  campanile,  suppressed  his 
agitation,  but  ruptured  a  blood  vessel  in  the  exertion,  and  died  in  a  few  hours."] 


DRAMATIS   PERSONS. 


MEN. 

Francis  Foscari,  Doge  of  Venice. 
Jacopo  Foscari,  Son  of  the  Doge. 
[AMES  LOREDANO,  a  Patrician. 
Marco  Memmo,  a  Chief  of  the  Forty. 
Barbarigo,  a  Senator. 


Other  Senators,  The  Council  of  Ten,  Guards 
Attendants,  etc.  etc. 

WOMAN. 

MARINA,  Wife  of  young  FOSCARI. 


Scene — the  Ducal  Palace,  Ve.iice. 


ACT   I. 

SCENE  I.  —  A  Hall  in  the  Ducal  Palace. 

Enter  LOREDANO  l  and  BARBARIGO, 
~neeting. 

Lor.    Where  is  the  prisoner  ? 

Bar.  Reposing  from 

The  Question. 

Lor.  The  hour's  past  —  fixed  yesterday 

For  the  resumption  of  his  trial.  —  Let  us 
Rejoin  our  colleagues  in  the  council,  and 
Urge  his  recall. 

Bar.  Nay,  let  him  profit  by 

A  few  brief  minutes  for  his  tortured  limbs  ; 
He  was  o'erwrought  by  the  Question  yesterday, 
And  may  die  under  it  if  now  repeated. 

Lor.     Well  ? 

Bar.       I  yield  not  to  you  in  love  of  justice, 
Or  hate  of  the  ambitious  Foscari, 
Father  and  son,  and  all  their  noxious  race; 
But   the   poor  wretch   has   suffered    beyond 

nature's 
Most  stoical  endurance. 

Lor.  Without  owning 

His  crime  ? 


1  [The  character  of  Loredano  is  well  conceived 
and  truly  tragic.  The  deep  and  settled  principle  of 
hatred  which  animates  him,  and  which  impels  him 
to  the  commission  of  the  most  atrocious  cruelties, 
may  seem,  at  first,  unnatural  and  overstrained. 
But  not  only  is  it  historically  true;  but,  when  the 
cause  of  that  hatred  (the  supposed  murder  of  his 
father  and  uncles),  and  when  the  atrocious  maxims 
Df  Italian  revenge,  and  that  habitual  contempt  of 
ill  the  miider  feelings  are  taken  into  consideration 
■which  constituted  the  glory  of  a  Venetian  patriot, 
ive  may  conceive  how  such  a  principle  might  be  not 
only  avowed,  but  exulted  in  by  a  Venetian  who  re- 
garded the  house  of  Foscari  as,  at  once,  the  ene- 
mies of  his  family  and  his  country.  —  Heber.~\ 


Bar.  Perhaps  without  committing  any. 

But  he  avowed  the  letter  to  the  Duke 
Of  Milan,  and  his  sufferings  half  atone  for 
Such  weakness. 

Lor.  We  shall  see. 

Bar,  You,  Loredano, 

Pursue  hereditary  hate  too  far. 

Lor.     How  far  ? 

Bar.  To  extermination. 

Lor.  When  they  are 

Extinct,  you  may  say  this.  —  Let's  into  council. 

Bar.     Yet  pause  —  the  number  of  our  col- 
leagues is  not 
Complete  yet ;  two  are  wanting  ere  we  can 
Proceed. 

Lor.        And  the  chief  judge,  the  Doge  ? 

Bar.  No  —  he, 

With  more  than  Roman  fortitude,  is  ever 
First  at  the  board  in  this  unhappy  process 
Against  his  last  and  only  son. 

Lor.  True  —  true  — 

His  last. 

Bar.     Will  nothing  move  you  ? 

Lor.  Feels  he,  think  you  ? 

Bar.     He  shows  it  not. 

Lor.         I  have  marked  that  —  the  wretch  ! 

Bar.     But  yesterday,  I  hear,  on  his  return 
To   the   ducal   chambers,  as   he   passed   the 

threshold. 
The  old  man  fainted. 

Lor.  It  begins  to  work,  then. 

Bar.    The  won;  is  half  your  own. 

Lor.  And  should  be  all  mine  — 

My  father  and  m  '  uncle  are  no  more. 

Bar.     I  have  read  their  epitaph,  which  says 
they  died 
By  poison.2 


2  ["  Veneno    sublatus." 
church  of  Santa  Elena.] 


The   to.nb   is  in  tbf 


626 


THE    TWO  FOSCARI. 


[act  i. 


Lor.  When  the  Doge  declared  that  he 

Should  never  deem  himself  a  sovereign  till 
The  death  of  Peter  Loredano,  both 
The  brothers  sickened  shortly  :  —  he  is  sover- 
eign. 

Bar.     A  wretched  one. 

Lor.  What  should  they  be  who  make 

Orphans  ? 

Bar.         But  did  the  Doge  make  you  so  ? 

Lor.  Yes. 

Bar.    What  solid  proofs  ? 

Lor.  When  princes  set  themselves 

To  work  in  secret,  proofs  and  process  are 
Alike  made  difficult ;  but  I  have  such 
Of  the  first,  as  shall  make  the  second  need- 
less. 

Bar,     But  you  will  move  by  law  ? 

Lor.  By  all  the  laws 

Which  he  would  leave  us. 

Bar.  They  are  such  in  this 

Our  state  as  render  retribution  easier 
Than  'mongst  remoter  nations.     Is  it  true 
That  you  have  written  in  your  books  of  com- 
merce, 
(The  wealthy  practice  of  our  highest  nobles) 
"  Doge  Foscaii,  my  debtor  for  the  deaths 
Of  Marco  aud  Pietro  Loredano, 
My  sire  and  uncle  ?  " 

Lor.  It  is  written  thus. 

Bar.     And  will  you  leave  it  unerased  ? 

Lor.  Till  balanced. 

Bar.     And  how  ? 

[Two  Senators  pass  over  the  stage,  as  in 
their  way  to  "  the  Hall  of  the  Council  of 
Ten'' 

Lor.  You  see  the  number  is  complete. 

Follow  me.  [Exit  LOREDANO. 

Bar.  (so/us).    Follow  thee!  I  have  followed 
long1 
Thy  path  of  desolation,  as  the  wave 
Sweeps  after  that  before  it,  alike  whelming 
The  wreck  that  creaks  to  the  wild  winds,  and 

wretch 
Who  shrieks  within  its  riven  ribs,  as  gush 
The  waters  through  them ;  but  this  son  and 

sire 
Might  move  the  elements  to  pause,  and  yet 
Must  I  on  hardily  like  them  —  Oh!  would 
I  could  as  blindly  and  remorselessly  !  — 
Lo,  where   he  comes!  —  Be    still,  my  heart! 
they  are 


3  [Loredano  is  accompanied,  upon  all  emergen- 
cies, by  a  senator  called  Barbarigo  —  a  sort  of  con- 
fdant  or  chorus  —  who  comes  for  no  end  that  we 
can  discover,  but  to  twit  him  with  conscientious 
cavils  and  objections,  and  then  to  second  him  by 
his  personal  countenance  and  authority.  Jeffrey.  — 
Loredano  is  the  only  personage  above  mediocrity. 
The  remaining  characters  are  all  unnatural,  or  fee- 
ble. Barbarigo  is  as  tame  and  insignificant  a  con- 
fidant, as  ever  swept  after  the  train  of  his  principal 
over  the  Parisian  stage.  —  Heber.~\ 


Thy  foes,  must  be  thy  victims:  wilt  thou  beat 
For  those  who  almost  broke  thee  ? 

Enter   Guards,  with  young  FOSCARI  as  pris- 
oner, etc. 

Guard.  Let  him  rest. 

Signor,  take  time. 

Jac.  Eos.     I  thank  thee,  friend,  I'm  feeble; 
But  thou  may'st  stand  reproved. 

Guard.  I'll  stand  the  hazard. 

Jac.  Eos.     That's  kind  :  —  I  meet  some  pity, 
but  no  mercy ; 
This  is  the  first. 

Guard.  And  might  be  last,  did  they 

Who  rule  behold  us. 

Bar.  {advancing  to  the  Guard).     There  is 
one  who  does : 
Yet  fear  not ;   I  will  neither  be  thy  judge 
Nor  thy  accuser;  though  the  hour  is  past, 
Wait   their  last   summons  —  I    am    of    "the 

Ten," 
And  waiting  for  that  summons,  sanction  you 
Even  by   my  presence:    when   the   last  call 

sounds, 
We'll  in  together.  —  Look  well  to  the  prisoner! 

Jac.  Eos.     What  voice  is  that  ?  —  'Tis  Bar- 
barigo's !     Ah ! 
Our  house's  foe,  and  one  of  my  few  judges. 

Bar.     To  balance  such  a  foe,  if  such  there 
be, 
Thy  father  sitSf amongst  thy  judges. 

Jac.  Eos.  True, 

He  judges. 

Bar.        Then  deem  not  the  laws  too  harsh 
Which  yield  so  much  indulgence  to  a  sire 
As  to  allow  his  voice  in  such  high  matter 
As  the  state's  safety 

Jac.  Eos.  And  his  son's.     I'm  faint; 

Let  me  approach,  I  pray  you,  for  a  breath 
Of  air,  yon  window  which  o'erlooks  the  waters. 

Enter  an  Officer,  who  whispers  Barbarigo. 

Bar.  (to  the  Guard).     Let  him  approach. 
I  must  not  speak  with  him 
Further  than  thus :    I  have  transgressed  my 

duty 
In  this  brief  parley,  and  must  now  redeem  it 
Within  the  Council  Chamber. 

[Exit  Barbarigo. 
[Guard  conducting  JACOPO  FOSCARI  to  the 

luitidow. 
Guard.  There,  sir,  'tis 

Open  —  How  feel  you  ? 
Jac.  Eos.  Like  a  boy  —  Oh  Venice ! 

Guard.    And  your  limbs  ? 
Jac.  Eos.      Limbs !    how  often   have  the) 
borne  me 
Bounding    o'er    yon  blue    tide,    as    I    have 

skimmed 
The  gondola  along  in  childish  race. 
And,  masqued  as  a  young  gondolier,  amidst 
My  gay  competitors,  noble  as  I, 


SCENE    I.] 


THE    TWO  FOSCARI. 


627 


Raced    for    our    pleasure,   in    the    pride    of 

strength  ; 
While  the  fair  populace  of  cfowding  beauties, 
Plebeian  as  patrician,  cheered  us  on 
With  dazzling  smiles,  and  wishes  audible, 
And  waving  kerchiefs,  and  applauding  hands, 
Even  to  the  goal !  —  how  many  a  time  have  I 
Cloven  with  arm  still  lustier,  breast  most  dar- 
ing, 
The  wave  all  roughened  ;    with  a  swimmer  s 

stroke 
Flinging  the  billows  back  from  my  drenched 

hair, 
'Vnd    laughing  from    my   lip   the   audacious 

brine, 
Which  kissed  it  like  a  wine- cup,  rising  o'er 
The  waves  as  they  arose,  and  prouder  still 
The  loftier  they  uplifted  me  ;  and  oft, 
In  wantonness  of  spirit,  plunging  down 
Into  their  green  and  glassy  gulfs,  and  making 
My  way  to  shells  and  sea-weed,  all  unseen 
By  those  above,  till  they  waxed  fearful ;  then 
Returning  with  my  grasp  full  of  such  tokens 
As   showed  that  I   had  searched  the  deep : 

exulting, 
With  a  far-dashing  stroke,  and  drawing  deep 
The  long-suspended  breath,  again  I  spurned 
The  foam  which  broke  around  me,  and  pur- 
sued 
My  track  like  a  sea-bird. —  I  war  i  boy  then. 
Guard.     Be  a  man  now :  there  never  was 
more  need 
Of  manhood's  strength. 

yac.  Fos.  (looking  from  the  lattice).     My 
beautiful,  my  own, 
My   only    Venice  —  this    is    breath !      Thy 

breeze, 
Thine  Adrian  sea-breeze,  how  it  fans  my  face ! 
Thy  very  winds  feel  native  to  my  veins, 
And  cool  them  into  calmness !     How  unlike 
The  hot  gales  of  the  horrid  Cyclades, 
Which  howled  about  my  Candiote  dungeon, 

and 
Made  my  heart  sick. 

Guard.  I  see  the  color  comes 

Back    to    your   cheek :    Heaven    send    you 

strength  to  bear 
What  more  may  be  imposed  !  —  I  dread  to 
think  on't. 
"Jac.  Fos.    They  will  not  banish  me  again  ? 
—  No  —  no, 
Let  them  wring  on  ;  I  am  strong  yet. 

Guard.  Confess, 

And  the  rack  will  be  spared  you. 

yac.  Fos.  I  confessed 

Once  —  twice  before  :  both  times  they  exiled 
me. 
Guard.    And  the  third  time  will  slay  you. 
yac.  Fos.  Let  them  do  so, 

So  I  be  buried  in  my  birth-place  :  better 
B**  ashes    here   than   aught   that   lives    else- 
where. 


Guard.    And   can  you  so   much  love  the 

soil  which  hates  you  ? 
yac.  Fos.     The    soil !  —  Oh   no,  it  is  the 
seed  of  the  soil 
Which  persecutes  me ;  but  my  native  earth 
Will  take  me  as  a  mother  to  her  arms. 
I  ask  no  more  than  a  Venetian  grave, 
A  dungeon,  what  they  will,  so  it  be  here.1 

Enter  an  Officer. 

Offi.     Bring  in  the  prisoner ! 

Guard.  Signor,  you  hear  the  order. 

yac.  Fos.    Ay,  I  am  used  to  such  a  sum- 
mons ;  'tis 
The  third   time  they  have  tortured    me:  — 

then  lend  me 
Thine  arm.  [  To  the  Guard. 

Offi.  Take  mine,  sir  ;  'tis  my  duty  to 

Be  nearest  to  your  person. 

yac.  Fos.  You  !  —  you  are  he 

Who    yesterday  presided  o'er   my   pangs  — 
Away  !  —  I'll  walk  alone. 

Offi.  As  you  please,  signor ; 

The  sentence  was  not  of  my  signing,  but 
I  dared  not  disobey  the  Council  when 
They 

yac.  Fos.     Bade   thee  stretch  me  on  their 
horrid  engine. 
I  pray  thee  touch  me  not —  that  is,  just  now  ; 
The  time  will  come  they  will  renew  that  order. 
But  keep  off  from  me  till  'tis  issued.    As 
I  look  upon  thy  hands,  my  curdling  limbs 


1  [And  the  hero  himself,  what  is  he?  If  there 
ever  existed  in  nature  a  case  so  extraordinary  as 
that  of  a  man  who  gravely  preferred  tortures  and  a 
dungeon  at  home,  to  a  temporary  residence  in  a 
beautiful  island  and  a  fine  climate,  at  the  distance 
of  three  days'  sail,  it  is  what  few  can  be  made  to 
believe,  and  still  fewer  to  sympathize  with;  and 
which  is,  therefore,  no  very  promising  subject  for 
dramatic  representation.  For  ourselves,  we  have 
little  doubt  that  Foscari  wrote  the  fatal  letter  with 
the  view,  which  was  imputed  to  him  by  his  accus- 
ers, of  obtaining  an  honorable  recall  from  banish- 
ment, through  foreign  influence;  and  that  the  color 
which,  when  detected,  he  endeavored  to  give  to  the 
transaction,  was  the  evasion  .of  a  drowning  man, 
who  is  reduced  to  catch  at  straws  and  shadows. 
But,  if  Lord  Byron  chose  to  assume  this  alleged 
motive  of  his  conduct  as  the  real  one,  it  behooved 
him,  at  least,  to  set  before  our  eyes  the  intolerable 
separation  from  a  beloved  country,  the  lingering 
home-sickness,  the  gradual  alienation  of  intellect, 
and  the  fruitless  hope  that  his  enemies  had  at  length 
relented,  which  were  necessary  to  produce  a  conduct 
so  contrary  to  all  usual  principles  of  action  as  that 
which  again  consigned  him  to  the  racks  and  dun- 
geons of  his  own  country.  He  should  have  shown 
him  to  us,  first,  taking  leave  of  Venice,  a  con- 
demned and  banished  man;  next  pining  in  Candia; 
next  tampering  with  the  agents  of  government;  by 
which  time,  and  not  till  then,  we  should  have  been 
prepared  to  listen  with  patience  to  his  complaints, 
and  to  witness  his  sufferings  with  interest  as  well  as 
horror.  — Heber.] 


628 


THE    TWO  FOSCARI. 


[act  i 


Quiver  with  the  anticipated  wrenching, 

And  the  cold  drops  strain  through  my  brow, 

as  if 

But  onward  —  I   have  borne  it  —  I  can  bear 

it. — 
How  looks  my  father  ? 

Offi.  With  his  wonted  aspect. 

Jac.  Eos.     So   does  the  earth,  and  sky,  the 
blue  of  ocean, 
The  brightness  of  our  city,  and  her  domes, 
The  mirth  of  her  Piazza,  even  now 
Its  merry  hum  of  nations  pierces  here, 
Even  here,  into  these  chambers  of  the  unknown 
Who  govern,  and  the  unknown  and  the  un- 
numbered 
Judged  and  destroyed  in  silence,  —  all  things 

wear 
The  self-same  aspect,  to  my  very  sire ! 
Nothing  can  sympathize  with  Foscari, 
Not  even  a  Foscari.  —  Sir,  I  attend  you. 

[Exeunt  JACOPO   FOSCARI,   Officer,   etc. 

Enter  MEMMO  and  another  Senator. 

Mem.     He's  gone  —  we    are    too    late:  — 
think  you  "  the  Ten  " 
Will  sit  for  any  length  of  time  to-day  ? 

Sen.    They  say  the  prisoner  is  most  obdu- 
rate, 
Persisting  in  his  first  avowal ;  but 
More  I  know  not. 

Mem.  And  that  is  much  ;  the 

secrets 
Of  yon  terrific  chamber  are  as  hidden 
From  us,  the  premier  nobles  of  the  state, 
As  from  the  people. 

Sen.  Save  the  wonted  rumors, 

Which  —  like  the  tales  of  spectres,  that  are  rife 
Near    ruined  buildings — never  have    been 

proved, 
Nor  wholly  disbelieved  :  men  know  as  little 
Of  the  state's  real  acts  as  c^f  the  grave's 
Unfathomed  mysteries. 

Mem.  But  with  length  of  time 

We  gain  a  step  in  knowledge,  and  I  look 
Forward  to  be  one  day  of  the  decemvirs. 

Sen.     Or  Doge  ? 

Mem.  Why,  no ;  not  if  I  can  avoid  it. 

Sen.     'Tis  the  first  station  of  the  state,  and 
may 
Be  lawfully  desired,  and  lawfully 
Attained  by  noble  aspirants. 

Mem.  To  such 

I  leave  it ;  though  born  noble,  my  ambition 
Is  limited  :   I'd  rather  be  an  unit 
Of  an  united  and  imperial  "  Ten," 
Than  shine  a  lonely,  though  a  gilded  cipher.  — 
Whom  have  we  here  ?  the  wife  of  Foscari  ? 

Enter  MARINA,  with  a  female  Attendant. 

Mar.     What,  no  one  ?  —  I  am  wrong,  there 
still  are  two ; 
But  they  are  senators. 


Mem.  Most  noble  lady, 

Command  us. 

Mar.  I  command!  —  Alas!  my  life 

Has  been  one  long  entreaty,  and  a  vain  one. 
Mem.     I  understand  thee,  but  I   must  not 

answer. 
Mar.  (fiercely).     True  —  none  dare  answer 
here  save  on  the  rack, 

Or  question  save  those 

Mem.  (interrupting  her).  High-born  dame  I1 
bethink  thee 
Where  thou  now  art. 

Mar.  Where  I  now  am  !  —  It  war. 

My  husband's  father's  palace. 
Mem.  The  Duke's  palace. 

Mar.  And  his  son's  prison ;  —  true,  I  have 
not  forgot  it ; 
And  if  there  were  no  other  nearer,  bitterer 
Remembrances,  would   thank  the  illustrious 

Memmo 
For  pointing  out  the  pleasures  of  the  place. 
Afem.  Be  calm ! 

Mar.  (looking  up  towards  heaven).  I  am; 
but  oh,  thou  eternal  God ! 
Canst  thou  continue  so,  with  such  a  world  ? 
Mem.  Thy  husband  yet  may  be  absolved. 
Mar.  He  is, 

In  heaven.     I  pray  you,  signor  senator, 
Speak  not  of  that ;  you  are  a  man  of  office, 
So  is  the  Doge ;  he  has  a  son  at  stake 
Now,  at  this  moment,  and  I  have  a  husband. 
Or   had ;  they  are   there  within,  or  were   at 

least 
An  hour  since,  face  to   face,  as  judge  and 

culprit : 
Will  he  condemn  him  f 

Mem.  I  trust  not. 

Mar.  But  if 

He  does  not,  there  are  those  will  sentence 
both. 
Mem.  They  can. 

Mar.    And  with  them  power  and  will  are 
one 
In  wickedness :  —  my  husband's  lost ! 

Mem.  Not  so ; 

justice  is  judge  in  Venice. 

Mar.  If  it  were  so, 

There  now  would  be  no  Venice.     But  let  it 
Live  on,  so  the  good  die  not,  till  the  hour 
Of  nature's  summons ;  but  "  the   Ten's "  is 
quicker, 


1  [She  was  a  Contarini  — 
"  A  daughter  of  the  house  that  now  among 
Its  ancestors  in  monumental  brass 
Numbers  eight  Doges."  —  Rogers. 
On  the  occasion  of  her  marriage  with  the  younger 
Foscari,  the  Bucentaur  came  out  in  his  splendor; 
and  a  bridge  of  boats  was  thrown  across  the  Canal 
Grande  for  the  bridegroom,  and  his  retinue  of  thre* 
hundred  horse.     According  to  Sanuto,  the  tourna* 
ments  in  the  place  of  St.  Mark  lasted  three  days, 
and  were  attended  by  thirty  thousand  people.] 


SCENE  I.] 


THE    TWO  FOSCARI. 


629 


And  we  must  wait  on't.    Ah  !  a  voice  of  wail ! 
[A  faint  cry  within. 
Sen.  Hark ! 

Mem.  'Twas  a  cry  of — 

Mar.  No,  no  ;  not  my  husband's  — 

Not  Foscari's. 

Mem.  The  voice  was  — 

Mar.  Not  his  :  no. 

He  shriek !  No ;  that  should   be  his  father's 

part, 
Not  his — not  his  —  he'll  die  in  silence. 

[A  faint  groan  again  within. 
Mem.  What ! 

Again  ? 

Mar.  His  voice !  it  seemed  so  :  I  will  not 
Believe  it.     Should  he  shrink,  I  cannot  cease 
To  love  ;  but  —  no  —  no  —  no  —  it  must  have 

been 
A  fearful  pang,  which  wrung  a  groan  from 
him. 
Sen.  And,  feeling  for  thy  husband's  wrongs, 
wouldst  thou 
Have   him   bear  more  than  mortal   pain,  in 
silence  ? 
Mar.  We   all  must  bear  our   tortures.     I 
have  not 
Left  barren  the  great  house  of  Foscari, 
Though  they  sweep  both  the  Doge  and  son 

from  life ; 
I  have  endured  as  much  in  giving  life 
To  those  who  will  succeed  them,  as  they  can 
In  leaving  it :  but  mine  were  joyful  pangs  : 
And  yet   they   wrung  me   till   I    could  have 

shrieked, 
But  did  not ;  for  my  hope  was  to  bring  forth 
Heroes,  and  would  not  welcome   them  with 
tears. 
Mem.  All's  silent  now. 

Mar.  Perhaps  all's  over ;  but 

[  will  not  deem  it :  he  hath  nerved  himself, 
And  now  defies  them. 

Enter  an  Officer  hastily. 

Mem.        How  now,  friend,  what  seek  you  ? 

Offi.  A  leech.     The  prisoner  has  fainted. 

[Exit  Officer. 

Mem.  Lady, 

'Twere  better  to  retire. 

Sen.  (offering to  assist  her).  I  pray  thee  do 
so. 

Alar.  Off!  /  will  tend  him. 

Mem.  You!     Remember,  lady ! 

Ingress  is  given  to  none  within  those  cham- 
bers, 
Except  "  the  Ten,"  and  their  familiars. 

Mar.  Well, 

I  know  that  none  who  enter  there  return 
As  they  have  entered — -many  never;  but 
They  shall  not  balk  my  entrance. 

Mem.  Alas!  this 

Is  but  to  expose  yourself  to  harsh  repulse, 
And  worse  suspense. 


Mar.  Who  shall  oppose  me  ? 

Mem.  They 

Whose  duty  'tis  to  do  so. 

Mar.  'Tis  their  duty 

To  trample  on  all  human  feelings,  ah 
Ties  which  bind  man  to  man,  to  emulate 
The  fiends  who  will  one  day  requite  them  in 
Variety  of  torturing !     Yet  I'll  pass. 

Mem.  It  is  impossible. 

Alar.  That  shall  be  tried. 

Despair  defies  even  despotism  :  there  is 
That  in  my  heart  would  make  its  way  through 

hosts 
With  levelled  spears ;  and  think  you  a  few 

jailors 
Shall  put  me  from  my  path  ?     Give  me,  then, 

way. 
This  is  the  Doge's  palace ;  I  am  wife 
Of  the  Duke's  son,  the  innocent  Duke's  son, 
And  they  shall  hear  this ! 

Alem.  It  will  only  serve 

More  to  exasperate  his  judges. 

Mar.  What 

Ave  judges  who  give  way  to  anger  ?  they 
Who  do  so  are  assassins.     Give  me  way. 

[Exit  Marina. 

Sen.  Poor  lady ! 

Mem.  'Tis  mere  desperation  :  she 

Will  not  be  admitted  o'er  the  threshold. 

Sen.  And 

Even  if  she  be  so,  cannot  save  her  husband. 
But,  see,  the  officer  returns. 

[  The  Officer  passes  over  the  stage  with  an- 
other -person. 

Alem.  I  hardly 

Thought  that  "  the  Ten  "  had  even  this  touch 

of  pity, 
Or  would  permit  assistance  to  this  sufferer. 

Sen.  Pity  !  Is't  pity  to  recall  to  feeling 
The  wretch  too  happy  to  escape  to  death 
By  the  compassionate  trance,  poor  nature'^ 

last 
Resource  against  the  tyranny  of  pain  ? 

Alem.     I  marvel  they  condemn  him  not  at 
once. 

Sen.     That's  not  their  policy  :    they'd  have 
him  live, 
Because  he  fears  not  death ;   and  banish  him, 
Because  all  earth,  except  his  native  land, 
To  him  is  one  wide  prison,  and  each  breath 
Of  foreign  air  he  draws  seems  a  slow  poison, 
Consuming  but  not  killing. 

Alem.  Circumstance 

Confirms  his  crimes,  but  he  avows  them  not. 

Sen.     None,  save  the  Letter,  which  he  says 
was  written, 
Addressed  to  Milan's  duke,  in  the  full  knowh 

edge 
That  it  would  fall  into  the  senate's  hands, 
And  thus  he  should  be  reconveyed  to  Venice. 

Mem.     But  as  a  culprit. 

Sen.  Yes,  but  to  his  country 


630 


THE    TWO  FOSCARI. 


[act  t 


And  that  was  all  he  sought,  —  so  he  avouches. 
Mem.    The  accusation  of  the  bribes  was 

proved. 
Sen.     Not  clearly,  and  the  charge  of  homi- 
cide 
Has  been  annulled  by  the  death-bed  confession 
Of  Nicolas  Erizzo,  who  slew  the  late 
Chief  of  "the  Ten."* 
Mem.  Then  why  not  clear  him  ? 

Sen.  That 

rhey  ought  to  answer;  for  it  is  well  known 
That  Almoro  Donato,  as  I  said, 
VVas  slain  by  Erizzo  for  private  vengeance. 
Mem.     There  must  be  more  in  this  strange 
process  than 
The  apparent  crimes  of  the  accused  disclose  — 
But  here  come  two  of  "  the  Ten  ;  "  let  us  re- 
tire. [Exeunt  MEMMO  and  Senator. 

Enter  LOREDANO  and  BARBARIGO. 

Bar.  (addressing  LOR.).      That  were   too 
much:  believe  me,  'twas  not  meet 
The  trial  should  go  further  at  this  moment. 
Lor.     And  so  the  Council  must  break  up, 
and  Justice 
Pause  in  her  full  career,  because  a  woman 
Breaks  in  on  our  deliberations  ? 

Bar.  No, 

That's  not  the  cause ;  you  saw  the  prisoner's 
state. 
Lor.    And  had  he  not  recovered  ? 
Bar.  To  relapse 

Upon  the  least  renewal. 

Lor.  'Twas  not  tried. 

Bar.     'Tis  vain  to  murmur ;  the  majority 
In  council  were  against  you. 

Lor.  Thanks  to  you,  sir, 

And  the  old  ducal  dotard,  who  combined 
The  worthy  voices  which  o'er-ruled  my  own. 
Bar.     I  am  a  judge ;  but  must  confess  that 
part 
Of  our  stern  duty,  which  prescribes  the  Ques- 
tion, 


1  [The  extraordinary  sentence  pronounced  against 
him,  still  existing  among  the  archives  of  Venice, 
runs  thus: — "  Giacopo  Foscari,  accused  of  the 
murder  of  Hermolao  Donato,  has  been  arrested  and 
examined;  and,  from  the  testimony,  evidence,  and 
documents  exhibited,  it  distinctly  appears  that  he 
is  guilty  of  the  aforesaid  crime;  nevertheless,  on 
account  of  his  obstinacy,  and  of  enchantments  and 
spells,  in  his  possession,  of  which  there  are  manifest 
proofs,  it  has  not  been  possible  to  extract  from  him 
the  truth,  which  is  clear  from  parol  and  written 
evidence;  for,  while  he  was  on  the  cord,  he  uttered 
neither  word  nor  groan,  but  only  murmured  some- 
thing to  himself  indistinctly  and  under  his  breath; 
therefore  as  the  honor  of  the  state  requires,  he  is 
condemned  to  a  more  distant  banishment  in  Candia." 
Will  it  be  credited,  that  a  distinct  proof  of  his  inno- 
cence, obtained  by  the  discovery  of  the  real  assassin, 
wrought  no  change  in  his  unjust  and  cruel  sen- 
tence?" —  5 medley. .] 


And  bids  us  sit  and  see  its  sharp  infliction, 
Makes  me  wish 

Lor.  What  ? 

Bar.  That  you  would  sometimes  feel, 

As  I  do  always. 

Lor.  Go  to,  you're  a  child, 

Infirm  of  feeling  as  of  purpose,  blown 
About  by  every  breath,  shook  by  a  sigh, 
And  melted  by  a  tear  —  a  precious  judge 
For  Venice !  and  a  worthy  statesman  to 
Be  partner  in  my  policy. 

Bar.  He  shed 

No  tears. 

Lor.  He  cried  out  twice. 

Bar.  A  saint  had  done  so, 

Even  with  the  crown  of  glory  in  his  eye, 
At  such  inhuman  artifice  of  pain 
As  was  forced  on  him  ;  but  he  did  not  cry 
For  pity;  not  a  word  nor  groan  escaped  him, 
And  those  two  shrieks  were  not  in  supplica- 
tion, 
But  wrung  from  pangs,  and  followed  by  no 
prayers. 

Lor.     He   muttered  many  times  between 
his  teeth, 
But  inarticulately. 

Bar.  That  I  heard  not ; 

You  stood  more  near  him. 

Lor.  I  did  so. 

Bar.  .  Methought, 

To  my  surprise  too,  you  were  touched  with 

mercy, 
And  were  the  first  to  call  out  for  assistance 
When  he  was  failing. 

Lor.  I  believed  that  swoon 

His  last. 

Bar.     And  have  I  not  oft  heard  thee  name 
His  and  his  father's  death  your  nearest  wish  ? 

Lor.     If  he  dies  innocent,  that  is  to  say, 
With  his  guilt  unavowed,  he'll  be  lamented. 

Bar.  What,  wouldst  thou  slay  his  memory  ? 

Lor.  Wouldst  thou  have 

His  state  descend  to  his  children,  as  it  must, 
If  he  die  unattainted  ? 

Bar.  War  with  them  too  ? 

Lor.    With  all   their  house,  till   theirs  o* 
mine  are  nothing. 

Bar.    And  the  deep  agony  of  his  pale  wife, 
And  the  repressed  convulsion  of  the  high 
And  princely  brow  of  his  old  father,  which 
Broke   forth  in  a  slight  shuddering,  though, 

rarely, 
Or  in  some  clammy  drops,  soon  wiped  away 
In  stern  serenity;  these  moved  you  not  ? 

[Exit  LOREDANO 
He's  silent  in  his  hate,  as  Foscari 
Was  in  his  suffering;    and  the  poor  wretch 

moved  me 
More  by  his  silence  than  a  thousand  outcries 
Could  have  effected.    'Twas  a  dreadful  sigh* 
When  his  distracted  wife  broke  through  into 
The  hall  of  our  tribunal,  and  beheld 


SCENE  I.] 


THE    TWO  FOSCARI. 


631 


What  we  could  scarcely  look  upon,  long  used 
To  such  sights.    I  must  think  no  more  of  this, 
Lest  I  forget  in  this  compassion  for 
Our  foes  their  former  injuries,  and  lose 
The  hold  of  vengeance  Loredano  plans 
For  him  and  me ;  but  mine  would  be  content 
With  lesser  retribution  than  he  thirsts  for, 
And  I  would  mitigate  his  deeper  hatred 
To   milder    thoughts ;    but   for  the  present, 

Foscari 
Has  a  short  hourly  respite,  granted  at 
The  instance  of  the  elders  of  the  Council, 
Moved  doubtless  by  his  wife's  appearance  in 
The  hall,  and  his  own  sufferings.  —  Lo!  they 

come : 
How  feeble  and  forlorn !     I  cannot  bear 
To  look  on  them  again  in  this  extremity : 
i "11  hence,  and  try  to  soften  Loredano. 

[Exit  Barbarigo. 


ACT  II. 

SCENE  I.  —  A  Hall  in  the  DOGE'S  Palace. 

The  Doge  and  a  Senator. 

Sen.     Is  it  your  pleasure  to  sign  the  report 
Now,  or  postpone  it  till  to-morrow  ? 

Doge.  Now ; 

I  overlooked  it  yesterday  :  it  wants 
Merely  the  signature.     Give  me  the  pen  — 

[  The  DOGE  sits  down  and  signs  the  paper. 
There,  signor. 

Sen.  {looking  at  the  paper).    You  have  for- 
got ;  it  is  not  signed. 
Doge.    Not  signed  ?   Ah,  I  perceive  my  eyes 
begin 
To  wax  more  weak  with  age.     I  did  not  see 
That  I  had  dipped  the  pen  without  effect.1 
Sen.  {dipping  the  pen  into  the  ink,  and  plac- 
ing the  paper  be/ore  the  DOGE).     Your 
hand,  too,  shakes,  my  lord :    allow   me, 
thus  — 
Doge.     'Tis  done,  I  thank  you. 
Sen.  Thus  the  act  confirmed 

By  you  and   by  "  the  Ten "  gives   peace  to 
Venice. 
Doge.    'Tis  long  since  she  enjoyed  it :  may 
it  be 
As  long  ere  she  resume  her  arms ! 

Sen.  'Tis  almost 

Thirty-four  years  of  nearly  ceaseless  warfare 
With  the  Turk,  or  the  powers  of  Italy; 
The  state  had  need  of  some  repose. 

Doge.  No  doubt : 

I  found  her  Queen  of  Ocean,  and  I  leave  her 
Lady  of  Lombardy  ;  -  it  is  a  comfort 


»  [MS.— 

"  That  I  had  dipped  the  pen  too  heedlessly."] 
*[MS.— 
'"  Mistress  of  Lombardy  —  it  is  some  comfort."] 


That  I  have  added  to  her  diadem 
The  gems  of  Brescia  and  Ravenna  ;  Crema 
And  Bergamo  no  less  are  hers ;  her  realm 
By  land  has  grown  by  thus  much  in  my  reign, 
While  her  sea-sway  has  not  shrunk. 

Sen.  'Tis  most  true, 

And  merits  all  our  country's  gratitude. 

Doge.     Perhaps  so. 

Sen.  Which  should  be  made  manifest. 

Doge.     I  have  not  complained,  sir. 

Sen.  My  good  lord,  forgive  me. 

Doge.    For  what  ? 

Sen.  My  heart  bleeds  for  you. 

Doge.  For  me,  signor  ? 

Sen.     And  for  your 

Doge.  Stop ! 

Sen.  It  must  have  way,  my  lord ; 

I  have  too  many  duties  towards  you 
And  all  your  house,  for  past  and  present  kind- 
ness, 
Not  to  feel  deeply  for  your  son. 

Doge.  Was  this 

In  your  commission  ? 

Sen.  What,  my  lord  ? 

Doge.  This  prattle 

Of  things   you   know   not :   but   the   treaty's 

signed ; 
Return  with  it  to  them  who  sent  you. 

Sen.  I 

Obey.     I  had  in  charge,  too,  from  the  Council 
That  you  would  fix  an  hour  for  their  reunion. 

Doge.     Say,  when  they  will  —  now,  even  at 
this  moment. 
If  it  so  please  them:  I  am' the  state's  servant. 

Sen.     They  would  accord  some    time    for 
your  repose. 

Doge.     I  have  no  repose,  that  is,  none  which 

shall  cause 

The  loss  of  an  hour's  time  unto  the  state. 

Let  them  meet  when  they  will,  I  shall  be  found 

Where  I  should  be,  and  what  I  have  been  ever. 

[Exit  Senator. 

[The  DOGE  remains  in  silence. 

Enter  an  Attendant. 

Att.    Prince ! 

Doge.  Say  on. 

Att.  The  illustrious  lady  Foscari 

Requests  an  audience. 

Doge.  Bid  her  enter.     Poor 

Marina !  [Exit  Attendant. 

[  The  DOGE  remains  in  silence  as  before. 

Enter  MARINA. 

Mar.     I  have  ventured,  father,  on 
Your  privacy. 

Doge.  I  have  none  from  you,  my  child. 

Command  my  time,  when  not  commanded  by 
The  state. 

Mar.         I  wished  to  speak  to  you  of  him 

Doge.     Your  husband  ? 

Mar.  And  your  son. 


632 


THE    TWO  FOSCARI. 


[ACT  II. 


Doge.     Proceed,  my  daughter ! 

Mar.     1  had  obtained  permission  from  "  the 
Ten" 
To  attend  my  husband  for  a  limited  number 
Of  hours. 

Doge.       You  had  so. 

Mar.  "Tis  revoked. 

Doge.  By  whom  ? 

Mar.   "  The  Ten."  —  When  we  had  reached 
"  the  Bridge  of  Sighs," 
Which  I  prepared  to  pass  with  Foscari, 
The  gloomy  guardian  of  that  passage  first 
Demurred  :  a  messenger  was  sent  back  to 
"  The  Ten ;  "  but  as  the  court  no  longer  sate, 
And  no  permission  had  been  given  in  writing, 
I  was  thrust  back,  with  the  assurance  that 
Until  that  high  tribunal  re-assembled 
The  dungeon  walls  must  still  divide  us. 

Doge.  True, 

The  form  has  been  omitted  in  the  haste 
With  which  the  court  adjourned ;  and  till  it 

meets, 
Tis  dubious. 

Mar.         Till  it  meets !  and  when  it  meets, 
They'll  torture  him  again  ;  and  he  and  / 
Must  purchase  by  renewal  of  the  rack 
The  interview  of  husband  and  of  wife, 
The   holiest  tie  beneath  the  heavens!  —  Oh 

God! 
Dost  thou  see  this  ? 

Doge.  Child  — child 

Mar.  (abruptly).  Call  me  not  "  child  !  " 

You  soon  will  have  no  children  —  you  deserve 

none  — 
You,  who  can  talk  thus  calmly  of  a  son 
In  circumstances  which  would  call  forth  tears 
Of  blood  from  Spartans  !     Though  these  did 

not  weep 
Their  boys  who  died  in  battle,  is  it  written 
That  they  beheld  them  perish  piecemeal,  nor 
Stretched  forth  a  hand  to  save  them  ? 

Doge.  You  behold  me : 

I  cannot  weep — I  would  I  could;  but  if 
Each  white  hair  on  this  head  were  a  young  life, 
This  ducal  cap  the  diadem  of  earth, 
This  ducal  ring  with  which  I  wed  the  waves 
A  talisman  to  still  them  —  I'd  give  all 
For  him. 

Mar.     With  less  he  surely  might  be  saved. 

Doge.     That  answer  only  shows  you  know 
not  Venice. 
Alas !  how  should  you  ?  she  knows  not  her- 
self, 
In  all  her  mystery.     Hear  me  —  they  who  aim 
At  Foscari,  aim  no  less  at  his  father ; 
The  sire's  destruction  would  not  save  the  son  ; 
They  work  by  different  means  to  the  same 
end, 

And  that  is but  they  have  not  conquered 

yet. 

Mar.     But  they  have  crushed. 

Doge.  Nor  crushed  as  yet  —  I  live 


Mar.    And  your  son,  —  how  long  will  he 

live  ? 
Doge.  I  trust. 

For  all  that  yet  is  past,  as  many  years 
And  happier  than  his  father.     The  rash  boy, 
With  womanish  impatience  to  return, 
Hath  ruined  all  by  that  detected  letter: 
A  high  crime,  which  I  neither  can  deny 
Nor  palliate,  as  parent  or  as  Duke: 
Had  he  but  borne  a  little,  little  longer 

His  Candiote  exile,  I  had  hopes he  ha9 

quenched  them  — 
He  must  return. 
Mar.  To  exile  ? 

Doge.  I  have  said  it. 

Afar.    And  can  I  not  go  with  him  ? 
Doge.  You  well  know 

This  prayer  of  yours  was  twice  denied  before 
By  the  assembled  "  Ten,"  and  hardly  now 
Will  be  accorded  to  a  third  request, 
Since  aggravated  errors  on  the  part 
Of  your  lord  renders  them  still  more  austere. 
Mar.     Austere  ?    Atrocious !    The  old  hu- 
man fiends, 
With  one  foot  in  the  grave,  with  dim  eyes, 

strange 
To  tears  save  drops  of  dotage,  with  long  white 
And  scanty  hairs,  and  shaking  hands,  and 

heads 
As  palsied  as^heir  hearts  are  hard,  they  coun- 
sel, 
Cabal,  and  put  men's  lives  out,  as  if  life 
Were  no  more  than  the  feelings  long  extin- 
guished 
In  their  accursed  bosoms. 

Doge.  You  know  not 

Mar.     I  do  —  I  do  —  and  so   should  you, 
methinks  — 
That  these  are  demons  :  could  it  be  else  that 
Men,  who  have   been  of  women  born   and 

suckled  — 
Who  have  loved,  or  talked  at  least  of  love  — 

have  given 
Their  hands  in  sacred  vows  —  have  danced 

their  babes 
Upon   their  knees,  perhaps   have   mourned 

above  them  — 
In  pain,  in  peril,  or  in  death  —  who  are, 
Or  were  at  least  in  seeming,  human,  could 
Do  as  they  have  done  by  yours,  and  you  your- 
self, 
You,  who  abet  them  ? 

Doge.  I  forgive  this,  for 

You  know  not  what  you  say. 

Mar.  You  know  it  well. 

And  feel  it  nothing. 

Doge.  I  have  borne  so  much, 

That  words  have  ceased  to  shake  me. 

Mar.  Oh,  no  doubt ! 

You  have  seen  your  son's   blood   flow,  and 

your  flesh  shook  not: 
And  after  that,  what  are  a  woman's  words  ? 


SCENE  I.] 


THE    TWO  FOSCARI. 


633 


No  more  than  woman's  tears,  that  they  should 
shake  you. 

Doge.     Woman,   this    clamorous   grief    of 
thine,  I  tell  thee, 
Is  no  more  in  the  balance  weighed  with  that 
Which but  I  pity  thee,  my  poor  Marina  ! 

Mar.     Pity  my  husband,  or  I  cast  it  from 
me ; 
Pity  thy  son  !      Thou  pity !  —  'tis  a  word 
Strange  to  thy  heart  —  how  came  it  on  thy  lips  ? 

Doge.    I  must  bear  these  reproaches,  though 
they  wrong  me. 
Couldst  thou  but  read 

Mar.  "Pis  not  upon  thy  brow, 

Nor  in  thine  eyes,  nor  in  thine  acts, — where 

then 
Should  I  behold  this  sympathy  ?  or  shall  ? 

Doge,  (pointing  downwards) .     There. 

Mar.  In  the  earth  ? 

Doge.  To  which  I  am  tending:  when 

It  lies  upon  this  heart,  far  lightlier,  though 
Loaded  with  marble,  than  the  thoughts  which 

press  it 
Now,  you  will  know  me  better. 

Mar.  Are  you,  then, 

Indeed,  thus  to  be  pitied  ? 

Doge.  Pitied !     None 

Shall  ever  use  that  base  word,  with  which  men 
Cloak  their  soul's  hoarded  triumph,  as  a  fit 

one 
To  mingle  with  my  name  ;  that  name  shall  be, 
As  far  as  /  have  borne  it,  what  it  was 
When  I  received  it. 

Mar.  But  for  the  poor  children 

Of  him  thou  canst  not,  or  thou  wilt  not  save, 
You  were  the  last  to  bear  it. 

Doge.  Would  it  were  so  ! 

Better  for  him  he  never  had  been  born ; 
Better  for  me.  —  I  have  seen  our  house  dis- 
honored. 

Mar.     That's  false  !  A  truer,  nobler,  trustier 
heart, 
More  loving,  or  more  loyal,  never  beat 
Within  a  human  breast.     I  would  not  change 
My  exiled,  persecuted,  mangled  husband, 
Oppressed  but  not  disgraced,  crushed,  over- 
whelmed, 
Alive,  or  dead,  for  prince  or  paladin 
In  story  or  in  table,  with  a  world 
To    back    his    suit.     Dishonored! — he   dis- 
honored ! 
I  tell  thee,  Doge,  'tis  Venice  is  dishonored; 
His  name  shall  be  her  foulest,  worst  reproach, 
For  what  he  suffers,  not  for  what  he  did. 
'Tis  ye  who  are  all  traitors,  tyrant !  — ye  ! 
Did  you  but  love  your  country  like  this  victim 
Who  totters  back  in  chains  to  tortures,  and 
Submits  to  all  things  rather  than  to  exile, 
You'd  fling  yourselves  before  him,  and  implore 
His  grace  for  your  enormous  guilt. 

Doge.  He  was 

Tndeed  all  you  have  said.     I  better  bore 


The  deaths  of  the  two  sons  Heaven  took  from 

me, 
Than  Jacopos  disgrace. 

Mar.  That  word  again  ? 

Doge.     Has  he  not  been  condemned  ? 
Mar.  Is  none  but  guilt  so  ? 

Doge.     Time  may  restore  his   memory — I 
would  hope  so. 

He  was   my   pride,   my but   'tis   useless 

now  — 
I  am  not  given  to  tears,  but  wept  for  joy 
When  he  was  born  :  those  drops  were  ominous. 
Mar.     I  say  he's  innocent !     And  were  he 
not  so, 
Is  our  own  blood  and  kin  to  shrink  from  us 
In  fatal  moments  ? 

Doge.  I  shrank  not  from  him  : 

But  I  have  other  duties  than  a  father's ; 
The  state  would  not  dispense  me  from  those 

dnties ; 
Twice  I  demanded  it,  but  was  refused : 
They  must  then  be  fulfilled.1 

Enter  an  Attendant. 

Aft.  A  message  from 

"  The  Ten." 

Doge.  Who  bears  it  ? 

Att.  Noble  Loredano. 

Doge.     He! — but  admit  him. 

[Exit  Attendant. 

Afar.  Must  I  then  retire  ? 

Doge.     Perhaps  it  is  not  requisite,  if  this 

Concerns  your  husband,  and  if  not Well, 

signor, 
Your  pleasure!  [To  LOREDANO  entering. 

Lor.  I  bear  that  of  "  the  Ten." 

Doge.  They 

Have  chosen  well  their  envoy. 

Lor.  'Tis  their  choice 

Which  leads  me  here. 

Doge.  It  does  their  wisdom  honor, 

And  no  less  to  their  courtesy.- — Proceed. 


1  [The  interest  of  this  play  is  founded  upon  feel- 
ings so  peculiar  or  overstrained,  as  to  engage  no 
sympathy;  and  the  whole  story  turns  on  incidents 
that  are  neither  pleasing  nor  natural.  The  younger 
Foscari  undergoes  the  rack  twice  (once  in  the  hear- 
ing of  the  audience),  merely  because  he  has  chosen 
to  feign  himself  a  traitor,  that  he  might  be  brought 
back  from  undeserved  banishment,  and  dies  at  last 
of  pure  dotage  on  this  sentiment;  while  the  elder 
Foscari  submits,  in  profound  and  immovable  silence, 
to  this  treatment  of  his  son,  lest,  by  seeming  to  feel 
for  his  unhappy  fate,  he  should  be  implicated  in  his 
guilt  —  though  he  is  supposed  guiltless.  He,  the 
Doge,  is  afraid  to  stir  hand  or  foot,  to  look  or  speak, 
while  these  inexplicable  horrors  are  transacting,  on 
account  of  the  hostility  of  one  Loredano,  who  lords 
it  in  the  council  of"  the  Ten,"  nobody  knows  why 
or  how;  and  who  at  last  "enmeshes"  both  father 
and  son  in  his  toils,  in  spite  of  their  passive  obedi- 
ence and  non-resistance  to  his  plans.  They  are 
silly  flies  for  this  spider  to  catch,  and  "  feed  fat  his 
ancient  grudge  upon."  —  Jeffrey.] 


634 


THE    TWO   FOSCARI. 


[act  a 


Ler.    We  have  decided. 

Doge.  We  ? 

Lor.  "  The  Ten  "  in  council. 

Doge.     What!    have  they  met  again,  and 
met  without 
Apprising  me  ? 

Lor.       They  wished  to  spare  your  feelings, 
No  less  than  age. 

Doge.     That's     new  —  when    spared    they 
either  ? 
I  thank  them,  notwithstanding. 

Lor.  You  know  well 

That  they  have  power  to  act  at  their  discretion, 
With  or  without  the  presence  of  the  Doge. 

Doge.     'Tis  some  years  since  I  learned  this, 
long  before 
I  became  Doge,  or  dreamed  of  such  advance- 
ment. 
You  need  not  school  me,  signor;  I  sate  in 
That  council  when  you  were  a  young  patrician. 

Lor.     True,  in   my  father's   time ;    I    have 
heard  him  and 
The  admiral,  his  brother,  say  as  much. 
Your  highness   may  remember   them ;    they 

both 
Died  suddenly. 

Doge.  And  if  they  did  so,  better 

So  die  than  live  on  lingeringly  in  pain. 

Lor.     No  doubt ;  yet  most  men  like  to  live 
their  days  out. 

Doge.     And  did  not  they  ? 

Lor.  The  grave  knows  best:  they  died, 

As  I  said,  suddenly. 

Doge.  Is  that  so  strange, 

That  you  repeat  the  word  emphatically  ? 

Lor.     So  far  from  strange,  that  never  was 
there  death 
In  my  mind  half  so  natural  as  theirs. 
Think  you  not  so  ? 

Doge.        What  should  I  think  of  mortals  ? 

Lor.     That  they  have  mortal  foes. 

Doge.  I  understand  you  ; 

Your  sires  were  mine,  and  you  are  heir  in  all 
things. 

Lor.     You  best  know  if  I  should  be  so. 

Doge.  I  do. 

\our  fathers  were  my  foes,  and  I  have  heard 
Foul  rumors  were  abroad ;   I  have  also  read 
Their  epitaph,  attributing  their  deaths 
To  poison.     'Tis  perhaps  as  true  as  most 
Inscriptions  upon  tombs,  and  yet  no  less 
A  fable. 

Lor.       Who  dares  say  so  ? 

Doge.  I !  —  'Tis  true 

Your  fathers  were  mine  enemies,  as  bitter 
As  their  son  e'er  can  be,  and  I  no  less 
Was  theirs  ;  but  I  was  openly  their  foe  : 
I  never  worked  by  plot  in  council,  nor 
Cabal  in  commonwealth,  nor  secret  means 
Of  practice  against  life  by  steel  or  drug. 
The  proof  is,  your  existence. 

Lor.  I  fear  not. 


Doge.     You  have  no  cause,  being  what  I 
am  ;  but  were  I 
That  you  would  have  me  thought,  you  long 

ere  now 
Were  past  the  sense  of  fear.     Hate  on ;  I  care 
not. 

Lor.     I  never  yet  knew  that  a  noble's  life 
In  Venice  had  to  dread  a  Doge's  frown, 
That  is,  by  open  means. 

Doge.  But  I ,  good  signor, 

Am,  or  at  least  was,  more  than  a  mere  duke, 
In  blood,  in  mind,  in  means;  and  that  they 

know 
Who  dreaded  to  elect  me,  and  have  since 
Striven  all  they  dare  to  weigh  me  down :  be 

sure, 
Before  or  since  that  period,  had  I  held  you 
At  so  much  price  as  to  require  your  absence, 
A  word  of  mine  had  set  such  spirits  to  work 
As  would  have  made  you  nothing.     But  in  all 

things 
I  have  observed  the  strictest  reverence ; 
Not  for  the   laws  alone,  for  those  you  have 

strained 
(I  do  not  speak  of  you  but  as  a  single 
Voice  of  the  many)  somewhat  beyond  what 
I  could  enforce  for  my  authority, 
Were  I  disposed  to  brawl ;  but,  as  I  said, 
I  have  observed  with  veneration,  like 
A  priest's  for  yie  high  altar,  even  unto 
The  sacrifice  of  my  own  blood  and  quiet, 
Safety,  and  all  save  honor,  the  decrees, 
The  health,  the  pride,  and  welfare  of  the  state. 
And  now,  sir,  to  your  business. 

Lor.  'Tis  decreed, 

That,  without  further  repetition  of 
The  Question,  or  continuance  of  the  trial, 
Which  only  tends  to  show  how  stubborn  guilt 

is, 
("  The  Ten,"  dispensing  with  the  stricter  law 
Which  still  prescribes  the  Question  till  a  full 
Confession,  and  the  prisoner  partly  having 
Avowed  his  crime  in  not  denying  that 
The  letter  to  the  Duke  of  Milan's  his), 
James  Foscari,  return  to  banishment, 
And  sail  in  the  same  galley  which  conveyed 
him. 

Mar.     Thank  God!     At  least  they  will  not 
drag  him  more 
Before  that  horrible  tribunal.     Would  he 
But  think  so,  to  my  mind  the  happiest  doom, 
Not  he  alone,  but  all  who  dwell  here,  could 
Desire,  were  to  escape  from  such  a  land. 

Doge.     That  is  not  a  Venetian  thought,  my 
daughter. 

Afar.     No,  'twas  too  human.     May  I  share 
his  exile  ? 

Lor.     Of  this  "  the  Ten  '  said  nothing. 

Mar.  So  I  thought' 

That  were  too  human,  also.     But  it  was  not 
Inhibited  ? 

Lor.  It  was  not  named. 


SCENE  I.] 


THE    TWO  FO S CARL 


635 


Mar.  {tB  the  DOGE).  Then,  father, 

Surely  you  can  obtain  or  grant  me  thus  much  : 
[To  LOREDANO. 
And  you,  sir,  not  oppose  my  prayer  to  be 
Permitted  to  accompany  my  husband. 

Doge.     I  will  endeavor. 

Mar.  And  you,  signor  ? 

Lor.  Lady ! 

'Tis  not  for  me  to  anticipate  the  pleasure 
Of  the  tribunal. 

Mar.  Pleasure !  what  a  word 

To  use  for  the  decrees  of — — 

Doge.  Daughter,  know  you 

In  whatapresenceyoupronouncethesethings? 

Mar.     A  prince's  and  his  subject's. 

Lor.  Subject ! 

Mar.  Oh ! 

ft  galls  you  :  —  well,  you  are  his  equal,  as 
i'ou  think;  but  that  you  are  not,  nor  would  be, 
Were  he  a  peasant:  —  well,   then,  you're  a 

prince, 
A  princely  noble ;  and  what  then  am  I  ? 

Lor.     The  offspring  of  a  noble  house. 

Mar.  And  wedded 

To  one  as  noble.     What,  or  whose,  then,  is 
The    presence   that   should   silence   my  free 
thoughts  ? 

Lor.  The  presence  ofyourhusband's  judges. 

Doge.  And 

The  deference  due  even  to  the  lightest  word 
That  falls  from  those  who  rule  in  Venice. 

Mar.  Keep 

Those  maxims  for  your  mass  of  scared  me- 
chanics, 
Your  merchants,  your  Dalmatian  and  Greek 

slaves, 
Your  tributaries,  your  dumb  citizens, 
And  masked  nobility,  your  sbirri,  and 
Your  spies,  your  galley  and  your  other  slaves, 
To  whom  your  midnight   carryings  off  and 

drownings, 
Your  dungeons  next  the  palace  roofs,  or  under 
The  water's  level;  your  mysterious  meetings, 
And  unknown  dooms,  and  sudden  executions, 
Your    "Bridge    of   Sighs,"1    your  strangling 

chamber,  and 
Your  torturing   instruments,  have   made   ye 

seem 
The  beings  of  another  and  worse  world ! 
Keep  such  for  them  :  I  fear  ye  not.    I  know  ye  ; 
Have  known  and  proved  your  worst,  in  the  in- 
fernal 
Process  of  my  poor  husband  !    Treat  me  as 
Ye  treated  him  : — you  did  so,  in  so  dealing 
With  him.  Then  what  have  I  to  fear  from  you, 
Even  if  I  were  of  fearful  nature,  which 
I  trust  I  am  not  ? 

Doge.  You  hear,  she  speaks  wildly. 

Mar.     Not  wisely,  yet  not  wildly. 

Lor.  Lady !  words 


Uttered  within  these  walls  I  bear  no  further 
Than  to  the  threshold,  saving  such  as  pass 
Between  the  Duke  and  me  on  the  state's  sen 

vice. 
Doge !  have  you  aught  in  answer  ? 

Doge.  Something  from 

The  Doge ;  it  may  be  also  from  a  parent. 

Lor.     My  Mission  here  is  to  the  Doge. 

Doge.  Then  say 

The  Doge  will  choose  his  own  ambassador, 
Or  state  in  person  what  is  meet ;  and  for 
The  father 

Lor.  I  remember  mine.  —  Farewells 

I  kiss  the  hands  of  the  illustrious  lady, 
And  bow  me  to  the  Duke.    [Exit  LOREDANO. 

Mar.  Are  you  content  ? 

Doge.     I  am  what  you  behold. 

Mar.  And  that's  a  mystery. 

Doge.    All  things  are  so  to  mortals ;  who 
can  read  them 
Save  he  who  made  ?     Or,  if  they  can,  the  few 
And  gifted  spirits,  who  have  studied  long 
That   loathsome  volume  —  man,  and  pored 

upon 
Those  black  and  bloody  leaves,  his  heart  and 

brain,2 
But  learn  a  magic  which  recoils  upon 
The  adept  who  pursues  it :  all  the  sins 
We  find  in  others,  nature  made  our  own ; 
All  our  advantages  are  those  of  fortune  ; 
Birth, wealth,  health,  beauty,  are  her  accidents, 
And  when  we  cry  out  against  Fate  'twere  well 
We  should  remember  Fortune  can  take  nought 
Save  what  she  gave  —  the  rest  was  nakedness. 
And  lusts,  and  appetites,  and  vanities, 
The  universal  heritage,  to  battle 
With  as  we  may,  and  least  in  humblest  stations, 
Where  hunger  swallows  all  in  one  low  want,3 
And  the  original  ordinance,  that  man 
Must  sweat  for  his  poor  pittance,  keeps   all 

passions 
Aloof,  save  fear  of  famine  !     All  is  low, 
And  false",  and  hollow — -clay  from  first  to  last, 
The  prince's  urn  no  less  than  potter's  vessel. 
Our  fame  is  in  men's  breath,  our  lives  upon 
Less  than  their  breath  ;  ourdurance  upon  days, 
Our  days  on  seasons ;  our  whole  being  on 
Something  which   is  not   us/ — So,   we   are 

slaves, 
The  greatest  as  the  meanest  —  nothing  rests 
Upon  our  will ;  the  will  itself  no  less 
Depends  upon  a  straw  than  on  a  storm ;  4 
And  when  we  think  we  lead,  we  are  most  led. 


1  [See  ante,  p.  537.] 


2  [MS. —"The    blackest    leaf,   hip    heart,   and 

blankest  his  brain."] 

3  [MS.— 

"Where  hunger  swallows  all  —  wherever  was 
The  monarch  who  could  bear  a  three  days'  fast  ?  "] 

4  [MS. —  "  the  will  itself  dependent 

Upon  a  storm,  a  straw,  and  both  aliks 
Leading  to  death."] 


636 


THE    TWO  FOSCARI. 


[act  m 


And  still  towards  death,  a  thing  which  comes 

as  much 
Without  our  act  or  choice  as  birth,  so  that 
Methinks  we  must  have  sinned  in  some  old 

world, 
And  this  is  hell :  the  best  is,  that  it  is  not 
Eternal. 

Afar.    These  are  things  we  cannot  judge 
On  earth. 

Doge.     And  how  then  shall  we  judge  each 
other, 
Who  are  all  earth,  and  I,  who  am  called  upon 
To  judge  my  son  ?     I  have  administered 
My  country  faithfully  —  victoriously  — 
I  dare  them  to  the  proof,  the  chart  of  what 
She  was  and  is  :  my  reign  has  doubled  realms  ; 
And,  in  reward,  the  gratitude  of  Venice 
Has  left,  or  is  about  to  leave,  me  single. 

Mar.     And  Foscari  ?  I  do  not  think  of  such 
things, 
So  I  be  left  with  him. 

Doge.  You  shall  be  so ; 

Thus  much  they  cannot  well  deny. 

Mar.  And  if 

They  should,  I  will  fly  with  him. 

Doge.  That  can  ne'er  be. 

And  whither  would  you  fly  ? 

Mar.  I  know  not,  reck  not  — 

To  Syria,  Egypt,  to  the  Ottoman  — 
Anywhere,  where  we  might  respire  unfettered, 
And  live  nor  girt  by  spies,  nor  liable 
To  edicts  of  inquisitors  of  state. 

Doge.  What,  wouldst  thou  have  a  renegade 
for  husband, 
And  turn  him  into  traitor  ? 

Mar.  He  is  none ! 

The  country  is  the  traitress,  which  thrusts  forth 
Her  best  and  bravest  from  her.     Tyranny 
Is  far  the  worst  of  treasons.     Dost  thou  deem 
None   rebels  except  subjects  ?     The  prince 

who 
Neglects  or  violates  his  trust  is  more 
A  brigand  than  the  robber-chief. 

Doge.  I  cannot 

Charge  me  with  such  a  breach  of  faith. 

Mar.  No ;  thou 

Observ'st,  obey'st,   such   laws   as   make   old 

Draco's 
A  code  of  mercy  by  comparison. 

Doge.     I  found  the  law ;  I  did  not  make  it. 
Were  I 
A  subject,  still  I  might  find  parts  and  portions 
Fit  for  amendment ;  but  as  prince,  I  never 
Would  change,  for  the  sake  of  my  house,  the 

charter 
Left  by  our  fathers. 

Mar.  Did  they  make  it  for 

The  ruin  of  their  children  ? 

Doge.  Under  such  laws,  Venice 

Has  risen  to  what  she  is  —  a  state  to  rival 
In  deeds,  and  days,  and  sway,  and,  let  me  add, 
In  glory  (for  we  have  had  Roman  spirits 


Amongst  us),  all  that  history  has  bequeathed 
Of  Rome  and  Carthage  in  their  best  times. 

when 
The  people  swayed  by  senates. 

Afar.  Rather  say, 

Groaned  under  the  stern  oligarchs. 

Doge.  Perhaps  so , 

But  yet  subdued  the  world  :  in  such  a  state 
An  individual,  be  he  richest  of 
Such  rank  as  is  permitted,  or  the  meanest, 
Without  a  name,  is  alike  nothing,  when 
The  policy,  irrevocably  tending 
To  one  great  end,  must  be   maintained  h 
vigor. 

Mar.     This   means   that  you  are   more  ^ 
Doge  than  father. 

Doge.     It  means,  I  am  more  citizen  than 
either. 
If  we  had  not  for  many  centuries 
Had  thousands  of  such  citizens,  and  shall, 
I  trust,  have  still  such,  Venice  were  no  city. 

Afar.     Accursed  be  the  city  where  the  laws 
Would  stifle  nature's ! 

Doge.  Had  I  as  many  sons 

As  I  have  years,  I  would  have  given  them  all. 
Not  without  feeling,  but  I  would  have  given 

them 
To  the  state's  service,  to  fulfil  her  wishes 
On  the  flood,  in  the  field,  or,  if  it  must  be, 
As  it,  alas  !  ha#  been,  to  ostracism, 
Exile,  or  chains,  or  whatsoever  worse 
She  might  decree. 

Afar.  And  this  is  patriotism  ? 

To  me  it  seems  the  worst  barbarity. 
Let    me   seek    out    my   husband :   the   sage 

"Ten," 
With  all  its  jealousy,  will  hardly  war 
So  far  with  a  weak  woman  as  deny  me 
A  moment's  access  to  his  dungeon. 

Doge.  I'll 

So  far  take  on  myself,  as  order  that 
You  may  be  admitted. 

Mar.  And  what  shall  I  say 

To  Foscari  from  his  father ! 

Doge.  That  he  obey 

The  laws. 

Afar.    And  nothing  more  ?     Will  you  not 
see  him 
Ere  he  depart  ?  It  may  be  the  last  time. 

Doge.     The  last! — my  boy! — the  last  time 
I  shall  see 
My  last  of  children !     Tell  him  I  will  come. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  III. 

Scene  I.—  The  Prison  of  Jacopo  Foscari. 

Jac.  Fos.  (solus).     No  light,  save  yon  fainl 
gleam  which  shows  me  walls 
Which  never  echoed  but  to  sorrow's  sounds, 
The  sigh  of  long  imprisonment,  the  step 


SCENE  I.] 


THE    TWO  FOSCARI. 


637 


Of  feet  on  which  the  iron  clanked,  the  groan 
Of  death,  the  imprecation  of  despair ! 
And  yet  for  this  I  have  returned  to  Venice, 
With  some  faint  hope,  'tis  true,  that  time,  which 

wears 
The  marble  down,  had  worn  away  the  hate 
Of  men's  hearts ;  but  I  knew  them  not,  and 

here 
Must  I  consume  my  own,  which  never  beat 
For  Venice  but  with  such  a  yearning  as 
The   dove   has  for   her   distant    nest,  when 

wheeling 
High  in  the  air  on  her  return  to  greet 
Her  callow  brood.     What   letters  are  these 

which  \App  reaching  the  wall. 

Are  scrawled  along  the  inexorable  wall  ? 
Will  the  gleam  let  me  trace  them  ?    Ah !  the 

names 
Of  my  sad  predecessors  in  this  place, 
The  dates  of  their  despair,  the  brief  words  of 
A  grief  too  great  for  many.     This  stone  page 
Holds  like  an  epitaph  their  history ; 
And  the  poor  captive's  tale  is  graven  on 
His  dungeon  barrier,  like  the  lover's  record 
Upon  the  bark  of  some  tall  tree,  which  bears 
His  own  and  his  beloved's  name.     Alas, 
I  recognize  some  names  familiar  to  me, 
And  blighted  like  to  mine,  which  I  will  add, 
Fittest  for  such  a  chronicle  as  this, 
Which  only  can  be  read,  as  writ,  by  wretches.1 
[He  engraves  his  name. 

Enter  a  Familiar  of  "  the  Ten."  2 

Earn.     I  bring  you  food. 

yac.  Eos.  I  pray  you  set  it  down ; 

I  am  past  hunger :  but  my  lips  are  parched  — 
The  water ! 

Earn.  There. 

j^ac.  Eos.  {after  drinking).     I    thank   you: 
I  am  better. 

Earn.     I  am  commanded  to  inform  you  that 
Your  further  trial  is  postponed. 

Jac.  Eos.  Till  when  ? 

Earn.     I  know  not. —  It  is  also  in  my  orders 
That  your  illustrious  lady  be  admitted. 

yac.  Eos.     Ah  !   they  relent,   then  —  I   had 
ceased  to  hope  it : 
Twas  time. 

Enter  MARINA. 


r  ]  [MS.  — 

"  Which  never  can  be  read  but,  as  'twas  written, 
By  wretched  beings."] 

2  [Lord  Byron,  in  this  tragedy,  has  not  ventured 
upon  further  deviation  from  historical  truth  than  is 
fully  authorized  by  the  license  of  the  drama.  We 
may  remark,  however,  that  after  Giacopo  had  been 
tortured,  he  was  removed  to  the  Ducal  apartments, 
not  to  one  of  the  Pozzi;  that  his  death  occurred,  not 
at  Venice,  but  at  Canea;  that  fifteen  months  elapsed 
between  his  last  condemnation  and  his  father's  dep- 
osition; and  that  the  death  of  the  Doge  took  place, 
not  at  the  palace,  but  in  his  own  house.  —  Stned- 
ley.] 


Mar.  My  best  beloved  ! 

yac.  Eos.  {embracing  her  ) .      My  true  wife, 
And  only  friend  !     What  happiness  ! 

Mar. 
No  more. 

yac.  Eos. 


We'll  part 
How!  wouldst  thou  share  a  dun- 


geon ? 
Mar. 


Ay, 


The  rack,  the  grave,  all  —  any  thing  with  thee, 
But  the  tomb  last  of  all,  for  there  we  shall 
Be  ignorant  of  each  other,  yet  I  will 
Share  that  —  all   things   except   new  separa- 
tion; 
It  is  too  much  to  have  survived  the  first. 
How  dost  thou  ?     How  are  those  worn  limbs  ? 
Alas! 

Why  do  I  ask  ?     Thy  paleness 

yac.  Eos.  'Tis  the  joy 

Of  seeing  thee  again  so  soon,  and  so 
Without  expectancy,  has  sent  the  blood 
Back   to  my  heart,  and   left  my  cheeks   like 

thine. 
For  thou  art  pale  too,  my  Marina ! 

Mar.  'Tis 

The  gloom  of  this  eternal  cell,  which  never 
Knew  sunbeam,  and  the  sallow  sullen  glare 
Of  the  familiar's  torch,  which  seems  akin3 
To  darkness  more  than  light,  by  lending  to 
The  dungeon  vapors  its  bituminous  smoke, 
Which  cloud  whate'er  we  gaze  on,  even  thine 

eyes  — 
No,  not  thine  eyes  —  they  sparkle  —  how  they 
sparkle ! 
yac.  Eos.    And  thine! — but  I  am  blinded 

by  the  torch. 
Mar.     As  I  have  been  without  it.     Couldst 

thou  see  here  ? 
yac.  Eos.     Nothing  at   first;  but   use  and 
time  had  taught  me 
Familiarity  with  what  was  darkness  ; 
And  the  gray  twilight  of  such  glimmerings  as 
Glide  through  the  crevices  made  by  the  winds 
Was  kinder  to  mine  eyes  than  the  full  sun, 
When  gorgeously  o'ergilding  any  towers 
Save  those  of  Venice ;  but  a  moment  ere 
Thou  earnest  hither  I  was  busy  writing. 
Mar.     What  ? 

yac.  Eos.     My  name:  look,  'tis  there  —  re- 
corded next 
The  name  of  him  who  here  preceded  me, 
If  dungeon  dates  say  true. 
Mar.  And  what  of  him  ? 

yac.  Eos.     These  walls  are  silent  of  men's 
ends ;  they  only 
Seem  to  hint  shrewdly  of  them.     Such  stern 

walls 
Were  never  piled  on  high  save  o'er  the  dead 
Or  those  who  soon  must  be  so. —  What  o) 
him  f 


3  [MS.— 

"  Of  the  familiar's  torch,  which  seems  to  love 
Darkness  far  more  than  light."] 


638 


THE    TWO  FOSCARI. 


[act  iil 


Thou  askest.  —  What  of  me?   may  soon  be 

asked, 
With  the  like  answer  —  doubt  and  dreadful 

surmise  — 
Unless  thou  tell'st  my  tale. 
Afar.  I  speak  of  thee  ! 

Jac.  Fos.    And  wherefore  not  ?     All  then 
shall  speak  of  me  : 
The  tyranny  of  silence  is  not  lasting. 
And,  though   events  be   hidden,  just   men's 

groans 
Will  burst  all  cerement,  even  a  living  grave's ! 
I  do  not  doubt  my  memory,  but  my  life ; 
And  neither  do  I  fear. 
Mar.  Thy  life  is  safe. 

Jac.  Fos.     And  liberty  ? 
Mar.  The  mind  should  make  its  own. 

Jac.  Fos.     That  has  a  noble   sound;    but 
'tis  a  sound, 
A  music  most  impressive,  but  too  transient : 
The    mind   is    much,   but   is   not    all.      The 

mind 
Hath  nerved  me  to  endure  the  risk  of  death, 
And  torture   positive,  far  worse  than  death 
(If  death  be  a  deep  sleep),  without  a  groan, 
Or  with  a  cry  which  rather  shamed  my  judges 
Than  me ,  but  'tis  not  all,  for  there  are  things 
More   woful  —  such   as  this  small  dungeon, 

where 
I  mav  breathe  many  years. 

Mar.  Alas  !  and  this 

Small  dungeon  is  all  that  belongs  to  thee 
Of  this  wide  realm,  of  which  thy  sire  is  prince. 
Jac.  Fos.     That  thought  would  scarcely  aid 
me  to  endure  it. 
My  doom  is  common,  many  are  in  dungeons, 
But   none   like    mine,  so  near  their  father's 

palace ; 
But  then  my  heart  is  sometimes  high,  and  hope 
Will  stream  along  those  moted  rays  of  light 
Peopled  with  dusty  atoms,  which  afford 
Our  only  day  ;  for,  save  the  gaoler's  torch, 
And  a  strange  firefly,  which  was  quickly  caught 
Last  night  in  yon  enormous  spider's  net, 
I  ne'er  saw  aught  here  like  a  ray.    Alas ! 
I  know  if  mind  may  bear  us  up,  or  no, 
For  I  have  such,  and  shown  it  before  men ; 
It  sinks  in  solitude  :  my  soul  is  social. 
Mar    I  will  be  with  thee. 
Jac.  Fos.  Ah  !  if  it  were  so ! 

But  that  they  never  granted  —  nor  will  grant, 
And  I  shall  be  alone  :  no  men  —  no  books  — 
Those  lying  likenesses  of  lying  men. 
I  asked  for  even  those  outlines  of  their  kind, 
Which   they  term  annals,  history,  what  you 

will, 
Which  men  bequeathe  as  portraits,  and  they 

were 
Refused  me,  —  so  these  walls  have  been  my 

study, 
More  faithful  pictures  of  Venetian  story, 
With  all  their  blank,  or  dismal  stains,  than  is 


The  Hall  not  far  from  hence,  which  bears  on 

high 
Hundreds  of  doges,  and  their  deeds  and  dates. 

Mar.     I  come  to  tell  thee  the  result  of  their 
Last  council  on  thy  doom. 

Jac.  Fos.  I  know  it  —  look! 

[He  points  to  his  li?nbs,  as  referring  to  the 
question  which  he  had  undergone. 

Mar.     No  —  no  —  no  more  of  that :   ereti 
they  relent 
From  that  atrocity. 

Jac.  Fos.  What  then  ? 

Mar.  That  you 

Return  to  Candia. 

Jac.  Fos.  Then  my  last  hope's  gone. 

I  could  endure  my  dungeon,  for  'twas  Venice ; 
I  could  support  the  torture,  there  was  some- 
thing 
In  my  native  air  that  buoyed  my  spirits  up 
Like  a  ship  on  the  ocean  tossed  by  storms, 
But  proudly  still  bestriding  the  high  waves, 
And  holding  on  its  course ;  but  there,  afar, 
In  that  accursed  isle  of  slaves  and  captives, 
And  unbelievers,  like  a  stranded  wreck, 
My   very   soul    seemed    mouldering   in    my 

bosom, 
And  piecemeal  I  shall  perish,  if  remanded. 

Mar.     And  here? 

Jac.  Fos.    At  once  —  by  better  means,  as 
briefer.        . 
What !   would  they  even  deny  me  my  sire's 

sepulchre, 
As  well  as  home  and  heritage  ? 

Afar.  My  husband ! 

I  have  sued  to  accompany  thee  hence, 
And  not  so  hopelessly.     This  love  of  thine 
For  an  ungrateful  and  tyrannic  soil 
Is  passion,  and  not  patriotism  ;  for  me, 
So  I  could  see  thee  with  a  quiet  aspect, 
And  the  sweet  freedom  of  the  earth  and  air, 
I  would  not  cavil  about  climes  or  regions. 
This  crowd  of  palaces  and  prisons  is  not 
A  paradise ;  its  first  inhabitants 
Were  wretched  exiles. 

Jac.  Fos.  Well  I  know  how  wretched. 

Afar.     And   yet   you   see   how   from   their 
banishment 
Before  the  Tartar  into  these  salt  isles, 
Their  antique  energy  of  mind,  all  that 
Remained  of  Rome  for  their  inheritance, 
Created  by  degrees  an  ocean-Rome  ;  i 
And  shall  an  evil,  which  so  often  leads 
To  good,  depress  thee  thus  ? 

Jac.  Fos.  Had  I  gone  forth 

From  my  own  land,  like  the  old  patriarchs, 
seeking 

1  In  Lady  Morgan's  fearless  and  excellent  work 
upon  Italy,  I  perceive  the  expression  of"  Rome  of 
the  Ocean  "  applied  to  Venice.  The  same  phrase 
occurs  in  the  "  Two  Foscari."  My  publisher  can 
vouch  for  me,  that  the  tragedy  was  written  and  sent 
to  England  some  time  before  I  had  seen  Lady  Mop 


SCENE  I.J 


THE    TWO   FOSCARI. 


639 


Another  region,  with  their  flocks  and  herds ; 

Had  I  been  cast  out  like  the  Jews  from  Zion, 

Or  like  our  fathers,  driven  by  Attila 

From  fertile  Italy,  to  barren  islets, 

I  would  have  given  some  tears  to  my  late 

country, 
And  many  thoughts  ;  but  afterwards  addressed 
Myself,  with  those  about  me,  to  create 
A  new  home  and  fresh  state  :  perhaps  I  could 
Have  borne  this  —  though  I  know  not. 

Mar.  Wherefore  not  ? 

It  was  the  lot  of  millions,  and  must  be 
The  fate  of  myriads  more. 

Jac.  Fos.  Ay  —  we  but  hear 

Of  the  survivors'  toil  in  their  new  lands, 
Their   numbers   and  success ;   but  who  can 

number 
The  hearts  which  broke  in  silence  of  that 

parting, 
Or  after  their  departure  ;  of  that  malady 1 
Which  calls  up  green  and  native  fields  to  view 
From  the  rough  deep,  with  such  identity 
To  the  poor  exile's  fevered  eye,  that  he 
Can   scarcely  be    restrained    from    treading 

them  ? 
That  melody,2  which  out  of  tones  and  tunes 
Collects  such  pasture  for  the  longing  sorrow 
Of  the  sad  mountaineer,  when  far  away 


gan's  work,  which  I  only  received  on  the  16th  of 
August.  I  hasten,  however,  to  notice  the  coinci- 
dence, and  to  yield  the  originality  of  the  phrase  to 
her  who  first  placed  it  before  the  public.  I  am  the 
more  anxious  to  do  this,  as  I  am  informed  (for  I 
have  seen  but  few  of  the  specimens,  and  those 
accidentally)  that  there  have  been  lately  brought 
against  me  charges  of  plagiarism. 

1  The  calenture.  —  [A  distemper  peculiar  to  sai- 
lors in  hot  climates.  — 

"  So  by  a  calenture  misled 

The  mariner  with  rapture  sees 
On  the  smooth  ocean's  azure  bed 

Enamelled  fields  and  verdant  trees: 
With  eager  haste  he  longs  to  rove, 

In  that  fantastic  scene,  and  thinks 
It  must  be  some  enchanted  grove, 
And  in  he  leaps,  and  down  he  sinks." 

Swift.] 

2  Alluding  to  the  Swiss  air  and  its  effects.  —  [The 
Ranz  des  Vaches,  played  upon  the  bagpipe  by  the 
young  cow-keepers  on  the  mountains:  — "An  air," 
says  Rousseau,  "  so  dear  to  the  Swiss,  that  it  was 
forbidden,  under  the  pain  of  death,  to  play  it  to  the 
troops,  as  it  immediately  drew  tears  from  them,  and 
made  those  who  heard  it  desert,  or  die  of  what  is 
called  la  maladie  dn  pais,  so  ardent  a  desire  did  it 
excite  to  return  to  their  country.  It  is  in  vain  to 
seek  in  this  air  for  energetic  accents  capable  of  pro- 
ducing such  astonishing  effects,  for  which  strangers 
are  unable  to  account  from  the  music,  which  is  in 
itself  uncouth  and  wild.  But  it  is  from  habit,  recol- 
lections, and  a  thousand  circumstances,  retraced  in 
this  tune  by  those  natives  who  hear  it,  and  remind- 
ing them  of  their  country,  former  pleasures  of  their 
youth,  and  all  their  ways  of  living,  which  occasion 
a  bitter  reflection  at  having  lost  them."] 


From  his  snow  canopy  of  cliffs  and  clouds, 
That  he  feeds  on  the  sweet,  ^'it  poisonous 

thought, 
And    dies.     You   call    this   weakness!     It   is 

strength, 
I  say,  —  the  parent  of  all  honest  feeling. 
He  who  loves  not  his  country,  can  love  nothing. 
Mar.     Obey  her,  then  :    'tis  she  that   puts 

thee  forth. 
Jac.  Fos.  Ay,  there  it  is  ;  'tis  like  a  mother's 
curse 
Upon  my  soul  —  the  mark  is  set  upon  me. 
The  exiles  you  speak  of  went  forth  by  nations, 
Their  hands  upheld  each  other  by  the  way, 
Their  tents  were  pitched  together  —  I'm  alone. 
Mar.     You  shall  be  so  no  more  —  I  will  go 

with  thee. 
Jac.  Fos.     My    best    Marina !  —  and    our 

children  ? 
Afar.  They, 

I  fear,  by  the  prevention  of  the  state's 
Abhorrent  policy,  (which  holds  all  ties 
As  threads,   which   may  be   broken  at   her 

pleasure,) 
Will  not  be  suffered  to  proceed  with  us. 
Jac.  Fos.     And  canst  thou  leave  them  ? 
Mar.  Yes.     With  many  a  pang. 

But —  I  can  leave  them,  children  as  they  are, 
To  teach  you  to  be  less  a  child.     From  this 
Learn  you  to  sway  your  feelings,  when  ex- 
acted 
By  duties  paramount ;  and  'tis  our  first 
On  earth  to  bear. 
Jac.  Fos.  Have  I  not  borne  ? 

Mar.  Too  muct 

From  tyrannous  injustice,  and  enough 
To  teach  you  not  to  shrink  now  from  a  lot, 
Which,  as  compared  with  what  you  have  un 

dergone 
Of  late  is  mercy. 

Jac.  Fos.  Ah  !  you  never  yet 

Were  far  away  from  Venice,  never  saw 
Her  beautiful  towers  in  the  receding  distance, 
While  every  furrow  of  the  vessel's  track 
Seemed  ploughing  deep  into  your  heart ;  you 

never 
Saw  day  go  down  upon  your  native  spires 
So  calmly  with  its  gold  and  crimson  glory 
And  after  dreaming  a  disturbed  vision 
Of  them  and  theirs,  awoke  and  found  them 
not. 
Mar.     I  will  divide  this  with  you.     Let  u* 
think 
Of  our  departure  from  this  much-loved  city, 
(Since  vou  must  love  it,  as  it  seems,)  and  thij 
Chamber  of  state,  her  gratitude  allots  you. 
Our  children  will  be  cared  for  by  the  Doge, 
And  by  my  uncles ;  we  must  sail  ere  night. 
Jac.  Fos.      That's   sudden.     Shall   I    not 

behold  my  father  ? 
Mar.     You  will. 
Jac.  Fos.  Where  ? 


640 


THE    TWO  FOSCARL 


[act  III. 


Mar.  Here,  01  in  the  ducal  chamber  — 
He  said  not  which.  I  would  that  you  could  bear 
Your  exile  as  he  bears  it. 

Jac.  Fos.  Blame  him  not. 

I  sometimes  murmur  for  a  moment ;  but 
He  could  not  now  act  otherwise.     A  show 
Of  feeling  or  compassion  on  his  part 
Would  have  but  drawn  upon  his  aged  head 
Suspicion  from  "  the  Ten,"  and  upon  mine 
Accumulated  ills. 

]      Afar.  Accumulated! 

What  pangs  are  those  they  have  spared  you  ? 
I     Jac.  Fos.  That  of  leaving 

'Venice  with  out  beholding  him  or  you, 
Which  might  have  been  forbidden   now,  as 

'twas 
Upon  my  former  exile. 

Mar.  That  is  true, 

And  thus  far  I  am  also  the  state's  debtor, 
And  shall  be  more  so  when  I  see  us  both 
Floating  on  the  free  waves  —  away  —  away  — 
Be  it  to  the  earth's  end,  from  this  abhorred, 

Unjust  and 

"Jac.  Fos.     Curse  it  not.     If  I  am  silent, 
Who  dares  accuse  my  country  ? 

Mar.  Men  and  angels, 

The  blood  of  myriads  reeking  up  to  heaven, 
The  groans  of  slaves  in  chains,  and  men  in 

dungeons, 
Mothers,  and  wives,  and  sons,  and  sires,  and 

subjects, 
Held  in  the  bondage  of  ten  bald-heads ;  and 
Though  last,  not  least,  thy  silence.    Couldstthou 

say 
Aught  in  its  favor,  who  would  praise  like  thee  f 
Jac.  Fos.     Let  us  address  us  then,  since  so 
it  must  be, 
To  our  departure.    Who  comes  here  ? 

Enter  LOREDANO,  attended  by  Familiars. 

Lor.  (to  the  Familiars).  Retire, 

But  leave  the  torch. 

\Exeunt  the  two  Familiars. 

Jac.  Fos.  Most  welcome,  noble  signor. 

I  did  not  deem  this  poor  place  could  have 

drawn 
Such  presence  hither. 

Lor.  'Tis  not  the  first  time 

I  have  visited  these  places. 

Mar.  Nor  would  be 

The  last,  were  all  men's  merits  well  rewarded. 
Came  you  here  to  insult  us,  or  remain 
As  spy  upon  us,  or  as  hostage  for  us  ? 

Lor,     Neither  are  of  my  office,  noble  lady ! 
I  am  sent  hither  to  your  husband,  to 
Announce  "the  Ten's"  decree. 

Mar.  That  tenderness 

Has  been  anticipated :  it  is  known. 

Lor.    As  how  ? 

Mar.      I  have  informed  him,  not  so  gently, 
Doubtless,  as  your  nice  feelings  would  pre- 
scribe, 


The  indulgence  of  your  colleagues;    but  he 

knew  it. 
If  you  come  for  our  thanks,  take  them,  and 

hence ! 
The  dungeon  gloom  is  deep  enough  without 

you, 
And  full  of  reptiles, not  less  loathsome,  though 
Their  sting  is  honester. 

Jac.  Fos.  I  pray  you,  calm  you . 

What  can  avail  such  words  ? 

Mar.  To  let  him  know 

That  he  is  known. 

Lor.  Let  the  fair  dame  preserve 

Her  sex's  privilege. 

Mar.  I  have  some  sons,  sir. 

Will  one  day  thank  you  better. 

Lor.  You  do  well 

To  nurse  them  wisely.    Foscari — you  know 
Your  sentence,  then  ? 

Jac.  Fos.  Return  to  Candia  ? 

Lor.  True  -^ 

For  life. 

Jac.  Fos.     Not  long. 

Lor.  I  said  —  for  life. 

Jac.  Fos.  And  I 

Repeat  —  not  long. 

Lor.  A  year's  imprisonment 

In  Canea  —  afterwards  the  freedom  of 
The  whole  isle. 

Jac.  Fos.      Both  the  same  to  me :  the  after 
Freedom  as  is  the  first  imprisonment. 
Is't  true  my  wife  accompanies  me  ? 

Lor.  Yes, 

If  she  so  wills  it. 

Mar.  Who  obtained  that  justice  ? 

Lor.     One  who  wars  not  with  women. 

Alar.  But  oppresses 

Men  :  howsoever  let  him  have  my  thanks 
For  the  only  boon   I  would  have  asked  or 

taken 
From  him  or  such  as  he  is. 

Lor.  He  receires  them 

As  they  are  offered. 

Alar.  May  they  thrive  with  him 

So  much  !  — no  more. 

Jac.   Fos.     Is   this,  sir,  your  whole  mis- 
sion? 
Because  we  have  brief  time  for  preparation, 
And  you  perceive  your  presence   doth  dis- 
quiet 
This  lady,  of  a  house  noble  as  yours. 

Mar.     Nobler! 

Lor.  How  nobler  ? 

Mar.  As  more  generous ! 

We  say  the  "  generous  steed  "  to  express  the 

purity 
Of  his  high  blood.     Thus  much  I've  learnt, 

although 
Venetian  (who  see  few  steeds  save  of  bronze), 
From  those  Venetians  who  have  skimmed  the 

coasts 
Of  Egypt,  and  her  neighbor  Araby : 


SCENE  I.] 


THE    TWO  FOSCARI. 


641 


And  why  not  say  as    soon    the  "generous 

man  ?  " 
If  race  be  aught,  it  is  in  qualities 
More  than  in  years ;  and  mine,  which  is  as 

old 
As  yours,  is  better  in  its  product,  nay  — 
Look  not  so  stern  —  but  get  you  back,  and 

pore 
Upon  your  genealogic  tree's  most  green 
Of  leaves  and  most  mature  of  fruits,  and  there 
Blush   to   find    ancestors,  who  would    have 

blushed 
Foi  such  a  son  —  thou  cold  inveterate  hater! 
y<ic.  Fos.    Again,  Marina ! 
Mar.  Again,  still,  Marina. 

See  you  not,  he  comes  here  to  glut  his  hate 
With  a  last  look  upon  our  misery  ? 
Let  him  partake  it ! 
"jfac.  Fos.  That  were  difficult. 

Mar.     Nothing  more  easy.    He  partakes  it 
now — ■ 
Ay,  he  may  veil  beneath  a  marble  brow 
And  sneering  lip  the  pang,  but  he  partakes  it. 
A  few  brief  words  of  truth  shame  the  devil's 

servants 
No  less  than  master ;  I  have  probed  his  soul 
A  moment,  as  the  eternal  fire,  ere  long, 
Will   reach  it  always.     See   how  he  shrinks 

from  me ! 
With  death,  and  chains,  and  exile  in  his  hand 
To  scatter  o'er  his  kind  as  he  thinks  fit ; 
They  are  his  weapons,  not  his  armor,  for 
1  have   pierced  him  to  the  core  of  his  cold 

heart. 
I  care  not  for  his  frowns  !     We  can  but  die, 
And  he  but  live,  for  him  the  very  worst 
Of  destinies  :  each  day  secures  him  more 
His  tempter's. 
yac.  Fos.        This  is  mere  insanity. 
Alar.     It  may  be  so;  and  who  hath  made 

us  mad? 
Lor.     Let  her  go  on  ;  it  irks  not  me. 
Mar.  That's  false. 

You  came  here  to  enjoy  a  heartless  triumph 
Of  cold   looks  upon  manifold  griefs !     You 

came 
To  be  sued  to  in  vain  — to  mark  our  tears, 
And   hoard  our  groans — to  gaze  upon  the 

wreck 
Which  you  have  made  a  prince's  son  —  my 

husband ; 
In  short,  to  trample  on  the  fallen  —  an  office 
The  hangman  shrinks  from,  as  all  men  from 

him  ! 
How  have  you  sped  ?    We  are  wretched,  sig- 

nor,  as 
four  plots  could  make,  and  vengeance  could 

desire  us, 
\nd  how  feel  you  ? 
Lor.  As  rocks. 

Mar.  By  thunder  blasted  : 

They  feel  not,  but  no  less  are  shivered.  Come, 


Foscari ;  now  let  us  go,  and  leave  this  felon, 
The  sole  fit  habitant  of  such  a  eel!, 
Which  he  has  peopled  often,  but  ne'er  fitly 
Till  he  himself  shall  brood  in  it  alone.1 
Enter  the  DOGE. 

yac.  Fos.     My  father ! 

Doge  (embracing  him).     Jacopo !   my  son 
—  my  son ! 

yac.  Fos.     My  father  still  I  How  long  it  if 
since  I 
Have  heard  thee  name  my  name  —  wrnamel 

Doge.  My  boy ! 

Couldst  thou  but  know ■ 

yack.  Fos.        I  rarely,  sir,  have  murmured* 

Doge.     I  'feel  too  much  thou  hast  not. 

Afar.  Doge,  look  there! 

[She  points  to  LOREDANO. 

Doge.  I  see  the  man  —  what  mean'st  thou  ? 

Afar.  Caution ! 

Lor.  Being 

The  virtue  Ivhich  this  noble  lady  most 
May  practise,  she  doth  well  to  recommend  it. 

Afar.  Wretch !  'tis  no  virtue,  but  the  policy 
Of  those  who   fain  must  deal  perforce  with 

vice: 
As  such  I  recommend  it,  as  I  would 
To  one  whose  foot  was  on  an  adder's  path. 

Doge.     Daughter,  it  is  superfluous ;  I  have 
long 
Known  Loredano. 

Lor.  You  may  know  him  better. 

Mar.     Yes ;  worse  he  could  not. 

yac.  Fos.  Father,  let  not  these 

Our  parting  hours  be  lost  in  listening  to 
Reproaches,   which   boot   nothing.       Is  it  — 

♦   is  it, 
Indeed,  our  last  of  meetings  ? 

Doge.  You  behold 

These  white  hairs ! 

yac.  Fos.  And  I  feel,  besides,  that  mine 

Will  never  be  so  white.  Embrace  me,  father! 
I  loved  you  ever  —  never  more  than  now. 
Look  to  my  children  —  to  your   last   child's 

children ; 
Let  them  be  all  to  you  which  he  was  once, 
And  never  be  to  you  what  I  am  now. 
May  I  not  see  them  also  ? 

Afar.  No  —  not  here. 

yac.  Fos.    They  might  behold  their  parent 
any  where. 

Afar.    I  would  that  they  beheld  their  father 
in 
A  place  which  would  not  mingle   fear  with 
love. 


1  [If  the  two  Foscari  do  nothing  to  defeat  the 
machinations  of  their  remorseless  foe,  Marina,  the 
wife  of  the  younger,  at  least  revenges  them,  by  let- 
ting loose  the  venom  of  her  tongue  upon  their  hate- 
ful oppressor,  which  she  does  without  stint  or 
measure;  and  in  a  strain  of  vehemence  not  inferioi 
to  that  of  the  old  queen  Margaret  in  Richard  thf 
Third.  —  7effrey.\ 


642 


THE    TWO  FOSCARI. 


[act  IV 


To  freeze  their  young  blood  in  its  natural  cur- 
rent. 
They  have  fed  well,  slept  soft,  and  knew  not 

that 
Their  sire  was  a  mere  hunted  outlaw.    Well, 
I  know  his  fate  may  one  day  be  their  heritage, 
But  let  it  only  be  their  heritage. 
And    not    their  present  fee.    Their    senses, 

though 
Alive  to  love,  are  yet  awake  to  terror , 
And   these  vile   damps,  too,  and  yon   thick 

green  wave 
Which  floats  above  the  place  where  we  now 

stand  — 
A  cell  so  far  below  the  water's  level, 
Sending  its  pestilence  through  every  crevice, 
Might  strike  them :  this  is  not  their   atmos- 
phere, 
However  you  —  i«id  you — and,  most  of  all, 
As  worthiest — jnu.  sir,  noble  Loredano! 
May  breathe  it  without  prejudice. 

Jac.  Fos.  I  have  not 

Reflected  upon  thf  $,  but  acquiesce. 
I  shall  depart,  then,  without  meeting  them  ? 
Doge.     Not  so :  they  shall  await  you  in  my 

chamber. 
Jac.  Fos.    And  must  I  leave  them  —  all? 
Lor.  You  must. 

Jac.  Fos.  Not  one  ? 

Lor.    They  are  the  state's. 
Mar.  I  if  lought  they  had  been  mine. 

Lor.    They  an,',  in  all  maternal  things. 
Mar.  That  is, 

In  all  things  painful.   If  they're  sick,  they  will 
Be  left  to  me  to  tend  them  ;  should  they  die, 
To  me  to  bury  and  to  mourn ;  but  if 
They  live,  they'll  make  you  soldiers,  senators, 
Slaves,  exiles  —  what  you  will;  or  if  they  are 
Females  with  portions,  brides  and  bribes  for 

nobles ! 
Behold    the    state's  care    for  its  sons    and 
mothers ! 
Lor.     The  hour  approaches,  and  the  wind 

is  fair. 
Jac.  Fos.    How  know  you  that  here,  where 
the  genial  wind 
Ne'er  blows  in  all  its  blustering  freedom  ? 

Lor.  'Twas  so 

When  I  came  here.     The  galley  floats  within 
\  bow-shot  of  the  "  Riva  di  Schiavoni." 
Jac.  Fos.     Father!  I  pray  you  to  precede 
me,  and 
Prepare  my  children  to  behold  their  father. 
Doge.     Be  firm,  my  son  ! 
Jac.  Fos.  I  will  do  my  endeavor. 

Afar.    Farewell!   at  least  to  this  detested 
dungeon. 
And  him  to  whose  good  offices  you  owe 
In  part  your  past  imprisonment. 

Lor.  And  present 

Liberation. 
Doge.  He  speaks  truth. 


Jac.  Fos.  No  doubt !  but  'tis 

Exchange  of  chains  for  heavier  chains  I  owe 

him. 
He  knows  this,   or  he  had    not  sought  to 

change  them. 
But  I  reproach  not. 

Lor.  The  time  narrows,  signor. 

Jac.  Fos.    Alas !  I  little  thought  so  linger- 
ingly 
To  leave  abodes  like  this :  but  when  I  feel 
That  every  step  I  take,  even  from  this  cell, 
Is  one  away  from  Venice,  I  look  back 

Even  on  these  dull  damp  walls,  and 

Doge.  Boy !  no  tears. 

Mar.     Let  them  flow  on  :  he  wept  not  on 
the  rack 
To  shame  him,  and  they  cannot  shame  him 

now. 
They  will  relieve  his  heart  —  that   too   kind 

heart  — 
And  I  will  find  an  hour  to  wipe  away 
Those  tears,  or  add  my  own.     I  could  weep 

now, 
But  would  not  gratify  yon  wretch  so  far. 
Let  us  proceed.     Doge,  lead  the  way. 

Lor.  {to  the  Familiar).       The  torch,  there! 
Mar.    Yes,  light  us  on,  as  to  a  funeral  pyre, 
With  Loredano  mourning  like  an  heir. 
Doge.     My  son,  you  are  feeble ;  take  this 

hand.       t 
Jac.  Fos.     Alas ! 
Must  youth  support  itself  on  age,  and  I 
Who  ought  to  be  the  prop  of  yours  ? 

Lor.  Take  mine. 

Mar.    Touch   it  not,   Foscari ;   'twill   sting 
you.    Signor, 
Stand  off!  be  sure,  that  if  a  grasp  of  yours 
Would  raise  us  from  the  gulf  wherein  we  are 

plunged, 
No  hand  of  ours  would  stretch  itself  to  meet  it. 
Come,  Foscari,  take  the  hand  the  altar  gave 

you; 
It  could  not  save,  but  will  support  you  ever. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT   IV. 

SCENE  I.  —  A  Hall  in  the  Ducal  Palace. 

Enter  LOREDANO  and  BARBARIGO. 

Bar.    And  have  you  confidence  in  such  3 
project  ? 

Lor.     I  have. 

Bar.  'Tis  hard  upon  his  years. 

Lor.  Say  rather 

Kind  to  relieve  him  from  the  cares  of  state. 

Bar.     'Twill  break  his  heart. 

Lor.  Age  has  no  heart  'o  break. 

He  has  seen  his  son's  half-broken,  and,  except 
A  start  of  feeling  in  his  dungeon,  never 
Swerved. 


SCENE   I.] 


THE    TWO  FOSCARI. 


643 


Bar.      In  his   countenance,   I   grant  you, 
never ; 
But  I  have  seen  him  sometimes  in  a  calm 
So  desolate,  that  the  most  clamorous  grief 
Had  nought  to  envy  him  within.  Where  is  he  ? 

Lor.     In  his   own  portion  of  the  palace, 
with 
His  son,  and  the  whole  race  of  Foscaris. 

Bar.     Bidding  farewell. 

Lor.  A  last.     As  soon  he  shall 

Bid  to  his  dukedom. 

Bar.  When  embarks  the  son  ? 

Lor.     Forthwith  —  when  this  long  leave  is 
taken.     'Tis 
Time  to  admonish  them  again. 

Bar.  Forbear ; 

Retrench  not  from  their  moments. 

Lor.  Not  I,  now 

We  have  higher  business  for  our  own.     This 

day 
Shall  be  the  last  of  the  old  Doge's  reign, 
As  the  first  of  his  son's  last  banishment, 
And  that  is  vengeance. 

Bar.  In  my  mind,  too  deep. 

Lor.     'Tis  moderate  —  not  even  life  for  life, 
the  rule 
Denounced  of  retribution  from  all  time  ; 
They  owe  me  still  my  father's  and  my  uncle's. 

Bar.     Did  not  the  Doge  deny  this  strongly  ? 

Lor.  Doubtless. 

Bar.    And  did  not  this  shake  your  suspi- 
cion ? 

Lor.     No. 

Bar.     But  if  this    deposition   should   take 
place 
By  our  united  influence  in  the  Council, 
It  must  be  done  with  all  the  deference 
Due  to  his  years,  his  station,  and  his  deeds. 

Lor.     As  much  of  ceremony  as  you  will, 
So  that  the   thing  be   done.     You   may,  for 

aught 
I  care,  depute  the  Council  on  their  knees, 
(Like  Barbarossa  to  the  Pope,)  to  beg  him 
To  have  the  courtesy  to  abdicate. 

Bar.     What,  if  he  will  not  ? 

Lor.  We'll  elect  another, 

And  make  him  null. 

Bar.  But  will  the  laws  uphold  us  ? 

Lor.     What  laws  ?  —  "  The  Ten"  are  laws  ; 
and  if  they  were  not, 
I  will  be  legislator  in  this  business. 

Bar.    At  your  own  peril  ? 

Lor.  There  is  none,  I  tell  you, 

Our  powers  are  such. 

Bar.  But  he  has  twice  already 

Solicited  permission  to  retire, 
And  twice  it  wTas  refused. 

Lor.  The  better  reason 

To  grant  it  the  third  time. 

Bar.  Unasked  ? 

Lor.  It  shows 

The  impression  of  his  former  instances : 


If  they  were  from  his  heart,  he  may  be  thank- 
ful: 
If  not,  'twill  punish  his  hypocrisy. 
Come,  they  are  met  by  this  time  ;  let  us  join 

them, 
And  be  thou  fixed  in  purpose  for  this  once. 
I  have  prepared  such  arguments  as  will  not 
Fail  to  move  them,  and  to  remove  him  :  since 
Their    thoughts,    their    objects,   have    been 

sounded,  do  not 
You,    with  your  wonted    scruples,   teach    us 

pause, 
And  all  will  prosper. 

Bar.  Could  I  but  be  certain 

This  is  no  prelude  to  such  persecution 
Of  the  sire  as  has  fallen  upon  the  son, 
I  would  support  you. 

Lor.  He  is  safe,  I  tell  you ; 

His  fourscore  years  and  five  may  linger  on 
As  long  as  he  can  drag  them  :  'tis  his  throne 
Alone  is  aimed  at. 

Bar.  But  discarded  princes 

Are  seldom  long  of  life. 

Lor.  And  men  of  eighty 

More  seldom  still. 
Bar.        And  why  not  wait  these  few  years  ? 
Lor.     Because  we  have  waited  long  enough, 

and  he 
Lived    longer   than  enough.     Hence !    in   to 

council ! 

[Exeunt  Loredano   and   Barbarigo. 

Enter  MEMMO  and  a  Senator. 

Sen.    A  summons  to  "  the  Ten !  "  Why  so? 

Mem.  "  The  Ten" 

Alone  can  answer ;  they  are  rarely  wont 
To  let  their  thoughts  anticipate  their  purpose 
By  previous  proclamation.     We   are    sum- 
moned— 
That  is  enough. 

Sen.  For  them,  but  not  for  us ; 

I  would  know  why. 

Mem.  You  will  know  why  anon, 

If  you  obey;  and  if  not,  you  no  less 
Will  know  why  you  should  have  obeyed. 

Sen.  I  mean  not 

To  oppose  them,  but — — 

Mem.  In  Venice  "  but"  's  a  traitor. 

But  me  no  "  bufs,"  unless  you  would  pass  o'er 
The  Bridge  which  few  repass. 

Sen.  I  am  silent. 

Mem.  Why 

Thus  hesitate  ?    "  The  Ten"  have  called  in 

aid 
Of  their  deliberation  five  and  twenty 
Patricians  of  the  senate  —  you  are  one, 
And  I  another ;  and  it  seems  to  me 
Both  honored  by  the  choice  or  chance  which 

leads  us 
To  mingle  with  a  body  so  august. 

Sen.     Most  true.     I  say  no  more. 

Mem.  As  we  hope,  Signor, 


544 


THE    TWO  FOSCARI. 


[act  IV. 


And  all  may  honestly,  (that  is,  all  those 
Of  noble  blood  may,)  one  day  hope  to  be 
Decemvir,  it  is  surely  for  the  senate's 
Chosen  delegates,  a  school  of  wisdom,  to 
Be  thus  admitted,  though  as  novices, 
To  view  the  mysteri  -s. 

Sen.  Let  us  view  them  :  they, 

No  doubt,  are  worth  it. 

Mem.  Being  worth  our  lives 

If  we  divulge  them,  doubtless  they  are  worth 
Something,  at  least  to  you  or  me. 

Sen.  I  sought  not 

\  place  within  the  sanctuary ;  but  being 
Chosen,  however  reluctantly  so  chosen, 
I  shall  fulfil  my  office. 

Mem.  Let  us  not 

Be  latest  in  obeying  "  the  Ten's"  summons. 

Sen.    All  are   not  met,  but   I    am   of  your 
thought 
So  far  —  let's  in. 

Mem.  The  earliest  are  most  welcome 

In  earnest  councils  —  we  will  not  be  least  so. 

\Exeunt, 

Enter  the  Doge,  Tacopo  Foscari,  and 
Marina. 

Jac.  Fos.    Ah,  father !  though  I  must  and 
will  depart, 
Yet  —  yet —  I  pray  you  to  obtain  for  me 
That  I  once  more  return  unto  my  home, 
Howe'er  remote  the  period.     Let  there  be 
A  point  of  time,  as  beacon  to  my  heart, 
With  any  penalty  annexed  they  please, 
But  let  me  still  return. 

Doge.  Son  Jacopo, 

Go  and  obey  our  country's  will :  'tis  not 
For  us  to  look  beyond. 

Jac.  Fos.  But  still  I  must 

Look  back.     I  pray  you  think  of  me. 

Doge.  Alas ! 

You  ever  were  my  dearest  offspring,  when 
They  were  more  numerous,  nor  can  be  less  so 
Now  you  are  last ;  but  did  the  state  demand 
The  exile  of  the  disinterred  ashes 
Of  your  three  goodly  brothers,  now  in  earth, 
And  their  desponding  shades   came   flitting 

round 
To  impede  the  act,  I  must  no  less  obey 
A  duty,  paramount  to  every  duty. 

Mar.     My  husband!    let  us  on:    this   but 
prolongs 
Our  sorrow. 

Jac.  Fos.     But  we  are  not  summoned  yet ; 
The  galley's   sails   are   not  unfurled: — who 

knows  ? 
The  wind  may  change. 

Mar.  And  if  it  do,  it  will  not 

Change  their  hearts,  or  your  lot :  the  galley's 

oar 
Will  quickly  clear  the  harbor. 

Jac.  Fos.  O,  ye  elements  ! 

Where  are  your  storms? 


Mar.  In  human  breasts.    Alas! 

Will  nothing  calm  you  ? 

Jac.  Fos.  Never  yet  did  mariner 

Put  up  to  patron  saint  such  prayers  for  pros< 

perous 
And  pleasant  breezes,  as  I  call  upon  you, 
Ye  tutelar  saints  of  my  own  city  !  which 
Ye  love  not  with  more  holy  love  than  I 
To  lash  up  from  the  deep  the  Adrian  waves, 
And  waken  Auster,  sovereign  of  the  tempest  \ 
Till  the  sea  dash  me  back  on  my  own  shore, 
A  broken  corse  upon  the  barren  Lido, 
Where  I   may  mingle  with  the  sands  which 

skirt 
The  land  I  love,  and  never  shall  see  more ! 

Mar.    And  wish  you  this  with  me  beside 
vou  ? 

Jac.  Fos.     No  — 
No  —  not  for  thee,  too  good,  too  kind !  May's* 

thou 
Live  long  to  be  amother  to  those  children 
Thy  fond  fidelity  for  a  time  deprives 
Of  such  support !     But  for  myself  alone, 
May  all  the  winds  of  heaven  howl  down  the 

'  Gulf, 
And  tear  the  vessel,  till  the  mariners, 
Appalled,  turn  their  despairing  eyes  on  me, 
As  the  Phenicians  did  on  Jonah,  then 
Cast  me  out  from  amongst  them,  as  an  offer- 
ing r 
To  appease  the  waves.    The  billow  which  de- 
stroys me 
Will  be  more  merciful  than  man,  and  bear  me, 
Dead,  but  still  bear  me  to  a  native  grave. 
From  fishers'  hands  upon  the  desolate  strand, 
Which,  of  its  thousand  wrecks,  hath  ne'er  re- 
ceived 
One  lacerated  like  the  heart  which  then 
Will  be  —  But  wherefore  breaks  it  not  ?  why 
live  I  ? 

Mar.    To  man  thyself,  I  trust,  with  time,  to 
master 
Such  useless  passion.    Until  now  thou  wert 
A  sufferer,  but  not  a  loud  one  :   why, 
What  is  this  to  the  things  thou  hast  borne  in 

silence  — 
Imprisonment  and  actual  torture  ? 

Jac.  Fos.  Double, 

Triple,  and  tenfold  torture !    But  you  are  right, 
It  must  be  borne.     Father,  your  blessing. 

Doge.  Would 

It  could  avail  thee !  but  no  less  thou  hast  it 

Jac.  Fos.     Forgive 

Doge.  What  ? 

Jac.  Fos.         My  poor  mother,  for  my  birth. 
And  me  for  having  lived,  and  you  yourself 
(As  I  forgive  you),  for  the  gift  of  life, 
Which  you  bestowed  upon  me  as  my  sire. 

Mar.    What  hast  thou  done  ? 

Jac.  Fos.  Nothing.     I  cannot  charge 

My  memory  with  much  save  sorrow  :  but 
I  have  been  so  beyond  the  common  lot 


SCENE  I.J 


THE    TWO  FOSCARI. 


645 


Chastened  and  visited,  I  needs  must  think 
That  I  was  wicked.     If  it  be  so,  may 
What  I  have  undergone  here  keep  me  from 
A  like  hereafter! 

Alar.  Fear  not :  that?  reserved 

For  your  oppressors. 

Jac.  Fos.  Let  me  hope  not. 

Mar.  Hope  not? 

Jac.  Fos.     I  cannot  wish  them  all  they  have 
inflicted. 

Mar.     All!  the  consummate   fiends !      A 
thousand  fold 
May  the  worm  which  ne'er  dieth  feed  upon 
them  ! 

Jac.  Fos.     They  may  repent. 

Mar.        And  if  they  do,  Heaven  will  not 
Accept  the  tardy  penitence  of  demons. 

Enter  an  Officer  and  Guards. 

Offi.    Signor!  the  boat  is  at  the  shore  — 
the  wind 
Is  rising  —  we  are  ready  to  attend  you. 
Jac.  Fos.     And   I   to   be  attended.     Once 
more,  father, 
Vour  hand ! 
Doge.     Take  it.    Alas!    how    thine    own 

trembles ! 
Jac.  Fos.     No  —  you    mistake;  'tis    yours 
that  shakes,  my  father. 
Farewell ! 
Doge.    Farewell !     Is  there  aught  else  ? 
Jac.  Fos.  No  —  nothing. 

[To  the  Officer, 
Lend  me  your  arm,  good  signor. 

Offi.  You  turn  pale  — 

Let  me  support  you  —  paler  —  ho!  some  aid 

there ! 
lome  water! 
Mar.  Ah,  he  is  dying ! 

Jac.  Fos.  Now,  I'm  ready  — 

VI  y  eyes  swim  strangely  —  where's  the  door? 
Mar.  Away ! 

Let  me   support  him  —  my  best  love!     Oh, 

God! 
How  faintly  beats  this  heart  —  this  pulse! 

Jac.  Fos.  The  light! 

Is  it  the  light  ?  —  I  am  faint. 

[Officer presents  him  with  water. 
Offi.  He  will  be  better, 

Perhaps,  in  the  air. 

Jac.  Fos.      I  doubt  not.     Father  —  wife  — 
Your  hands ! 

Mar.     There's  death  in  that  damp  clammy 
grasp. 
Oh,  God  !  —  My  Foscan,  how  fare  you? 
Jac.  Fos.  Well ! 

[He  dies. 
Offi.  He's  gone ! 
Doge.  He's  free. 

Alar.  No  —  no,  he  is  not  dead  ; 

There   must  be   life   yet  in  that  heart  —  he 
couid  not 


Thus  leave  me. 
Doge.  Daughter ! 

Mar.  Hold  thy  peace,  old  man! 

I  am  no  daughter  now — thou  hast  no  son. 
Oh,  Foscari! 

Offi.  We  must  remove  the  body. 

Alar.     Touch  it  not,  dungeon  miscreants ! 
your  base  office 
Ends  with   his    life,  and   goes   not   beyond 

murder, 
Even  by  your  murderous  laws.     Leave    his 

remains 
To  those  who  know  to  honor  them. 

Offi.  I  must 

Inform  the  signory,  and  learn  their  pleasure. 
Doge.  Inform  the  signory,  from  me,  the 
Doge, 
They  have  no  further  power  upon  those  ashes: 
While  he  lived,  he  was  theirs,  as  fits  a  subject  — 
Now  he  is  mine  —  my  broken-hearted  boy! 

[Exit  Officer. 

Afar.    And  I  must  live ! 

Doge.  Your  children  live,  Marina, 

Alar.     My  children!  true  —  they  live,  and  I 

must  live 

To  bring  them  up  to  serve  the  slate,  and  die 

As    died    their  father.      Oh!    what  best  of 

blessings 
Were   barreneness   in   Venice !     Would  my 

mother 
Had  been  so  ! 
Doge.  My  unhappy  children ! 

Alar.  What  1 

You  feel  it  then  at  last  — you/ —  Where  is  now 
The  stoic  of  the  state  ? 

Doge  {throwing  himself  down  by  the  body). 

Here! 
Mar.  Ay,  weep  on ! 

I  thought  you  had  no  tears  —  you  hoarded 

them 
Until  they  are  useless;    but  weep  on!    he 

never 
Shall  weep  more  —  never,  never  more. 

Enter  LOREDANO  and  BARBARIGO. 

Lor.  What's  here  ? 

Mar.   Ah !  the  devil  come  to  insult  the  dead  J 
Avaunt ! 
Incarnate  Lucifer!  'tis  holy  ground. 
A  martyr's  ashes  now  lie  there,  which  make  it 
A  shrine.     Get  thee  back  to  thy  place  of  tor- 
ment! 
Bar.    Lady,  we  knew  not  of  this  sad  event, 
But  passed  here   merely  on   our  path  from 
council. 
Alar.    Pass  on. 

Lor.  We  sought  the  Doge. 

Alar,  (pointing  to  the  Doge,  who  is  still  on 
the  ground  by  his  son's  body) .    He's  busy, 
look, 
About  the  business  you  provided  for  him. 
Are  ye  content  ? 


646 


THE    TWO  FOSCARI. 


[act  IV. 


Bar.  We  will  not  interrupt 

A  parent's  sorrows. 

Mar.  No,  ye  only  make  them, 

Then  leave  them. 

Doge  (rising).     Sirs,  I  am  ready. 

Bar.  No  —  not  now. 

Lor.    Yet  'twas  important. 

Doge.  If  'twas  so,  I  can 

Only  repeat  —  I  am  ready. 

Bar,  It  shall  not  be 

lust   now,  though  Venice   tottered   o'er  the 

deep 
Like  a  frail  vessel.    I  respect  your  griefs. 

Doge.     I  thank  you.     If  the  tidings  which 
you  bring 
Are  evil,  you  may  say  them  ;  nothing  further 
Can  touch  me  more  than  him  thou  look'st  on 

there ; 
If  they  be  good,  say  on  ;  you  need  not  fear 
That  they  can  comfort  me. 

Bar.  I  would  they  could ! 

Doge.    I  spoke  not  to  you,  but  to  Loredano. 
He  understands  me. 

Mar.  Ah  !  I  thought  it  would  be  so. 

Doge.     What  mean  you  ? 

Mar.         Lo  !  there  is  the  blood  beginning 
To  flow  through  the  dead  lips  of  Foscari  — 
The  body  bleeds  in  presence  of  the  assassin. 
[To  Loredano. 
Thou  cowardly  murderer  by  law,  behold 
How  death  itself  bears  witness  to  thy  deeds  ! 

Doge.     My  child !    this  is  a  phantasy   of 
grief. 
Bear  hence  the  body.     [To  his  attendants^ 

Signors,  if  it  please  you, 
Within  an  hour  I'll  hear  you. 

[Exeunt  DOGE,  MARINA,  and  attendants 
with  the  body.  Manent  LOREDANO  and 
Barbarigo. 

Bar.  He  must  not 

Be  troubled  now. 

Lor.  He  said  himself  that  nought 

Could  give  him  trouble  further. 

Bar.  These  are  words. 

But  grief  is  lonely,  and  the  breaking  in 
Upon  it  barbarous. 

Lor.  Sorrow  preys  upon 

Its  solitude,  and  nothing  more  diverts  it 
From  its  sad  visions  of  the  other  world 
Than  calling  it  at  moments  back  to  this. 
The  busy  have  no  time  for  tears. 

Bar.  And  therefore 

You  would  deprive  this  old  man  of  all  busi- 
ness ? 

Lor.  The  thing's  decreed.   The  Giunta  and 
" the  Ten" 
Have  made  it  law  —  who  shall  oppose  that 
law  ? 

Bar.     Humanity ! 

Lor.  Because  his  son  is  dead  ? 

Bar.     And  yet  unburied. 

Lor.  Had  we  known  this  when 


The  act  was  passing,  it  might  have  suspended 
Its  passage,  but  impedes  it  not  —  once  past. 

Bar.     I'll  not  consent. 

Lor.  You  have  consented  to 

All  that's  essential  —  leave  the  rest  to  me. 

Bar.     Why  press  his  abdication  now  ? 

Lor.  The  feelings 

Of  private  passion  may  not  interrupt 
The  public  benefit ;  and  what  the  state 
Decides  to-day  must  not  give  way  before 
To-morrow  for  a  natural  accident. 

Bar.    You  have  a  son. 

Lor.  I  have —  and  had  a  father. 

Bar.    Still  so  inexorable  ? 

Lor.  Still. 

Bar.  But  let  him 

Inter  his  son  before  we  press  upon  him 
This  edict. 

Lor.  Let  him  call  up  into  life 

My  sire  and  uncle  —  I  consent.     Men  may, 
Even  aged  men,  be,  or  appear  to  be, 
Sires  of  a  hundred  sons,  but  cannot  kindle 
An  atom  of  their  ancestors  from  earth. 
The  victims  are  not  equal ;  he  has  seen 
His  sons  expire  by  natural  deaths,  and  I 
My  sires  by  violent  and  mysterious  maladies* 
I  used  no  poison,  bribed  no  subtle  master 
Of  the  destructive  art  of  healing,  to 
Shorten  the  path  to  the  eternal  cure. 
His  sons  —  and  he  had  four — are  dead,  with- 
out 
My  dabbling  in  vile  drugs. 

Bar  And  art  thou  sure 

He  dealt  in  such  ? 

Lor.  Most  sure. 

Bar.  And  yet  he  seema 

All  openness. 

Lor.  And  so  he  seemed  not  long 

Ago  to  Carmagnuola. 

Bar.  The  attainted 

And  foreign  traitor  ? 

Lor.  Even  so :  when  he. 

After  the  very  night  in  which  "  the  Ten  " 
( Joined  with  the  Doge)  decided  his  destruc- 
tion, 
Met  with  the  great  Duke  at  daybreak  with  a 

jest, 
Demanding  whether  he  should  augur  him 
"  The  good  day  or  good  night  ?  "  his  Doge« 

ship  answered, 
"  That  he  in  truth  had  passed  a  night  of  vigil, 
"  In  which  (he  added  with  a  gracious  smile), 
"  There  often  has  been  question  about  you."  1 
'Twas  true;  the  question  was  the  death  re» 

solved 
Of  Carmagnuola,  eight  months  ere  he  died , 
And  the  old  Doge,  who  knew  him  doomed, 

smiled  on  him 
With   deadly  cozenage,  eight  long    months 
before-hand  — 


1  An  historical  fact.     See  Daru,  torn.  ii. 


SCENE  I.J 


THE    TWO  FOSCARI. 


647 


Eight  months  of  such  hypocrisy  as  is 
Learnt  but  in  eighty  years.     Brave  Carmag- 

nuola 
Is  dead;  so  is  young  Foscari  and  his  breth- 
ren — 
I  never  smiled  on  them. 

Bar.  Was  Carmagnuola 

if  our  friend  ? 

Lor.  He  was  the  safeguard  of  the  city. 

In  early  life  its  foe,  but  in  his  manhood, 
Its  saviour  first,  then  victim. 

Bar.  Ah  !  that  seems 

The  penalty  of  saving  cities.     He 
Whom  we  now  act  against  not  only  saved 
Our  own,  but  added  others  to  her  sway. 

Lor.     The   Romans    (and   we   ape   them) 
gave  a  crown 
To  him  who  took  a  city ;  and  they  gave 
A  crown  to  him  who  saved  a  citizen 
In  battle  :  the  rewards  are  equal.     Now, 
If  we  should  measure  forth  the  cities  taken 
By  the  Doge  Foscari,  with  citizens 
Destroyed    by    him,    or    through    him,   the 

account 
Were  fearfully  against  him,  although  narrowed 
To  private  havoc,  such  as  between  him 
And  my  dead  father. 

Bar.  Are  you  then  thus  fixed  ? 

Lor.    Why,  what  should  change  me  ! 

Bar.  That  which  changes  me. 

But  you,  I  know,  are  marble  to  retain 
A  feud.     But  when  all  is  accomplished,  when 
The  old  man  is  deposed,  his  name  degraded. 
His  sons  all  dead,  his  family  depressed, 
And  you  and  yours   triumphant,   shall  you 
sleep  ? 

Lor.  More  soundly. 

Bar.  That's  an  error,  and  you'll  find  it 

Ere  you  sleep  with  your  fathers. 

Lor.  They  sleep  not 

In  their  accelerated  graves,  nor  will 
Till  Foscari  fills  his.     Each  night  I  see  them 
Stalk  frowning  round  my  couch,  and,  point- 
ing towards 
The  ducal  palace,  marshal  me  to  vengeance. 

Bar.     Fancy's  distemperature  !  There  is  no 
passion 
More  spectral  or  fantastical  than  Hate ; 
Not  even  its  opposite,  Love,  so  peoples  air 
With  phantoms,  as  this  madness  of  the  heart. 

Enter  an  Officer. 

Lor.    Where  go  you,  sirrah  ? 

Offi.  By  the  ducal  order 

To  forward  the  preparatory  rites 
For  the  late  Foscari's  interment. 
.  Bar.  Their 

Vault  has  been  often  opened  of  late  years. 

Lor.     'Twill  be  full  soon,  and  may  be  closed 
for  ever. 

Offi.  May  I  pass  on  ? 

Lor.  You  may. 


Bar.  How  bears  the  Doge 

This  last  calamity  ? 

Offi.  With  desperate  firmness, 

In  presence  of  another  he  says  little, 
But  I  perceive  his  lips  move  now  and  then ; 
And  once  or  twice  I  heard  him,  from  the  ad- 
joining 
Apartment    mutter   forth    the   words — "Mj 

son !  " 
Scarce  audibly.  I  must  proceed.   [Exit  Officer. 

Bar.  This  stroke 

Will  move  all  Venice  in  his  favor. 

Lor.  Right ! 

We  must  be  speedy  :  let  us  call  together 
The  delegates  appointed  to  convey 
The  council's  resolution. 

Bar.  I  protest 

Against  it  at  this  moment. 

Lor.  As  you  please  — 

I'll  take  their  voices  on  it  ne'ertheless, 
And  see  whose  most  may  sway  them,  yours 
or  mine. 

[Exeunt  Barbarigo  and  Loredano. 


ACT  V. 

SCENE   I.  —  The  DOGE'S  Apartment. 
The  Doge  and  Attendants. 

Att.     My  lord,  the  deputation  is  in  waiting; 

But  add,  that  if  another  hour  would  better 

Accord  with  your  will,  they  will  make  it  theirs. 

Doge.    To  me  all  hours  are  like.    Let  them 

approach.  [Exit  Attendant. 

An    Officer.     Prince !     I    have   done  your 

bidding. 
Doge.  What  command  ? 

Offi.     A  melancholy  one  —  to  call  the   at- 
tendance 

Of 

Doge.    True — true  —  true:  I  crave  youi 
pardon.     I 
Begin  to  fail  in  apprehension,  and 
Wax  very  old —  old  almost  as  my  years. 
Till  now  I  fought  them  off,  but  they  begin 
To  overtake  me. 

Enter  the  Deputation  consisting  of  six  of  the 
Signory  and  the  Chief  of  the  Ten. 

Noblemen,  your  pleasure ! 

Chief  of  the   Ten.     In  the  first  place,  the 
Council  doth  condole 
With  the  Doge  on  his  late  and  private  grief, 

Doge.     No  more  —  no  more  of  that. 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  Will  not  the  Duke 

Accept  the  homage  of  respect  ? 

Doge.  I  do 

Accept  it  as  'tis  given  —  proceed. 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  *'  The  Ter.t" 

With  a  selected  giunta  from  the  senate 


648 


THE    TWO   FOSCARI. 


[act  v. 


Of  twenty-five  of  the  best  born  patricians, 
Having  deliberated  on  the  state 
Of  the  republic,  and  the  o'erwhelming  cares 
Which,  at  this  moment,  doubly  must  oppress 
Your  years,  so  long  devoted  to  your  country, 
Have  judged  it  fitting,  with  all  reverence. 
Now  to  solicit  from  your  wisdom  (which 
Upon  reflection  must  accord  in  this), 
The  resignation  of  the  ducal  ring, 
Which  you  have  worn  so  long  and  venerably  : 
And  to  prove  that  they  are  not  ungrateful,  nor 
Cold  to  your  years  and  services,  they  add 
An  appanage  of  twenty  hundred  golden 
Ducats  to  make  retirement  not  less  splendid 
Than  should  become  a  sovereign's  retreat. 

Doge      Did  I  hear  rightly  ? 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  Need  I  say  again  ? 

Doge.     No. —  Have  you  done  ? 

Chief  of  the  Ten.    I  have  spoken.    Twenty- 
four 
Hours  are  accorded  you  to  give  an  answer. 

Doge.     I  shall  not  need  so  many  seconds. 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  We 

Will  now  retire. 

Doge.  Stay !  Four  and  twenty  hours 

Will  alter  nothing  which  I  have  to  say. 

Chief  of  the  Ten.     Speak  ! 

Doge.  When  I  twice  before  reiterated 

My  wish  to  abdicate,  it  was  refused  me : 
And  not  alone  refused,  but  ye  exacted 
An  oath  from  me  that  I  would  never  more 
Renew  this  instance.     I  have  sworn  to  die 
In  full  exertion  of  the  functions,  which 
My  country  called  me  here  to  exercise, 
According  to  my  honor  and  my  conscience  — 
I  cannot  break  my  oath. 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  Reduce  us  not 

To  the  alternative  of  a  decree, 
Instead  of  your  compliance. 

Doge.  Providence 

Prolongs  my  days  to  prove  and  chasten  me ; 
But  ye  have  no  right  to  reproach  my  length 
Of  days,  since  every  hour  has  been  the  coun- 
try's. 
I  am  ready  to  lay  down  my  life  for  her, 
As  I  have  laid  down  dearer  things  than  life : 
But  for  my  dignity  —  I  hold  it  of 
The  whole  republic  ;  when  the  genera/  will 
Is  manifest,  then  you  shall  all  be  answered. 

Chief  of  the  Ten.     We  grieve  for  such  an 
answer,  but  it  cannot 
Avail  you  aught. 

Doge.  I  can  submit  to  all  things, 

But  nothing  will  advance  ;  no,  not  a  moment. 
What  you  decree — decree. 

Chief  of  the  Ten.     With  this,  then,  must  we 
Return  to  those  who  sent  us  ? 

Doge.  You  have  heard  me. 

Chief  of  the  Ten.     With  all  due  reverence 
we  retire.        [Exeunt  the  Deputation  etc. 

Enter  an  Attendant. 


Att.  My  lord. 

The  noble  dame  Marina  craves  an  audience:. 
Doge.     My  time  is  hers. 

Enter  MARINA. 

Mar.  My  lord,  if  I  intrude  — 

Perhaps  you  fain  would  be  alone  ? 

Doge.  Alone, 

Alone,  come  all  the  world  around  me,  I 
Am  now  and  evermore.     But  we  will  bear  it. 

Mar.    We  will,  and  for  the  sake  of  those 
who  are, 
Endeavor Oh  my  husband! 

Doge.  Give  it  way ; 

I  cannot  comfort  thee. 

Mar.  He  might  have  lived, 

So  formed  for  gentle  privacy  of  life, 
So  loving,  so  beloved  ;  the  native  of 
Another  land,  and  who  so  blest  and  blessing 
As  my  poor  Foscari  ?     Nothing  was  wanting 
Unto  his  happiness  and  mine  save  not 
To  be  Venetian. 

Doge.  Or  a  prince's  son. 

Mar.    Yes ;   all  things  which  conduce  to 
other  men's 
Imperfect  happiness  or  high  ambition, 
By  some  strange  destiny,  to  him  proved  deadly. 
The  country  and  the  people  whom  he  loved, 
The  prince  of  whom  he  was  the  elder  born, 
And r 

Doge.    Soon  may  be  a  prince  no  longer. 

Mar.  How  ? 

Doge.    They  have  taken  my  son  from  me, 
and  now  aim 
At  my  too  long  worn  diadem  and  ring. 
Let  them  resume  the  gewgaws  ! 

Mar.  Oh  the  tyrants! 

In  such  an  hour  too  ! 

Doge.  'Tis  the  fittest  time ; 

An  hour  ago  I  should  have  felt  it. 

Mar.  And 

Will  you  not  now  resent  it  ?  —  Oh  for  ven- 
geance ! 
But  he,  who,  had  he  been  enough  protected, 
Might  have  repaid  protection  in  this  moment. 
Cannot  assist  his  father. 

Doge.  Nor  should  do  so 

Against  his  country,  had  he  a  thousand  lives 
Instead  of  that 

Mar.  They  tortured  from  him.     This 

May  be  pure  patriotism.  I  am  a  woman  : 
To  me  my  husband  and  my  children  were 
Country  and  home.      I  loved  him — how  I 

loved  him ! 
I  have  seen  him  pass  through  such  an  ordeal 

as 
The  old  martyrs  would  have  shrunk  from  :  he 

is  gone, 
And   I,  who  would  have  given  my  blood  for 

him, 
Have  nought  to  give  but  tears !     But  could  I 
compass 


SCENE   I.] 


THE    TWO  FOSCARL 


649 


The  retribution  of  his  wrongs  !  —  Well,  well ; 
I  have  sons,  who  shall  be  men. 

Doge.  Your  grief  distracts  you. 

Mar.     I   thought   I    could   have  borne  it, 
when  I  saw  him 
Bowed    down    by   such   oppression ;    yes,   I 

thought 
That  I  would  rather  look  upon  his  corse 
Than  his   prolonged  captivity  :  —  I  am  pun- 
ished 
For  that  thought  now.     Would  I  were  in  his 
grave ! 
Doge.     I  must  look  on  him  once  more. 
Mar.  Come  with  me  ! 

Doge.     Is  he 

Mar.  Our  bridal  bed  is  now  his  bier. 

Doge.    And  he  is  in  his  shroud  ! 
Mar.  Come,  come,  old  man  ! 

[Exeunt  the  DOGE  and  MARINA. 

Enter  BARBARIGO  and  LOREDANO. 

Bar.  (to   an   Attendant).     Where     is     the 

Doge  ? 
Att.  This  instant  retired  hence 

With  the  illustrious  lady,  his  son's  widow. 
Lor.     Where  ? 

Att.      To  the  chamber  where  the  body  lies. 
Bar.     Let  us  return,  then. 
Lor.  You  forget,  you  cannot. 

We- have  the  implicit  order  of  the  Giunta 
To  await  their  coming  here,  and  join  them  in 
Their  office  :  they'll  be  here  soon  after  us. 
Bar.    And  will  they  press  their  answer  on 

the  Doge  ? 
Lor.     'Twas  his  own  wish  that  all  should  be 
done  promptly. 
He  answered   quickly,  and  must  so  be  an- 
swered ; 
His  dignity  is  looked  to,  his  estate 
Cared  for  —  what  would  he  more  ? 

Bar.  Die  in  his  robes: 

He  could  not  have  lived   long;  but  I   have 

done 
My -best  to  save  his  honors,  and  opposed 
This  proposition  to  the  last,  though  vainly. 
Why   would    the   general   vote   compel    me 
hither  ? 
Lor.     'Twas  fit  that  some  one  of  such  differ- 
ent thoughts 
From    ours   should   be   a  witness,  lest   false 

tongues 
Should  whisper  that  a  harsh  majority 
Dreaded  to  have  its  acts  beheld  by  others. 
Bar.    And  not  less,  I  must  needs  think,  for 
the  sake 
Of  humbling  me  for  my  vain  opposition. 
You  are  ingenious,  Loredano,  in 
Your  modes  of  vengeance,  nay,  poetical, 
A  very  Ovid  in  the  art  of  hating ; 
'Tis  thus  (although  a  secondary  object, 
Yet  hate  has  microscopic  eyes),  to  you 
1  owe,  by  way  of  foil  to  the  more  zealous, 


This  undesired  association  in 
Your  Giunta's  duties. 
Lor.  How !  —  my  Giunta ! 

Bar.  Yours  / 

They  speak  your  language,  watch  your  noo\ 

approve 
Your  plans,  and  do  your  work.    Are  they  not 
yours  ? 
Lor.    You  talk  unwarily.     'Twere  best  they 
hear  not 
This  from  you. 

Bar.         Oh  !  they'll  hear  as  much  one  day 
From  louder  tongues  than  mine;  they  have 

gone  beyond 
Even  their  exorbitance  of  power  :  and  when 
This   happens  in  the   most   contemned   and 

abject 
States,  stung  humanity  will  rise  to  check  it. 
Lor.     You  talk  but  idly. 
Bar.  That  remains  for  proof. 

Here  come  our  colleagues. 

Enter  the  Deputation  as  before. 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  Is  the  Duke  aware 

We  seek  his  presence  ? 

Att.  He  shall  be  informed. 

[Exit  Attendant. 

Bar.    The  Duke  is  with  his  son. 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  If  it  be  so, 

We  will  remit  him  till  the  rites  are  over. 
Let  us  return.     "lis  time  enough  to-morrow. 

Lor.  (aside  to  Bar.).     Now  the  rich   man's 

hell-fire  upon  your  tongue, 

Unquenched,  unquenchable  !   I'll  have  it  torn 

From  its  vile  babbling  roots,  till  you  shall  utter 

Nothing  but   sobs   through   blood,  for  this ! 

Sage  signors, 
I  pray  ye  be  not  hasty.      [Aloud  to  the  others. 

Bar.  But  be  human  ! 

Lor.     See,  the  Duke  comes  ! 

Enter  the  DOGE. 

Doge.  I  have  obeyed  your  summons. 

Chief  of  theTen.     We  come  once  more  to 
urge  our  past  request. 

Doge.    And  I  to  answer. 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  What? 

Doge.  My  only  answer. 

You  have  heard  it. 

Chief  of  the  Ten.     Hear  you   then   the  last 
decree, 
Definitive  and  absolute ! 

Doge.  To  the  point  — 

To  the  point !     I    know  of  old  the  forms  ol 

office, 
And  gentle  preludes  to  strong  acts  —  Go  on  ! 

Chief  of  the  Ten.     You  are  no  longer  Doge  ; 
you  are  released 
From  your  imperial  oath  as  sovereign; 
Your  ducal  robes  must  be  put  off;  but  for 
Your  services,  the  state  allots  the  appanage 
Already  mentioned  in  our  former  congress. 


650 


THE    TWO  FOSCARI. 


[act  y. 


Three  days  are  left  you  to  remove  from  hence, 
Under  trie  penalty  to  see  confiscated 
All  your  own  private  fortune. 

Doge.  That  last  clause, 

I  am  proud  to  say,  would  not  enrich  the  treas- 
ury. 

Chief  of  the  Ten.    Your  answer,  Duke  ! 

Lor.  Your  answer,  Francis  Foscari ! 

Doge.     If  I  could  have  foreseen  that  my  old 
age 
Was  prejudicial  to  the  state,  the  chief 
Of  the  republic  never  would  have  shown 
Himself  so  far  ungrateful,  as  to  place 
His  own  high  dignity  before  his  country; 
But  this  life  having  been  so  many  years 
Not  useless  to  that  country,  I  would  fain 
Have  consecrated  my  last  moments  to  her. 
But  the  decree  being  rendered,  I  obey.1 

Chief  of  the  Ten.      If  you  would  have  the 
three  days  named  extended, 
We  willingly  will  lengthen  them  to  eight, 
As  sign  of  our  esteem. 

Doge.  Not  eight  hours,  signor, 

Nor  even  eight  minutes  —  There's  the  ducal 
ring,  [  Taking  off  his  ring  and  cap. 

And  there  the  ducal  diadem.     And  so 
The  Adriatic's  free  to  wed  another. 

Chief  of  the    Ten.    Yet  go  not  forth   so 
quickly. 

Doge.  I  am  old,  sir, 

And  even  to  move  but  slowly  must  begin 
To  move  betimes.     Methinks  I  see  amongst 

you 
A  face  I  know  not  —  Senator!  your  name, 
You,  by  your  garb,  Chief  of  the  Forty! 

Mem.  Signor, 

I  am  the  son  of  Marco  Memmo. 

Doge.  Ah ! 

Your  father  was  my  friend. —  But  sons  and  fa- 

thers / — 
What,  ho  !  my  servants  there  ! 

Atten.  My  prince ! 

Doge.  No  prince  — 

There  are  the  princes  of  the  prince  !    [Point- 
ing to  the   Ten's  Deputation^  —  Prepare 
To  part  from  hence  upon  the  instant. 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  Why 

So  rashly  ?  'twill  give  scandal. 

Doge.  Answer  that ; 

[  To  the  Ten. 

It  is  your  province.  —  Sirs,  bestir  yourselves  : 

[  To  the  Servafits. 

There  is  one  burden  which  I  beg  you  bear 

With   care,   although    'tis    past    all    further 

harm  — 
But  I  will  look  to  that  myself. 

Bar.  He  means 

The  body  of  his  son. 

Doge.  And  call  Marina, 

My  daughter! 


1  (MS.  — "  The  act  is  passed  —  I  will  obey  it."l 


Enter  MARINA. 

Doge.  Get  thee  ready,  we  must  mourn 

Elsewhere. 
Afar.        And  everywhere. 
Doge.  True ;  but  in  freedom, 

Without  these  jealous  spies  upon  the  great. 
Signors,  you    may  depart :   what  would  you 

more  ? 
We  are  going:   do  you   fear  that  we  shall 

bear 
The  palace  with  us  ?     Its  old  walls,  ten  times 
As  old  us  I  am,  and  I'm  very  old, 
Have  served  you,  so  have  I,  and  I  and  they 
Could  tell  a  tale ;  but  I  invoke  them  not 
To  fall  upon  you!  else  they  would,  as  erst 
The  pillars  of  stone  Dagon's  temple  on 
The  Israelite  and  his  Philistine  foes. 
Such  power  I  do  believe  there  might  exist 
In  such  a  curse  as  mine,  provoked  by  such 
As  you;  but  I  curse  not.    Adieu,  good  sig- 
nors! 
May  the  next  duke  be  better  than  the  present. 
Lor.     The  present  duke    is  Paschal  Mali- 

piero. 
Doge.     Not  till  I  pass  the  threshold  of  these 

doors. 
Lor.    Saint  Mark's  great  bell  is  soon  about 

to  toll 
For  his  inauguration. 

Doge.  Earth  and  heaven  ! 

Ye  will  reverberate  this  peal ;  and  I 
Live  to  hear  this !  —  the  first  doge  who  e'er 

heard 
Such  sound  for  his  successor :  happier  he, 
My  attainted  predecessor,  stern  Faliero  — 
This  insult  at  the  least  was  spared  him. 

Lor.  What  I 

Do  you  regret  a  traitor  ? 

Doge.  No  —  I  merely 

Envy  the  dead. 

Chief  of  the  Ten.     My  lord,  if  you  indeed 
Are  bent  upon  this  rash  abandonment 
Of  the  state's  palace,  at  the  least  retire 
By  the  private  staircase,  which  conducts  you 

towards 
The  landing-place  of  the  canal. 

Doge.  No.     I 

Will   now    descend    the   stairs    by   which    I 

mounted 
To  sovereignty  —  the  Giants'  Stairs,  on  whose 
Broad  eminence  I  was  invested  duke. 
My  services  have  called  me  up  those  steps, 
The  malice  of  my  foes  will  drive  me  down 

them. 
There  five  and  thirty  years  ago  was  I 
Installed,  and  traversed  these  same  halls,  from 

which 
I  never  thought  to  be  divorced  except 
A  corse  —  a  corse,  it  might  be,  fighting  fol 

them  — 
But  not  pushed  \v  /ice  by  fellow-citizens. 


SCENE  I.J 


THE    TWO  FOSCARI. 


651 


But  come;  my  son  and  I  will  go  together  — 
He  to  his  grave,  and  I  to  pray  for  mine. 

Chief  of  the  Ten.    What !  thus  in  public  ? 

Doge.  I  was  publicly 

Elected,  and  so  will  I  be  deposed. 
Marina!  art  thou  willing  ? 

Mar.  Here's  my  arm  ! 

Doge.     And  here  my  staff:  thus  propped 
will  I  go  forth. 

Chief  of  the    Ten.     It  must   not  be  — the 
people  will  perceive  it. 

Doge.     The  people!  —  There's  no  people, 
you  well  know  it, 
Else  you  dare  not  deal  thus  by  them  or  me. 
There  is  a  populace,  perhaps,  whose  looks 
May  shame  you  ;  but  they  dare  not  groan  nor 

curse  you. 
Save  with  their  hearts  and  eyes. 

Chief  of  the  Ten.        You  speak  in  passion, 
Else 

Doge.     You  have  reason.     I  have  spoken 
much 
More  than  my  wont :  it  is  a  foible  which 
Was  not  of  mine,  but  more  excuses  you, 
Inasmuch  as  it  shows  that  I  approach 
A  dotage  which  may  justify  this  deed 
Of  yours,  although  the  law  does  not,  nor  will. 
Farewell,  sirs ! 

Bar.  You  shall  not  depart  without 

An  escort  fitting  past  and  present  rank. 
We  will  accompany,  with  due  respect, 
The  Doge  unto  his  private  palace.     Say! 
My  brethren,  will  we  not  ? 

Different  voices.  Ay !  —  Ay ! 

Doge.  You  shall  not 

Stir — in  my  train,  at  least.     I  entered  here 
As  sovereign —  I  go  out  as  citizen 
By  the  same  portals,  but  as  citizen. 
All  these  vain  ceremonies  are  base  insults, 
Which  only  ulcerate  the  heart  the  more, 
Applying  poisons  there  as  antidotes. 
Pomp  is  for  princes  —  I  am  nonet — That's 

false, 
I  am,  but  only  to  these  gates.  —  Ah ! 

Lor.  Hark! 

[  The  great  bell  of  Saint  Mark's  tolls. 

Bar.     The  bell ! 

Chief  of  the   Ten.     St.  Mark's,  which  tolls 
for  the  election 
Of  Malipiero. 

Doge.  Well  I  recognize 

The  sound  !     I  heard  it  once,  but  once  before, 
And  that  is  five  and  thirty  years  ago ; 
Even  then  I  was  not  young. 

Bar.  Sit  down,  my  lord ! 

You  tremble. 

Doge.  'Tis  the  knell  of  my  poor  boy  ! 

My  heart  aches  bitterly. 

Bar.  I  pray  you  sit. 

Doge.     No ;  my  seat  here  ha?  jeen  a  throne 
till  now. 
Marina !  let  us  go. 


Mar.  Most  readily. 

Doge  {walks  a  few  steps,  then  stops).     I  feel 
athirst  —  will  no  one  bring  me  here 
A  cup  of  water  ? 

Bar.  I 

Mar.  And  I  — — 

Lor.  And  I  -  — 

[The  DOGB  takes  a  goblet  from  the  hand  o) 

LoREDANO. 
Doge.     I  take  yours,  Loredano,  from   the 
hand 
Most  fit  for  such  an  hour  as  this.1 
Lor.  Why  so  ? 

Doge.     'Tis  said  that  our  Venetian  crystal 
has 
Such  pure  antipathy  to  poisons  as 
To  burst,  if  aught  of  venom  touches  it. 
You  bore  this  goblet,  and  it  is  not  broken. 
Lor.     Well,  sir ! 

Doge.  Then  it  is  false,  or  you  are  true. 

For  my  own  part,  I  credit  neither ;  'tis 
An  idle  legend. 

Mar.  You  talk  wildly,  and 

Had  better  now  be  seated,  nor  as  yet 
Depart.    Ah !  now  you   look  as   looked  my 
husband ! 
Bar.    He  sinks  !  —  support  him  !  —  quick  — 

a  chair  —  support  him  ! 
Doge.     The  bell  tolls  on  !  —  let's  hence  — 

my  brain's  on  fire  ! 
Bar.     I  do  beseech  you,  lean  upon  us ! 
Doge.  No ! 

A  sovereign  should  die  standing.     My  poor 

boy! 
Off  with  your  arms !  —  That  bell! 

[  The  DOGE  drops  doivn  and  dies? 
Mar.  My  God !  My  God  ! 

Bar.  {to  Lor.).     Behold!  your  work's  com- 
pleted ! 
Chief  of  the  Ten.  Is  there  then 

No  aid  ?     Call  in  assistance ! 
Att.  'Tis  all  over. 

Chief  of  the   Ten.     If  it  be  so,  at  least  his 
obsequies 
Shall  be  such  as  befits  his  name  and  nation, 
His  rank  and  his  devotion  to  the  duties 
Of  the  realm,  while  his  age  permitted  him 
To  do  himself  and  them  full  justice.     Breth- 
ren, 
Say,  shall  it  not  be  so  ? 

Bar.  He  has  not  had 

The  misery  to  die  a  subject  where 
He   reigned :   then   let  his   funeral  rites    be 
princely.3 


i  [MS.  — 
"  I  take  yours,  Loredano  —  'tis  the  draught 
Most  fitting  such  an  hour  as  this."] 

2  [The  death  of  the  elder  Foscari  took  place  not 
at  the  palace,  but  in  his  own  house;  not  immedi- 
ately on  his  descent  from  the  Giants'  Stairs,  but 
five  days  afterwards.  —  Smedley.} 

3  [By  a  decree  of  the  Council,  the  trappings  ol 


652 


THE    TWO   FOSCARL 


Chief  of  the  Ten.     We  are  agreed,  then  ? 
All,  extept  Lor.,  answer.  Yes. 

Chief  of  the  Ten.     Heaven's  peace  be  with 

him! 
Mar.      Signors,     your     pardon :     this    is 
mockery. 

Juggle   no    more  with   that    poor  remnant, 
which, 

A  moment  since  while  yet  it  had  a  soul, 

(A  soul   by  whom  you  have  increased  your 
empire, 

And  made  your  power  as  proud  as  was  his 
glory,) 

You  banished  from  his  palace,  and  tore  down 

From    his   high   place,   with   such    relentless 
coldness ; 

And  now,  when  he  can  neither  know  these 
honors, 

Nor  would   accept   them   if  he   could,  you, 
signors, 

Purpose,  with  idle  and  superfluous  pomp, 

To   make   a  pageant   over  what  you   tram- 
pled. 

A  princely  funeral  will  be  your  reproach, 

And  not  his  honor. 

Chief  of  the  Ten.     Lady,  we  revoke  not 

Our  purposes  so  readily. 

Mar.  I  know  it, 

As  far  as  touches  torturing  the  living. 

I  thought  the  dead  had  been  beyond  even 
you. 

Though    (some,    no    doubt)    consigned    to 
powers  which  may 

Resemble  that  you  exercise  on  earth. 

Leave  him  to  me  ;  you  would  have  done  so  for 

His    dregs   of    life,  which  you  have   kindly 
shortened : 

It  is  my  last  of  duties,  and  may  prove 

A  dreary  comfort  in  my  desolation. 

Grief  is  fantastical,  and  loves  the  dead, 

And  the  apparel  of  the  grave. 

Chief  of  the   Ten.  Do  you 

Pretend  still  to  this  office  ? 
Mar.  I  do,  signor. 

Though  his  possessions  have  been  all  con- 
sumed 

In  the  state's  service,  I  have  still  my  dowry, 

Which  shall  be  consecrated  to  his  rites, 

And  those  of [She  stops  with  agitation. 

Chief  of  the  Ten.     Best  retain  it  for  your 

children. 
Mar.     Ay,  they  are  fatherless,  I  thank  you. 
Chief  of  the  Ten.  We 

Cannot  comply  with  your  request.    His  relics 

Shall  be  exposed  with  wonted  pomp,  and  fol- 
lowed 

Unto  their  home  by  the  new  Doge,  not  clad 


supreme  power  of  which  the  Doge  had  divested 
himself  while  living,  were  restored  to  him  when 
dead;  and  he  was  interred,  with  ducal  magnificence, 
in  the  church  of  the  Minorites,  the  new  Doge  attend- 
ing as  a  mourner.  —  See  Daru.\ 


As  Doge,  but  simply  as  a  senator. 

Mar.  I  have  heard  of  murderers,  who  have 
interred 
Their  victims;    but   ne'er   heard    until    this 

hour, 
Of  so  much  splendor  in  hypocrisy 
O'er  those    they  slew.1     I    have    heard    of 

widow's  tears  — 
Alas!   I  have  shed  some  —  always  thanks  to 

you! 
I've  heard  of  heirs  in  sables  —  you  have  left 

none 
To  the  deceased,  so  you  would  act  the  part 
Of  such.    Well,  sirs,  your  will  be  done!  a$ 

one  day,         • 
I  trust,  Heaven's  will  be  done  too! 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  Know,  you,  lady, 

To    whom    ye    speak,   and    perils    of   such 
speech  ? 
Mar.     I  know  the  former  better  than  your- 
selves ; 
The   latter — like  yourselves;    and   can   face 

both. 
Wish  you  more  funerals  ? 

Bar.  Heed  not  her  rash  words ; 

Her  circumstances  must  excuse  her  bearing. 

Ch-ef  of the  Ten.    We  will  not  note  them 

down. 
Bar.  (turning  to  Lor.  who  is  writing  upon 
his  tablets).  What  art  thou  writing, 

With  such  an  earnest  brow,  upon  thv  tab- 
lets ? 
Lor.  (pointing  to  the  Doge's  body).    That  he 

has  paid  me !  2 
Chief  of  the  Ten.    What  debt  did  he  owe 

you  ? 
Lor.  A  long  and  just  one;  Nature's  debt 
and  mine.  [Curtain  falls. 


1  The  Venetians  appear  to  have  had  a  particular 
turn  for  breaking  the  hearts  of  their  Doges.  The 
following  is  another  instance  of  the  kind  in  the 
Doge  Marco  Barbarigo:  he  was  succeeded  by  his 
brother  Agostino  Barbarigo,  whose  chief  merit  is 
here  mentioned.  — "  Le  doge,  blesse  de  trouvet 
constamment  un  contradicteur  et  un  censeur  si 
amer  dans  son  frere,  lui  dit  un  jour  en  plein  conseil : 
'  Messire  Augustin,  vous  faites  tout  votre  possible 
pour  hater  ma  mort;  vous  vous  flattez  de  me  sue- 
ceder,  mais,  si  les  autres  vous  connaissent  aussi- 
bien  que  je  vous  connais,  ils  n'auront  garde  de  vous 
elire.'  La-dessus  il  se  leva,  emu  de  colere,  rentrr 
dans  son  appartement,  et  mourut  quclques  jours 
apres.  Ce  frere,  contre  lequel  il  s'etait  emporte, 
fut  pr^cisiment  le  successeur  qu'on  lui  donna. 
C'etait  un  merite  dont  on  aimait  a  tenir  cornpte; 
surtout  a  un  parent,  de  s'etre  mis  en  opposition 
avec  le  chef  de  la  r^publique." —  Darn,  Hist,  de 
Venise,  vol.  ii.  p.  533. 

2  "  V  ha  pagata."  An  historical  fact.  See  Hist, 
de  Venise,  par  P.  Daru,  t.  ii.  p.  411.  —  [Here  the 
original  MS.  ends.  The  two  lines  which  follow, 
were  added  by  Mr.  Gifiord.  In  the  margin  of  the 
MS.,  Byron  has  written,  —  "  If  the  last  line  should 
appear  obscure  to  those  who  do  not  recollect  the 


CAIN.  .  653 


historical  fact  mentioned  in  the  first  act  of  Lore- 
dar.o's  inscription  in  his  book,  of  '  Doge  Foscari, 
debtor  for  the  deaths  of  my  father  and  uncle,'  you 
may  add  the  following  lines  to  the  conclusion  of  the 
last  act : — 


Chief  of  the  Ten.     For  what  has  he  repaid  thee? 
Lor.  For  my  father's 

And  father's  brother's  death — by  his  son's  and  own! 

Ask  Gifford  about  this."] 


[Considered  as  poems,  we  confess  that  "  Sardanapalus  "  and  "  The  Two  Foscari "  appear  to  us  to  be 
rather  heavy,  verbose,  and  inelegant  —  deficient  in  the  passion  and  energy  which  belongs  to  Lord  Byron's 
other  writings  —  and  still  more  in  the  richness  of  imagery,  the  originality  of  thought,  and  the  sweetness 
of  versification  for  which  he  used  to  be  distinguished.  They  are  for  the  most  part  solemn,  prolix,  and 
ostentatious  —  lengthened  out  by  large  preparations  for  catastrophes  that  never  arrive,  and  tantalizing  us 
-vith  slight  specimens  and  glimpses  of  a  higher  interest  scattered  thinly  up  and  down  many  weary  pages 
of  pompous  declamation.  Along  with  the  concentrated  pathos  and  homestruck  sentiments  of  his  former 
poetry,  the  noble  author  seems  also  —  we  cannot  imagine  why  —  to  have  discarded  the  spirited  and  melo- 
dious versification  in  which  they  were  embodied,  and  to  have  formed  to  himself  a  measure  equally  remote 
from  the  spring  and  vigor  of  his  former  compositions,  and  from  the  softness  and  inflexibility  of  the  ancient 
masters  of  the  drama.  There  are  some  sweet  lines,  and  many  of  great  weight  and  energy;  but  the  gen- 
eral march  of  the  verse  is  cumbrous  and  unmusical.  His  lines  do  not  vibrate  like  polished  lances,  at 
once  strong  and  light,  in  the  hands  of  his  persons,  but  are  wielded  like  clumsy  batons  in  a  bloodless 
affray.  Instead  of  the  graceful  familiarity  and  idiomatical  melodies  of  Shakspeare,  it  is  apt,  too,  to  fall 
into  clumsy  prose,  in  its  approaches  to  the  easy  and  colloquial  style;  and,  in  the  loftier  passages,  is 
occasionally  deformed  by  low  and  common  images  that  harmonize  but  ill  with  the  general  solemnity  of 
the  diction.  —  Jeffrey.] 


CAIN:    A    MYSTERY. 

"  Now  the  serpent  was  more  subtile  than  any  beast  of  the  field  which  the  Lord  God  had  made.1 
Gen.  ch.  iii.  ver.  i. 


["  Cain  "  was  begun  at  Ravenna,  on  the  16th  of  July,  1821  —  completed  (in  three  acts,  and  without  the 
chorus)  on  the  o.th  of  September  —  and  published,  in  the  same  volume  with  "  Sardanapalus"  and  "  The 
Two  Foscari,"  in  December.] 

TO   SIR  WALTER   SCOTT,    BART., 

THIS   MYSTERY   OF   CAIN    IS    INSCRIBED, 
UY   HIS   OBLIGED   FRIEND,  AND   FAITHFUL   SERVANT, 

THE   AUTHOR.1 

Sir  Walter  Scott  announced  his  acceptance  of  this  dedication  in  the  following  letter  to  Mr.  Murray:— 

"  Edinburgh,  4th  December,  1821. 

'  My  Dear  Sir,  —I  accept,  with  feelings  of  great  obligation,  the  flattering  proposal  of  Lord  Byron  to 
prsfix  my  name  to  the  very  grand  and  tremendous  drama  of  Cain.'  I  may  be  partial  to  it,  and  you  will 
allow  I  have  cause;  but  I  do  not  know  that  his  Muse  has  ever  taken  so  lofty  a  flight  amid  her  former 
soarings.  He  has  certainly  matched  Milton  on  his  own  ground.  Some  part  of  the  language  is  bold,  and 
may  shock  one  class  of  readers,  whose  line  will  be  adopted  by  others  out  of  affectation  or  envy.  But 
then  they  must  condemn  the  '  Paradise  Lost,'  if  they  have  a  mind  to  be  consistent.  The  fiend-like  rea- 
soning and  bold  blasphemy  of  the  fiend  and  of  his  pupil  lead  exactly  to  the  point  which  was  to  be  expected, 
—  the  commission  of  the  first  murder,  and  the  ruin  and  despair  of  the  perpetrator. 

"  I  do  not  see  how  any  one  can  accuse  the  author  himself  of  Manicheism.  The  devil  talks  the  lan- 
guage of  that  sect,  doubtless;  because,  not  being  able  to  deny  the  existence  of  the  Good  Principle,  he 
endeavor*  to  exalt  himself — the  Evil  Principle  —  to  a  seeming  equality  with  the  Good;  but  suoh  argu- 
ments, in  the  mouth  of  such  a  being,  can  only  be  used  to  deceive  and  to  betray.     Lord  Byron  might 


654  .  CAIN. 


PREFACE. 

The  following  scenes  are  entitled  "  A  Mystery,"  in  conformity  with  the  ancient  title  annexed  fo  dramas 
upon  similar  subjects,  which  were  styled  "  Mysteries,  or  Moralities."  The  author  has  by  no  means 
taken  the  same  liberties  with  his  subject  which  were  common  formerly,  as  may  be  seen  by  any  reader 
curious  enough  to  refer  to  those  very  profane  productions,  whether  in  English,  French,  Italian,  or 
Spanish.  The  author  has  endeavored  to  preserve  the  language  adapted  to  his  characters;  and  where  it 
is  (and  this  is  but  rarely)  taken  from  actual  Scripture,  he  has  made  as  little  alteration,  even  of  words, 
as  the  rhythm  would  permit.  The  reader  will  recollect  that  the  book  of  Genesis  does  not  state  that  Eve 
was  tempted  by  a  demon,  but  by  "  the  Serpent;  "  and  that  only  because  he  was  "  the  most  subtile  of  all 
the  beasts  of  the  field."  Whatever  interpretation  the  Rabbins  and  the  Fathers  may  have  put  upon  this, 
I  take  the  words  as  I  find  them,  and  reply,  with  Bishop  Watson  upon  similar  occasions,  when  the  Fathers 
were  quoted  to  him,  as  Moderator  in  the  schools  of  Cambridge,  "  Behold  the  book!  "  —  holding  up  the 
Scripture.1  It  is  to  be  recollected,  that  my  present  subject  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  New  Testament, 
to  which  no  reference  can  be  here  made  without  anachronism.  With  the  poems  upon  similar  topics  I 
have  not  been  recently  familiar.  Since  I  was  twenty,  I  have  never  read  Milton;  but  I  had  read  him  so 
frequently  before,  that  this  may  make  little  difference.  Gesner's  "  Death  of  Abel "  I  have  never  read 
since  T  was  eight  years  of  age,  at  Aberdeen.  The  general  impression  of  my  recollection  is  delight;  but 
of  the  contents  I  remember  only  that  Cain's  wife  was  called  Mahala,  and  Abel's  Thirza:  in  the  following 
pages  I  have  called  them  "Adah"  and  "  Zillah,  "  the  earliest  female  names  which  occur  in  Genesis; 
they  were  those  of  Lamech's  wives:  those  of  Cain  and  Abel  are  not  called  by  their  names.  Whether, 
then,  a  coincidence  of  subject  may  have  caused  the  same  in  expression,  I  know  nothing,  and  care  as 
little.2 

The  reader  will  please  to  bear  in  mind  (what  few  choose  to  recollect) ,  that  there  is  no  allusion  to  a 
future  state  in  any  of  the  books  of  Moses,  nor  indeed  in  the  Old  Testament.3  For  a  reason  for  this 
extraordinary  omission  he  may  consult  Warburton's  "  Divine  Legation;  "  whether  satisfactory  or  not, 

have  made  this  more  evident,  by  placing  in  the  mouth  of  Adam,  or  of  some  good  and  protecting  spirit, 
the  reasons  which  render  the  existence  of  moral  evil  consistent  with  the  general  benevolence  of  the  Deity. 
The  great  key  to  the  mystery  is,  perhaps,  the  imperfection  of  our  own  faculties,  which  see  and  feel 
strongly  the  partial  evils  which  press  upon  us,  but  know  too  little  of  the  general  system  of  the  universe, 
to  be  aware  how  the  existence  of  these  is  to  be  reconciled  with  the  benevolence  of  the  great  Creator. 

"  To  drop  these  speculations,  you  have  much  occasion  for  some  mighty  spirit,  like  Lord  Byron,  to 
come  down  and  trouble  the  waters;  for,  excepting  'The  John  Bull,'*  you  seem  stagnating  strangely  in 
London.  <<  YourSj  my  dear  Sir,  very  truly, 

"  To  John  Murray,  Esq.  "  Walter  Scott." 

1  ["  I  never  troubled  myself  with  answering  any  arguments  which  the  opponents  in  the  divinity 
schools  brought  against  the  Articles  of  the  Church,  nor  ever  admitted  their  authority  as  decisive  of  a 
difficulty;  but  I  used  on  such  occasions  to  say  to  them,  holding  up  the  New  Testament  in  my  hand: 
'  En  sacrum  codicem!  Here  is  the  fountain  of  truth;  why  do  you  follow  the  streams  derived  from  it  by 
the  sophistry,  or  polluted  by  the  passions,  of  man?  '  "  —  Bishop  Watson  s  Life,  vol.  i.  p.  63.] 

2  [Here  follows,  in  the  original  draft,  —  "I  am  prepared  to  be  accused  of  Manicheism,  or  some  other 
hard  name  ending  in  ism,  which  make  a  formidable  figure  and  awful  sound  in  the  eyes  and  ears  of  those 
who  would  be  as  much  puzzled  to  explain  the  terms  so  bandied  about,  as  the  liberal  and  pious  indulgers 
in  such  epithets.     Against  such  I  can  defend  myself,  or,  if  necessary,  I  can  attack  in  turn."] 

3  [There  are  numerous  passages  dispersed  throughout  the  Old  Testament  which  import  something 
more  than  "  an  allusion  to  a  future  state."  In  truth,  the  Old  Testament  abounds  in  phrases  which  imply 
the  immortality  of  the  soul,  and  which  would  be  insignificant  and  hardly  intelligible,  but  upon  that  sup- 
position. "  Then  shall  the  dust  return  to  the  earth  as  it  was,  and  the  spirit  return  unto  God  who  gave 
it."  —  Eccl.  xii.  7.  "  And  many  of  them  that  sleep  in  the  dust  of  the  earth  shall  awake,  some  to  ever- 
lasting life,  and  some  to  shame:  and  they  that  be  wise  shall  shine  as  the  brightness  of  the  firmament; 
and  they  that  turn  many  to  righteousness  as  the  stars  for  ever  and  ever."  —  Dan.  x.  2.  "  I  know  that  ray 
Redeemer  liveth.  and  that  he  shall  stand  in  the  latter  days  upon  the  earth:  and  though  after  my  skin 
worms  shall  destroy  my  body,  yet  in  my  flesh  shall  I  see  God."  —  Job  xix.  25.  — -Brit.  Rev.~\ 


*  [The  pungent  Sunday  newspaper  of  that  name  had  been  lately  established,  and  had  excited  an 
immense  sensation.] 


CAIN. 


655 


no  better  has  yet  been  assigned.  I  have  therefore  supposed  it  new  to  Cain,  without,  I  hope,  any  perver- 
sion of  Holy  Writ. 

With  regard  to  the  language  of  Lucifer,  it  was  difficult  for  me  to  make  him  talk  like  a  clergyman  upon 
the  same  subjects;  but  I  have  done  what  I  could  to  restrain  him  within  the  bounds  of  spiritual  politeness. 
If  he  disclaims  having  tempted  Eve  in  the  shape  of  the  Serpent,  it  is  only  because  the  book  of  Genesis 
has  not  the  most  distant  allusion  to  any  thing  of  the  kind,  but  merely  to  the  Serpent  in  his  serpentine 
capacity. 

Nete.  —  The  reader  will  perceive  that  the  author  has  partly  adopted  in  this  poem  the  notion  of  Cuvier, 
that  the  world  had  been  destroyed  several  times  before  the  creation  of  man.  This  speculation,  derived 
from  the  different  strata  and  the  bones  of  enormous  and  unknown  animals  found  in  them,  is  not  contrary 
to  the  Mosaic  account,  but  rather  confirms  it;  as  no  human  bones  have  yet  been  discovered  in  those 
strata,  although  those  of  many  known  animals  are  found  near  the  remains  of  the  unknown.  The  assertion 
of  Lncifer,  that  the  pre-Adamite  world  was  also  peopled  by  rational  beings  much  more  intelligent  than 
man,  and  proportionably  powerful  to  the  mammoth,  etc.  etc.  is,  of  course,  a  poetical  fiction  to  help  him 
to  make  out  his  case. 

I  ought  to  add,  that  there  is  a  "  tramelogedia  "  of  Alfieri,  called  "  Abele."  —  I  have  never  read  that, 
nor  any  other  of  the  posthumous  works  of  the  writer,  except  his  Life. 

Ravenna,  September  20,  1821. 


MEN. 

Adam. 

Cain. 

Abel. 


DRAMATIS   PERSONS. 


Angel  of  the  Lord. 
Lucifer. 


women. 

Eve. 

Adah. 

Zillah. 


ACT  I. 

SCENE  I. —  The   Land  without  Paradise. — 
Time,  Sunrise, 

Adam,  Eve,  Cain,  Abel,  Adah,  Zillah, 
offering  a  Sacrifice. 

Adam.     God,  the   Eternal!     Infinite!   All- 
wise  !  — 
Who  out  of  darkness  on  the  deep  didst  make 
Light  on  the  waters  with  a  word —  all  hail! 
[ehovah,  with  returning  light,  all  hail ! 
Eve.    God !   who  didst  name  the  day,  and 
separate 
Morning  from  night,  till  then  divided  never  — 
Who  didst  divide  the  wave  from  wave,  and  call 
Part  of  thy  work  the  firmament  —  all  hail ! 

Abel.    God  !  who  didst  call  the  elements  into 
Earth  —  ocean — air  —  and  fire,  and  with  the 

day 
And  night,  and  worlds  which  these  illuminate, 
Or  shadow,  madest  beings  to  enjoy  them, 
A.nd  love  both  them  and  thee — all  hail!  all 
hail! 
Adah.     God,  the  Eternal!     Parent   of   all 
things ! 
Who  didst  create  these  best  and  beauteous 
beings, 


To  be  beloved,  more  than  all,  save  thee  — 
Let  me  love  thee  and  them  : — All  hail!    all 
hail! 
Zillah.  Oh,  God  !  who  loving,  making, bless- 
ing all, 
Yet  didst  permit  the  Serpent  to  creep  in, 
And  drive  my  father  forth  from  Paradise, 
Keep  us  from  further  evil :  —  Hail !  all  hail ! 
Adam.    Son  Cain,  my  first-born,  wherefore 

art  thou  silent  ? 
Cain.     Why  should  I  speak  ? 
Adam.  To  pray.1 

Cain.  Have  ye  not  prayed  ? 


1  ["  Prayer,"  said  Lord  Byron,  at  Cephalonia, 
"  does  not  consist  in  the  act  of  kneeling,  nor  in  re. 
peating  certain  words  in  a  solemn  manner.  Devo- 
tion is  the  affection  of  the  heart,  and  this  I  feel;  for 
when  I  view  the  wonders  of  creation,  I  bow  to  the 
majesty  of  heaven;  and  when  I  feel  the  enjoyment 
of  life,  health,  and  happiness,  I  feel  grateful  to  God 
for  having  bestowed  these  upon  me."  — "All  this  is 
well,"  I  said,  "  so  far  as  it  goes,  but  to  be  a  Chris- 
tian you  must  go  further."  —  "  I  read  more  of  the 
Bible  than  you  are  aware,"  he  said  :  "  I  have  a  Bible 
which  my  sister  gave  me,  who  is  an  excellent  woman, 
and  I  read  it  very  often."  He  went  into  his  bed- 
room on  saying  this,  and  brought  out  a  pocket 
Bible,  finely  bound,  and  showed  it  to  me.  —  Ken- 
nedy's  Conversations  with  Lord  B.,  p.  135-] 


656 


CAIN. 


[ACT  t. 


Adam.    We  have,  most  fervently. 

Cain.  And  loudly :  I 

Have  heard  you. 

Adam.  So  will  God,  I  trust. 

Abel.  Amen ! 

Adam.     But  thou,  my  eldest  born,  art  silent 
still. 

Cain.     "Tis  better  I  should  be  so. 

Adam.  Wherefore  so  ? 

Cain.     I  have  nought  to  ask. 

Adam.  Nor  aught  to  thank  for  ? 

Cain.  No. 

Adam.     Dost  thou  not  live  ? 

Cain.  Must  I  not  die  ? 

Eve.  Alas ! 

The  fruit  of  our  forbidden  tree  begins 
To  fall.i 

Adam.    And  we  must  gather  it  again. 
Oh,  God !    why  didst  thou  plant  the  tree  of 
knowledge  ? 

Cain.    And  wherefore  plucked  ye  not  the 
tree  of  life  ? 
Ye  might  have  then  defied  him. 

Adam.  Oh  !  my  son, 

Blaspheme  not :  these  are  serpent's  words. 

Cain.  Why  not  ? 

The   snake   spoke  truth  :    it  was  the  tree  of 

knowledge ; 
It  was  the  tree  of  life  :  knowledge  is  good, 
And   life   is  good ;    and  how  can    both    be 
evil? 

Eve.     My  boy !  thou  speakest  as  I  spoke,  in 
sin, 
Before  thy  birth  :  let  me  not  see  renewed 
My  misery  in  thine.     I  have  repented. 
Let  me  not  see  my  offspring  fall  into 
The  snares  beyond  the  walls  of  Paradise, 
Which  e'en  in  Paradise  destroyed  his  parents. 
Content  thee  with  what  is.     Had  we  been  so, 
Thou  now  hadst  been  contented.  —  Oh,  my 
son! 

Adam.  Our  orisons  completed,  let  us  hence, 
Each  to  his  task  of  toil  —  not  heavy,  though 
Needful :    the  earth  is  young,  and  yields  us 

kindly 
Her  fruits  with  little  labor. 

Eve.  Cain,  my  son, 

Behold  thy  father  cheerful  and  resigned, 
And  do  as  he  doth.      [Exeunt  ADAM  and  Eve. 

Zillah.  Wilt  thou  not,  my  brother  ? 


1  [This  passage  affords  a  key  to  the  temper  and 
frame  of  mind  of  Cain  throughout  the  piece.  He 
disdains  the  limited  existence  allotted  to  him;  he 
has  a  rooted  horror  of  death,  attended  with  a  ve- 
hement curiosity  as  to  his  nature;  and  he  nourishes 
a  sullen  anger  against  his  parents,  to  whose  miscon- 
duct he  ascribes  his  degraded  state.  Added  to  this, 
he  has  an  insatiable  thirst  for  knowledge  beyond 
the  bounds  prescribed  to  mortality;  and  this  part  of 
the  poem  bears  a  strong  resemblance  to  Manfred, 
whose  counterpart,  indeed,  in  the  main  points  of 
character,  Cain  seems  to  be.  —  Campbell's  Maga- 
zitte.] 


Abel.  Why  wilt  thou  wear  this  gloom  upon 
thy  brow, 
Which  can  avail  thee  nothing,  save  to  rouse 
The  Eternal  anger  ? 

Adah.  My  beloved  Cain, 

Wilt  thou  frown  even  on  me  ? 

Cain.  No,  Adah!  no, 

I  fain  would  be  alone  a  little  while. 
Abel,  I'm  sick  at  heart;  but  it  will  pass. 
Precede  me,  brother —  I  will  follow  shortly. 
And  you,  too,  sisters,  tarry  not  behind; 
Your  gentleness  must  not  be  harshly  met : 
I'll  follow  you  anon. 

Adah.  If  not,  I  will 

Return  to  seek  you  here. 

Abel.  The  peace  of  God 

Be  on  your  spirit,  brother! 

[Exeunt  ABEL,  ZlLLAH,  and  ADAH. 

Cain,  (solus).  And  this  is 

Life  !  —  Toil !  and  wherefore  should  I  toil  ?  — 

because 
My  father  could  not  keep  his  place  in  Eden. 
What  had  /  done  in  this  ?  —  I  was  unborn  : 
I  sought  not  to  be  born ;  nor  love  the  state 
To  which  that  birth  has  brought  me.    Why 

did  he 
Yield  to  the  serpent  and  the  woman?  or, 
Yielding,  why  suffer  ?  What  was  there  in  this  ? 
The  tree  was  planted,  and  why  not  for  him  ? 
If  not,  why  place  him  near  it,  where  it  grew, 
The  fairest  in  the  centre  ?     They  have  but 
One  answer  to  all  questions,  "  'Twas  his  will, 
And  he  is  good."    How  know  I  that  ?    Because 
He  is  all-powerful,  must  all-good,  too,  follow  ? 
I  judge  but  by  the  fruits  —  and  they  are  bitter — 
Which  I  must  feed  on  for  a  fault  not  mine. 
Whom  have  we  here  ?  —  A  shape  like  te  the 

angels, 
Yet  of  a  sterner  and  a  sadder  aspect 
Of  spiritual  essence:  why  do  I  quake? 
Why  should  I  fear  him  more  than  other  spirits, 
Whom  I  see  daily  wave  their  fiery  swords 
Before  the  gates  round  which  I  linger  oft, 
In  twilight's  hour,  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  those 
Gardens  which  are  my  just  inheritance, 
Ere  the  night  closes  o'er  the  inhibited  walls 
And  the  immortal  trees  which  overtop 
The  cherubim-defended  battlements? 
If  I  shrink  not  from  these,  the  fire-armed  an- 
gels, 
Why  should  I  quail  from  him  who  now  ap- 
proaches? 
Yet  he  seems  mightier  far  than  them,  nor  less 
Beauteous,  and  yet  not  all  as  beautiful 
As  he  hath  been,  and  might  be  :  sorrow  seems 
Half  of  his  immortality.-    And  is  it 
So?  and  can  aught  grieve  save  humanity  ? 
He  cometh. 


2  [Cain's  description  of  the  approach  of  Lucifer 
would  have  shown  in  the  "  Paradise  Lost."  There 
is  something  spiritually  fine  in  this  conception  of  th» 
terror  of  presentiment  of  coming  evil. — "Jeffrey  j 


SCENE  I.J 


CAIN. 


657 


Enter  LUCIFER. * 

Lucifer.  Mortal! 

Cam.  Spirit,  who  art  thou  ? 

Lucifer.  Master  of  spirits. 

Cain.  And  being  so,  canst  thou 

Leave  them,  and  walk  with  dust  ? 

Lucifer.  I  know  the  thoughts 

Of  dust,  and  feel  for  it,  and  with  you. 

Cain.  How ! 

You  know  my  thoughts  ? 

Lucifer.  They  are  the  thoughts  of  all 

Worthy  of  thought ;  —  'tis  your  immortal  part 
Which  speaks  within  you. 

Cain.  What  immortal  part? 

This  has  not  been  revealed  :  the  tree  of  life 
Was  withheld  from  us  by  my  father's  folly, 
Whilethatof  knowledge, by  my  mother's  haste, 
Was  plucked  too  soon ;    and  all  the  fruit  is 
death ! 


1  [Milton,  with  true  tact  and  feeling,  put  no 
metaphysics  into  Satan's  mouth.  There  is  no 
querulousness,  no  sneaking  doubts,  no  petty  reason- 
ing in  "  the  Archangel  fallen."  It  is  a  fine,  blunt, 
sublime,  characteristic  defiance,  that  reigns  through- 
out, and  animates  his  character;  the  spirit  is  still 
of  celestial  birth;  and  all  the  evil  of  his  speech  and 
act  is  utterly  neutralized  by  the  impossibility  of 
man's  feeling  any  sympathy  with  it.  The  Satan  of 
Milton  is  no  half-human  devil,  with  enough  of  earth 
about  him  to  typify  the  malignant  sceptic,  and 
enough  of  heaven  to  throw  a  shade  of  sublimity  on 
his  very  malignity.  The  Lucifer  of  Byron  is  neither 
a  noble-fiend,  nor  yet  a  villain-fiend,  —  he  does 
nothing,  and  he  seems  nothing  —  there  is  no  poetry 
either  of  character  or  description  about  him  —  he  is 
a  poor,  sneaking,  talking  devil  —  a  most  wretched 
metaphysician,  without  wit  enough  to  save  him  even 
from  the  damnation  of  criticism  —  he  speaks  neither 
poetry  nor  common  sense.  Thomas  Aquinas  would 
have  flogged  him  more  for  his  bad  logic  than  his 
unbelief — and  St.  Dunstan  would  have  caught  him 
by  the  nose  ere  the  purblind  fiend  was  aware.  — 
Blackwood. 

The  impiety  chargeable  on  this  mystery  consists 
mainly  in  this  —  that  the  purposeless  and  gratuitous 
blasphemies  put  into  the  mouth  of  Lucifer  and  Cain 
are  left  unrefuted,  so  that  they  appear  introduced 
for  their  own  sake,  and  the  design  of  the  writer 
seems  to  terminate  in  them.  There  is  no  attempt 
made  to  prevent  their  leaving  the  strongest  possible 
impression  on  the  reader's  mind.  On  the  contrary, 
the  arguments,  if  such  they  can  be  called,  levelled 
against  the  wisdom  and  goodness  of  the  Creator  are 
put  forth  with  the  utmost  ingenuity.  And  it  has 
been  the  noble  poet's  endeavor  to  palliate  as  much 
as  possible  the  characters  of  the  Evil  Spirit  and  of 
the  first  Murderer;  the  former  of  whom  is  made  an 
elegant,  poetical,  philosophical  sentimentalist,  a  sort 
of  Manfred,  —  the  latter  an  ignorant,  proud,  and 
self-willed  boy.  Lucifer,  too,  is  represented  as  deny- 
ing all  share  in  the  temptation  of  Eve,  which  he 
throws  upon  the  serpent  "  in  his  serpentine  capac- 
ity;" the  author  pleading,  that  he  does  so,  only 
because  the  book  of  Genesis  has  not  the  most  dis- 
tant allusion  to  any  thing  of  the  kind,  and  that  a 
reference  to  the  New  Testament  would  be  an 
anachronism.  — Eel.  Rev.\ 


Lucifer.    They  have  deceived  thee;    thou 
shalt  live. 

Cain.  I  live, 

But  live  to  die :  and,  living,  see  nothing  , 

To  make  death  hateful,  save  an  innate  cling- 
ing, 
A  loathsome,  and  yet  all  invincible 
Instinct  of  life,  which  I  abhor,  as  I 
Despise  myself,  yet  cannot  overcome  — 
And  so  I  live.    Would  I  had  never  lived! 

Lucifer.    Thou  livest.and  must  live  forever, 
think  not 
The  earth,  which  is  thine  outward  cov'ring,  is 
Existence —  it  will  cease,  and  thou  wilt  be 
No  less  than  thou  art  now. 

Cain.  No  less!  and  why 

No  more  ? 

Lucifer.     L  may  be  thou  shalt  be  as  we. 

Cain.    And  ye  ? 

Lucifer.  Are  everlasting. 

Cain.  Are  ye  happy? 

Lucifer.     We  are  mighty. 

Cain.  Are'ye  happy? 

Lucifer.  No :  art  thou? 

Cain.     How  should  I  be  so  ?    Look  on  me  ! 

Lucifer.  Poor  clay ! 

And  thou  pretendest  to  be  wretched  !    Thou  ! 

Cain.     I    am :  —  and  thou,   with   all   thy 
might,  what  art  thou  ? 

Lucifer.     One  who  aspired  to  be  what  made 
thee,  and 
Would  not  have  made  thee  what  thou  art. 

Cain.  Ah ! 

Thou  look'st  almost  a  god ;  and 

Lucifer.  I  am  none  : 

And  having  failed  to  be  one,  would  be  nought 
Save  what  I   am.     He  conquered ;    let   him 
reign ! 

Cain.         Who  ? 

Lucifer.  Thy  sire's  Maker,  and  the 

earth's. 

Cain.  And  heaven's, 

And  all  that  in  them  is.     So  I  have  heard 
His  seraphs  sing  ;  and  so  my  father  saith. 

Lucifer.     They  say  —  what  they  must  sing 
and  say,  on  pain 
Of  being  that  which  I  am  —  and  thou  art  — 
Of  spirits  and  of  men. 

Cain.  And  what  is  that? 

Lucifer.     Souls  who  dare  use  their  immor- 
tality—2 


2  [In  this  long  dialogue,  the  tempter  tells  Cain 
(who  is  thus  far  supposed  to  be  ignorant  of  the  fact) 
that  the  soul  is  immortal,  and  that  "  souls  who  dare 
use  their  immortality"  are  condemned  by  God  to 
be  wretched  everlastingly.*     This  sentiment,  which 

*  "  There  is  nothing  against  the  immortality  01 
the  soul  in  '  Cain '  that  I  recollect.  I  hold  no  such 
opinions;  — but,  in  a  drama,  the  first  rebel  and  the 
first  murderer  must  be  made  to  talk  according  te 
their  characters."  —  Byron's  Letters. 


658 


CAIN. 


Tact  i. 


Souls  who  dare  look  the  Omnipotent  tyrant  in 
His  everlasting  face,  and  tell  him  that 
His  evil  is  not  good  !     If  he  has  made, 
As  he  saith  —  which  I  know  not,  nor  believe  — 
But,  if  he  made  us  —  he  cannot  unmake  : 
We  are  immortal !  —  nay,  he'd  have  us  so, 
That    he    may    torture:  —  let    him!     He    is 

great  — 
But,  in  his  greatness,  is  no  happier  than 
We  in  our  conflict!     Goodness  would   not 

make 
Evil ;  and  what  else  hath  he  made  ?     But  let 

him 
Sit  on  his  vast  and  solitary  throne. 
Creating  worlds,  to  make  eternity 
Less  burdensome  to  his  immense  existence 
And  unparticipated  solitude; 
Let  him  crowd  orb  on  orb :  he  is  alone 
Indefinite,  indissoluble  tyrant;  l 
Could  he  but  crush  himself,  'twere  the  best 

boon 
He  ever  granted  :  but  let  him  reign  on, 
And  multiply  himself  in  misery  ! 
Spirits  and  Men,  at  least  we  sympathize  — 
And,  suffering  in  concert,  make  our  pangs 
Innumerable,  more  endurable. 
By  the  unbounded  sympathy  of  all 
With  all!     But  AW  so  wretched  in  his  height, 
So  restless  in  his  wretchedness,  must  still 

Create,  and  recreate 2 

Cain.     Thou  speak'st  to  me  of  things  which 

long  have  swum 
In  visions  through  my  thought :  I  never  could 
Reconcile  what  I  saw  with  what  I  heard. 
My  father  and  my  mother  talk  to  me 
Of  serpents,  and  of  fruits  and  trees:  I  see 
The  gates  of  what  they  call  their  Paradise 
Guarded  by  fiery-sworded  cherubim, 
Which   shut  them   out,  and   me:    I  feel  the 

weight 
Of  daily  toil,  and  constant  thought :  I  look 
Around  a  world  where  I  seem  nothing,  with 
Thoughts  which  arise  within  me,  as  if  they 
Could  master  all  things  —  but  I  thought  alone 


is  the  pervading  moral  (if  we  may  call  it  so)  of  the 
play,  is  developed  in  the  lines  which  follow.  — 
Heber.] 

1  [The  poet  rises  to  the  sublime  in  making  Luci- 
fer first  inspire  Cain  with  the  knowledge  of  his 
immortality  —  a  portion  of  truth  which  hath  the 
efficacy  of  falsehood  upon  the  victim ;  for  Cain,  feel- 
ing himself  already  unhappy,  knowing  that  his  be- 
ing cannot  be  abridged,  has  the  less  scruple  to 
desire  to  be  as  Lucifer,  "  mighty."  The  whole  of 
this  speech  is  truly  Satanic;  a  daring  and  dreadful 
description  given  by  everlasting  despair  of  the 
Deity.  —  Gait.] 

2  [In  MS.  — 

**  Create  and  recreate  —  perhaps  he'll  make 
One  day  a  Son  unto  himself — as  he 
Gave  you  a  Father  —  and  if  he  so  doth, 
Mark  me!  that  Son  will  be  a  sacrifice!  "J 


This  misery  was  mine. —  My  father  is 
Tamed  down  ;  my  mother  has  forgot  the  mind 
Which  made  her  thirst  for  knowledge  at  the 

risk 
Of  an  eternal  curse ;  my  brother  is 
A  watching  shepherd  boy,  who  offers  up 
The  firstlings  of  the  flock  to  him  who  bids 
The  earth  yield  nothing  to  us  without  sweat; 
My  sister  Zillah  sings  an  earlier  hymn 
Than  the  birds'  matins;  and  my  Adah,  my 
Own  and  beloved,  she,  too,  understands  not 
The  mind  which  overwhelms  me  :  never  till 
Now  met  I  aught  to  sympathize  with  me. 
'Tis  well  — - 1  rather  would  consort  with  spirits 

Lucifer.    And  hadst  thou  not  been  fit  by 
thine  own  soul 
For  such  companionship,  I  would  not  now 
Have  stood  before  thee  as  I  am :  a  serpent 
Had  been  enough  to  charm  ye,  as  before.3 

Cain.     Ah  !  didst  thou  tempt  my  mother  ? 

Lucifer.  I  tempt  none, 

Save  with  the  truth  :  was  not  the  tree,  the  tree 
Of  knowledge  ?  and  was  not  the  tree  of  life 
Still  fruitful  ?  Did  /  bid  her  pluck  them  not  ? 
Did  /plant  things  prohibited  within 
The  reach  of  beings  innocent,  and  curious 
By  their  own  innocence  ?  I  would  have  made 

ye 
Gods ;  and  even  He  who  thrust  ye  forth,  so 

thrust  ye   * 
Because  "  ye  should  not  eat  the  fruits  of  life, 
And  become  gods  as  we."     Were  those  his 
words  ? 

Cain.     They  were,  as  I    have   heard  from 
those  who  heard  them, 
In  thunder. 

Lucifer.        Then  who  was  the  demon  ?  He 
Who  would  not  let  ye  live,  or  he  who  would 
Have  made  ye  live  for  ever  in  the  joy 
And  power  of  knowledge  ? 

Cain.  Would  they  had  snatched  both 

The  fruits,  or  neither ! 

Lucifer.  One  is  yours  already, 

The  other  may  be  still. 

Cain.  How  so  ? 

Lucifer.  By  being 

Yourselves,  in  your  resistance.      Nothing  can 
Quench  the  mind,  if  the  mind  will  be  itself 
And  centre  of  surrounding  things  —  'tis  made 
To  sway. 

Cain      But  didst  thou  tempt  my  parents  ? 

Lucifer.  I  ? 

Poor  clay !  what  should  I  tempt  them  for,  or 
how  ? 

Cain.     They  say  the  serpent  was  a  spirit. 

Lucifer.  Who 

Saith  that  ?     It  is  not  written  so  on  high  : 
The  proud  One  will  not  so  far  falsify, 


»  [MS.— 

"  Have  stood  before  thee  as  I  am;  but  chosen 
The  serpent's  charming  symbol,  as  before."^ 


SCENE  I.] 


CAIN. 


659 


Though  man's  vast  fears  and  little  vanity 
Would  make   him   cast  upon    the   spiritual 

nature 
His   own   low  failing.     The   snake   -was  the 

snake  — 
No   more;  and  yet   not   less  than   those   he 

tempted 
In  nature  being  earth  also  —  more  in  wisdom. 
Since  he  could  overcome  them,  and  foreknew 
The  knowledge  fatal  to  their  narrow  joys, 
rhink'st   thou  I'd  take  the  shape  of  things 

that  die  ? 
Cain.     But  the  thing  had  a  demon  ? 
Lucifer.  He  but  woke  one 

In  those  he  spake  to  with  his  forky  tongue. 
I  tell  thee  that  the  serpent  was  no  more 
Than  a  mere  serpent :  ask  the  cherubim 
Who  guard  the  tempting  tree.     When  thou- 
sand ages 
Have  rolled  o'er  your  dead  ashes,  and  your 

seed's, 
The  seed  of  the  then  world  may  thus  array 
Their  earliest  fault  in  fable,  and  attribute 
To  me  a  shape  I  scorn,  as  I  scorn  all 
That  bows  to  him,  who  made  things  but  to 

bend 
Before  his  sullen,  sole  eternity ; 
But  we  who  see  the  truth,  must  speak  it.    Thy 
Fond  parents  listened  to  a  creeping  thing, 
And   fell.      For  what    should   spirits    tempt 

them  ?     What 
Was  there  to  envy  in  the  narrow  bounds 
Of  Paradise,  that  spirits  who  pervade 
Space but  I  speak  to  thee  of  what  thou 

know'st  not, 
With  all  thy  tree  of  knowledge. 

Cain.  But  thou  canst  not 

Speak  aught  of  knowledge  which  I  would  not 

know. 
And  do  not  thirst  to  know,  and  bear  a  mind 
To  know. 

And  heart  to  look  on  ? 

Be  it  proved. 
Darest  thou  to  look  on  Death  ? 
He  has  not  yet 


Lucifer. 
Cain. 
Lucifer. 
Cain. 
Been  seen. 
Lucifer. 
Cain. 


But  must  be  undergone. 

My  father 
Says    he    is    something    dreadful,   and    my 

mother 
Weeps  when  he's  named ;  and  Abel  lifts  his 

eyes 
To  heaven,  and  Zillah  casts  hers  to  the  earth, 
And  sighs  a  prayer ;  and  Adah  looks  on  me, 
And  speaks  not. 
Lucifer.  And  thou  ? 

Cain.  Thoughts  unspeakable 

Crowd  in  my  breast  to  burning,  when  I  hear 
Of  this  almighty  Death,  who  is,  it  seems, 
Inevitable.     Could  I  wrestle  with  him  ? 
I  wrestled  with  the  lion,  when  a  boy, 
Jtt  play,  till  he  ran  roaring  from  my  gripe. 


Lucifer.     It  has  no  shape  •  but  will  absorb 
all  things 
That  bear  the  form  of  earth-born  being. 

Cain.  Ah ! 

I  thought  it  was  a  being :  who  could  do 
Such  evil  things  to  beings  save  a  being  ? 

Lucifer.    Ask  the  Destroyer. 

Cain.  Who  ? 

Lucifer.  The  Maker  -r-  call  him 

Which  name  thou  wilt:  he  makes  but  to  de- 
stroy. 

Cain.m    I  knew  not  that,  yet  thought  it,  sinct 
I  heard 
Of  death  :  although  I  know  not  what  it  is, 
Yet  it  seems  horrible.     I  have  looked  out 
In  the  vast  desolate  night  in  search  of  him; 
And  when  I  saw  gigantic  shadows  in 
The  umbrage  of  the  walls  of  Eden,  chequers^ 
By  the  far-flashing  of  the  cherubs'  swords, 
I  watched  for  what  I  thought  his  coming;' 

for 
With  fear  rose  longing  in  my  heart  to  know 
What  'twas  which  shook  us  all  —  but  nothing 

came. 
And  then  I  turned  my  weary  eyes  from  off 
Our  native  and  forbidden  Paradise, 
Up  to  the  lights  above  us,  in  the  azure, 
Which  are  so  beautiful :  shall  they,  too,  die  ? 

Lucifer.     Perhaps  —  but  long  outlive  both 
thine  and  thee. 

Cain.    I'm  glad  of  that :  I  would  not  have 
them  die  — 
They  are  so  lovely.     What  is  death  ?     I  fear, 
I  feel,  it  is  a  dreadful  thing;  but  what, 
I  cannot  compass  :  'tis  denounced  against  us, 
Both  them  who  sinned  and  sinned  not,  as  an 

ill  — 
What  ill  ? 

Lucifer.     To  be  resolved  into  the  earth. 

Cain.     But  shall  I  know  it  ? 

Lucifer.  As  I  know  not  death, 

I  cannot  answer. 

Cain.  Were  I  quiet  earth, 

That  were  no  evil :  would  I  ne'er  had  been 
Aught  else  but  dust ! 

Lucifer.  That  is  a  grovelling  wish, 

Less  than  thy  father's,  for  he  wished  to  know. 

Cain.    But  not  to  live,  or  wherefore  plucked 
he  not 
The  life-tree  ? 

Lucifer.         He  was  hindered. 

Cain.  Deadly  error ! 

Not   to   snatch  first  that  fruit :  —  but  ere  he 
plucked 


1  [It  may  appear  a  very  prosaic,  but  it  is  cer- 
tainly a  very  obvious  criticism  on  these  passages, 
that  the  young  family  of  mankind  had,  long  ere 
this,  been  quite  familiar  with  the  death  of  animals 
—  some  of  whom  Abel  was  in  the  habit  of  offering 
up  as  sacrifices;  so  that  it  is  not  quite  conceivable 
that  they  should  be  so  much  at  a  loss  to  conjectuw 
what  Death  was.  —  Jeffrey.} 


660 


CAIN. 


[ACT  l 


The  knowledge,  he  was  ignorant  of  death. 
Alas !  I  scarcely  now  know  what  it  is, 
And  yet  I  fear  it  —  fear  I  know  not  what! 

Lucifer.     And  I,  who  know  all  things,  fear 
nothing,  see 
What  is  true  knowledge. 

C*in.  Wilt  thou  teach  me  all  ? 

Lucifer.    Ay,  upon  one  condition. 

Cain.  Name  it. 

Lucifer.  That 

Thou  dost  fall  down  and  worship  me  —  thy 
Lord. 

Cain.    Thou  art  not  the   Lord  my  father 
worships. 

Lucifer.  No. 

Cain.     His  equal  ? 

Lucifer.    No ;  —  I  have  nought  in  common 
with  him  1 
Nor  would:   I  would  be  aught  above — be- 
neath — 
Aught  save  a  sharer  or  a  servant  of 
His  power.     I  dwell  apart ;  but  I  am  great :  — 
Many  there  are  who  worship  me,  and  more 
Who  shall — be  thou  amongst  the  first. 

Cain.  I  never 

As  yet  have  bowed  unto  my  father's  God, 
Although  my  brother  Abel  oft  implores 
That  I  would  join  with  him  in  sacrifice  :  — 
Why  should  I  bow  to  thee  ? 

Lucifer.  Hast  thou  ne'er  bowed 

To  him  ? 

Cain.   Have  I  not  said  it  ?  —  need  I  say  it  ? 
Could  not  thy  mighty  knowledge  teach  thee 
that  ? 

Lucifer.     He   who   bows   not  to   him  has 
bowed  to  me ! 

Cain.     But  I  will  bend  to  neither. 

Lucifer.  Ne'er  the  less 

Thou  art  my  worshipper  :  not  worshipping 
Him  makes  thee  mine  the  same. 

Cain.  And  what  is  that  ? 

Lucifer.    Thou'lt  know  here  —  and   here- 
after. 

Cain         Let  me  but 
Be  taught  the  mystery  of  my  being. 

Lucifer.  Follow 

Where  I  will  lead  thee. 

Cain.  But  I  must  retire 

To  till  the  earth  —  for  I  had  promised  — — 

Lucifer.  What  ? 

Cain.     To  cull  some  first-fruits. 

Lucifer.  Why  ? 

Cain.  To  offer  up 

With  Abel  on  an  altar. 

Li/cifer.  Saidst  thou  not 

Thou  ne'er  hadst  bent   to   him   who   made 
thee  ? 

Cain.  Yes  — 

But  Abel's  earnest  prayer  has  wrought  upon 

me; 
The   offering  is  more   his  than   mine  —  and 
Adah  — 


Lucifer.    Why  dost  thou  hesitate  ? 

Cain.  She  is  my  sister, 

Born  on  the  same  day,  of  the  same  womb  ;  and. 
She  wrung  from  me,  with  tears,  this  promise; 

and 
Rather  than  see  her  weep,  I  would,  met  b  inks, 
Bear  all  —  and  worship  aught. 

Lucifer.  Then  follow  me  I 

Cain.     I  will.1 

Enter  ADAH. 

Adah.     My  brother,  I  have  come  for  thee ; 
It  is  our  hour  of  rest  and  joy  —  and  we 
Have  less  without  thee.    Thou  hast  labored 

not 
This  morn ;   but  I  have  done  thy  task :  the 

fruits 
Are   ripe,  and  glowing   as   the   light  which 

ripens : 
Come  away. 

Cain.  See'st  thou  not  ? 

Adah.  I  see  an  angel ; 

We  have  seen  many  :  will  he  share  our  hour 
Of  rest  ?  —  he  is  welcome. 

Cain.  But  he  is  not  like 

The  angels  we  have  seen. 

Adah.  Are  there,  then,  others  ? 

But  he  is  welcome,  as  they  were  :  they  deigned 
To  be  our  guests  —  will  he  ? 

Cain  {to  LlTciFER).  Wilt  thou  ? 

Lucifer.  I  ask 

Thee  to  be  mine. 

Cain.  I  must  away  with  him. 

Adah.    And  leave  us  ? 

Cain.  Ay. 

Adah.  And  me  f 

Cain.  Beloved  Adah ! 

Adah.    Let  me  go  with  thee. 

Lucifer.  No,  she  must  not. 

Adah.  Who 

Art  thou  that  steppest  between    heart   and 
heart  ? 

Cam.     He  is  a  god. 

Adah.  How  know'st  thou  ? 

Cain.  He  speaks  like 

A  god. 

Adah.    So  did  the  serpent,  and  it  lied. 

Lucifer.     Thou   errest,  Adah !  —  was   not 
the  tree  that 
Of  knowledge  ? 

Adah.  Ay — to  our  eternal  sorrow. 

Lucifer.  And  yet  that  grief  is  knowledge  — 
so  he  lied  not : 
And  if  he  did  betray  you,  'twas  with  truth ; 
And  truth  in  its  own  essence  cannot  be 
But  good. 

Adah.      But  all  we  know  of  it  has  gathered 
Evil  on  ill :  expulsion  from  our  home, 
And  dread,  and  toil,  and  sweat,  and  heavi« 
ness ; 

1  [The  first  interview  of  Lucifer  with  Cain  is  full 
of  sublimity.  —  Jeffrey. \ 


SCENE  I.] 


CAIN. 


661 


Remorse   of  that  which  was  —  and  hope  of 

that 
Which   comtth  not.    Cain !   walk  not  with 

this  spirit, 
Bear  with  what  we  have  borne,  and  love  me —  I 
Love  thee. 
Lucifer.     More  than   thy  mother,  and  thy 

sire  ? 
Adah.     I  do.     Is  that  a  sin,  too  ? 
Lucifer.  No,  not  yet, 

It  one  day  will  be  in  your  children. 

Adah.  What ! 

Must  not  my  daughter  love  her  brother  Enoch  ? 
Lucifer.     Not  as  thou  lovest  Cain. 
Adah.  Oh,  my  God ! 

Shall  they  not  love  and  bring  forth  things  that 

love 
Out  of  their  love  ?  have  they  not  drawn  their 

milk 
Out  of  this  bosom  ?  was  not  he,  their  father, 
Born  of  the  same  sole  womb,  in  the  same  hour 
With  me  ?  did  we  not  love  each  other  ?  and 
In  multiplying  our  being  multiply 
Things  which  will  love  each  other  as  we  love 
Them  ?  —  And  as  I  love  thee,  my  Cain  !  go  not 
Forth  with  this  spirit ;  he  is  not  of  ours. 
Lucifer.     The  sin  I  speak  of  is  not  of  my 
making, 
And  cannot  be  a  sin  in  you — whate'er 
It  seem  in  those  who  will  replace  ye  in 
Mortality.1 

Adah.         What  is  the  sin  which  is  not 
Sin  in  itself?     Can  circumstance  make  sin 
Or  virtue  ?  —  if  it  doth,  we  are  the  slaves 

Of 

Lucifer.     Higher  things  than  ye  are  slaves  : 
and  higher 
Than  them  or  ye  would  be  so,  did  they  not 
Prefer  an  independency  of  torture 
To  the  smooth  agonies  of  adulation. 
In  hymns    and    harpings,   and    self-seeking 

prayers, 
To  that  which  is  omnipotent,  because 
It  is  omnipotent,  and  not  from  love, 
But  terror  and  self-hope. 

Adah.  Omnipotence 

Must  be  all  goodness. 
Lucifer.  Was  it  so  in  Eden  ? 

Adah.     Fiend  !  tempt  me  not  with  beauty  ; 
thou  art  fairer 
Than  was  the  serpent,  and  as  false. 

Lucifer.  As  true. 

Ask   Eve,  your   mother :   bears  she  not  the 

knowledge 
Of  good  and  evil  ? 

Adah.  Oh,  my  mother !  thou 

Hast  plucked  a  fruit  more  fatal  to  thine  off- 
spring 


1  [It  is  impossible  not  to  be  struck  with  the  re- 
semblance between  many  of  these  passages  and 
Bthers  in  Manfred.} 


Than  to  thyself;  thou  at  the  least  hast  passed 
Thy  youth  in  Paradise,  in  innocent 
And  happy  intercourse  with  happy  spirits : 
But  we,  thy  children,  ignorant  of  Eden, 
Are  girt  about  by  demons,  who  assume 
The  words  of  God,  and  tempt  us  with  our  owb 
Dissatisfied  and  curious  thoughts  —  as  thou 
Wert  worked  on  by  the  snake,  in  thy  most 

flushed 
And  heedless,  harmless  wantonness  of  bliss, 
I  cannot  answer  this  immortal  thing 
Which   stands   before  me ;    I   cannot  abhos 

him ; 
I  look  upon  him  with  a  pleasing  fear, 
And  yet  I  fly  not  from  him:  in  his  eye 
There  is  a  fastening  attraction  which 
Fixes  my  fluttering  eyes  on  his ;  my  heart 
Beats  quick ;  he  awes  me,  and  yet  draws  me 

near, 
Nearer  and  nearer :  —  Cain  —  Cain  —  save  me 
from  him ! 
Cain.     What   dreads  my  Adah  ?     This  is 

no  ill  spirit. 
Adah.    He  is  not  God  —  nor  God's  :  I  have 
beheld 
The  cherubs  and  the  seraphs ;  he  looks  not 
Like  them. 

Cain.         But  there  are  spirits  loftier  still  — 
The  archangels. 

Lucifer.  And  still  loftier  than  the  arch- 

angels. 
Adah.    Ay  —  but  not  blessed. 
Lucifer.  If  the  blessedness 

Consists  in  slavery  —  no. 

Adah.  I  have  heard  it  said, 

The    seraphs    love    most  —  cherubim    know 

most  — 
And  this  should  be  a  cherub —  since  he  loves 
not. 
Lucifer.     And    if   the    higher    knowledge 
quenches  love, 
What   must   he   be  you   cannot    love    when 

known  ?  ! 
Since  the  all-knowing  cherubim  love  least, 
The  seraphs'  love  can  be  but  ignorance: 
That  they  are  not  compatible,  the  doom 
Of  thy  fond  parents,  for  their  daring,  proves. 
Choose  betwixt  love  and  knowledge  —  since 

there  is 
No   other  choice :    your    sire    hath    choser 

already ; 
His  worship  is  but  fear. 
Adah.  Oh,  Cain!  choose  love. 

Cain.     For  thee,  my  Adah,  I  choose  not  — 
it  was 
Born  with  me  —  but  I  love  nought  else. 
Adah.  Our  parents  ? 

Cain.    Did  they  love  us  when  they  snatched 
from  the  tree 


1  [MS.— 
"  What  can  he  be  who  places  love  in  ignorance?  "J 


662 


CAIN. 


[act  I, 


That  which  hath   driven   us  all  from  Para- 
dise ? 
Adah.    We  were  not  born   then  —  and  if 

we  had  been, 
Should  we  not  love  them  and  our  children, 

Cain  ? 
Cain.     My  little   Enoch !    and   his   lisping 

sister ! 
Could  I  but  deem  them  happy,  I  would  half 

Forget but  it  can  never  be  forgotten 

Through  thrice  a  thousand  generations  !  never 
Shall  men  love  the  remembrance  of  the  man 
Who  sowed  the  seed  of  evil  and  mankind 
In  the  same  hour!     They  plucked  the  tree  of 

science 
And  sin — and,  not  content  with   their  own 

sorrow, 
Begot  me —  thee —  and  all  the  few  that  are, 
And  all  the  unnumbered  and  innumerable 
Multitudes,  millions,  myriads,  which  may  be, 
To  inherit  agonies  accumulated 
By  ages  !  —  and  /  must  be  sire  of  such  things  ! 
Thy  beauty  and  thy  love  —  my  love  and  joy, 
The  rapturous  moment  and  the  placid  hour, 
AH  we  love  in  our  children  and  each  other, 
But  lead  them  and  ourselves  through  many 

years 
Of  sin  and  pain  —  or  few,  but  still  of  sorrow, 
Irtterchecked  with  an  instant  of  brief  pleasure, 
To  Death  —  the  unknown  !    Methinks  the  tree 

of  knowledge 
Hath  not  fulfilled  its  promise:  —  if  they  sinned, 
At  least  they  ought  to  have  known  all  things 

that  are 
Of  knowledge  —  and  the  mystery  of  death. 
What  do  they  know?—  that  they  are  miserable. 
What  need  of  snakes  and  fruits  to  teach  us 

that  ? 
Adah.   I  am  not  wretched,  Cain,  and  if  thou 

Wert  happy 

Cain.  Be  thou  happy,  then,  alone  — 

I  will  have  nought  to  do  with  happiness, 
Which  humbles  me  and  mine. 

Adah.  Alone  I  could  not, 

Nor  would  be  happy  :  but  with  those  around 

us 
I  think  I  could  be  so,  despite  of  death, 
Which,  as  I  know  it  not,  I  dread  not,  though 
\X  seems  an  awful  shadow  —  if  I  may 
Judge  from  what  I  have  heard. 

Lucifer.  And  thou  couldst  not 

A^one,  thou  say'st,  be  happy  ? 

Adah.  Alone!  Oh,  my  God! 

Who  could  be  happy  and  alone,  or  good  ? 
To  me  my  solitude  seems  sin ;  unless 
When  I  think  how  soon  I  shall  see  my  brother. 
His  brother,  and  our  children,  and  our  parents. 
Lucifer.    Yet  thy  God  is  alone ;  and  is  he 

happy, 
Lonely,  and  good  ? 

Adah.  He  is  not  so  ;  he  hath 

The  angels  and  the  mortals  to  make  happy, 


And  thus  becomes  so  in  diffusing  joy; 
What  else  can  joy  be,  but  the  spreading  joy  ? 

Lucifer.     Ask  of  your  sire,  the  exile  fresk 
from  Eden ; 
Or  of  his  first-born  son  :  ask  your  own  heart ; 
It  is  not  tranquil. 

Adah.  Alas!  no!  and  you  — 

Are  you  of  heaven  ? 

Lucifer.  If  I  am  not,  inquire 

The  cause  of  this  all-spreading  happiness 
(Which  you  proclaim)  of  the  all-great  and 

good 
Maker  of  life  and  living  things  ;  it  is 
His  secret,  and  he  keeps  it.      We  must  bear, 
And  some  of  us  resist,  and  both  in  vain, 
His  seraphs  say:  but  it  is  worth  the  trial, 
Since  better  may  not  be  without :  there  is 
A  wisdom  in  the  spirit,  which  directs 
To  right,  as  in  the  dim  blue  air  the  eve 
Of  you,  young  mortals,  lights  at  once  upon 
The  star  which  watches,  welcoming  the  morn. 

Adah.     It  is  a  beautiful  star ;  I  love  it  for 
Its  beauty. 

Lucifer.    And  why  not  adore  ? 

Adah.  Our  father 

Adores  the  Invisible  only. 

Lucifer.  But  the  symbols 

Of  the  Invisible  are  the  loveliest 
Of  what  is  visible  ;  and  yon  bright  star 
Is  leader  of  the  host  of  heaven. 

Adah.  Our  father 

Saith  that  he  has  beheld  the  God  himself 
Who  made  him  and  our  mother. 

Lucifer.  Hast  thou  seen  him  ? 

Adah.    Yes  —  in  his  w  orks. 

Lucifer.  But  in  his  being  ? 

Adah.  No  — 

Save  in  my  father,  who  is  God's  own  image ; 
Or  in  his  angels,  who  are  like  to  thee  — 
And  brighter,  yet  less  beautiful  and  powerful 
In  seeming:  as  the  silent  sunny  noon, 
All  light,  they  look  upon  us  ;  but  thou  seem'st 
Like  an  ethereal  night,  where  long  white  clouds 
Streak  the  deep  purple,  and  unnumbered  stars 
Spangle  the  wonderful  mysterious  vault 
With  things  that  look  as  if  they  would  be  suns ; 
So  beautiful,  unnumbered,  and  endearing, 
Not  dazzling,  and  yet  drawing  us  to  them, 
They  fill  my  eyes  with  tears,  and  so  dost  thou. 
Thou  seem'st  unhappy :  do  not  make  us  so, 
And  I  will  weep  for  thee.1 

1  [In  the  drawing  of  Cain  himself,  there  is  much 
vigorous  expression.  It  seems,  however,  as  if,  in 
the  effort  to  give  to  Lucifer  that  "  spiritual  polite- 
ness" which  the  poet  professes  to  have  in  view,  he 
has  reduced  him  rather  below  the  standard  of  dia- 
bolic dignity,  which  was  necessary  to  his  dramatic 
interest.  He  has  scarcely  "  given  the  devil  his 
due."  We  thought  Lord  Byron  knew  better.  Mil- 
ton's Satan,  with  his  faded  majesty,  and  blasted  but 
not  obliterated  glory,  holds  us  suspended  between 
terror  and  amazement,  with  something  like  awe  of 
his  spiritual  essence  and  lost  estate;  but  Lord  Byroa 


SCENE   I.J 


CAm. 


663 


Lucifer.  Alas !  those  tears ! 

Could'st  thou  but  know  what  oceans  will  be 
shed 

Adah.     By  me  ? 

Lucifer.  By  all. 

Adak.  What  all  ? 

Lucifer.  The  million  millions  — 

The  myriad  myriads  —  the  all-peopled  earth  — 
The  unpeopled  earth  —  and  the  o'er-peopled 

Hell, 
Of  which  thy  bosom  is  the  germ. 

Adah.  O  Cain! 

This  spirit  curseth  us. 

Cain.  Let  him  say  on ; 

Him  will  I  follow. 

Adah.  Whither  ? 

Lucifer.  To  a  place 

Whence  he  shall  come  back  to  thee  in  an  hour ; 
But  in  that  hour  see  things  of  many  days. 

Adah.     How  can  that  be  ? 

Lucifer.  Did  not  your  Maker  make 

Out  of  old  worlds  this  new  one  in  few  days  ? 
And  cannot  I,  who  aided  in  this  work, 
Show  in  an  hour  what  he  hath  made  in  many, 
Or  hath  destroyed  in  few  ? 

Cain.  Lead  on. 

Adah.  Will  he, 

In  sooth,  return  within  an  hour  ? 

Lucifer.  He  shall. 

With  us  acts  are  exempt  from  time,  and  we 
Can  crowd  eternity  into  an  hour. 
Or  stretch  an  hour  into  eternity  : 
We  breathe  not  by  a  mortal  measurement  — 
But  that's  a  mystery.     Cain,  come  on  with 
me. 

Adak.     Will  he  return  ? 

Lucifer.  Ay,  woman  !  he  alone 

Of  mortals  from  that  place  (the  first  and  last 
Who  shall  return,  save  One)  ,  shall  come  back 

to  thee, 
To  make  that  silent  and  expectant  world 
As  populous  as  this  :  at  present  there 
Are  few  inhabitants. 

Adah.  Where  dwellest  thou  ? 

Lucifer.     Throughout    all    space.     Where 
should  I  dwell  ?     Where  are 
Thy  God  or  Gods  — there  am  I  :  all  things  are 
Divided  with  me;  life  and  death—  and  time  — 
Eternity  —  and  heaven  and  earth  — and  that 
Which  is  not  heaven  nor  earth,  but  peopled 

with 
Those  who    once  peopled  or  shall    people 

both  — 
These  are  my  realms  !     So  that  I  do  divide 
His,  and  possess  a  kingdom  which  is  not 
His.     If  I  were  not  that  which  I  have  said, 

has  introduced  him  to  us  as  elegant,  pensive,  and 
beautiful,  with  an  air  of  sadness  and  suffering  that 
ranks  him  with  the  oppressed,  and  bespeaks  our 
pity.  Thus,  in  this  dialogue  with  Adah,  he  comes 
forth  to  our  view  so  qualified  as  to  engage  our  sym- 
pathies. —  Brit.  Crit.\ 


Could  I  stand  here  ?     His  angels  are  within 
Your  vision. 

Adah.     So  they  were  when  the  fair  serpent 
Spoke  with  our  mother  first. 

Lucifer.  Cain  !  thou  hast  heard. 

If  thou  dost  long  for  knowledge,  I  can  satiate 
That  thirst ;  nor  ask  thee  to  partake  of  fruits 
Which  shall  deprive  thee  of  a  single  good 
The  conqueror  has  left  thee.     Follow  me. 

Cain.     Spirit,  I  have  said  it. 

[Exeunt  LUCIFER  and  Caik 

Adah    {follows,    exclaiming),      Cain!    my 
brother !  Cain ! 


ACT   II. 
Scene  I. —  The  Abyss  of  Space. 

Cain.     I  tread  on  air,  and  sink  not ;  yet  1 

fear  to  sink. 
Lucifer.     Have  faith  in  me,  and  thou  shal' 

be 
Borne  on  the  air,  of  which  I  am  the  prince. 
Cain.     Can  I  do  so  without  impiety  ? 
Lucifer.    Believe  —  and  sink  not !  doubt- 

and  perish  !  thus 
Would  ru"n  the  edict  of  the  other  God, 
Who  names  me  demon  to  his  angels ;  they 
Echo  the  sound  to  miserable  things, 
Which,  knowing  nought  beyond  their  shal 

low  senses, 
Worship  the  word  which  strikes  their  ear,  an.1 

deem 
Evil  or  good  what  is  proclaimed  to  them 
In  their  abasement.     I  will  have  none  such  : 
Worship  or  worship  not,  thou  shalt  behold 
The  worlds  beyond  thy  little  world,  nor  be 
Amerced  for  doubts  beyond  thy  little  life, 
With   torture   of    my   dooming.     There   will 

come 
An   hour,   when,   tossed   upon   some   water- 
drops,1 
A  man  shall  say  to  a  man,  "  Believe  in  me, 
And  walk  the  waters ;  "    and  the  man  shall 

walk 
The  billows  and  be  safe.    /  will  not  say, 
Believe  in  me,  as  a  conditional  creed 
To  save  thee;  but  fly  with  me  o'er  the  gulf 
Of  space  an  equal  flight,  and  I  will  show 
What  thou  dar'st  not  deny,  —  the  history 
Of  past,  and  present,  and  of  future  worlds. 
Cain.      Oh,   god,   or   demon,  or   whate'er 

thou  art, 
Is  yon  our  earth  ? 

Lucifer.  Dost  thou  not  recognize 

The  dust  which  formed  your  father  ? 

Cain.  Can  it  be  ? 

Yon  small  blue  circle,  swimming  in  far  ether, 
With  an  inferior  circlet  near  it  still, 

i  [MS.— 

"  An  hour,  wheal,  walking  on  a  pretty  lake.v] 


664 


CAIN. 


[ACT  tt 


Which  looks  like  that  which  lit  our  earthly 

night  ? 
Is  this  our  Paradise  ?     Where  are  its  walls, 
And  they  who  guard  them  ? 

Lucifer.  Point  me  out  the  site 

Of  Paradise. 

Cain.  How  should  I  ?    As  we  move 

Like  sunbeams  onward,  it  grows  small  and 

smaller, 
And  as  it  waxes  little,  and  then  less, 
Gathers  a  halo  round  it,  like  the  light 
Which  shone  the  roundest  of  the  stars,  when  I 
Beheld  them  from  the  skirts  of  Paradise  : 
Methinks  they  both,  as  we  recede  from  them, 
Appear  to  join  the  innumerable  stars 
Which  are  around  us ;  and,  as  we  move  on, 
Increase  their  myriads. 

Lucifer.  And  if  there  should  be 

Worlds  greater  than  thine  own,  inhabited 
By  greater   things,   and   they  themselves  far 

more 
In  number  than  the  dust  of  thy  dull  earth, 
Though  multiplied  to  animated  atoms, 
All   living,  and   all   doomed   to    death,   and 

wretched, 
What  wouldst  thou  think  ? 

Cain.  I  should  be  proud  of  thought 

Which  knew  such  things. 

Lucifer.  But  if  that  high  thought  were 

Linked  to  a  servile  mass  of  matter,  and, 
Knowing  such  things,  aspiring  to  such  things, 
And  science  still  beyond  them,  were  chained 

down 
To  the  most  gross  and  petty  paltry  wants, 
All  foul  and  fulsome,  and  the  very  best 
Of  thine  enjoyments  a  sweet  degradation, 
A  most  enervating  and  filthy  cheat 
To  lure  thee  on  to  the  renewal  of 
Fresh  souls  and  bodies,  all  foredoomed  to  be 
As  frail,  and  few  so  happy — l 


1  [It  is  nothing  less  than  absurd  to  suppose,  that 
Lucifer  cannot  well  be  expected  to  talk  like  an 
orthodox  divine,  and  that  the  conversation  of  the 
first  Rebel  and  the  first  Murderer  was  not  likely  to 
be  very  unexceptionable;  or  to  plead  the  authority 
of  Milton,  or  the  authors  of  the  old  mysteries,  for 
such  offensive  colloquies.  The  fact  is,  that  here 
the  whole  argument — and  a  very  elaborate*  and 
specious  argument  it  is — is  directed  against  the 
goodness  or  the  power  of  the  Deity ;  and  there  is 
no  answer  so  much  as  attempted   to  the  offensive 


*  "  What  does  Jeffrey  mean  by  elaborate  ? 
Why!  they  were  written  as  fast  as  I  could  put  pen 
to  paper,  in  the  midst  of  evolutions,  and  revolutions, 
and  persecutions,  and  proscriptions  of  all  who  inter- 
ested me  in  Italy.  They  said  the  same  of  '  Lara,' 
which  I  wrote  while  undressing,  after  coming  home 
from  balls  and  masquerades.  Of  all  I  have  ever 
written,  they  are  perhaps  the  most  carelessly  com- 
posed; and  their  faults,  whatever  they  may  be,  are 
those  of  negligence,  and  not  of  labor.  I  do  not 
think  this  is  a  merit,  but  it  is  a  fact."  —  Byron's 
Letters. 


Cain.  Spirit!  I 

Know  nought   of  death,  save  as  a  dreadful 

thing 
Of  which   I   have  heard  my  parents  speak, 

as  of 
A  hideous  heritage  I  owe  to  them 
No  less  than  life ;  a  heritage  not  happy. 
If  I  may  judge,  till  now.     But,  spirit!  if 
It  be  as  thou  hast  said  (and  I  within 
Feel  the  prophetic  torture  of  its  truth), 
Here  let  me  die :  for  to  give  birth  to  those 
Who  can  but  suffer  many  years,  and  die, 
Methinks  is  merely  propagating  death, 
And  multiplying  murder. 

Lucifer.  Thou  canst  not 

All  die  —  there  is  what  must  survive. 

Cain.  The  Othef 

Spake  not  of  this  unto  my  father,  when 
He  shut  him  forth  from  Paradise,  with  death 
Written  upon  his  forehead.     But  at  least 
Let  what  is  mortal  of  me  perish,  that 
I  may  be  in  the  rest  as  angels  are. 

Lucifer.    I  am  angelic  :  wouldst  thou  be  as 
I  am  ? 

Cain.     I    know  not  what  thou  art :  I  see 
thy  power 
And  see  thou  show'st  me  things  beyond  my 

power, 
Beyond  all  power  of  my  born  faculties, 
Although  infefior  still  to  my  desires 
And  my  conceptions. 

Lucifer.  What  are  they  which  dwell 

So  humbly  in  their  pride,  as  to  sojourn 
With  worms  in  clay  ? 

Cain.  And  what  art  thou  who  dwellest 

So  haughtily  in  spirit,  and  canst  range 
Nature  and  immortality  —  and  yet 
Seem'st  sorrowful  ? 

Lucifer.  I  seem  that  which  I  am  ; 


doctrines  that  are  so  strenuously  inculcated.  The 
Devil  and  his  pupil  have  the  field  entirely  to  them- 
selves, and  are  encountered  with  nothing  but  feeble 
obtestations  and  unreasoning  horrors.  Nor  is  this 
argumentative  blasphemy  a  mere  incidental  deform- 
ity that  arises  in  the  course  of  an  action  directed  to 
the  common  sympathies  of  our  nature.  It  forms, 
on  the  contrary,  the  great  staple  of  the  piece,  and 
occupies,  we  should  think,  not  less  than  two  thirdi 
of  it;  so  that  it  is  really  difficult  to  believe  that  it 
was  written  for  any  other  purpose  than  to  inculcate 
these  doctrines;  or,  at  least,  to  discuss  the  question 
upon  which  they  bear.  Now,  we  can  certainly  have 
no  objection  to  Lord  Byron  writing  an  essay  on  the 
origin  of  evil,  and  sifting  the  whole  of  that  vast  and 
perplexing  subject,  with  the  force  and  the  freedom 
that  would  be  expected  and  allowed  in  a  fair  philo- 
sophical discussion;  but  we  do  not  think  it  feir 
thus  to  argue  it  partially  and  con  amore,  in  the 
name  of  Lucifer  and  Cain,  without  the  responsibility 
or  the  liability  to  answer,  that  would  attach  to  a 
philosophical  disputant;  and  in  a  form  which  both 
doubles  the  danger,  if  the  sentiments  are  pernicious, 
and  almost  precludes  his  opponents  from  the  posa~ 
bility  of  a  reply.  —  Jeffrey. \ 


SCENE  I.J 


CAIN. 


66* 


And  therefore  do  \  ask  of  thee,  if  thou 
Wouldst  be  immortal  ? 

Cain.  Thou  hast  said,  I  must  be 

Immortal  in  despite  of  me.     I  knew  not 
This  until  lately  —  but  since  it  must  be, 
Let  me,  or  happy  or  unhappy,  learn 
To  anticipate  my  immortality. 

Lucifer.    Thou  didst  before  I  came  upon 
thee. 

Cain.         How  ? 

Lucifer.     By  suffering. 

Cain.  And  must  torture  be  immortal  ? 

Lucifer.    We  and   thy  sons  will  try.     But 
now,  behold ! 
Is  it  not  glorious  ? 

Cain.  Oh,  thou  beautiful 

And  unimaginable  ether!  and 
Ye  multiplying  masses  of  increased 
And  still  increasing  lights  !  what  are  ye  ?  what 
Is  this  blue  wilderness  of  interminable 
Air,  where  ye  roll  along,  as  I  have  seen 
The  leaves  along  the  limpid  streams  of  Eden  ? 
Is  your  course  measured  for  ye  ?     Or  do  ye 
Sweep  on  in  your  unbounded  revelry 
Through  an  aerial  universe  of  endless 
Expansion  —  at  which  my  soul  aches  to  think — 
Intoxicated  with  eternity  ? 
Oh  God !  Oh  Gods !  or  whatsoe'er  ye  are ! 
How  beautiful  ye  are !  how  beautiful 
Your  works,  or  accidents,  or  whatsoe'er 
They  may  be !     Let  me  die,  as  atoms  die, 
(If  that  they  die)  or  know  ye  in  your  might 
And  knowledge !    My  thoughts  are  not  in  this 

hour 
Unworthy  what  I  see,  though  my  dust  is ; 
Spirit !  let  me  expire,  or  see  them  nearer. 

Lucifer.     Art  thou  not  nearer  ?    look  back 
to  thine  earth ! 

Cain.    Where  is  it  ?     I  see  nothing  save  a 
mass 
Of  most  innumerable  lights. 

Lucifer.  Look  there ! 

Cain.     I  cannot  see  it. 

Lucifer.  Yet  it  sparkles  still. 

Cain.    That !  —  yonder ! 

Lucifer.  Yea. 

Cain.  And  wilt  thou  tell  me  so  ? 

Why,  I  have  seen  the  fire-flies  and  fire-worms 
Sprinkle  the  dusky  groves  and  the  green  banks 
In  the  dim  twilight,  brighter  than  yon  world 
Which  bears  them. 

Lucifer.     Thou  hast  seen  both  worms  and 
worlds, 
Each  bright  and  sparkling  —  what  dost  think 
of  them  ? 

Cain.    That  they  are  beautiful  in  their  own 
sphere, 
And  that  the  night,  which  makes  both  beautiful, 
The  little  shining  fire-fly  in  its  flight, 
And  the  immortal  star  in  its  great  course, 
Must  both  be  guided. 

Lucifer.  But  by  whom  or  what? 


Cain.     Show  me. 

Lucifer.  Dar'st  thou  behold  ? 

Cain.  How  know  I  what 

I  dare  behold  ?     As  yet,  thou  hast  shown 

nought 
I  dare  not  gaze  on  further. 

Lucifer.  On,  then,  with  me, 

Wouldst   thou  behold  things  mortal  or  im- 
mortal ? 

Cain.    Why,  what  are  things  ? 

Lucifer.  Both  partly :  but  what  doth 

Sit  next  thy  heart  ? 

Cain.  The  things  I  see. 

Lucifer.  But  what 

Sate  nearest  it  ? 

Cain.  The  things  I  have  not  seen, 

Nor  ever  shall  —  the  mysteries  of  death. 

Lucifer.     What,  if  I  show  to  thee  things 
which  have  died, 
As  I  have  shown  thee  much  which  cannot  die? 

Cain.     Do  so. 

Lucifer.    Away,  then  !  on  our  mighty  wings. 

Cain.    Oh !   how  we  cleave  the  blue !    the 
stars  fade  from  us ! 
The  earth  !  where  is  my  earth  ?    Let  me  look 

on  it, 
For  I  was  made  of  it. 

Lucifer.  'Tis  now  beyond  thee, 

Less,  in  the  universe,  than  thou  in  it ; 
Yet  deem  not  that  thou  canst  escape  it ;    thou 
Shalt  soon  return  to  earth,  and  all  its  dust ; 
'Tis  part  of  thy  eternity,  and  mine. 

Cain.     Where  dost  thou  lead  me  ? 

Lucifer.  To  what  was  before  thee ! 

The  phantasm  of  the  world;    of  which  thy 

world 
Is  but  the  wreck. 

Cain.  What !  is  it  not  then  new  ? 

Lucifer.     No  more  than  life  is ;    and  that 
was  ere  thou 
Or  /  were,  or  the  things  which  seem  to  us 
Greater  than  either :  many  things  will  have 
No  end ;  and  some,  which  would  pretend  to 

have 
Had  no  beginning,  have  had  one  as  mean 
As  thou ;  and  mightier  things  have  been  ex- 
tinct 
To  make  way  for  much  meaner  than  we  can 
Surmise  ;  for  moments  only  and  the  space 
Have  been  and  must  be  all  unchangeable. 
But  changes  make  not  death,  except  to  clay; 
But  thou  art  clay  —  and  canst  but  comprehend 
That  which  was  clay,  and  such  thou  shalt  be- 
hold. 

Cain.    Clay,  spirit !    what  thou  wilt,  I  can 
survey. 

Lucifer.    Away,  then ! 

Cain.  But  the  lights  fade  from  me  fast 

And   some   till   now  grew  larger  as  we  ap- 
proached, 
And  wore  the  look  of  worlds. 

Lucifer,  And  such  they  are 


666 


CAIN. 


[act  il 


Cain.     And  Edens  in  them  ? 

Lucifer,  It  may  be. 

Cain.  And  men  ? 

Lucifer.    Yea,  or  things  higher. 

Cain.  Ky  ?  and  serpents  too  ? 

Lucifer.     Wouldst  thou  have  men  without 
them  ?  must  no  reptiles 
Breathe,  save  the  erect  ones  ? 

Cain.  How  the  lights  recede  ! 

Where  fly  we  ? 

Lucifer.     To  the  world  of  phantoms,  which 
Are  beings  past,  and  shadows  still  to  come. 

Cain.     But  it  grows  dark,  and  dark  —  the 
stars  are  gone ! 

Lucifer.    And  yet  thou  seest. 

Cain.  'Tis  a  fearful  light ! 

No  sun,  no  moon,  no  lights  innumerable. 
The  very  blue  of  the  empurpled  night 
Fades  to  a  dreary  twilight,  yet  I  see 
Huge  dusky  masses  ;  but  unlike  the  worlds 
We  were  approaching,  which,  begirt  with  light, 
Seemed  full  of  life  even  when  their  atmosphere 
Of  light  gave  way,  and  showed  them  taking 

shapes 
Unequal,  of  deep  valleys  and  vast  mountains  ; 
And  some  emitting  sparks,  and  some  display- 
ing 
Enormous  liquid  plains,  and  some  begirt 
With   luminous   belts,   and   floating    moons, 

which  took, 
Like  them,  the  features  of  fair  earth  :  —  instead, 
All  here  seems  dark  and  dreadful. 

Lucifer.  But  distinct. 

Thou   seekest   to   behold    death,   and    dead 
things  ? 

Cain.     I  seek  it  not ;  but  as  I  know  there 
are 
Such,  and  that  my  sire's  sin  makes  him  and  me, 
And  all  that  we  inherit,  liable 
To  such,  I  would  behold  at  once,  what  I 
Must  one  day  see  perforce. 

Lucifer.  Behold ! 

Cain.  'Tis  darkness. 

Lucifer.   And  so  it  shall  be  ever ;  but  we  will 
Unfold  its  gates ! 

Cain.  Enormous  vapors  roll 

Apart  —  what's  this  ? 

Lucifer.  Enter ! 

Cain.  Can  I  return  ? 

Lucifer.     Return  !  be  sure  :  how  else  should 
death  be  peopled  ? 
Its  present  realm  is  thin  to  what  it  will  be, 
Through  thee  and  thine. 

Cain.  The  clouds  still  open  wide 

And  wider,  and  make  widening  circles  round 
us. 

Lucifer.    Advance ! 

Cain.  And  thou ! 

Lucifer.  Fear  not  —  without  me  thou 

touldst  not   have  gone   bevond   thy  world. 
On!  on! 

[  They  disappear  through  the  clouds. 


Scene  II.  —  Hades. 
Enter  LUCIFER  and  Cain. 

Cain.     How  silent  and  how  vast  are  these 
dim  worlds ! 
For  they  seem  more  than  one,  and  yet  more 

peopled 
Than  the  huge  brilliant  luminous  orbs  which 

swung 
So  thickly  in  the  upper  air,  that  I 
Had  deemed  them  rather  the  bright  populace 
Of  some  all  unimaginable  Heaven, 
Than  things  to  be  inhabited  themselves, 
But  that  on  drawing  near  them  I  beheld 
Their  swelling  into  palpable  immensity 
Of  matter,  which  seemed  made  for  life  to  dwell 

on 
Rather  than  life  itself.     But  here,  all  is 
So  shadowy  and  so  full  of  twilight,  that 
It  speaks  of  a  day  past. 

Lucifer.  It  is  the  realm 

Of  death.  —  Wouldst  have  it  present? 

Cain.  Till  I  know 

That  which  it  really  is,  I  cannot  answer. 
But  if  it  be  as  I  have  heard  my  father 
Deal  out  in  his  long  homilies,  'tis  a  thing  — 
Oh  God  !   I  dare  not  think  on't !     Cursed  be 
He  who  invented  life  that  leads  to  death ! 
Or  the  dull  nfass  cf  life,  that,  being  life, 
Could  not  retain,  but  needs  must  forfeit  it  — 
Even  for  the  innocent ! 

Lucifer.  Dost  thou  curse  thy  father  ? 

Cain.    Cursed  he  not  me  in  giving  me  my 
birth  ? 
Cursed  he  not  me  before  my  birth,  in  daring 
To  pluck  the  fruit  forbidden  ? 

Lucifer.  Thou  say'st  well : 

The  curse  is  mutual  'twixt  thy  sire  and  thee  — 
But  for  thy  sons  and  brother  ? 

Cain.  Let  them  share  it 

With  me,  their  sire  and  brother  !    What  else  is 
Bequeathed  to  me  ?     I  leave  them  my  inher- 
itance. 
Oh,  ye  interminable  gloomy  realms 
Of  swimming  shadows  and  enormous  shapes, 
Some  fully  shown,  some  indistinct,  and  all 
Mighty  and  melancholy  —  what  are  ye  ? 
Live  ye,  or  have  ye  lived  ? 

Lucifer.  Somewhat  of  both. 

Cain.     Then  what  is  death  ? 

Lucifer.     What?  Hath  not  he  who  made  ye 
Said  'tis  another  life  ? 

Cain.  Till  now  he  hath 

Said  nothing,  3ave  that  all  shall  die. 

Lucifer.  Perhaps 

He  one  day  will  unfold  that  further  secret. 

Cain.     Happy  the  day ! 

Lucifer.  Yes ;  happy !  when  unfolded. 

Through  agonies  unspeakable,  and  clogged 
With  agonies  eternal,  to  innumerable 
Yet  unborn  myriad?  ~>f  unconscious  atoms 
All  to  be  animated  toi  this  only ! 


SCENE   II.7 


CAIN. 


66? 


Cain,     What   are   these  mighty  phantoms 
which  I  see 
Floating  around   me?  —  They  wear  not  the 

form 
Of  the  intelligences  I  have  seen 
Round  our  regretted  and  unentered  Eden, 
Nor  wear  the  form  of  man  as  I  have  viewed  ic 
In  Adam's  and  in  Abel's,  and  in  mine, 
Nor  in  my  sister-bride's,  nor  in  my  children's  ; 
And  yet  the}r  have  an  aspect,  which,  though  not 
Of  man  nor  angels,  looks  like  something,  which 
If  not  the  last,  rose  higher  than  the  first, 
Haughty,  and  high,  and  beautiful,  and  full 
Of  seeming  strength,  but  of  inexplicable 
Shape;  for  I  never  saw  such.    They  bear  not 
The  wing  of  seraph,  nor  the  face  of  man, 
Nor  form  of  mightiest  brute,  nor  aught  that  is 
Now  breathing ;  mighty  yet  and  beautiful 
As  the  most  beautiful  and  mighty  which 
Live,  and  yet  so  unlike  them,  that  I  scarce 
Can  call  them  living. 

Lucifer.  Yet  they  lived. 

Cain.  Where  ? 

Lucifer.  Where 

Thou  livest. 

Cain.        When  ? 

Lucifer.  On  what  thou  callest  earth 

They  did  inhabit. 

Cain.  Adam  is  the  first. 

Lucifer.    Of  thine,  I  grant  thee  —  but  too 
mean  to  be 
The  last  of  these. 

Cain.  And  what  are  they  ? 

Lucifer.  That  which 

Thou  shalt  be. 

Cain.  But  what  were  they  ? 

Lucifer.  Living,  high, 

Intelligent,  good,  great,  and  glorious  things, 
As  much  superior  unto  all  thy  sire, 
Adam,  could  e'er  have  been  in  Eden,  as 
The  sixty-thousandth  generation  shall  be, 
In  its  dull  damp  degeneracy,  to 
Thee  and  thy  son;  — and  how  weak  they  are, 

judge 
By  thy  own  flesh. 

Cain.  Ah  me !  and  did  they  perish  ? 

Lucifer.     Yes,  from  their  earth,  as  thou  wilt 
fade  from  thine. 

Cain.     But  was  mine  theirs  ? 

Lucifer.  It  was. 

Cain.  But  not  as  now. 

It  is  too  little  and  too  lowly  to 
Sustain  such  creatures.1 


1  ["  If,  according  to  some  speculations,  you  could 
prove  the  world  many  thousand  years  older  than 
the  Mosaic  chronology  —  or  if  you  could  knock 
up  Adam  and  Eve,  and  the  Apple  and  Serpent  — 
still,  what  is  to  be  put  up  in  their  stead?  —  or  how 
is  the  difficulty  removed?  Things  must  have  had 
a  beginning:  and  what  matters  it  when,  or  how? 
I  sometimes  think  that  man  may  be  the  relic  of 
Some  higher  material  being  wrecked  in   a   former 


Lucifer.  True,  it  was  more  glorious. 

Cain.     And  wherefore  did  it  fall  ? 

Lucifer.  Ask  h\m  who  fells, 

Cain.     But  how  ? 

Lucifer.    By  a  most  crushing  and  inexorable 
Destruction  and  disorder  of  the  elements, 
Which  struck  a  world  to  chaos,  as  a  chaos 
Subsiding  has  struck  out  a  world  :  such  things, 
Though  rare  in  time,  are  frequent  in  eternity.  — 
Pass  on,  and  gaze  upon  the  past. 

Cain.  'Tis  awful! 

Lucifer.  And  true.  Behold  these  phantoms  5 
they  were  once 
Material  as  thou  art. 

Cain.  And  must  I  be 

Like  them  ? 

Lucifer.     Let  He  who  made  thee  answer 
that. 
I  show  thee  what  thy  predecessors  are,. 
And  what  they  ivere  thou  feelest,  in  degree 
Inferior  as  thy  petty  feelings  and 
Thy  pettier  portion  of  the  immortal  part 
Of  high  intelligence  and  earthly  strength. 
What  ye  in  common  have  with  what  they  had 
Is  life,  and  what  ye  shall  have — death:  the 

rest 
Of  your  poor  attributes  is  such  as  suits 
Reptiles  engendered  out  of  the  subsiding 
Slime  of  a  mighty  universe,  crushed  into 
A  scarcely-yet  shaped  planet,  peopled  with 
Things  whose  enjoyment  was  to  be  in  blind- 
ness — 
A  Paradise  of  Ignorance,  from  which 
Knowledge  was  barred  as  poison.    But  behold 
What  these  superior  beings  are  or  were ; 
Or,  if  it  irk  thee,  turn  thee  back  and  till 
The  earth,  thy  task — I'll  waft  thee  there  in 
safety. 

Cain.     No:  I'll  stay  here. 

Lucifer.  How  long  ? 

Cain.  Forever !     Since 

I  must  one  day  return  here  from  the  earth, 
I  rather  would  remain ;  I  am  sick  of  all 
That  dust  has  shown  me  —  let  me  dwell  in 
shadows. 

Lucifer.     It  cannot  be:  thou  now  beholdest 
as 
A  vision  that  which  is  reality. 
To  make  thyself  fit  for  this  dwelling,  thou 
Must  pass  through  what  the  things  thou  see'st 

have  passed  — 
The  gates  of  death. 


world,  and  degenerated  in  the  hardship  and  struggle 
through  chaos  into  conformity,  or  something  like  it 
—  as  we  see  Laplanders,  Esquimaux,  etc.,  inferior, 
in  the  present  date,  as  the  elements  become  more 
inexorable.  Buteven  then,  this  higher  pre-Adamite 
supposititious  creation  must  have  had  an  origin  and 
a  Creator;  for  a  Creator  is  a  more  natural  imagina- 
tion than  a  fortuitous  concourse  of  atoms:  all 
things  remount  to  a  fountain,  though  they  may  flow 
to  an  ocean."  —  Byron's  Diary,  1821.J 


668 


CAIN. 


[ACT  II 


Cain.  By  what  gate  have  we  entered 

Even  now  ? 

Lucifer.  By  mine!  But,  plighted  to  return, 
Mv  spirit  buoys  thee  up  to  breathe  in  regions 
Where  all  is  breathless  save  thyself.  Gaze  on, 
But  do  not  think  to  dwell  here  till  thine  hour 
Is  come. 

Cain.  And  these,  too;  can  they  ne'er  repass 
To  earth  again  ? 

Lucifer.  Their  earth  is  gone  for  ever — 

So  changed  by  its  convulsion,  they  would  not 
Be  conscious  to  a  single  present  spot 
Of  its  new  scarcely  hardened  surface  —  'twas  — 
Oh,  what  a  beautiful  world  it  was/1 

Cain.  And  is. 

It  is  not  with  the  earth,  though  I  must  till  it, 
I  feel  at  war,  but  that  I  may  not  profit 
By  what  it  bears  of  beautiful,  untoiling, 
Nor  gratify  my  thousand  swelling  thoughts 
With  knowledge,  nor  allay  my  thousand  fears 
Of  death  and  life. 

Lucifer.  What  thy  world  is,  thou  see'st, 

But  canst  not  comprehend  the  shadow  of 
That  which  it  was. 

Cain.  And  those  enormous  creatures, 

Phantoms  inferior  in  intelligence 
(At  least  so  seeming)  to  the  things  we  have 

passed, 
Resembling  somewhat  the  wild  habitants 


1  [Mr.  Gifford  having,  through  Mr.  Murray,  sug- 
gested the  propriety  of  omitting  a  portion  of  this 
dialogue,  Byron  replied:  —  ''The  two  passages 
cannot  be  altered  withoutmaking  Lucifer  talk  like  the 
Bishop  of  London,  which  would  not  be  in  the  char- 
acter of  the  former.  The  notion  is  from  Cuvier 
(that  of  the  old  -worlds).  The  other  passage  is 
also  in  character;  if  nonsense,  so  much  the  better, 
because  then  it  can  do  no  harm;  and  the  sillier 
Satan  is  made,  the  safer  for  everybody.  As  to 
'  alarms,'  etc.,  do  you  really  think  such  things  ever 
led  anybody  astray  ?  Are  these  people  more  impious 
than  Milton's  Satan?  or  the  Prometheus  of  ./Eschy- 
lus?  or  even  than  the  '  Sadducees,'  the  '  Fall  of 
Jerusalem'  of  Milman,  etc.?  Are  not  Adam,  Eve, 
Adah,  and  Abel,  as  pious  as  the  Catechism?  Gif- 
ford is  too  wise  a  man  to  think  that  such  things  can 
have  any  serious  effect:  who  was  ever  altered  by  a 
poem?  I  beg  leave  to  observe,  that  there  is  no 
creed  or  personal  hypothesis  of  mine  in  all  this;  but 
I  was  obliged  to  make  Cain  and  Lucifer  talk  con- 
sistently, and  surely  this  has  always  been  permitted 
to  poesy.  Cain  is  a  proud  man:  if  Lucifer  prom- 
ised him  kingdom,  etc.,  it  would  elate  him:  the 
object  of  the  demon  is  to  depress  him  still  further 
in  his  own  estimation  than  he  was  before,  by  show- 
ing him  infinite  things  and  his  own  abasement,  till 
he  falls  into  the  frame  of  mind  that  leads  to  the 
catastrophe,  from  mere  internal  irritation,  not  pre- 
meditation, or  envy  of  Abel  (which  would  have 
made  him  contemptible),  but  from  rage  and  fury 
against  the  inadequacy  of  his  state  to  his  concep- 
tions, and  which  discharges  itself  rather  against  life, 
and  the  Author  of  life,  than  the  mere  living.  His 
subsequent  remorse  is  the  natural  effect  of  looking 
on  his  sudden  deed.  Had  the  deed  been  premedi- 
tated, his  repentance  would  have  been  tardier."^ 


Of  the  deep  woods  of  earth,  the  hugest  which 
Roar  nightly  in  the  forest,  but  ten-fold 
In  magnitude  and  terror;  taller  than 
The  cherub-guarded  walls  of  Eden,  with 
Eyes  flashing  like  the  fiery  swords  which  fence 

them, 

And  tusks  projecting  like  the  trees  stripped  of 

Their  bark  and  branches  —  what  were  they  ? 

Lucifer.  That  which 

The  Mammoth  is  in  thy  world; — but  these 

lie 
By  myriads  underneath  its  surface. 

Cain.  But 

None  on  it? 

Lucifer.     No  :  for  thy  frail  race  to  war 
With  them  would  render  the  curse  on  it  use- 
less— 
'Twould  be  destroyed  so  early. 

t  am.  But  why  -warf 

Lucifer.    You  have  forgotten  the  denuncia- 
tion 
Which   drove   your  race   from   Eden  —  war 

with  all  things, 
And  death  to  all  things,  and  disease  to  most 

things, 
And   pangs,  and  bitterness ;  these  were  the 

fruits 
Of  the  forbidden  tree. 

Cain.  t  But  animals  — 

Did  they,  too,  eat  of  it,  that  they  must  die  ? 
Lucifer.     Your  Maker   told  ye,  they  were 
made  for  you 
As  you  for  him.  —  You  would  not  have  their 

doom 
Superior  to  your  own  ?     Had  Adam  not 
Fallen,  all  had  stood. 

Cain.  Alas  !  the  hopeless  wretches ! 

They  too  must  share  my  sire's  fate,  like  his 

sons; 
Like   them,  too,  without   having  shared  the 

apple ; 
Like  them,  too,  without  the  so  dear-bought 

knowledge  I 
It  was  a  lying  tree  —  for  we  know  nothing. 
At  least  it  promised  knowledge  at  \he  price 
Of  death  —  but  knowledge  still :  but  what  knows 
man? 
Lucifer.     It  may  be  death  leads  to  the  high- 
est knowledge ; 
And  being  of  all  things  the  sole  thing  certain, 
At  least  leads  to  the  surest  science:  therefore 
The  tree  was  true,  though  deadly. 

Cain.  These  dim  realms ! 

I  see  them,  but  I  know  them  not. 

Lucifer.  Because 

Thy  hour  is  yet  afar,  and  matter  cannot 
Comprehend   spirit   wholly — but   'tis   some- 
thing 
To  know  there  are  such  realms. 

Cain.  We  knew  already 

That  there  was  death. 
Lucifer.  But  not  what  was  beyond  It 


SCENE  II. J 


CAIN. 


669 


Cain.    Nor  know  I  now. 

Lucifer.  Thou  knowest  that  there  is 

A  state,  and  many  states  beyond  thine  own  — 
And  this  thou  knewest  not  this  morn. 

Cain.  But  all 

Seems  dim  and  shadowy. 

Lucifer.  Be  content ;  it  will 

Seem  clearer  to  thine  immortality. 

Cain.  And  yon  immeasurable  liquid  space 
Of  glorious  azure  which  floats  on  beyond  us, 
Which  looks  like  water,  and  which  I  should 

deem 
The  river  which  flows  out  of  Paradise 
past  my  own  dwelling,  but  that  it  is  bankless 
And  boundless,  and  of  an  ethereal  hue  — 
What  is  it? 

Lucifer.     There  is  still  some  such  on  earth, 
Although  inferior,  and  thy  children  shall 
Dwell  near  it  —  'tis  the  phantasm  of  an  ocean. 

Cain.     'Tis   like   another  world ;    a  liquid 
sun  — 
And  those  inordinate  creatures  sporting  o'er 
Its  shining  surface  ? 

Lucifer.  Are  its  habitants, 

The  past  leviathans. 

Cain.  And  yon  immense 

Serpent,  which  rears  his  dripping  mane  and 

vasty 
Head  ten   times  higher  than  the  haughtiest 

cedar 
Forth  from  the  abyss,  looking  as  he  could  coil 
Himself  around  the  orbs  we  lately  looked  on  — ■ 
Is  he  not  of  the  kind  which  basked  beneath 
The  tree  in  Eden  ? 

Lucifer.  Eve,  thy  mother,  best 

Can  tell  what  shape  of  serpent  tempted  her. 

Cain.     This  seems  too  terrible.     No  doubt 
the  other 
Had  more  of  beauty. 

Lucifer.  Hast  thou  ne'er  beheld  him  ? 

Cain.     Many  of  the  same  kind  (at  least  so 
called), 
But  never  that  precisely  which  persuaded 
The  fatal  fruit,  nor  even  of  the  same  aspect. 

Lucifer.    Your  father  saw  him  not  ? 

Cain.  No:  'twas  my  mother 

Who  tempted  him  —  she  tempted  by  the  ser- 
pent. 

Lucifer.      Good   man!   whene'er  thy  wife, 
or  thy  sons'  wives, 
Tempt  thee  or  them  to  aught  that's  new  or 

strange, 
Be  sure  thou  see'st  first  who  hath  tempted  them. 

Cain.     Thy  precept  comes  too  late :  there 
is  no  more 
For  serpents  to  tempt  women  to. 

Lucifer.  But  there 

Are  some  things  still  which  woman  may  tempt 

man  to, 
And  man  tempt  woman:  —  let  thy  sons  look 

to  it! 
My  counsel  is  a  kind  one ;  for  'tis  even 


Given  chiefly  at  my  own  expense;  'tis  true, 
'Twill  not  be  followed,  so  there's  little  lost. 

Cain.     I  understand  not  this. 

Lucifer.  The  happier  thou !  — 

Thy  world  and  thou  are  still  too  young !  Thou 

thinkest 
Thyself  most  wicked  and  unhappy:  is  it 
Not  so? 

Cain.     For  crime,  I  know  not ;  but  for  pain, 
I  have  felt  much. 

Lucifer.  First-born  of  the  first  mant 

Thy  present  state  of  sin  —  and  thou  ai  t  evil, 
Of  sorrow  —  and  thou  sufferest,  are  both  Eden 
In  all  its  innocence  compared  to  what 
Thou  shortly  may'st  be ;  and  that  state  again, 
In  its  redoubled  wretchedness,  a  Paradise 
To  what  thy  sons'  sons'  sons,  accumulating 
In  generations  like  to  dust  (which  they 
In  fact  but  add  to),  shall  endure  and  do. — 
Now  let  us  back  to  earth  ! 

Cain.  And  wherefore  didst  thou 

Lead  me  here  only  to  inform  me  this  ? 

Lucifer.    Was  not  thy  quest  for  knowledge  ? 

Cain.  Yes  :  as  being 

The  road  to  happiness. 

Lucifer.  If  truth  be  so, 

Thou  hast  it. 

Cain.  Then  my  father's  God  did  well 

When  he  prohibited  the  fatal  tree. 

Lucifer.    But  had  done  better  in  not  plant- 
ing it. 
But  ignorance  of  evil  doth  not  save 
From  evil ;  it  must  still  roll  on  the  same, 
A  part  of  all  things. 

Cain.  Not  of  all  things.     No : 

I'll  not  believe  it  —  for  I  thirst  for  good. 

Lucifer.     And  who   and  what   doth   not  ? 
[  I  'ho  covets  evil 
For  its  own  bitter  sake  ?  —  none  —  nothing  !  'tis 
The  leaven  of  all  life,  and  lifelessness. 

Cain.     Within  those  glorious   orbs  which 
we  behold, 
Distant  and  dazzling,  and  innumerable, 
Ere  we  came  down  into  this  phantom  realm, 
111  cannot  come:  they  are  too  beautiful. 

Lucifer.    Thou  hast  seen  them  from  afar  — 

Cain.  And  what  of  that  ? 

Distance  can  but  diminish  glory  —  they, 
When  nearer,  must  be  more  ineffable. 

Lucifer.    Approach  the  things  of  earth  mosi 
beautiful, 
And  judge  their  beauty  near. 

Cain.  I  have  done  this  — 

The  loveliest  thing  I  know  is  loveliest  nearest. 

Lucifer.     Then  there  must  be  delusion.  — 
What  is  that, 
Which  being  nearest  to  thine  eyes  is  still 
More  beautiful  than  beauteous  things  remote  ? 

Cain.    My  sister  Adah.  —  All  the  stars  ci 
heaven. 
The  deep  blue  noon  of  night,  lit  by  an  orb 
Which  looks  a  spirit,  or  a  spirit's  world  — ■ 


670 


CAIN. 


[act  it 


The   hues   of  twilight  —  the   sun's  gorgeous 

coming  — 
His  setting  indescribable,  which  fills 
My  eyes  with  pleasant  tears  as  I  behold 
Him  sink,  and  feel  my  heart  float  softly  with 

him 
Along  that  western  paradise  of  clouds  — 
The  forest   shade — the   green   bough  —  the 

bird's  voice  — 
The  vesper  bird's,  which  seems  to  sing  of  love, 
And  mingles  with  the  song  of  cherubim, 
As  the  day  closes  over  Eden's  walls  ;  — 
All  these  are  nothing,  to  my  eyes  and  heart, 
Like  Adah's   face :   I   turn   from   earth   and 

heaven 
To  gaze  on  it. 

Lucifer.      "Tis  fair  as  frail  mortality, 
In  the  first  dawn  and  bloom  of  young  creation 
And  earliest  embraces  of  earth's  parents, 
Can  make  its  offspring ;  still  it  is  delusion. 
Cain.     You  think  so,  being  not  her  brother. 
Lucifer.  Mortal ! 

My  brotherhood's  with  those  who   have  no 

children. 
Cain.     Then  thou  canst  have  no  fellowship 

with  us. 
Lucifer.     It  may  be  that  thine  own  shall  be 

for  me. 
But  if  thou  dost  possess  a  beautiful 
Being  beyond  all  beauty  in  thine  eyes, 
Why  art  thou  wretched  ? 

Cain.  Why  do  I  exist  ? 

Why  art  thou  wretched  ?  why  are  all  things  so  ? 
Ev'n  he  who  made  us  must  be,  as  the  maker 
Of  things  unhappy !    To  produce  destruction 
Can  surely  never  be  the  task  of  joy, 
And  yet  my  sire  says  he's  omnipotent : 
Then  why  is  evil  — he  being  good  ?     I  asked 
This  question  of  my  father ;  and  he  said, 
Because  this  evil  only  was  the  path 
To  good.      Strange  good,  that   must    arise 

from  out 
Its  deadly  opposite.1     I  lately  saw 
A  lamb  stung  by  a  reptile :  the  poor  suckling 
Lay  foaming  on  the  earth,  beneath  the  vain 
And  piteous  bleating  of  its  restless  dam  ; 
Myfather  plucked  some  herbs,  and  laid  them  to 
The  wound  ;  and  by  degrees  the  helpless  wretch 
Resumed  its  careless  life,  and  rose  to  drain 
The  mother's  milk,  who  o'er  it  tremulous 
Stood  licking  its  reviving  limbs  with  joy. 


1  ["God  Almighty! 
There  is  some  soul  of  goodness  in  things  evil, 
Would  men  observingly  distil  it  out; 
For  our  bad  neighbors  make  us  early  stirrers, 
Which  is  both  healthful  and  good  husbandry; 
Besides,  they  are  our  outward  consciences, 
And  preachers  to  us  all;  admonishing, 
That  we  should  dress  us  fairly  for  our  end. 
Thus  may  we  gather  honey  from  the  weed, 
<Vnd  make  a  moral  of  the  devil  himself." 
Shakspeare .] 


Behold,  my  son !  said  Adam,  how  from  evil 
Springs  good ! 

Lucifer.     What  didst  thou  answer? 

Cain.  Nothing;  foi 

He  is  my  father :  but  I  thought,  that  'twere 
A  better  portion  for  the  animal 
Never  to  have  been  stung  at  all,  than  to 
Purchase  renewal  of  its  little  life 
With  agonies  unutterable,  though 
Dispelled  by  antidotes. 

Lucifer.  But  as  thou  saidst 

Of  all  beloved  things  thou  lovest  her 
Who  shared  thy  mother's  milk,  and  giveth  hers 
Unto  thy  children 

Cain.  Most  assuredly : 

What  should  I  be  without  her  ? 

Lucifer.  What  am  I? 

Cain.     Dost  thou  love  nothing? 

Lucifer.  What  does  thy  God  love  ? 

Cain.     All  things,  my  father  says;    but  I 
confess 
I  see  it  not  in  their  allotment  here. 

Lucifer.     And,  therefore,  thou  canst  not  see 
if  /  love 
Or  no,  except  some  vast  and  general  purpose, 
Towhichparticularthingsmustmelt  likesnows. 

Cain.     Snows  !  what  are  they  ? 

Lucifer.     Be  happier  in  not  knowing 
What  thy  remoter  offspring  must  encounter ; 
But  bask  beneath  the  clime  which  knows  no 
winter. 

Cain.     But  dost  thou  not  love  something 
like  thyself? 

Lucifer.     And  dost  thou  love  thyself  ? 

Cain.  Yes,  but  love  more 

What  makes  my  feelings  more  endurable. 
And  is  more  than  myself,  because  I  love  it. 

Lucifer.    Thou  lovest  it,  because  'tis  beau- 
tiful. 
As  was  the  apple  in  thy  mother's  eye; 
And  when  it  ceases  to  be  so,  thy  love 
Will  cease,  like  any  other  appetite. 

Cain.    Cease  to  be  beautiful !  how  can  that 
be? 

Lucifer.    With  time. 

Cain.  But  time  has  past,  and  hitherto 

Even  Adam  and  my  mother  both  are  fair : 
Not  fair  like  Adah  and  the  seraphim  — 
But  very  fair. 

Lucifer.        All  that  must  pass  away 
In  them  and  her. 

Cain.  I'm  sorry  for  it ;  but 

Cannot  conceive  my  love  for  her  the  less. 
And  when  her  beauty  disappears,  methinks 
He  who  creates  all  beauty  will  lose  more 
Than  me  in  seeing  perish  such  a  work. 

Lucifer.     I  pity  thee  who  lovest  what  must 
perish. 

Cain.    And  I  thee  who  lov'st  nothing. 

Lucifer.  And  thy  brother  — • 

Sits  he  not  near  thy  heart  ? 

Cain.  Why  should  he  not  ? 


.SCENE  II. J 


CAIN. 


671 


Lucifer.     Thy  father  loves   him  well  —  so 

does  thy  God. 
Cain.    And  so  do  I. 

Lucifer.  Tis  well  and  meekly  done. 

Cain.     Meekly ! 

Lucifer.         He  is  the  second  born  of  flesh, 
And  is  his  mother's  favorite. 

Cain.  Let  him  keep 

Her  favor,  since  the  serpent  was  the  first 
To  win  it. 
Lucifer.    And  his  father's  ? 
Cain.  What  is  that 

To  me?    should   I  not   love  that  which  all 
love  ? 
Lucifer.    And  the  Jehovah  —  the  indulgent 
Lord, 
And  bounteous  planter  of  barred  Paradise  — 
He,  too,  looks  smilingly  on  Abel. 

Cain.  I 

Ne'er  saw  him,  and  I  know  not  if  he  smiles. 
Lucifer.     But  you  have  seen  his  angels. 
Cain.  Rarely. 

Lucifer.  But 

Sufficiently  to  see  they  love  your  brother : 
His  sacrifices  are  acceptable. 

Cain.     So  be  they  !  wherefore  speak  to  me 

of  this  ? 
Lucifer.     Because  thou  hast  thought  of  this 

ere  now. 
Cain.  And  if 

I  have  thought,  why  recall  a  thought  that ■ 

(He pauses,  as  agitated.)  —  Spirit ! 
Here  we    are    in    thy   world ;    speak    not   of 

mine. 
Thou  hast  shown   me  wonders ;   thou  hast 

shown  me  those 
Mighty  pre-Adamites  who  walked  the  earth 
Of   which    ours    is    the  wreck ;     thou    hast 

pointed  out 
Myriads  of  starry  worlds,  of  which  our  own 
Is  the  dim  and  remote  companion,  in 
Infinity  of  life  :  thou  hast  shown  me  shadows 
Of  that  existence  with  the  dreaded  name 
Which  my  sire   brought  us  —  Death  ; 1  thou 

hast  shown  me  much  — 
But  not  all :  show  me  where  Jehovah  dwells, 
In  his  especial  Paradise  —  or  thine  : 
Where  is  it  ? 
Lucifer.        Here,  and  o'er  all  space. 
Cain.  But  ye 

Have  some  allotted  dwelling  —  as  all  things; 
Clay  has  its  earth,  and  other  worlds  their  ten- 
ants ; 
All  temporary  breathing  creatures  their 
Peculiar  element;  and  things  which  have 
Long  ceased  to  breathe  our  breath,  have  theirs, 

thou  say'st ; 
A.nd  the  Jehovah  and  thyself  have  thine  — 
Ye  do  not  dwell  together  ? 


Lucifer.  No,  we  reign 

Together ;  but  our  dwellings  are  asunder. 
Cain.     Would  there  were  only  one  of  ye. 
perchance 
An  unity  of  purpose  might  make  union 
In  elements  which  seem  now  jarred  in  storms. 
How  came  ye,  being  spirits,  wise  and  infi- 
nite, 
To  separate  ?    Are  ye  not  as  brethren  in 
Your  essence,  and    your  nature,   and    your 
glory  ? 
Lucifer.     Art  thou  not  Abel's  brother  ? 
Cain.  We  are  brethren, 

And  so  we  shall  remain  ;  but  were  it  not  so, 
Is  spirit  like  to  flesh  ?  can  it  fall  out  ? 
Infinity  with  Immortality  ? 
Jarring  and  turning  space  to  misery — 
For  what  ? 
Lucifer.    To  reign. 

Cain.  Did  ye  not  tell  me  that 

Ye  are  both  eternal  ? 
Lucifer.  Yea ! 

Cain.  And  what  I  have  seen, 

Yon  blue  immensity,  is  boundless  ? 
Lucifer.  Ay. 

Cain.    And  cannot  ye  both  reign  then  ?  — 
is  there  not 
Enough  ?  —  why  should  ye  differ  ? 

Lucifer.  We  both  reign. 

Cain.     But  one  of  you  makes  evil. 
Lucifer.  Which  ? 

Cain.  Thou !  for 

If  thou  canst  do  man  good,  why  dost  thou 
not? 
Lucifer.    And  why  not  he  who  made  ?     / 
made  ye  not ; 
Ye  are  his  creatures,  and  not  mine. 

Cain.  Then  leave  us 

His  creatures,  as  thou  say'st  we  are,  or  show 

me 
Thy  dwelling,  or  his  dwelling. 

Lucifer.  I  could  show  thee 

Both;  but  the  time  will  come  thou  shalt  see 

one 
Of  them  for  evermore.2 

Cain.  And  why  not  now  ? 

Lucifer.     Thy  human  mind   hath  scarcely 
grasp  to  gather 
The  little  I  have  shown  thee  into  cat* 
And  clear  thought ;  and  thou  wouldst  go  on 

aspiring 
To  the  great  double  Mysteries '.  the  two  Prin- 
ciples ! 
And  gaze  upon  them  on  their  secret  thrones 


i[MS.— 

"  Which  my  sire  shrinks  from  —  Death."] 


2  [In  Byron's  Diary  for  January  28,  1821,  is  the 
following  entry :  — 

"  Thought  for    a    speech    of   Lucifer,    in    thi 

Tragedy  of  Cain. 

'  Were  Death  an  evil,  would  /  let  thee  live  ? 

Fool!  live  as  I  live  —  as  thy  father  lives, 

And  thy  sons'  sons  shall  live  for  evermore ; '  "J 


672 


CAIN. 


[act  nt 


Dust !  limit  thy  ambition  ;  for  to  see 
Either  of  these,  would  be  for  thee  to  perish ! 
Cain.     And  let  me  perish,  so  I  see  them  ! 
Lucifer.  There 

The  son  of  her  who  snatched  the  apple  spake  ! 
But   thou  wouldst   only  perish,  and  not  see 

them  ; 
That  sight  is  for  the  other  state. 

Cain.  Of  death  ? 

Lucifer.     That  is  the  prelude. 
Cain.  Then  I  dread  it  less, 

Now  that  I  know  it  leads  to  something  definite. 
Lucifer.     And  now  I  will  convey  thee  to  thy 
world, 
Where  thou  shalt  multiply  the  race  of  Adam, 
Eat,  drink,  toil,  tremble,  laugh,  weep,  sleep, 
and  die. 
Cain.     And  to  what  end  have  I  beheld  these 
things 
Which  thou  hast  shown  me  ? 

Lucifer.  Didst  thou  not  require 

Knowledge  ?     And   have    I    not,    in   what    I 

showed, 
Taught  thee  to  know  thyself? 

Cain.  Alas !  I  seem 

Nothing. 

Lucifer.    And  this  should  be  the  human  sum 
Of  knowledge,  to  know  mortal  nature's  noth- 
ingness ; 
Bequeathe  that  science  to  thy  children,  and 
"Twill  spare  them  many  tortures. 

Cain.  Haughty  spirit ! 

Thou  speak' st  it  proudly ;  but  thyself,  though 

proud, 
Hast  a  superior. 

Lucifer.  No  !     By  heaven,  which  He 

Holds,  and  the  abyss,  and  the  immensity 
Of  worlds  and  life,  which  I  hold  with  him  — 

No! 
I  have  a  victor  —  true;  but  no  superior. 
Homage  he  has  from  all  —  but  none  from  me  : 
I  battle  it  against  him,  as  I  battled 
In  highest  heaven.     Through  all  eternity, 
And  the  unfathomable  gulls  of  Hades, 
And  the  interminable  realms  of  space, 
And  the  infinity  of  endless  ages, 
All,  all,  will  I  dispute  !     And  world  by  world, 
And  star  by  star,  and  universe  by  universe, 
Shall  tremble  in  the  balance,  till  the  great 
Conflict  shall  cease,  if  ever  it  shall  cease, 
Which  it  ne'er  shall,  till  he  or  I  be  quenched  ! 
And  what  can  quench  our  immortality, 
Or  mutual  and  irrevocable  hate  ? 
He  as  a  conqueror  will  call  the  conquered 
Evil;  but  what  will  be  the  good  he  gives  ? 
Were  I  the  victor,  his  works  would  be  deemed 
The  only  evil  ones.     And  you,  ye  new 
And  scarce-born  mortals,  what  have  been  his 

gifts 
To  you  already,  in  your  little  world  ? 

Cain.    But  few ;  and  some  of  those  but  bit- 
ter. 


Lucifer.  Back 

With  me,  then,  to  thine  earth,  and  try  the  rest 
Of  his  celestial  boons  to  you  and  yours. 
Evil  and  good  are  things  in  their  own  essence, 
.And  not  made  good  or  evil  by  the  giver; 
But  if  he  gives  you  good  —  so  call  him;  if 
Evil  springs  from  him,  do  not  name  it  mine. 
Till  ye  know  better  its  true  fount ;  and  judge 
Not  by  words,  though  of  spirits,  but  the  fruits 
Of  your  existence,  such  as  it  must  be. 
One  good  gift  has  the  fatal  apple  given  — 
Your  reason  : —  let  it  not  be  over-swayed 
By  tyrannous  threats  to  force  you  into  faith 
'Gainst  all  external  sense  and  inward  feeling : 
Think  and  endure,  —  and  form  an  inner  world 
In  your  own  bosom  —  where  the  outward  fails  ; 
So  shall  you  nearer  be  the  spiritual 
Nature,  and  war  triumphant  with  your  own.1 
[  They  disappear. 


ACT   III. 

SCENE   I. —  The   Earth,   near   Eden,   as   in 
Act  1. 

Enter  CAIN  and  ADAH. 

Adah.     H»sh  !  tread  softly,  Cain. 

Cain.  I  will ;  but  wherefore  ? 

Adah.     Our  little  Enoch  sleeps  upon  yon 
bed 
Of  leaves,  beneath  the  cypress. 

Cain.  Cypress!  'tis 

A  gloomy  tree,  which  looks  as  if  it  mourned 


1  [As  to  the  question  of  the  origin  of  evil,  which 
is  the  burden  of  this  misdirected  verse,  Lord  Byron 
has  neither  thrown  any  new  light  upon  it,  nor 
darkened  the  previous  knowledge  which  we  pos- 
sessed. It  remains  just  where  it  was,  in  its  mighty, 
unfathomed  obscurity.  His  Lordship  may,  it  is 
true,  have  recapitulated  some  of  the  arguments  with 
a  more  concise  and  cavalier  air  than  the  old  school- 
men or  fathers ;  but  the  result  is  the  same.  There 
is  no  poetical  road  to  metaphysics.  In  one  view, 
however,  which  our  rhapsodist  has  taken  of  the 
subject,  we  conceive  he  has  done  well.  He  repre- 
sents the  temptations  held  out  to  Cain  by  Satan,  as 
constantly  succeeding  and  corresponding  to  some 
previous  discontent  and  gloomy  disposition  in  his 
own  mind;  so  that  Lucifer  is  little  more  than  the  per- 
sonified demon  of  his  imagination:  and  further,  the 
acts  of  guilt  and  folly  into  which  Cain  is  hurried  are 
not  treated  as  accidental,  or  as  occasioned  by  pass- 
ing causes,  but  as  springing  from  an  internal  fury, 
a  morbid  state  akin  to  phrensy,  a  mind  dissatisfied 
with  itself  and  all  things,  and  haunted  by  an  insati- 
able, stubborn  longing  after  knowledge  rather  than 
happiness,  and  a  fatal  proneness  to  dwell  on  the  evil 
side  of  things  rather  than  the  good.  We  here  see 
the  dreadful  consequences  of  not  curbing  this  dis- 
position (which  is,  after  all,  perhaps,  the  sin  that 
most  easily  besets  humanity),  exemplified  in  a 
striking  point  of  view;  and  we  so  far  think,  that  the 
moral  to  be  derived  from  a  perusal  of  this  Mystery 
is  a  valuable  one.  —  Jeffrey. \ 


SCENE   I.] 


CAIN. 


673 


O'er  what  it  shadows ;  wherefore  didst  thou 

choose  it 
For  our  child's  canopy  ? 

Adah.  Because  its  branches 

Shut  out  the  sun  like  night,  and  therefore 

seemed 
Fitting  to  shadow  slumber. 

Cam.  Ay,  the  last  — 

And  longest ;  but  no  matter  —  lead  me  to  him. 
[  They  go  up  to  the  child. 
How  lovely  he  appears !  his  little  cheeks, 
In  their  pure  incarnation,  vying  with 
The  rose  leaves  strewn  beneath  them. 

Adah.  And  his  lips,  too, 

How  beautifully  parted !  No ;  you  shall  not 
Kiss  him,  at  least  not  now:  he  will  awake 

soon  — 
His  hour  of  mid-day  rest  is  nearly  over; 
But  it  were  pity  to  disturb  him  till 
'Tis  closed. 

Cain.     You  have  said  well ;  I  will  contain 
My  heart  till  then.    He  smiles,  and  sleeps !  — 

Sleep  on 
And  smile,  thou  little,  young  inheritor 
\  Of  a  world  scarce  less  young :  sleep  on,  and 
smile ! 
Thine  are  the  hours  and  days  when  both  are 

cheering 
And   innocent!    thou  hast  not  plucked  the 

fruit  — 
Thou  know'st  not  thou  art  naked !     Must  the 

time 
Come  thou  shalt  be  amerced  for  sins  un- 
known, 
Which  were  not  thine  nor  mine  ?     But  now 

sleep  on ! 
His  cheeks  are  reddening  into  deeper  smiles, 
And  shining  lids  are  trembling  o'er  his  long 
Lashes,  dark  as  the  cypress  which  waves  o'er 

them ; 
Half  open,  from  beneath  them  the  clear  blue 
Laughs  out,  although  in  slumber.     He  must 

dream  — 
Of  what  ?     Of  Paradise !  — Ay !  dream  of  it, 
.  My  disinherited  boy !     'Tis  but  a  dream  ; 
i  For  never  more  thyself,  thy  sons,  nor  fathers, 
:  Shall  walk  in  that  forbidden  place  of  joy ! l 
Adah.     Dear  Cain  !     Nay,  do  not  whisper 
o'er  our  son 
Such  melancholy  yearnings  o'er  the  past : 
Why  wilt  thou  always  mourn  for  Paradise  ? 
Can  we  not  make  another  ? 

Cain.  Where  ? 

Adah.  Here,  or 

Where'er  thou  wilt :  where'er  thou  art,  I  feel 

not 
The  want  of  this  so  much  regretted  Eden. 


1  [The  censorious  may  say  what  they  will,  but 
there  are  speeches  in  the  mouth  of  Cain  and  Adah, 
especially  regarding  their  child,  which  nothing  in 
English  poetry  but  the  "  wood-notes  wild  "  of  Shak- 
speare  ever  equalled.  —  Sir  Egerton  Brydges.\ 


Have    I   not    thee,   our  boy,   our  sire,  and 

brother, 
And  Zillah  —  our  sweet  sister,  and  our  Eve, 
To  whom  we  owe  so  much  besides  our  birth  ? 
Cain.     Yes  —  death,   too,   is    amongst  the 

debts  we  owe  her. 
Adah.    Cain  !  that  proud  spirit,  who  with- 
drew thee  hence, 
Hath  saddened  thine  still  deeper.    I  had  hoped 
The  promised  wonders  which  thou  hast  be- 
held, 
Visions,  thou  say'st,  of  past  and  present  worlds, 
Would  have  composed  thy  mind  into  the  calm 
Of  a  contented  knowledge;  but  I  see 
Thy  guide  hath  done  thee  evil :  still  I  thank 

him, 
And  can  forgive  him  all,  that  he  so  soon 
Hath  given  thee  back  to  us. 

Cain.  So  soon  ? 

Adah.  'Tis  scarcely 

Two  hours  since  ye  departed  :  two  long  hours 
To  me,  but  only  hours  upon  the  sun. 

Cain.    And  yet  I  have  approached  that  sun, 
and  seen 
Worlds  which  he  once  shone  on,  and  never 

more 
Shall  light ;  and  worlds  he  never  lit :  methought 
Years  had  rolled  o'er  my  absence. 
Adah.  Hardly  hours. 

Cain.   The  mind  then  hath  capacity  of  time. 
And  measures  it  by  that  which  it  beholds, 
Pleasing  or  painful ;  little  or  almighty. 
I  had  beheld  the  immemorial  works 
Of   endless    beings ; 2    skirred    extinguished 

worlds ; 
And,  gazing  on  eternity,  methought 
I  had  borrowed  more  by  a  few  drops  of  ages 
From  its  immensity :  but  now  I  feel 
My  littleness  again.     Well  said  the  spirit, 
That  I  was  nothing ! 

Adah.  Wherefore  said  he  so  ? 

Jehovah  said  not  that. 

Cain.  No  :  he  contents  him 

With  making  us  the  nothing  which  we  are  ; 
And  after  flattering  dust  with  glimpses  of 
Eden  and  Immortality,  resolves 
It  back  to  dust  again  —  for  what  ? 

Adah.  Thou  know'st — 

Even  for  our  parents'  error. 

Cain.  What  is  that 

To  us  ?  they  sinned,  then  let  them  die  ! 

Adah.     Thou  hast  not  spoken  well,  nor  is 
that  thought 
Thy  own,  but  of  the  spirit  who  was  with  thee. 
Would  /  could  die  for  them,  so  they  might  live  ! 
Cain.     Why,  so  say  I  —  provided  that  one 
victim 
Might  satiate  the  insatiable  of  life, 
And  that  our  little  rosy  sleeper  there 


2  [MS.  —  "I  had  beheld  the  works  of  ages  and 
Immortal  beings. "J 


674 


CAIN. 


[ACT  III. 


Might  never  taste  of  death  nor  human  iorrow, 
Nor  hand  it  down  to  those  who  spring  from 

him. 
Adah.    How  know  we  that  some  such  atone- 
ment one  day 
May  not  redeem  our  race  ? 

Cain.  By  sacrificing 

The  harmless  for  the  guilty  ?  what  atonement 
Were  there  ?   why,  we  are  innocent :    what 

have  we 
Done  that  we  must  be  victims  for  a  deed 
Before  our  birth,  or  need  have  victims  to 
Atone  for  this  mysterious,  nameless  sin  — 
If  it  be  such  a  sin  to  seek  for  knowledge  ? 
Adah.     Alas !  thou  sinnest  now,  my  Cain  : 

thy  words 
Sound  impious  in  mine  ears. 

Cain.  Then  leave  me ! 

Adah.  Never 

Though  thy  God  left  thee. 

Cain.  Say,  what  have  we  here  ? 

Adah.    Two  altars,  which  our  brother  Abel 

made 
During  thine  absence,  whereupon  to  offer 
A  sacrifice  to  God  on  thy  return. 

Cain.     And  how  knew  he,  that  /  would  be 

so  ready 
With  the  burnt  offerings,  which  he  daily  brings 
With  a  meek  brow,  whose  base  humility 
Shows  more  of  fear  than  worship,  as  a  bribe 
To  the  Creator  ? 

Adah.  Surely,  'tis  well  done. 

Cain.    One  altar  may  suffice ;    /  have  no 

offering. 
Adah.     The  fruits  of  the  earth,  the  early, 

beautiful 
Blossom  and  bud,  and  bloom  of  flowers,  and 

fruits ; 
These  are  a  goodly  offering  the  Lord, 
Given  with  a  gentle  and  a  contrite  spirit. 
Cain.    I  have  toiled,  and  tilled,  and  sweaten 

in  the  sun 
According  to  the  curse :  —  must  I  do  more  ? 
For  what  should  I  be  gentle  ?  for  a  war 
With  all  the  elements  ere  they  will  yield 
The  bread  we   eat  ?     For  what   must  I  be 

grateful  ? 
For  being  dust,  and  grovelling  in  the  dust, 
Till  I  return  to  dust?     If  I  am  nothing — 
For  nothing  shall  I  be  an  hypocrite, 
And  seem  well-pleased  with  pain  ?     For  what 

should  I 
Be  contrite  ?  for  my  father's  sin,  already 
Expiate  with  what  we  all  have  undergone, 
And  to  be  more  than  expiated  by 
The  ages  prophesied,  upon  our  seed. 
Little   deems   our  young  blooming   sleeper, 

there, 
The  germs  of  an  eternal  misery 
To  myriads  is  within  him  !  better  'twere 
I  snatched  him  in  his  sleep,  and  dashed  him 

'gainst 


The  rocks,  than  let  him  live  to 

Adah.  Oh,  my  God  ! 

Touch  not  the  child — my  child!  thy  child! 

Oh  Cain  ! 

Cain.     Fear  not !   for  all  the  stars,  and  all 

the  power 

Which  sways  them,  I  would  not  accost  yon 

infant 
With  ruder  greeting  than  a  father's  kiss. 
Adah.    Then,  why  so  awful  in  thy  speech  ? 
Cain.  I  said, 

'Twere  better  that  he  ceased  to  live,  than  give 
Life  to  so  much  of  sorrow  as  he  must 
Endure,  and,  harder  still,  bequeathe  ;  but  since 
That  saying  jars  you,  let  us  only  say  — 
'Twere  better  that  he  never  had  been  born. 
Adah.     Oh,  do  not  say  so !     Where  were 
then  the  joys, 
The  mother's  joys  of  watching,  nourishing, 
And  loving  him  ?     Soft !  he  awakes.     Sweet 
Enoch  !  \She  goes  to  the  child,. 

Oh  Cain  !  look  on  him ;  see  how  full  of  life. 
Of  strength,  of  bloom,  of  beauty,  and  of  joy, 
How   like   to   me  —  how  like  to  thee,  when 

gentle, 
For  then  we  are  all  alike ;  is't  not  so,  Cain  ? 
Mother,  and  sire,  and  son,  our  features  are 
Reflected  in  each  other ;  as  they  are 
In  the  clear'waters,  when  they  are  gentle,  and 
When   thou   art  gentle.     Love   us,  then,  my 

Cain! 
And  love  thyself  for  our  sakes,  for  we   love 

thee. 
Look !  how  he  laughs  and  stretches  out  his 

arms, 
And  opens  wide  his  blue  eyes  upon  thine, 
To  hail  his  father ;  while  his  little  form 
Flutters  as  winged  with  joy.  Talk  not  of  pain ! 
The  childless  cherubs  well  might  envy  thee 
The  pleasures  of  a  parent !    Bless  him,  Cain ! 
As  yet  he  hath  no  words  to  thank  thee,  but 
His  heart  will,  and  thine  own  too.1 

Cain.  Bless  thee,  boy ! 

If  that  a  mortal  blessing  may  avail  thee, 
To  save  thee  from  the  serpent's  curse ! 

Adah.  It  shall. 

Surely  a  father's  blessing  may  avert 
A  reptile's  subtlety. 

Cain.  Of  that  I  doubt ; 

But  bless  him  ne'er  the  less. 
Adah.  Our  brother  comes-. 

Cain.    Thy  brother  Abel. 
Enter  ABEL. 

1  [The  third  Act  shows  us  Cain  gloomily  lament- 
ing over  the  future  fortunes  of  his  infant  son,  and 
withstanding  all  the  consolation  and  entreaties  of 
Adah,  who  is  anxious  to  soften  him  to  the  task  of 
submission  and  to  a  participation  in  the  sacrifice 
which  his  brother  is  about  to  offer.  Here  are  some 
passages  of  no  common  beauty.  That  which  strike* 
us  most  is  when  the  parents  are  hanging  over  theil 
sleeping  boy.  —  Bishop  Heber.\ 


SCENE  I.] 


CAIN. 


675 


Abel.  Welcome,  Cain !  My  brother. 

The  peace  of  God  be  on  thee ! 

Cain.  Abel,  hail ! 

Abel.    Our  sister  tells  me  that  thou  hast 
been  wandering, 
In  high  communion  with  a  spirit,  far 
Beyond    our    wonted    range.       Was    he    of 

those 
We  have  seen  and  spoken  with,  like  to  our 
father  ? 
Cain.     No. 

Abel.    Why  then  commune  with  him  ?  he 
may  be 
A  foe  to  the  Most  High. 

Cain.  And  friend  to  man. 

Has  the  Most  High  been  so —  if  so  you  term 
him  ? 
Abel.     Term  him  /  your  words  are  strange 
to-day,  my  brother. 
My  sister  Adah,  leave  us  for  awhile  — 
We  mean  to  sacrifice. 

Adah.  Farewell,  my  Cain ; 

But   first   embrace   thy   son.      May   his    soft 

spirit, 
And  Abel's  pious  ministry,  recall  thee 
To  peace  and  holiness  ! 

\_Exit  ADAH,  with  her  child. 
Abel.  Where  hast  thou  been  ? 

Cain.    I  know  not. 

Abel.  Nor  what  thou  hast  seen  ? 

Cain.  The  dead, 

The  immortal,  the  unbounded,  the  omnipo- 
tent, 
The  overpowering  mysteries  of  space  — 
The  innumerable  worlds  that  were  and  are  — 
A  whirlwind  of  such  overwhelming  things, 
Suns,  moons,  and  earths,  upon   their   loud- 
voiced  spheres 
Singing  in  thunder  round  me,  as  have  made 

me 
Unfit  for  mortal  converse  :  leave  me,  Abel. 
Abel.     Thine   eyes   are   flashing  with   un- 
natural light  — 
Thy  cheek  is  flushed  with  an  unnatural  hue  — 
Thy  words   are   fraught  with    an   unnatural 

sound  — 
What  may  this  mean  ? 

Cain.    It  means 1  pray  thee,  leave  me. 

Abel.     Not  till  we  have  prayed  and  sacri- 
ficed together. 
Cain.    Abel,  I  pray  thee,  sacrifice  alone  — 
Jehovah  loves  thee  well. 
Abel.  Both  well,  I  hope. 

Cain.     But  thee  the  better :  I  care  not  for 
that; 
Thou  art  fitter  for  his  worship  than  I  am ; 
Revere  him,  then  —  but  let  it  be  alone  — 
At  least,  without  me. 

Abel.  Brother,  I  should  ill 

Deserve  the  name  of  our  great  father's  son, 
If,  as  my  elder,  I  revered  thee  not, 
And  in  the  worship  of  our  God  called  not 


On  thee  to  join  me,  and  precede  me  in 
Our  priesthood —  'tis  thy  place. 

Cain.  But  I  have  ne'er 

Asserted  it. 

Abel.  The  more  my  grief ;  I  pray  thee 
To  do  so  now :  thy  soul  seems  laboring  in 
Some  strong  delusion  ;  it  will  calm  thee. 

Cain.  No ; 

Nothing  can  calm  me  more.     Calm!  say  I  ? 

Never 
Knew  I  what  calm  was  in  the  soul,  although 
I  have  seen  the  elements  stilled.     My  Abel. 

leave  me ! 
Or  let  me  leave  thee  to  thy  pious  purpose. 
Abel.     Neither ;  we  must  perform  our  task 
together. 
Spurn  me  not. 

Cain.  If  it  must  be  so well,  then, 

What  shall  I  do  ? 

Abel.  Choose  one  of  those  two  altars. 

Cain.     Choose  for  me :  they  to  me  are  so 
much  turf 
And  stone. 

Abel.        Choose  thou ! 
Cain.  I  have  chosen. 

Abel.  'Tis  the  highest, 

And  suits  thee,  as  the  elder.     Now  prepare 
Thine  offerings. 

Cain.  Where  are  thine  ? 

Abel.  Behold  them  here  — 

The  firstlings  of  the  flock,  and  fat  thereof — 
A  shepherd's  humble  offering. 

Cain.  I  have  no  flocks  ; 

I  am  a  tiller  of  the  ground,  and  must 
Yield  what  it  yieldeth  to  my  toil  —  its  fruit: 

[He  gathers  fruits. 
Behold  them  in  their  various  bloom  and  ripe- 
ness. 
[  They  dress  their  altars,  and  kindle  afiame 

upon  them. 
Abel.     My  brother,  as  the  elder,  offer  first 
Thy  prayer  and  thanksgiving  with  sacrifice. 
Cam.     No — I  am  new  to  this;  lead  thou 
the  way, 
And  I  will  follow — as  I  may. 

Abel  (kneeling).  Oh  God  ! 

Who  made  us,  and  who  breathed  the  breath 

of  life 
Within  our  nostrils,  who  hath  blessed  us, 
And     spared,   despite    our    father's    sin,   to 

make  l 
His   children   all  lost,  as    they  might    have 

been, 
Had  not  thy  justice  been  so  tempered  with 
The  mercy  which  is  thy  delight,  as  to 
Accord  a  pardon  like  a  Paradise, 
Compared    with   our    great    crimes :  —  Sole 

Lord  of  light ! 
Of  good,  and  glory,  and  eternity; 


i  [MS.  — 
"And  despised  not  for  our  fathsr's  sin  to  make.  "J 


676 


CAIN. 


[ACT  III, 


Without  whom  all  were  evil,  and  with  whom 
Nothing  can  err,  except  to  some  good  end 
Of  thine  omnipotent  benevolence  — 
Inscrutable,  but  still  to  be  fulfilled  — 
Accept   from  out   thy  humble  first   of  shep- 
herd's 
First  of  the  first-born  flocks — -an  offering, 
In  itself  nothing — as  what  offering  can  be 
Aught  unto  thee  ?  —  but  yet  accept  it  for 
The  thanksgiving  of  him  who  spreads  it  in 
The  face  of  thy  high  heaven,  bowing  his  own 
Even  to  the  dust,  of  which  he  is,  in  honor 
Of  thee,  and  of  thy  name,  for  evermore! 
Cain  {standing  erect  during  this  speech). 
Spirit !  whate'er  or  whosoe'er  thou  art, 
Omnipotent,  it  may  be  —  and,  if  good, 
Shown  in  the  exemption  of  thy  deeds  from 

evil ; 
Jehovah  upon  earth  !  and  God  in  heaven  ! 
And  it  may  be  with  other  names,  because 
Thine  attributes  seem  many,  as  thy  works :  — 
If  thou  must  be  propitiated  with  prayers, 
Take  them !     If  thou  must  be  induced  with 

altars, 
And  softened  with  a  sacrifice,  receive  them  ! 
Two  beings  here  erect  them  unto  thee. 
If  thou  lov'st   blood,  the   shepherd's  shrine, 

which  smokes 
On  my  right  hand,  hath  shed  it  for  thy  service 
In  the  first  of  his  flock,  whose  limbs  now  reek 
In  sanguinary  incense  to  thy  skies; 
Or  if  the  sweet  and  blooming  fruits  of  earth, 
And  milder  seasons,  which  the  unstained  turf 
I  spread  them  on  now  offers  in  the  face 
Of  the  broad  sun  which  ripened  them,  may 

seem 
Good  to  thee,  inasmuch  as  they  have  not 
Suffered  in  limb  or  life,  and  rather  form 
A  sample  of  thy  works,  than  supplication 
To  look  on  ours!     If  a  shrine  without  victim, 
And  altar  without  gore,  may  win  thy  favor, 
Look  on  it !  and  for  him  who  dresseth  it, 
He  is  — such  as  thou  madest  him ;  and  seeks 

nothing 
Which  must  be  won  by  kneeling:  if  he's  evil, 
Strike  him  !  thou  art  omnipotent,  and  may'st  — 
For  what  can  he  oppose  ?     If  he  be  good, 
Strike  him,  orspare  him,  as  thou  wilt !  since  all 
Rests  upon  thee ;  and  good  and  evil  seem 
To    have  no   power  themselves,  save  in  thy 

will : 
And  whethsr  that  be  good  or  ill  I  know  not, 
Not  being  omnipotent,  nor  fit  to  judge 
Omnipotence,  but  merely  to  endure 
Its  mandate  ;  which  thus  far  I  have  endured. 
[  The  fire  upon  the  altar  of  ABEL  kindles 
into  a  column  of  the  brightest  fiame,  and 
ascends   to   heaven ;    while   a   whirlwind 
throws  down  the  altar  <?/"CAIN,  and  scat- 
ters the  fruits  abroad  upon  the  earth, 
/ibel    {kneeling').     Oh,   brother,  pray!    Je- 
tiovah's  wroth  with  thee. 


Cain.     Why  so  ? 

Abel.   Thy  fruits  are  scattered  on  the  earth, 
Cain.     From  earth  they  came,  to  earth  let 
them  return  ; 
Their  seed  will  bear  fresh  fruit  there  ere  the 

summer. 
Thy  burnt  flesh-offering  prospers  better ;  see 
How  heaven  licks  up  the  flames,  when  thick 
with  blood ! 
Abel.     Think   not  upon   my  offering's  ac- 
ceptance, 
But  make  another  of  thine  own  before 
It  is  too  late. 

Cain.  I  will  build  no  more  altars, 

Nor  suffer  any.  — 

Abel  {rising).     Cain  !  what  meanest  thou  ? 
Cain.   To  cast  down  yon  vile  flatterer  of  the 
clouds. 
The  smoky  harbinger  of  thy  dull  prayers  — 
Thin1?  altar,  with  its  blood  of  lambs  and  kids, 
Which  fed  on  milk,  to  be  destroyed  in  blood. 
Abel  {opposing  him).    Thou  shalt  not: — ■ 
add  not  impious  works  to  impious 
Words !    let  that  altar  stand  —  'tis   hallowed 

now 
By  the  immortal  pleasure  of  Jehovah, 
In  his  acceptance  of  the  victims. 

Cain.  t  His! 

His  pleasure  f  what  was  his  high  pleasure  in 
The  funics  of  scorching  flesh  and  smoking 

blood, 
To  the  pain  of  the  bleating  mothers,  which 
Still  yearn  for  their  dead  offspring  ?    or  the 

pangs 
Of  the  sad  ignorant  victims  underneath 
Thy   pious   knife  ?     Give   way !    this   bloody 

record 
Shall  not  stand  in  the  sun, to  shame  creation! 
Abel.     Brother,  give  back !  thou  shalt  not 
touch  my  altar 
With  violence  :  if  that  thou  wilt  adopt  it, 
To  trv  another  sacrifice,  'tis  thine. 

Cain.     Another   sacrifice!      Give  way,  01 
else 

That  sacrifice  may  be 

Abel.  What  mean'st  thou  ? 

Cain.  Give  — 

Give   way!  —  thy   God    loves   blood!  —  then 

look  to  it :  — 
Give  way,  ere  he  hath  more  ! 

Abel.  In  his  great  name, 

I   stand  between  thee  and  the  shrine  which 

hath 
Had  his  acceptance. 

Cain.  If  thou  lov'st  thyself, 

Stand  back  till  I  have  strewed  this  turf  along 

Its  native  soil :  — else 

Abel  {opposing  him).     I  love  God  far  more 
Than  life.1 

1  [It  is  evident  that  Lord  Ryron  had  studied  his 
subject  very  deeply ;    and,  though  he  has  varied  a 


SCENIC   I.] 


CAIN. 


677 


Cain   {striking  kirn   with  a  brand,  on   the 
temples,  which  he  snatches  from  the  altar). 
Then  take  thy  life  unto  thy  God, 
Since  he  loves  lives. 
Abel  {/alls).     What  hast  thou  done,  my 

brother  ? 
Cain.     Brother ! 

Abel.  Oh,  God!    receive  thy  servant, 

and 
Forgive  his  slayer,  for  he  knew  not  what 
He  did. —  Cain, give  me  —  give  me  thy  hand; 
and  tell 

Poor  Zillah 

Cain  {after  a  moment's  stupefaction).     AJy 
hand  !   'tis  all  red,  and  with  — 
What? 

[A  long  pause.  —  Looking  slowly  round. 

Where  am  I  ?  alone !     Where's   Abel  ? 

where 

Cain  ?    Can  it  be  that  I  am  he  ?    My  brother, 

Awake !  —  why   liest   thou   so   on   the  green 

earth  ? 
'Tis  not  the  hour  of  slumber:  —  why  so  pale? 

What,  hast   thou! thou   wert  full  of  life 

this  morn ! 
Abel !  I  pray  thee,  mock  me  not !     I  smote 
Too  fiercely,  but  not  fatally.     Ah,  why  1 
Wouldst  thou  oppose  me  ?    This  is  mockery  ; 
And  only  done  to  daunt  me  :  —  'twas  a  blow  — 
And  but  a  blow.     Stir  —  stir  —  nay,  only  stir! 
Why,    so  —  that's    well !  —  thou    breath'st ! 

breathe  upon  me! 
Oh,  God!  Oh,  God! 

Abel  {very  faintly) .    What's  he  who  speaks 

of  God  ? 
Cain.     Thy  murderer. 

Abel.     Then  may  God  forgive  him  !     Cain, 
Comfort    poor    Zillah :  —  she    has    but    one 

brother 
Now.  [Abel  dies? 


little  from,  or  gone  a  little  beyond,  the  letter  of 
Scripture,  which  is  very  concise,  yet  he  has  appar- 
ently entered  with  great  exactness  into  the  minds 
of  Cain  and  Abel  in  this  most  interesting  scene: 
and  were  it  allowable  to  ascribe  to  the  author  of  a 
dramatic  work  the  principles  or  feelings  of  all  or 
any  of  his  characters,  except  as  adopting  them  for 
his  particular  purpose,  one  would  be  at  a  loss  to 
say,  whether  Lord  Byron  ought  most  to  be  identi- 
fied with  Cain,  or  with  Abel;  so  appropriately  hns 
he  maintained  the  character  of  each.  —  Grant's 
"  Notes  on  Cain"  p.  401.] 

1  [MS.— 

"  Too  hard,  but  it  was  not  my  purpose  —  why."] 

2  [The  sacrifices  of  Abel  and  Cain  follow:  the 
first  is  accepted,  the  second  rejected  by  Jehovah. 
Cain,  in  wrath,  attempts  to  throw  down  the  altars, 
is  opposed  by  Abel,  and  strikes  him  with  a  half- 
burnt  brand.  As  a  whole,  this  scene  is  heavy  and 
clumsily  managed.  It  can  hardly  fail  to  strike  the 
reader  as  a  defect  in  poetry,  no  less  than  n  depart- 
ure from  h«»iorv,  that  the  event  which  is  the  catas- 
trophe of  the  drama,  is  no  otherwise  than  inciden- 


Cain.    And   I   none !  —  Who    makes   me 

brotherless  ? 
His  eyes  are  open!  then  he  is  not  dead! 
Death  is  like  sleep ;  and  sleep  shuts  down  our 

lids. 
His  lips,  too,  are  apart ;  why  then  he  breathes  ; 
And   yet    I    feel    it   not.  —  His    heart!  —  his 

heart !  — 
Let  me  see,  doth  it  beat  ?  Methinks — —No ! 

—  no ! 

This  is  a  vision,  else  I  am  become 
The  native  of  another  and  worse  world. 
The  earth  swims  round  me  :  —  what  is  this  ?-- 

'tis  wet ; 
[Puts  his  hand  to  his  brow,  and  then  looks  at 

it. 
And  yet  there  are  no  dews !  'Tis  blood —  my 

blood  — 
My  brother's  and  my  own  ;   and  shed  by  me ! 
Then  what  have  I  further  to  do  with  life, 
Since  I  have  taken  life  from  my  own  flesh  ? 
But  he  can  not  be  dead  !  —  is  silence  death  ? 
No;  he  will  wake;  then  let  me  watch  by  him. 
Life  cannot  be  so  slight,  as  to  be  quenched 
Thus  quickly  !  —  he  hath  spoken  to  me  since  — 
What  shall  I  say  to  him? — my  brother  !  — No  : 
He  will  not  answer  to  that  name  ;  for  brethren 
Smite  not  each  other.    Yet — yet  —  speak  to 

me. 
Oh  !  for  a  word  more  of  that  gentle  voice, 
That  I  may  bear  to  hear  my  own  again ! 

Enter  ZILLAH. 
Zillah.     I  heard  a  heavy  sound  ;   what  cart 
it  be? 
"Tis   Cain;    and   watching  by  my  husband. 

What 

Dost  thou  there,  brother  ?     Doth  he  sleep  ? 

Oh,  heaven ! 
What  means  this  paleness,  and  yon  stream  ? 

—  No,  no ! 

It  is  not  blood  ;  for  who  would  shed  his  blood  ? 
Abel !  what's  this  ?  —  who  hath  done  this  ?  He 

moves  not; 
He  breathes  not :   and  his  hands  drop  down 

from  mine 

tally,  we  may  say  accidentally,  produced  by  those 
which  precede  it.  Cain,  whose  whole  character  is 
represented  in  Scripture  as  envious  and  malicious, 
rather  than  impious;  —  this  Cain,  as  painted  by 
Lord  Byron,  has  no  quarrel  with  his  brother  what- 
ever, nor,  except  in  a  single  word,  does  he  intimate 
any  jealousy  of  him.  Two  acts,  and  half  the  third, 
are  passed  without  our  advancing  a  single  step 
towards  the  conclusion;  and  Abel  at  length  falls  by 
a  random  blow  given  in  a  struggle  of  which  the 
object  is  not  his  destruction,  but  the  overthrow  of 
Jehovah's  altar.  If  we  could  suppose  a  reader  to 
sit  down  to  a  perusal  of  the  drama  in  ignorance  of 
its  catastrophe,  he  could  scarcely  be  less  surprised 
by  its  termination  in  such  a  stroke  of  chance-medley, 
than  if  Abel  had  been  made  to  drop  down  in  at, 
apoplexy,  or  Cain  to  die  of  grief  over  Ins  body.  — 
B/s/iop  Heber.\ 


678 


CAIN. 


[act  iil 


With  stony  lifelessness !  Ah !  cruel  Cain  ! 
Why  cam'st  thou  not  in  time  to  save   him 

from 
This  violence  ?    Whatever  hath  assailed  him, 
Thou  wert  the  stronger,  and  should'st  have 

stepped  in 
Between   him    and    aggression !     Father !  — 

Eve!  — 
A.dah  i  —  come  hither !  Death  is  in  the  world ! 
[Exit  ZlLLAH,  calling  on  her  Parents,  etc. 
Cain  (solus).     And  who  hath  brought  him 

there  ?  —  I  —  who  abhor 
I"he  name  of  Death  so  deeply,  that  the  thought 
Empoisoned  all  my  life,  before  I  knew 
His  aspect  —  I  have  led  him  here,  and  giv'n 
My  brother  to  his  cold  and  still  embrace, 
As  if  he  would  not  have  asserted  his 
Inexorable  claim  without  my  aid. 
I  am  awake  at  last — a  dreary  dream 
Had    maddened    me; — but  he   shall   ne'er 

awake ! 

Enter  ADAM,  Eve,  ADAH,  and  ZlLLAH. 

Adam.    A  voice  of  woe  from  Zillah  brings 
me  here.  — 
What   do  I  see  ?  —  'Tis  true !  —  My  son !  — 

my  son ' 
Woman,  behold  the  serpent's  work,  and  thine  ! 

[To  Eve. 

Eve.  Oh!  speak  not  of  it  now:  the  serpent's 
fangs 
Are  in  my  heart.     My  best  beloved,  Abel ! 
Jehovah  !  this  is  punishment  beyond 
A  mother's  sin,  to  take  him  from  me ! 

Adam.  Who, 

Or  what  hath  done  this  deed  ?  — speak,  Cain, 

since  thou 
Wert  present ;  was  it  some  more  hostile  angel, 
Who  walks  not  with  Jehovah  ?  or  some  wild 
Brute  of  the  forest  ? 

Eve.  Ah !  a  livid  light 

Breaks  through,  as  from  a  thunder-cloud  !  yon 

brand, 
Massy  and  bloody !  snatched  from  off  the  altar, 
And  black  with  smoke,  and  red  with 

Adam.  Speak,  my  son ! 

Speak,  and  assure  us,  wretched  as  we  are, 
That  we  are  not  more  miserable  still. 

Adah.  Speak,  Cain  !  and  say  it  v,  as  not  thou! 

Eve.  It  was. 

(  see  it  now  —  he  hangs  his  gailty  head, 
And  covers  his  ferocious  eye  with  hands 
Incarnadine. 

Adah.  Mother,  thou  dost  him  wrong  — 

Cain !  clear  thee  from  this  horrible  accusal, 
Which  grief  wrings  from  our  parent. 

Eve.                                       Hear,  Jehovah ! 
May  the  eternal  serpent's  curse  be  on  him ! 
For  he  was  fitter  for  his  seed  than  ours 
May  all  his  days  be  desolate  !     May 

Adah.  Hold  1 

Curse  him  not,  mother,  for  he  is  thy  son  — 


Curse  him  not,  mother,  for  he  is  my  brother, 
And  my  betrothed. 

Eve.              He  hath  left  thee  no  brother  — 
Zillah  no  husband  —  me  no  son!  —  for  thus 
I  curse  him  from  my  sight  for  evermore ! 
All  bonds  I  break  between  us,  as  he  broke 
That   of  his  nature,   in  yon Oh   death! 

death ! 
Why  didst  thou  not  take  me,  who  first  incurred 

thee  ? 
Why  dost  thou  not  so  now  ? 

Adam.  Eve  !  let  i\ot  this , 

Thy  natural  grief,  lead  to  impiety ! 
A  heavy  doom  was  long  forespoken  to  us ; 
And  now  that  it  begins,  let  it  be  borne 
In  such  sort  as  may  show  our  God,  that  we 
Are  faithful  servants  to  his  holy  will. 

Eve  (pointing  to  Cain).  His  will  I!  the  will 

of  yon  incarnate  spirit 
Of  death,  whom  I  have  brought  upon  the  earth 
To  strew  it  with  the  dead.  May  all  the  curses 
Of  life  be  on  him  !  and  his  agonies 
Drive  him  forth  o'er  the  wilderness,  like  us,1 
From  Eden,  till  his  children  do  by  him 
As  he  did  by  his  brother !     May  the  swords 
And  wings  of  fiery  cherubim  pursue  him 
By  day  and  night  —  snakes  spring  up  in  his 

path —  f 
Earth's  fruits  be   ashes   in  his   mouth  —  the 

leaves 
On  which  he  lays  his  head  to  sleep  be  strewed 
With  scorpions !    May  his  dreams  be  of  his 

victim  ! 
His  waking  a  continual  dread  of  death ! 
Mav  the  clear  rivers  turn  to  blood  as  he 
Stoops  down  to  stain  them  with  his  raging  lip ! 
May  every  element  shun  or  change  to  him  ! 
May  he   live  in  the  pangs  which  others  die 

with! 
And  death  itself  wax  something  worse  than 

death 
To  him  who  first  acquainted  him  with  man ! 
Hence,  fratricide!    henceforth    that  word  is 

Cain, 
Through  all  the  coming  myriads  of  mankind, 
Who  shall  abhor  thee,  though  thou  wert  their 

sire ! 
May  the  grass  wither  from  thy  feet !  the  woods 
Deny  thee  shelter !  earth  a  home  !  the  dust 
A  grave !  the  sun  his  light !  and  heaven  her 

God !  2  [Exit  Eve. 

Adam.     Cain  !  get  thee  forth  :  we  dwell  no 

more  together. 
Depart !  and  'eave  the  dead  to  me  —  I  am 
Henceforth  alone  —  we  never  must  meet  more. 

1  [MS.  —  "Drive  him  forth  o'er  the  world,  as  we 
were  driven."] 
2  [The  three  last  lines  were  not  in  the  original 
MS.  In  forwarding  them  to  Mr.  Murray,  to  be 
added  to  Eve's  speech,  Byron  says  —  "There's  as 
prettv  a  piece  of  imprecation  for  you,  when  joined 
to  the  lines  already  sent,  as  you  may  wish  to  meet 


SCENE  I.} 


CAIN. 


679 


Adah.    Oh,  part  noi  with   him   thus,  my 
father:  do  not 
Add  thy  deep  curse  to  Eve's  upon  his  head ! 
Adam.     I  curse  him  not :  his  spirit  be  his 
curse. 
Come,  Zillah ! 
Zillah.     I  must  watch  my  husband's  corse. 
Adam.     We  will  return  again,  when  he  is 
gone 
Who  hath  provided  for  us  this  dread  office. 
Come,  Zillah ! 

Zillah.  Yet  one  kiss  on  yon  pale  clay, 

And  those  lips   once  so  warm  —  my  heart! 
my  heart ! 

[Exeunt  ADAM  and  ZILLAH  weeping. 
Adah.     Cain  !  thou  hast  heard,  we  must  go 
forth.     I  am  ready, 
So  shall  our  children  be.     I  will  bear  Enoch, 
And  you  his  sister.     Ere  the  sun  declines 
Let  us  depart,  nor  walk  the  wilderness 
Under  the  cloud  of  night.  —  Nay,  speak  to  me. 
To  me  —  thine  own. 

Cain.  Leave  me ! 

Adah.  Why,  all  have  left  thee. 

Cain.     And  wherefore  lingerest  thou  ?  Dost 
thou  not  fear 
To  dwell  with  one  who  hath  done  this  ? 

Adah.  I  fear 

Nothing  except  to  leave  thee,  much  as  I 
Shrink   from    the    deed   which    leaves    thee 

brotherless. 
I  must  not  speak  of  this  —  it  is  between  thee 
And  the  great  God. 
A  Voice  from  within  exclaims,  Cain!  Cain! 
Adah.  Hear'st  thou  that  voice  ? 

The  Voice  within.     Cain  !  Cain  ! 
Adah.  It  soundeth  like  an  angel's  tone. 

Enter  the  ANGEL  of  the  Lord. 

Angel.    Where  is  thy  brother  Abel  ? 
Cain.  Am  I  then 

My  brother's  keeper  ? 

Angel.  Cain  !  what  hast  thou  done  ? 

The  voice  of  thy  slain  brother's  blood  cries 

out, 
Even  from  the  ground,  unto  the  Lord !  —  Now 

art  thou 
Cursed  from  the  earth,  which  opened  late  her 

mouth 
"To  drink  thy  brother's  blood  from  thy  rash 

hand. 
"Henceforth,  when  thou  shalt  till  the  ground, 

it  shall  not 
Yield  thee  her  strength  ;  a  fugitive  shalt  thou 
Be  from  this  day,  and  vagabond  on  earth ! 


with  in  the  course  of  your  business.  But  don't 
forget  the  addition  of  these  three  lines,  which  are 
clinchers  to  Eve's  speech.  Let  me  know  what 
GifToid  thinks,  for  I  have  a  good  opinion  of  the 
piece,  as  poetry :  it  is  in  my  gay  metaphysical  style, 
tnd  in  the  Manfred  line."] 


Adah.    This  punishment  is  more  than  he 
can  bear. 
Behold,  thou   drivest  him   from   the   face   of 

earth, 
And  from  the  face  of  God  shall  he  be  hid. 
A  fugitive  and  vagabond  on  earth, 
'Twill  come  to  pass,  that  whoso  findeth  him 
Shall  slay  him. 

Cain.     Would    they  could!    but  who  arc 
they 
Shall  slay  me  ?    Where  are  these  on  the  lone 

earth 
As  yet  unpeopled  ? 

Angel.  Thou  hast  slain  thy  brother, 

And  who  shall  warrant  thee  against  thy  son  ? 
Adah.    Angel  of  Light !  be  merciful,  nor  say 
That  this  poor  aching  breast  now  nourishes 
A  murderer  in  my  boy,  and  of  his  father. 
Angel.     Then  he  would  but  be  what   his 
father  is. 
Did  not  the  miik  of  Eve  give  nutriment 
To  him  thou  now  see'st  so  besmeared  with 

blood  ? 
The    fratricide    might   well    engender   parri- 
cides.— 
But  it  shall  not  be  so  —  the  Lord  thy  God 
And  mine  commandeth  me  to  set  his  seal 
On  Cain,  so  that  he  may  go  forth  in  safety. 
Who   slayeth    Cain,   a  sevenfold   vengeance 

shall 
Be  taken  on  his  head.    Come  hither ! 

Cain.  Wh?t 

Wouldst  thou  with  me  ? 

Angel.  To  mark  upon  thy  brow 

Exemption   from   such   deeds    as   thou   hast 
done. 
Cain.     No,  let  me  die ! 
Angel.  It  must  not  be. 

[The  ANGEL  sets  the  mark  on  CAIN'S  brow. 
Cain.  It  burns 

My  brow,  but  nought  to  that  which  is  within  it. 
Is  there  more  ?  let  me  meet  it  as  I  may. 
Angel.     Stern  hast  thou  been  and  stubborn 
from  the  womb, 
As  the  ground  thou  must  henceforth  till ;  but 

he 
Thou   slew'st  was   gentle    as   the   flocks   he 
tended. 
Cain.    After  the  fall  too  soon  was  I  begotten  ; 
Ere  yet  my  mother's  mind  subsided  from 
The  serpent,  and  my  sire  still  mourned   for 

Eden. 
That  which  I  am,  I  am ;  I  did  not  seek 
For  life,  nor  did  I  make  myself;  but  could  I 
With   my  own  death   redeem  him  from  the 

dust  — 
And  why  not  so?  let  him  teturn  to-day, 
And  I  lie  ghastly  I  so  shall  be  restored 
By  God  the  life  to  him  he  loved  ;  and  taken 
From  me  a  being  I  ne'er  loved  to  bear. 

Angel.     Who  shall  heal  murder  ?     What  is 
done  is  done ! 


680 


CAIN. 


[act  III. 


Go  forth  !  fulfil  thy  days !  and  be  thy  deeds 
Unlike  the  last !  [  The  ANGEL  disappears. 

Adah.     He's  gone,  let  us  go  forth  ; 
I  hear  our  little  Enoch  cry  within 
Our  bower. 

Cain.     Ah  !  little  knows  he  what  he  weeps 

for! 
And  I  who  have   shed   blood   cannot   shed 

tears ! 
But  the  four  rivers l  would  not  cleanse  my 

soul. 
Think'st  thou  my  boy  will  bear  to  look  on  me  ? 
Adah.     If  I  thought  that  he  would  not,  I 

would — 
Cain  (interrupting  her).     No, 
No  more  of  threats:  we  have  had  too  many 

of  them : 
Go  to  our  children ;   I  will  follow  thee. 
Adah.     I  will  not  leave  thee   lonely  with 

the  dead ; 
Let  us  depart  together.2 

Cain.  Oh !  thou  dead 

And  everlasting  witness  !  whose  unsinking 
Blood  darkens  earth  and  heaven !  what  thou 

now  art 
I  know  not!  but  if  thou  see'st  what  /am, 
I  think  thou  wilt  forgive  him,  whom  his  God 
Can  ne'er  forgive,  nor  his  own  soul.  —  Fare- 
well ! 
I  must  not,  dare  not  touch  what  I  have  made 

thee. 
I,  who  sprung  from  the  same  womb  with  thee, 

drained 
The  same  breast,  clasped  thee  often  to  my  own, 
In  fondness  brotherly  and  boyish,  I 
Can  never  meet  thee  more,  nor  even  dare 
To  do  that  for  thee,  which  thou  shouldst  have 

done 
For  me  — ■  compose  thy  limbs  into  their  grave  — 
The  first  grave  yet  dug  for  mortality. 
But  who  hath  dug  that  grave  ?    Oh,  earth ! 

Oh,  earth ! 
For  all  the  fruits  thou  hast  rendered  to  me,  I 
Give  thee  back  this.  — -Now  for  the  wilderness. 

[ADAH  stoops  down  and  kisses  the  body  of 
Abel. 
Adah.     A  dreary,  and  an  early  doom,  my 

brother, 
Has  been  thy  lot !    Of  all  who  mourn  for  thee, 
I  alone  must  not  weep.     My  office  is 
Henceforth  to  dry  up  tears,  and  not  to  shed 

them ; 


1  The  "four  rivers"  which  flowed  round  Eden, 
and  consequently  the  only  waters  with  which  Cain 
was  acquainted  upon  earth. 

2  [The  catastrophe  is  brought  about  with  groat 
dramatic  skill  and  effect.  The  murderer  is  sorrow- 
ful and  confounded,  —  his  parents  reprobate  and 
renounce  him,  —  his  wife  clings  tq  him  with  eager 
and  unhesitating  affection:  and  they  wander  forth 
together  into  the  vast  solitude  ot   the  universe.  — 


But  yet  of  all  who  mourn,  none  mourn  like  me, 
Not  only  for  thyself,  but  him  who  slew  thee. 
Now,  Cain  !   I  will  divide  thy  burden  with  thee. 
Cain.     Eastward  from  Eden  will  we  take 
our  way ; 
'Tis  the  most  desolate,  and  suits  my  steps. 
Adah.     Lead  !  thou  shalt  be  my  guide,  an  I 
may  our  God 
Be  thine  !    Now  let  us  carry  forth  our  children. 
Cain.     And  he  who  lieth  there  was  child- 
less.    I 
Have  dried  the  fountain  of  a  gentle  race, 
Which  might   have  graced  his  recent  mar- 

riage  couch, 
And  might  have  tempered  this  stern  blood  of 

mine, 
Uniting  with  our  children  Abel's  offspring ! 
O  Abel ! 

Adah.     Peace  be  with  him  ! 

Cain.  But  with  me! 

[Exeuut.& 


3  [The  reader  has  seen  what  Sir  Walter  Scott's 
general  opinion  of  "Cain"  was,  in  the  letter  ap- 
pended to  the  dedication,  ante,  p.  653.  Moore's 
was  conveyed  to  Byron  in  these  words:  — 

"  I  have  read  Foscari  and  Cain.  The  former 
does  not  please  me  so  highly  as  Sardanapalus.  It 
has  the  fault  of  all  those  violent  Venetian  stories; 
being  unnatural  and  improbable,  and  therefore,  in 
spite  of  all  your  fine  management  of  them,  appeal- 
ing but  remotely  to  one's  sympathies.  But  Cain  is 
wonderful  —  terrible  —  never  to  be  forgotten.  If  I 
am  not  mistaken,  it  will  sink  deep  into  the  world's 
heart;  and  while  many  will  shudder  at  its  blas- 
phemy, all  must  fall  prostrate  before  its  grandeur. 
Talk  of  jEschylus  and  his  Prometheus!  —  here  is 
the  true  spirit  both  of  the  Poet  —  and  the  Devil." 

Byron's  answer  to  Moore  on  this  occasion 
contains  the  substance  of  all  that  he  ever  thought 
fit  to  advance  in  defence  of  the  assaulted  points  in 
his  "  Mystery  :  " — 

"  With  respect  to  religion,"  he  says,  "  can  I  never 
convince  you  that  /  hold  no  such  opinions  as  the 
characters  in  that  drama,  which  seems  to  have 
frightened  everybody?  My  ideas  of  a  character 
may  run  away  with  me:  like  all  imaginative  men, 
I,  of  course,  embody  myself  with  the  character 
-white  I  draxv  it,  but  not  a  moment  after  the  pen  is 
from  off  the  paper." 

He  thus  alludes  to  the  effects  of  the  critical  tem- 
pest excited  by  "Cain,"  in  the  eleventh  canto  of 
"  Don  Juan." 

"  In  twice  five  years  the  '  greatest  living  poet,' 
Like  to  the  champion  in  the  fisty  ring, 

Is  called  on  to  support  his  claim,  or  show  it, 
Although  'tis  an  imaginary  thing. 

Even  I  —  albeit  I'm  sure  I  did  not  know  it, 
Nor  sought  of  foolscap  subjects  to  be  king  — 

Was  reckoned,  a  considerable  time, 

The  Grand  Napoleon  of  the  realms  of  rhyme. 

"  But  Juan  was  my  Moscow,  and  Faliero 

My  Leipsic,  and  my  Mont  Saint  Jean  seems 
Cain." 

We  shall  now  present  the  reader  with  a  few  ol 
the  most  elaborate  summaries  of  the  contemporary 


SCENE   I.] 


CAIN. 


681 


critics,  —  favorable  and  unfavorable,  —  beginning 
with  the  Edinburgh  Review. 

Mr.  Jeffrey  says,  —  "  Though  '  Cain  '  abounds  in 
beautiful  passages,  and  shows  more  pozver,  per- 
haps, than  any  of  the  author's  dramatical  composi- 
tions, we  regret  very  much  that  it  should  ever  have 
been  published.  It  will  give  very  great  scandal 
and  offence  to  pious  persons  in  general,  and  may 
be  the  means  of  suggesting  the  most  painful  doubts 
and  distressing  perplexities  to  hundreds  of  minds 
that  might  never  otherwise  have  been  exposed  to 
such  dangerous  disturbance.  Lord  Byron  has  no 
priestlike  cant  or  priestlike  reviling  to  apprehend 
from  us.  We  do  not  charge  him  with  being  either 
a  disciple  or  an  apostle  of  Lucifer ;  nor  do  we 
describe  his  poetry  as  a  mere  compound  of  blas- 
phemy and  obscenity.  On  the  contrary,  we  are 
inclined  to  believe  that  he  wishes  well  to  the  hap- 
piness of  mankind,  and  are  glad  to  testify  that  his 
poems  abound  with  sentiments  of  great  dignity  and 
tenderness,  as  well  as  passages  of  infinite  sublimity 
and  beauty." 

The  Reviewer  in  the  Quarterly  was  Bishop 
Heber.     His  article  ends  as  follows:  — 

"  We  do  not  think,  that  there  is  much  vigor  or 
poetical  propriety  in  any  of  the  characters  of  Lord 
Byron's  Mystery.  Eve,  on  one  occasion,  and  one 
only,  expresses  herself  with  energy,  and  not  even 
then  with  any  great  depth  of  that  maternal  feeling 
which  the  death  of  her  favorite  son  was  likely  to 
excite  in  her.  Adam  moralizes  without  dignity. 
Abel  is  as  dull  as  he  is  pious.  Lucifer,  though  his 
first  appearance  is  well  conceived,  is  as  sententious 
and  sarcastic  as  a  Scotch  metaphysician;  and  the 
gravamina  which  drive  Cain  into  impiety  are  cir- 
cumstances which  could  only  produce  a  similar 
elfect  on  a  weak  and  sluggish  mind, — the  necessity 
of  exertion  and  the  fear  of  death !  Yet,  in  the  hap- 
piest climate  of  earth,  and  amid  the  early  vigor  of 
nature,  it  would  be  absurd  to  describe  (nor  has 
Lord  Byron  so  described  it)  the  toil  to  which  Cain 
can  have  been  subject  as  excessive  or  burdensome. 
And  he  is  made  too  happy  in  his  love,  too  extrava- 
gantly fond  of  his  wife  and  child,  to  have  much 
leisure  for  those  gloomy  thoughts  which  belong  to 
disappointed  ambition  and  jaded  licentiousness. 
Nor,  though  there  are  some  passages  in  this  drama 
of  no  common  power,  is  the  general  tone  of  its 
poetry  so  excellent  as  to  atone  for  these  imperfec- 
tions of  design.  The  dialogue  is  cold  and  con- 
strained. The  descriptions  are  like  the  shadows  of 
a  phantasmagoria,  at  once  indistinct  and  artificial. 
Except  Adah,  there  is  no  person  in  whose  fortunes 
we  are  interested;  and  we  close  the  book  with  no 
distinct  or  clinging  recollection  of  any  single  pas- 
sage in  it,  and  with  the  general  impression  only 
that  Lucifer  has  said  much  and  done  little,  and  that 
Cain  has  been  unhappy  without  grounds  and  wicked 
without  an  object.  But  if,  as  a  poem,  Cain  is  little 
qualified  to  add  to  Lord  Byron's  reputation,  we  are 
unfortunately  constrained  to  observe  that  its  poeti- 
cal defects  are  the  very  smallest  of  its  demerits.  It 
is  not,  indeed,  as  some  both  of  its  admirers  and  its 
enemies  appear  to  have  supposed,  a  direct  attack 
on  Scripture  and  on  the  authority  of  Moses.  The 
expressions  of  Cain  and  Luciler  are  not  more  offen- 
sive to  the  ears  of  piety  than  such  discourses  must 
necessarily  be,  or  than  Milton,  without  offence, 
has  put  into  the  mouths  of  beings  similarly  situ- 
ated," 


The  following  extract  is  from  Mr.  Campbell's 
Magazine:  — 

"'Cain,'  is  altogether  of  a  higher  order  than 
'  Sardanapalus  '  and  the  '  Two  Foscari.'  Lord 
Byron  has  not,  indeed,  fulfilled  our  expectations  of 
a  gigantic  picture  of  the  first  murderer;  for  there 
is  scarcely  any  passion,  except  the  immediate  ag- 
ony of  rage,  which  brings  on  the  catastrophe;  and 
Cain  himself  is  little  more  than  the  subject  of  super- 
natural agency.  This  piece  is  essentially  nothing 
but  a  vehicle  for  striking  allusions  to  the  mighty 
abstractions  of  Death  and  Life,  Eternity  and  Time; 
for  vast  but  dim  descriptions  of  the  regions  of  space, 
and  for  daring  disputations  on  that  great  problem, 
the  origin  of  evil.  The  groundwork  of  the  argu- 
ments on  the  awful  subjects  handled  is  very  com- 
mon-place ;  but  they  are  arrayed  in  great  majesty 
of  language,  and  conducted  with  a  frightful  audac- 
ity. The  direct  attacks  on  the  goodness  of  God 
are  not,  perhaps,  taken  apart,  bolder  than  some 
passages  of  Milton;  but  they  inspire  quite  a  differ- 
ent sensation;  because,  in  thinking  of  Paradise 
Lost,  we  never  regard  the  Deity,  or  Satan,  as  other 
than  great  adverse  powers,  created  by  the  imagina- 
tion of  the  poet.  The  personal  identity  which  Mil- 
ton has  given  to  his  spiritual  intelligences, —  the 
local  habitations  which  he  has  assigned  them,  —  the 
material  beauty  with  which  he  has  invested  their 
forms,  —  all  these  remove  the  idea  of  impurity  from 
their  discourses.  But  we  know  nothing  of  Lord 
Byron's  Lucifer,  except  his  speeches:  he  is  in- 
vented only  that  he  may  utter  them;  and  the  whole 
appears  an  abstract  discussion,  held  for  its  own  sake, 
not  maintained  in  order  to  serve  the  dramatic  con- 
sistency of  the  persons.  He  has  made  no  attempt 
to  imitate  Milton's  plastic  power;  — that  power  by 
which  our  great  poet  has  made  his  Heaven  and 
Hell,  and  the  very  regions  of  space,  sublime  reali- 
ties, palpable  to  the  imagination,  and  has  traced  the 
lineaments  of  his  angelic  messengers  with  the  pre- 
cision of  a  sculptor.  The  Lucifer  of  'Cain'  is  a 
mere  bodiless  abstraction,  —  the  shadow  of  a  dog- 
ma; and  all  the  scenery  over  which  he  presides  is 
dim,  vague,  and  seen  only  in  faint  outline.  There 
is,  no  doubt,  a  very  uncommon  power  displayed, 
even  in  this  shadowing  out  of  the  ethereal  journey 
of  the  spirit  and  his  victim,  and  in  the  vast  sketch 
of  the  world  of  phantasms  at  which  they  arrive : 
but  they  are  utterly  unlike  the  massive  grandeurs 
of  Milton's  creation.  We  are  far  from  imputing 
intentional  impiety  to  Lord  Byron  for  this  Mystery: 
nor,  though  its  language  occasionally  shocks,  do 
we  apprehend  any  danger  will  arise  from  its  perusal." 

So  much  for  the  professed  Reviewers.  We  shall 
conclude  with  a  passage  from  Sir  Egerton  Brydges's 
"  Letters  on  the  Character  and  Genius  of  Lord 
Byron : "  — 

"  I  remember,  when  I  first  read  '  Cain,'  I  thought 
it,  as  a  composition,  the  most  enchanting  and  irre- 
sistible of  all  Lord  Byron's  works;  and  I  think  so 
still.  Some  of  the  sentiments,  taken  detachedly, 
and  left  unanswered,  are  no  doubt  dangerous,  and 
therefore  ought  not  to  have  been  so  left;  but  the 
class  of  readers  whom  this  poem  is  likely  to  interest 
are  of  so  very  elevated  a  cast,  and  the  effect  of  the 
poetry  is  to  refine,  spiritualize,  and  illumine  the 
imagination  with  such  a  sort  of  unearthly  sublimity, 
that  the  mind  of  these,  I  am  persuaded,  will  become 
too  strong  to  incur  any  taint  thus  predicted,  from 
the  defect  which  has  been  so  much  insisted  on." 


HEAVEN    AND    EARTH;    A    MYSTERY, 

K>UNDED    ON    THE    FOLLOWING    PASSAGE    IN    GENESIS,   CHAP.   VI.  :    "  AND   IT  CAME  TO 

PASS    .    .    .    THAT    THE   SONS    OF    GOD    SAW    THE    DAUGHTERS   OF   MEN    THAT    THEY 

WERE    FAIR  ;    AND    THEY   TOOK    THEM   WIVES   OF  ALL  WHICH  THEY  CHOSE." 

"  And  woman  wailing  for  her  demon  lover."  —  Coleridge. 


INTRODUCTION. 


"  Heaven  and  Eartl.  *  was  written  at  Ravenna,  in  October,  1821.  In  forwarding  it  to  Mr  Murray, 
in  the  following  month,  Lord  Byron  says:  — "  Enclosed  is  a  lyrical  drama,  entitled  '  A  Mystery.'  You 
will  find  it  pious  enough,  I  trust  —  at  least  some  of  the  chorus  might  have  been  written  by  Sternhold  and 
Hopkins  themselves  for  that,  and  perhaps  for  melody.  As  it  is  longer,  and  more  lyrical  and  Greet,  than 
I  intended  at  first,  I  have  not  divided  it  into  acts,  but  called  what  I  have  sent  Fart  First;  as  there  is  a 
suspension  of  the  action  which  may  either  close  there  without  impropriety,  or  be  continued  in  a  way  that 
I  have  in  view.  I  wish  the  first  part  to  be  published  before  the  second;  because,  if  it  don't  succeed,  it  is 
better  to  stop  there,  than  to  go  on  in  a  fruitless  experiment." 

Though  without  delay  revised  by  Mr.  Gifford,  and  printed,  this  "  First  Part"  was  not  published  till 
1822,  when  it  appeared  in  the  second  number  of  the  "  Liberal."     The  "  Mystery  "  was  never  completed- 


ANGELS. 

Samiasa. 

AZAZIEL. 

Raphael  the  Archangel. 


DRAMATIS   PERSONS. 

MEN. 

NOAH  and  his  Sons. 

I  RAD. 

JAPHET. 


Anah. 
Aholibamah. 


Chorus  of  Spirits  of  the  Earth.  —  Chorus  of  Mortals, 


PART   I. 

SCENE  I.1  —  A  woody  and  mountainous  dis- 
trict near  Mount  Ararat. —  Time,  midnight. 

Enter  ANAH  and  AHOLIBAMAH. 

Anah,    Our  father  sleeps:    it  is  the  hour 
when  they 
Who  love  us  are  accustomed  to  descend 


1  [The  great  power  of  this  "  Mystery"  is  in  its 
fearless  and  daring  simplicity.  Lord  Byron  faces 
at   once  all   the  grandeur   of  his   sublime   subject 


Through  the  deep  clouds  o'er  rocky  Ararat :  — 
How  my  heart  beats  ! 

Alio.  Let  us  proceed  upon 

Our  invocation. 

Anah.  But  the  stars  are  hidden. 

I  trembie. 

Aho.  So  do  I,  but  not  with  fear 

Of  aught  save  their  delay. 

Anah.  Mv  sistei,  though 


He  seeks  for  nothing,  but  it  rises  before  him  in  :ts 
death-doomed  magnificence.  Man,  or  angel,  or 
demon,  the  being  who  mourns,  or  laments,  or  ex 


HEAVEN  AND   EARTH. 


683 


I  love  Azaziel  more  than oh,  too  much! 

What  was  I  going  to  say  ?    my  heart  grows 
impious. 
Aho.    And  where  is  the  impiety  of  loving 
Celestial  natures  ? 

Anah.  But,  Aholibamah, 

I  love  our  God  less  since  his  angel  loved  me : 
This  cannot  be  of  good;  and  though  I  know 

not 
That  I  do  wrong,  I  feel  a  thousand  fears 
Which  are  not  ominous  of  right. 

Aho.  Then  wed  thee 

Unto  some  son  of  clay,  and  toil  and  spin! 
There's  Japhet  loves  thee  well,  hath  loved  thee 

long: 
Marry,  and  bring  forth  dust ! 

Anah.  I  should  have  loved 

Azaziel  not  less  were  he  mortal ;  yet 
I  am  glad  he  is  not.     I  can  not  outlive  him. 
And  when  I  think  that  his  immortal  wings 
Will  one  day  hover  o'er  the  sepulchre 
Of  the  poor  child  of  clay  which  so  adored  him, 
As  he  adores  the  Highest,  death  becomes 
Less  terrible  ;  but  yet  I  pity  him  : 
His  grief  will  be  of  ages,  or  at  least 
Mine  would   be   such   for  him,  were    I    the 

seraph, 
And  he  the  perishable. 

Aho.  Rather  say, 

That  he  will  single  forth  some  other  daughter 
Of  Earth,  and  love  her  as  he  once  loved  Anah. 
Anah.    And  if  it  should  be  so,  and  she  loved 
him, 
Better  thus  than  that  he  should  weep  for  me. 
Aho.     If  I  thought  thus  of  Samiasa's  love, 
All  seraph  as  he  is,  I'd  spurn  him  from  me. 
But  to  our  invocation  ! —  'Tis  the  hour. 
Anah.  Seraph ! 

From  thy  sphere ! 
Whatever  star  contain  thy  glory ; 
In  the  eternal  depths  of  heaven 
Albeit  thou  watchest  with  "  the  seven,'"1 
Though  through  space  infinite  and  hoary 


ults,  is  driven  to  speak  by  his  own  soul.  The 
angels  deign  not  to  use  many  words,  even  to  their 
beautiful  paramours;  and  they  scorn  Noah  and  his 
sententious  sons.  The  first  scene  is  a  woody  and 
mountainous  district,  near  Mount  Ararat;  and  the 
time  midnight.  Mortal  creatures,  conscious  of 
their  own  wickedness,  have  heard  awful  predictions 
of  the  threatened  flood,  and  all  their  lives  are  dark- 
ened with  terror.  But  the  sons  of  God  have  been 
dwellers  on  earth,  and  women's  hearts  have  been 
stirred  by  the  beauty  of  these  celestial  visitants. 
Anah  and  Aholibamah,  two  of  these  angel-stricken 
maidens,  come  wandering  along  while  others  sleep, 
to  pour  forth  their  invocations  to  their  demon  lov- 
ers. They  are  of  very  different  characters:  Anah, 
soft,  gentle,  and  submissive;  Aholibamah,  proud, 
impetuous,  and  aspiring  —  the_  one  loving  in  fear, 
and  the  other  in  ambition.  —  Wilson. 

1  The  archangels,  said  to  be  seven  in  number, 
and  to  occupy  the  eighth  rank  tn  the  celestial  hier- 
archy. 


Before    thy    bright    wings    worlds    be 
driven, 

Yet  hear ! 
Oh !  think  of  her  who  holds  thee  dear! 

And  though  she  nothing  is  to  thee, 
Yet  think  that  thou  art  all  to  her. 
Thou  canst  not  tell  —  and  never  be 
Such  pangs  decreed  to  aught  save  me,— =• 
The  bitterness  of  tears. 
Eternity  is  in  thine  years, 
Unborn,  undying  beauty  in  thine  eyes; 
With  me  thou  canst  not  sympathize, 
Except  in  love,  and  there  thou  must 
Acknowledge  that  more  loving  dust 
Ne'er  wept  beneath  the  skies. 
Thou  walk'st  thy  many  worlds,  thou  see'st 

The  face  of  him  who  made  thee  great, 
As  he  hath  made  me  of  the  least 
Of  those  cast  out  from  Eden's  gate : 
Yet,  Seraph  dear ! 
Oh  hear! 
For  thou  hast  loved  me,  and  I  would  not  die 
Until  I  know  what  I  must  die  in  knowing, 
That  thou  forget'st  in  thine  eternity 

Her  whose  heart  death  could  not  keep 
from  o'erflowing 
For  thee,  immortal  essence  as  thou  art ! 
Great  is  their  love  who  love  in  sin  and  fear; 
And  such,  I  feel,  are  waging  in  my  heart 
A  war  unworthy :  to  an  Adamite 
Forgive,  my  Seraph !    that   such   thoughts 
appear, 
For  sorrow  is  our  element; 
Delight 
An  Eden  kept  afar  from  sight, 

Though    sometimes  with  our  visions 
blent. 
The  hour  is  near 
Which   tells   me  we   are    not    abandoned 
quite. — 

Appear!  Appear! 
Seraph ! 
My  own  Azaziel !  be  but  here, 
And  leave  the  stars  to  their  own  light. 
Aho.  Samiasa ! 

Wheresoe'er 
Thou  rulest  in  the  upper  air  — 
Or  warring  with  the  spirits  who  may  dare 
Dispute  with  Him 
Who  made  all  empires,  empire  ;  or  recalling 
Some  wandering  star,  which  shoots  through 
the  abyss, 
Whose  tenants  dying,  while  their  world  is 

falling, 
Share  the  dim  destiny  of  clay  in  this ; 
Or  joining  with  the  inferior  cherubim, 
Thou  deignest  to  partake  their  hymn  — 
Samiasa ! 
I  call  thee,  I  await  thee,  and  I  love  thee. 

Many  may  worship  thee,  that  will  I  not : 
If  that  thy  spirit  down  to  mine  may  move 
thee. 


684 


HEAVEN  AND  EARTH. 


[PAiT   L 


Descend  and  share  my  lot! 
Though  I  be  formed  of  clay, 

And  thou  of  beams 
More  bright  than  those  of  day 
On  Eden's  streams, 
Thine  immortality  can  not  repay 

With  love  more  warm  than  mine 
My  love.    There  is  a  ray 

In  me,  which,  though  forbidden  yet  to 

shine, 
I  feel  was  lighted  at  thy  God's  and  thine. 
It  may  be  hidden  long :  death  and  decay 
Our   mother   Eve    bequeathed   us  —  but 
my  heart 
Defies  it :  though  this  life  must  pass  away 
Is  that  a  cause  for  thee  and  me  to  part  ? 
Thou  art  immortal  —  so  am  I :  I  feel  — 

I  feel  my  immortality  o'ersweep 
All  pains,  all  tears,  all  time,  all  fears,  and 
peal, 
Like  the  eternal  thunders  of  the  deep, 
Into  my  ears  this  truth — "Thou  liv'st  for 
ever! " 
But  if  it  be  in  joy 
I  know  not,  nor  would  know ; 
That  secrets  rest  with  the  Almighty  giver 
Who  folds  in  clouds  the  fonts  of  bliss  and 
woe, 

But  thee  and  me  he  never  can  de- 
stroy ; 
Change  us  he  may,  but  not  o'ervvhelm  ;    we 
are 
Of  as  eternal  essence,  and  must  war 
With  him  if  he  will  war  with  us  :  with  thee 
I  can  share  all  things,  even  immortal 
sorrow ; 
For  thou  hast  ventured  to  share  life  with  me. 
And  shall  /  shrink  from  thine  eternity  ? 
No  !  though  the  serpent's  sting  should  pierce 

me  through, 
And  thou  thyself  wert  like  the  serpent,  coil 
Around  me  still !  and  I  will  smile, 
And  curse  thee  not ;  but  hold 
Thee  in  as  warm  a  fold 

As but  descend;  and  prove 

A  mortal's  love 
For  an  immortal.     If  the  skies  contain 
More  joy  than  thou  canst  give  and  take,  re- 
main ! l 
Anah.     Sister!  sister!  I  view  them  winging 
Their  bright  way  through  the  parted  night. 
Aho.     The   clouds   from  nff  their  pinions 
flinging, 
As  though  they  bore  to-morrow's  light. 
Anah.     But  if  our  father  see  the  sight ! 

1  [This  invocation  is  extremely  beautiful :  its 
chief  beauty  lies  in  the  continuous  and  meandering 
flow  of  its  impassioned  versification.  At  its  close, 
—  and  it  might  well  win  down  to  earth  erring  angels 
from  heaven, —  the  maidens  disappear  in  the  mid- 
night darkness,  hoping  the  presence  of  their  celes- 
tial lovers. —  lViisonJ\ 


Aho.     He  would  but  deem  it  was  the  moon 
Rising  unto  some  sorcerer's  tunc 
An  hour  too  soon. 

Anah.     They  come!  he  comes! — Azaziell 

Aho.  Haste 

To  meet  them  !     Oh  !  for  wings  to  bear 
My  spirit,  while  they  hover  there, 
To  Samiasa's  breast ! 

Anah.     Lo !  they  have  kindled  all  the  west. 
Like  a  returning  sunset ;  —  lo ! 

On  Ararat's  late  secret  crest 
A  mild  and  many-colored  bow, 
The  remnant  of  their  flashing  path, 
Now  shines  !  and  now,  behold  !  it  hath 
Returned  to  night,  as  rippling  foam, 

Which  the  leviathan  hath  lashed 
From  his  unfathomable  home, 
When  sporting  on  the  face  of  the  calm  deep, 

Subsides  soon  after  he  again  hath  dashed 
Down,  down,  to  where  the  ocean's  fountains 
sleep.2 

Aho.    They  have  touched  earth  !  Samiasa! 

Anah.  MyAzaziel! 

\Exeunt 

SCENE  II.8—  Enter  IRAD  and  JAPHET. 

Irad.     Despond  not:   wherefore  wilt  thou 
wanderthus 
To  add  thy  silence  to  the  silent  night, 
And  lift  thy  tearful  eye  unto  the  stars  ? 
They  cannot  aid  thee. 

Japh.  But  they  soothe  me  —  now 

Perhaps  she  looks  upon  them  as  I  look. 
Methinks  a  being  that  is  beautiful 
Becometh  more  so  as  it  looks  on  beauty, 
The  eternal  beauty  of  undving  things. 
Oh,  Anah! 

Irad.  But  she  loves  thee  not. 

Japh.  Alas ! 

Irad.     And  proud  Aholibamah  spurns  me 
also. 

yaph.     I  feel  for  thee  too. 

Irad.  Let  her  keep  her  pride, 

Mine  hath  enabled  me  to  bear  her  scorn : 
It  may  be,  time  too  will  avenge  it. 

yaph.  Canst  thou 

Find  joy  in  such  a  thought  ? 

trad.  Nor  joy  nor  sorrow. 

I  loved  her  well ;  I  would  have  loved  her  bet- 
ter, 


-  [Lord  Byron  here  takes  a  wide  career,  and  is 
sometimes  obscure  and  confused;  but  the  flashes  of 
fire  continually  break  through,  and  illumine  the 
clouds  of  smoke  and  vapor.  The  extravagance  is 
dictated  by  passion.  His  muse,  even  in  her  rid- 
dles and  digressions,  has  a  svbil-like,  prophetic 
lury.  —  Jeffrey. \ 

3  [In  the  second  scene,  Japhet,  Noah's  son,  and 
Irad  —  the  earthly  and  despised  lovers  of  the  two 
maidens  —  appear.  Their  talk  is  somewhat  dull; 
which,  we  presume,  is  natural  in  such  circum 
stances.  —  Wilson.} 


SCENE  II.] 


HEAVEN  AND  EARTH. 


685 


Had  love  been  met  with  love  :  as  'tis,  I  leave  her 
To  brighter  destinies,  if  so  she  deems  them. 

Japh.     What  destinies  ? 

Irad.  I  have  some  cause  to  think 

She  loves  another. 

Japh.  Anah ! 

Irad.  No  ;  her  sister. 

Japh.     What  other  ? 

Irad.  That  I  know  not ;  but  her  air, 

If  not  her  words,  tells  me  she  loves  another. 

Japh.     Ay,  but  not  Anah  :  she  but  loves  her 
God. 

Irad.     Whate'er  she  loveth,  so  she  loves 
thee  not, 
What  can  it  profit  thee  ?  1 

Japh.  True,  nothing;  but 

I  love. 

Irad.    And  so  did  I. 

Japh.  And  now  thou  Iov'st  not, 

Or  think'st  thou  Iov'st  not,  art  thou  happier  ? 

Irad.  Yes. 

Japh.     I  pity  thee. 

Irad.  Me  !  why  ? 

Japh.  For  being  happy 

Deprived  of  that  which  makes  my  misery. 

Irad.     I  take  thy  taunt  as  part  of  thy  dis- 
temper, 
And  would  not  feel  as  thou   dost   for  more 

shekels 
Than  all  our  father's  herds  would  bring  if 

weighed 
Against  the  metal  of  the  sons  of  Cain  — 
The  yellow  dust  they  try  to  barter  with  us, 
As  if  such  useless  and  discolored  trash, 
The  refuse  of  the  earth,  could  be  received 
For  milk,  and  wool,  and  flesh,  and  fruits,  and 

all 
Our  flocks  and  wilderness  afford.  —  Go,  Ja- 

phet, 
Sigh   to   the   stars,   as   wolves    howl    to   the 

moon  — 
I  must  back  to  my  rest. 

Japh.  And  so  would  I 

If  I  could  rest. 

Irad.  Thou  wilt  not  to  our  tents  then  ? 

Japh.    No,  Irad  ;  I  will  to  the  cavern,  whose 
Mouth  they  say  opens  from  the  internal  world 
To  let  the  inner  spirits  of  the  earth 
Forth  when  they  walk  its  surface. 

Irad.  Wherefore  so  ? 

What  wouldst  thou  there  ? 

Japh.  Soothe  further  my  sad  spirit 

With  gloom  as  sad :  it  is  a  hopeless  spot, 
And  1  am  hopeless. 


1  [This  is  one  of  those  bitter,  taunting  sarcasms 
that  escape  Lord  Byron's  pen,  in  spite  of  himself. 
Japhet  is  afterwards  introduced  alone  in  a  moun- 
tainous cave;  and  his  soliloquy,  bemoaning  his 
own  fate,  and  the  approaching  destruction  of  man- 
kind, is  interrupted  by  a  laugh  of  demons,  rejoic- 
ing over  the  event.  This  scene  is  terrific.  —  Jeff- 
rey.} 


Irad.  But  'tis  dangerous  ; 

Strange   sounds  and  sights  have  peopled  it 

with  terrors. 
I  must  go  with  thee. 

Japh.  Irad.no;  believe  me 

I  feel  no  evil  thought,  and  fear  no  evil. 

Irad.     But  evil  things  will  be  thy  foe  the 

more 
As  not  being  of  them :  turn  thy  steps  aside. 
Or  let  mine  be  with  thine. 

Japh.  No,  neither,  Irad; 

I  must  proceed  alone. 

Irad.  Then  peace  be  with  thee ! 

[Exit  Irad. 

Japh.  (solus).     Peace!    I    have   sought    it 

where  it  should  be  found, 
In  love  —  with  love,  too,  which  perhaps  de- 
served it ; 
And,  in  its  stead,  a  heaviness  of  heart  — 
A  weakness  of  the  spirit  —  listless  days, 
And  nights  inexorable  to  sweet  sleep  — 
Have  come  upon  me.     Peace  !  what  peace  ? 

the  calm 
Of  desolation,  and  the  stillness  of 
The  untrodden  forest,  only  broken  by 
The  sweeping  tempest  through  its  groaning 

boughs ; 
Such  is  the  sullen  or  the  fitful  state 
Of  my  mind  overworn.     The  earth's  grown 

wicked, 
And  many  signs  and  portents  have  proclaimed 
A  change  at  hand,  and  an  o'erwhelming  doom, 
To  perishable  beings.     Oh,  my  Anah  ! 
When  the  dread  hour  denounced  shall  open 

wide 
The  fountains  of  the  deep,  how  mightest  thou 
Have  lain  within  this  bosom,  folded  from 
The  elements;  this  bosom, which  in  vain 
Hath  beat  for  thee,  and  then  will  beat  more 

vainly, 
While  thine Oh,  God!  at  least  remit  to 

her 
Thy  wrath  !  for  she  is  pure  amidst  the  failing 
As  a  star  in  the  clouds,  which  cannot  quench, 
Although  they  obscure  it  for  an  hour.     My 

Anah  ! 
How   would   I    have  adored  thee,   but  thou 

wouldst  not, 
And  still  would  I  redeem  thee  —  see  thee  live 
When  ocean  is  earth's  grave,  and,  unopposed 
By  rock  or  shallow,  the  leviathan, 
Lord  of  the  shoreless  sea  and  watery  world, 
Shall  wonder  at  his  boundlessness  of  realm. 
[Exit  Japhet. 

Enter  NOAH  and  SHEM. 

Noah.     Where  is  thy  brother  Japhet  ? 

Shem.  He  went  forth, 

According  to  his  wont,  to  meet  with  Irad, 
He  said ;  but,  as  I  fear,  to  bend  his  steps 
Towards  Anah's  tents,  round  which  he  hovers 
nightly, 


686 


HEAVEN  AND  EARTH. 


[part  1 


Like  a  dove  round  and  round  its  pillaged  nest ; 
Or  else  he  walks  the  wild  up  to  the  cavern 
Which  opens  to  the  heart  of  Ararat. 
Noah.     What  doth  he  there  ?     It  is  an  evil 
spot 
Upon  an  earth  all  evil ;  for  things  worse 
Than  even  wicked  men  resort  there  :  he 
Still  loves  this  daughter  of  a  fated  race, 
Although  he  could  not  wed  her  if  she  loved 

him, 
And   that   she  doth  not.    Oh,  the   unhappy 

hearts 
Of  men  !  that  one  of  my  blood,  knowing  well 
The  destiny  and  evil  of  these  days, 
And  that   the  hour  approacheth,  should  in- 
dulge 
In  such  forbidden  yearnings !    Lead  the  way  — 
He  must  be  sought  for! 

Shem.  Go  not  forward,  father : 

I  will  seek  Japhet. 

Noah.  Do  not  fear  for  me : 

All  evil  things  are  powerless  on  the  man 
Selected  by  Jehovah.  —  Let  us  on. 

Shem.     To  the  tents  of  the  father  of  the  sis- 
ters ? 
Noah.     No ;  to  the  cavern  of  the  Caucasus. 
[Exeunt  NOAH  and  SHEM. 

SCENE  III. —  The    mountains.  —  A    cavern, 
and  the  rocks  of  Caucasus. 

Japh.  (solus).    Ye  wilds,  that  look  eternal; 
and  thou  cave, 
Which  seem'st  unfathomable;  and  ye  moun- 
tains, 
So  varied  and  so  terrible  in  beauty ; 
Here,  in  your  rugged  majesty  of  rocks 
And  toppling  trees  that  twine  their  roots  with 

stone 
In  perpendicular  places,  where  the  foot 
Of  man  would  tremble,  could  he  reach  them 

—  yes, 
Ye  look  eternal !     Yet,  in  a  few  days, 
Perhaps  even  hours,  ye  will  be  changed,  rent, 

hurled 
Before  the  mass  of  waters ;  and  yon  cave, 
Which  seems  to  lead  into  a  lower  world, 
Shall  have  its  depths  searched  by  the  sweeping 

wave, 
And  dolphins  gambol  in  the  lion's  den ! 
And  man  —  Oh,  men!  my  fellow-beings  !  Who 
Shall  weep  above  your  universal  grave, 
Save  I  ?  Who  shall  be  left  to  weep  ?  My  kins- 
men, 
Alas !  what  am  I  better  than  ye  are, 
That  I  must  live  beyond  ye  ?     Where  shall  be 
The  pleasant  places  where  I  thought  of  Anah 
While  I  had  hope  ?  or  the  more  savage  haunts, 
Scarce  less  beloved,  where  I  despaired  for  her  ? 
And  can  it  be  !  —  Shall  yon  exulting  peak, 
Whose  glittering  top  is  like  a  distant  star, 
Lie  low  beneath  the  boiling  of  the  deep  ? 


No  more  to  have  the  morning  sun  break  forth, 
And  scatter  back  the  mists  in  floating  folds 
From  its  tremendous  brow  ?  no  more  to  hava 
Day's  broad  orb  drop  behind  its  head  at  even, 
Leaving  it  with  a  crown  of  many  hues  ? 
No  more  to  be  the  beacon  of  the  world, 
For  angels  to  alight  on,  as  the  spot 
Nearest  the  stars  ?  And  can  those  words  "  no 

more" 
Be  meant  for  thee,  for  all  things,  save  for  us, 
And  the  predestined  creeping  things  reserved 
By  my  sire  to  Jehovah's  bidding  ?  May 
He  preserve  them,  and  /  not  have  the  power 
To   snatch  the  loveliest  of  earth's  daughters 

from 
A  doom  which  even  some  serpent,  with  his 

mate, 
Shall  'scape  to  save  his  kind  to  be  prolonged, 
To  hiss  and   sting  through   some  emerging 

world, 
Reeking  and  dank  from  out  the  slime,  whose 

ooze 
Shall  slumber  o'er  the  wreck  of  this  until 
The  salt  morass  subside  into  a  sphere 
Beneath  tne  sun,  and  be  the  monument, 
The  sole  and  undistinguished  sepulchre, 
Of  yet  quick  myriads  of  all  life  ?     How  much 
Breath  will  be  stilled  at  once  !     All  beauteous 

world      ' 
So  young,  so  marked  out  for  destruction,  I 
With  a  cleft  heart  look  on  thee  day  by  day, 
And  night  by  night,  thy  numbered  days  and 

nights : 
I  cannot  save  thee,  cannot  save  even  her 
Whose  love  had  made  me  love  thee  more ; 

but  as 
A  portion  of  thy  dust,  I  cannot  think 
Upon  thy  coming  doom  without  a  feeling 
Such  as  —  Oh  God!  and  canst  thou  — 

[He  pauses) 

A  rushing  sound  from  the  cavern  is  heard,  and 
shouts  of  laughter  —  afterwards  a  Spirit 
passes. 

Japh.  In  the  name 

Of  the  Most  High,  what  art  thou  ? 

Spirit  (laughs).  Ha!  ha!  ha! 

Japh.    By  all  that  earth  holds  holiest,  speak ! 
Spirit  (laughs).  Ha!  ha! 

Japh.    By  the  approaching  deluge !  by  the 
earth 
Which  will  be  strangled  by  the  ocean !  by 
The  deep  which  will  lay  open  all  her  foun- 
tains! 
The  heaven  which  will  convert  her  clouds  to 
seas, 


1  [This  soliloquy  has  the  fault  of  being  too  long 
and  wire-drawn.  At  its  close,  spirits  rush  from  the 
cavern,  and  exult  in  the  approaching  calamity  of 
the  world  :  a  dialogue  ensues  between  Japhet  and 
one  of  them,  and  a  chorus  is  sung  by  a  body  of 
them,  part  of  which  is  truly  noble.  —  Campbell.] 


SCENE  III.] 


HEAVEN  AND  EARTH. 


687 


And  the  Omnipotent  who  makes  and  crushes ! 
Thou  unknown,  terrible,  and  indistinct, 
Yet  awful  Thing  of  Shadows,  speak  to  me  ! 
Why  dost  thou  laugh  that  horrid  laugh  ? 
Spirit.  Why  weep'st  thou  ? 

Japh.     For  earth  and  all  her  children. 
Spirit.         Ha!  ha!  ha!       [Spirit  vanishes. 
Japh.     How  the  fiend  mocks  the  tortures  of 
a  world, 
The  coming  desolation  of  an  orb, 
On  which  the  sun  shall  rise  and  warm  no  life  ! 
How  the  earth  sleeps !  and  all  that  in  it  is 
Sleep  too  upon  the  very  eve  of  death  ! 
Why  should  they  wake  to  meet  it  ?     What  is 

here, 
Which  look  like  death  in  life,  and  speak  like 

things 
Born  ere  this  dying  world  ?    They  come  like 
clouds ! 

[Various  Spirits  pass  from  the  cavern. 
Spirit.         Rejoice! 
The  abhorred  race 
Which  could  not  keep  in  Eden  their  high  place, 

But  listened  to  the  voice 
Of  knowledge  without  power, 
Are  nigh  the  hour 
Of  death ! 
Not  slow,  not  single,  not  by  sword,  nor  sorrow, 
Nor  years,  nor  heart-break,   nor  time's 
sapping  motion, 
Shall  they  drop  off.    Behold  their  last  to-mor- 
row! 
Earth  shall  be  ocean ! 
And  no  breath, 
Save  of  the  winds,  be  on  the  unbounded  wave ! 
Angels  shall  tire  their  wings,  but  find  no  spot : 
Not  even  a  rock  from  out  the  liquid  grave 

Shall  lift  its  point  to  save, 
Or  show  the  place  where  strong  Despair  hath 
died, 
After  long  looking  o'er  the  ocean  wide 
For  the  expected  ebb  which  cometh  not : 
All  shall  be  void, 
Destroyed ! 
Another  element  shall  be  the  lord 

Of  life,  and  the  abhorred 
Children  of  dust  be  quenched ;  and  of  each  hue 
Of  earth  nought  left  but  the  unbroken  blue  ; 
And  of  the  variegated  mountain 
Shall  nought  remain 
Unchanged,  or  of  the  level  plain  ; 
Cedar  and  pine  shall  lift  their  tops  in  vain  : 
All  merged  within  the  universal  fountain, 
Man,  earth,  and  fire,  shall  die, 
And  sea  and  sky 
Look  vast  and  lifeless  in  the  eternal  eye. 
Upon  the  foam 
Who  shall  erect  a  home  ? 
Japh.  {coming  fonvard).     My  sire! 
Earth's  seed  shall  not  expire ; 
Only  the  evil  shall  be  put  away 
From  day. 


Avaunt !  ye  exulting  demons  of  the  waste  1 
Who  howl  your  hideous  joy 
When    God    destroys  whom    you   dare  not 
destroy ; 

Hence !  haste ! 
Back  to  your  inner  caves ! 
Until  the  waves 
Shall  search  you  in  your  secret  place, 
And  drive  your  sullen  race 
Forth,  to  be  rolled  upon  the  tossing  winds 
In  restless  wretchedness  along  all  space! 
Spirit.  Son  of  the  saved  ! 

When  thou  and  thine  have  braved 
The  wide  and  warring  element ; 
When  the  great  barrier  of  the  deep  is  rent, 
Shall  thou  and  thine  be  good  or  happy  ?  —  No  ! 
Thy  new  world  and  new  race  shall   be  of 

woe  — 
Less  goodly  in  their  aspect,  in  their  years 
Less  than  the  glorious  giants,  who 
Yet  walk  the  world  in  pride, 
The  Sons  of  Heaven  by  many  a  mortal  bride. 
Thine  shall  be  nothing  of  the  past,  save  tears. 
And  art  thou  not  ashamed 

Thus  to  survive, 
And  eat,  and  drink,  and  wive  ? 
With  a  base  heart  so  far  subdued  and  tamed, 
As  even  to  hear  this  wide  destruction  named, 
Without   such  grief  and  courage,  as  should 
rather 
Bid  thee  await  the  world-dissolving  wave, 
Than  seek  a  shelter  with  thy  favored  father, 
And  build  thy  city  o'er  the  drowned  earth's 
grave  ? 

Who  would  outlive  their  kind, 
Except  the  base  and  blind  ? 
Mine 
Hateth  thine 
As  of  a  different  order  in  the  sphere, 
But  not  our  own. 
There  is  not  one  who  hath  not  left  a  throne 

Vacant  in  heaven  to  dwell  in  darkness  here 
Rather  than  see  his  mates  endure  alone. 

Go,  wretch  !  and  give 
A  life  like  thine  to  other  wretches  —  live! 
And  when  the  annihilating  waters  roar 
Above  what  they  have  dontf 
Envy  the  giant  patriarchs  then  no  more, 
And  scorn  thy  sire  as  the  surviving  one! 
Thyself  for  being  his  sonij 

Chorus  of  Spirits  issuing  from  the  cavern 
Rejoice ! 
No  more  the  human  voice 
Shall  vex  our  joys  in  middle  air 
With  prayer ; 
No  more 
Shall  they  adore ; 
And  we,  who  ne'er  for  ages  have  adored 
The  prayer-exacting  Lord, 
To  whom  the  omission  of  a  sacrifioe 
Is  vice ; 


688 


HEAVEN  AND  EARTH. 


f PA*T  \ 


We,  we   shall   view  the  deep's  salt  sources 

poured 
Until  one  element  shall  do  the  work 
Of  all  in  chaos ;  until  they, 
The  creatures  proud  of  their  poor  clay, 
Shall  perish,  and  their  bleached  bones  shall 

lurk 
In  caves,  in  dens,  in  clefts  of  mountains,  where 
The  deep  shall  follow  to  their  latest  lair; 

Where  even  the  brutes,  in  their  despair, 
shall  cease  to  prey  on  man  and  on  each  other, 

And  the  striped  tiger  shall  lie  down  to  die 
3;?side    the    lamb,   as   though   he   were   his 
brother ; 

Till  all  things  sha!!  be  as  thev  were, 
Silent  and  uncreated,  save  the  sky  : 
While  a  brief  truce 
Is  made  with  Death,  who  shall  forbear 
The  little  remnant  of  the  past  creation, 
To  generate  new  nations  for  his  use  ; 
This  remnant,  floating  o'er  the  undulation 
Of  the  subsiding  deluge,  from  its  slime, 
When  the  hot  sun  hath  baked  the  reeking 
soil 
Into  a  world,  shall  give  again  to  Time 
New   beings  —  years  —  diseases  —  sorrow  — 

crime  — 
With  all  companionship  of  hate  and  toil, 

Until 

Japh.  {interrupting them).    The  eternal  will 
Shall  deign  to  expound  this  dream 
Of  good  and  evil ;  and  redeem 
Unto  himself  all  times,  ali  things; 
And,  gathered  under  his  almighty  winge. 
Abolish  hell! 
And  to  the  expiated  Earth 
Restore  the  beauty  of  her  birth, 

Her  Eden  in  an  endless  paradise. 
Where  man  no  more  can  fall  as  once  he  fell, 
And  even  the  very  demons  shall  do  well! 
Spirits.     And  when   shall  take   effect  this 

wondrous  spell  ? 
Japh.     When  the  Redeemer  cometh  ;  first 
in  pain, 

And  then  in  glorv. 
Spirit.     Meantime  still  struggle  in  th .?  mor- 
tal chain, 

Till  earth  wax  hoary; 
War  with  yourselves,  and  hell," and  heaven,  in 
vain, 

Until  the  clouds  look  gory 
With  the  blood  reekingfrom  each  battle  plain  ; 
Xew  times,  new  climes,  new  arts,  new  men; 

but  still, 
The  same  old  tears,  old  crimes,  and  oldest  ill, 
Shall  be  amongst  your  race  in  different  forms  ; 
But  the  same  moral  storms 
Shall  oversweep  the  future,  as  the  waves 
In  a  few  hours  the  glorious  giants'  graves.1 

'  'And  there  were  giants  in  the  earth  in  those 
days,  ai.d  after;  mighty  men,  which  were  of  old, 
own  of  renown."  —  Genesis. 


Chorus  of  Spirits. 

Brethren,  rejoice! 
Mortal,  farewell! 
Hark !  hark !  already  we  can  hear  the  voice 
Of  growing  ocean's  gloomy  swell ; 
The  winds,  too,  plume  their  piercing  wings; 
The  clouds  have  nearly  filled  their  springs; 
The  fountains   of  the   great   deep   shall   be 
broken. 
And  heaven  set  wide  her  windows  ;2  while 
mankind 
View,  unacknowledged,  each  tremendous  to- 
ken— 
Still,  as  they  were  from  the  beginning,  blind. 
We  hear  the  sound  they  cannot  hear, 
The  mustering  thunders  of  the  threaten- 
ing sphere ; 
Yet  a   few  hours  their  coming  is  de- 
layed — 
Their  flashing  banners,  folded  still  on 

hiph. 
Yet  undisplayed, 
Save  to  the  Spirit's  all-pervading  eye. 

Howl !  howl !  oh  Earth ! 
Thy  death  is  nearer  than  thy  recent  birth  : 
Tremble,  ye  mountains,  soon  to  shrink  below 

Thefocean's  overflow ! 
The  wave  shall  break  upon  your  cliffs  ;  and 
shells, 
The  little  shells,  of  ocean's  least  things  be 
Deposed  where   now   the    eagle's   offspring 

dwells  — 
How  shall  he  shriek  o'er  the  remorseless  sea! 
And  call  his  nestlings  up  with  fruitless  yell, 
Unanswered,  save  by  the  encroaching  swell ;  — 
While  man  shall  long  in  vain  for  his  broad 
wings, 
The  wings  which  could  not  save  :  — 
Where  could  he  rest  them,  while  the  whole 
space  brings 
Nought  to  his  eye  beyond  the  deep,  his 
grave? 

Brethren,  rejoice ! 
And  loudly  lift  each  superhuman  voice  — 

All  die, 
Save  the  slight  remnant  of  Seth's  seed  — 

The  seed  of  Seth, 
Exempt  for  future  sorrow's  sake  from  death. 
But  of  the  sons  of  Cain 
None  shall  remain ; 
And  all  his  goodly  daughters 
Must  lie  beneath  the  desolating  waters  — 
Or,  floating  upward,  with  their  long  hair  laid 
Along  the  wave,  the  cruel  heaven  upbraid, 
Which  would  not  spare 
Beings  even  in  death  so  fair. 
It  is  decreed, 
All  die! 


2  "  The  same  day  were  all  the  fountains  of  the 
great  deep  broken  up,  and  the  windows  of  heaven 
were  opened."  —  Ibid. 


SCElvfc   /II.] 


HEAVEN  AND   EARTH. 


689 


And  to  the  universal  human  cry 
The  universal  silence  shall  succeed! 
Fly,  brethren,  fly! 
But  still  rejoice! 
We  fell ! 
They  fall! 
So  perish  all 
These  petty  foes  of  Heaven  who  shrink  from 
hell! 

[  The  Spirits  disappear,  soaring  upwards. 
Japh.  {solus).  God  hath  proclaimed  the  des- 
tiny of  earth ; 
My  father's  ark  of  safety  hath  announced  it; 
The  very  demons  shriek  it  from  their  caves ; 
The  scroll 1  of  Enoch  prophesied  it  long 
In  silent  books,  which,  in  their  silence,  say 
More  to  the  mind  than  thunder  to  the  ear : 
And  yet  men  listened  not,  nor  listen  ;  but 
Walk  darkling  to  their  doom  ;  which,  though 

so  nigh, 
Shakes  them  no  more  in  their  dim  disbelief, 
Than  their  last  cries  shall  shake  the  Almighty 

puipose, 
Or  deaf  obedient  ocean,  which  fulfils  it. 
I  No  sign  yet  hangs  its  banner  in  the  air ; 
The  clouds  are  few,  and  of  their  wonted  tex- 
ture ; 
The  sun  will  rise  upon  the  earth's  last  day 
As  on  the  fourth  day  of  creation,  when 
God  said  unto  him,  "  Shine  !  "  and  he  broke 

forth 
Into  the  dawn,  which  lighted  not  the  yet 
Unformed  forefather  of  mankind  —  but  roused 
Before  the  human  orison  the  earlier 
Made  and  far  sweeter  voices  of  the  birds, 
Which  in  the  open  firmament  of  heaven 
,Have  wings  like  angels,  and  like  them  salute 
Heaven  first  each  day  before  the  Adamites  : 
i Their  matins  now   draw  nigh  —  the   east  is 

kindling  — 
And  they  will  sing!  and  day  will  break!  Both 

near, 
■So  near  the  awful  close  !  For  these  must  drop 
iTheir  outworn  pinions  on  the  deep ;  and  day, 
After  the  bright  course  of  a  few  brief  mor- 
rows,— 
Ay,  day  will  rise ;  but  upon  what  ?  —  a  chaos, 
Which  was   ere    day;    and  which,   renewed, 

makes  time 
Nothing!    for,    without    life,    what    are    the 

hours  ? 
No  more  to  dust  than  is  eternity 
Unto  Jehovah,  who  created  both. 
Without  him,  even  eternity  would  be 
A  void  :  without  man,  time,  as  made  for  man, 
Dies  with  man,  and  is  swallowed  in  that  deep 
Which  has  no  fountain  ;  as  his  race  will  be 
Devoured  by  that  which   drowns  his  infant 
world.  — 


J  What  have  we  here  ?    Shapes  of  both  earth 
and  air  ? 
No  — all  of  heaven,  they  are  so  beautiful. 
I  cannot  trace  their  features  ;  but  their  forms. 
How  lovelily  they  move  along  the  side 
Of  the  gray  mountain,  scattering  its  mist ! 
And  after  the  swart  savage  spirits,  whose 
Infernal  immortality  poured  forth 
Their  impious  hymn  of  triumph,  they  shall  be 
Welcome  as  Eden.     It  mav  be  they  come 
To  tell  me  the  reprieve  of  our  young  world. 
For  which    I  have   so  often   prayed  —  They 

come! 
Anah!  oh,  God!  and  with  her2 

Enter  Samiasa,  Azaziel,  Anah,  and  Aho- 

LIBAMAH. 
Anah.  Japhet ! 

Sam.  Lo ! 

A  son  of  Adam ! 

Aza.  What  doth  the  earth-born  here, 

While  all  his  race  are  slumbering? 

Japh.  Angel !  what 

Dost  thou  on  earth  when  thou  shouldst  be  on 
high  ? 
Aza.     Know'st  thou  not,  or  forget'st  thou, 
that  a  part 
Of   our   great    function    is    to    guard    thine 
earth  ? 
Japh.     But  all  good  angels  have  forsaken 
earth, 
Which  is  condemned;  nay,  even  the  evil  fly 
The  approaching  chaos.     Anah  !  Anah  !  my 
In  vain,  and  long,  and  still  to  be  beloved  ! 
Why  walk'st  thou  with  this   spirit,  in  those 

hours 
When  no  good  spirit  longer  lights  below  ? 
Anah.    Japhet,  I  cannot  answer  thee ;  yet, 
yet 

Forgive  me 

Japh.     May  the   Heaven,  which   soon  no 
more 
Will   pardon,  do    so !    for    thou  art  greatly 
tempted. 
Aho.     Back  to  thy  tents,  insulting  son  of 
Noah! 
We  know  thee  not. 

Japh.  The  hour  may  come  when  thou 

May'st  know  me  better ;  and  thy  sister  know 
Me  still  the  same  which  I  have  ever  been. 


_'  The  book  of  Enoch,  preserved  by  the  Ethio- 
pians, is  said  bv  them  to  be  anterior  to  the  flood. 


2  [The  spirits  disappear  soaring  upwards,  and 
Japhet  has  again  recourse  to  a  very  fine  soliloquy. 
He  is  now  joined  by  Anah  and  Aholibamah,  who 
are  accompanied  by  the  two  angels,  Samiasa  and 
Azaziel.  The  angels  seem  somewhat  sulky,  and 
are  extremely  laconic:  they  look  like  Quakers  yet 
unmoved  by  the  spirit — dull  dogs.  But  Janhet 
takes  them  to  task  very  severely.  Noah  and  Shem 
now  join  the  party,  and  a  conversation  ensues  be- 
tween them  all,  neither  very  spirited  nor  very  edi- 
fying—  when  enters  Raphael  the  Archangel;  who 
holds  a  highly  poetical  dialogue  with  Saniasa.— 
Wilson.\ 


690 


HEAVEN  AND  EARTH. 


[part  i. 


Sam.    Son  of  the  patriarch,  who  hath  ever 
been 
Upright  before  his  God,  whate'er  thy  gifts, 
And  thy  words  seem  of  sorrow,  mixed  with 

wrath, 
How  have  Azaziel,  or  myself,  brought  on  thee 
Wrong  ? 

Japh.     Wrong !  the  greatest  of  all  wrongs  ; 
but  thou 
Say'st  well,  though   she  be  dust,   I  did  not, 

could  not, 
Deserve  her.     Farewell,  Anah  !  I  have  said 
That  word  so  often  !  but  now  say  it,  ne'er 
To  be  repeated.     Angel !  or  whate'er 
Thou   art,  or  must  be   soon,  hast  thou   the 

power 
To  save  this  beautiful  — these  beautiful 
Children  of  Cain  ? 

Aza.  From  what  ? 

yaph.  And  is  it  so, 

That  ye  too  know  not  ?     Angels  !  angels  !  ye 
Have  shared  man's  sin,  and,  it  may  be,  now 

must 
Partake  his  punishment ;  or,  at  the  least, 
ly  sorrow. 

Sam.  Sorrow  !   I  ne'er  thought  till  now 

To  hear  an  Adamite  speak  riddles  to  me. 

Japh.    And   hath  not  the  Most  High  ex- 
pounded them  ? 
Then  ve  are  lost,  as  they  are  lost. 

Aho.  So  be  it ! 

If  they  love  as  they  are  loved,  they  will  not 

shrink 
More  to  be  mortal,  than  I  would  to  dare 
An  immortality  of  agonies 
With  Samiasa! 

Anah.  Sister !  Sister !  speak  not 

Thus. 

Aza.    Fearest  thou,  my  Anah  ? 

Anah.  Yes,  for  thee  : 

I  would  resign  the  greater  remnant  of 
This  little  life  of  mine,  before  one  hour 
Of  thine  eternity  should  know  a  pang. 

Japh.     It  is  for  him,  then !  for  the  seraph 
thou 
Hast  left  me !     That  is  nothing,  if  thou  hast 

not 
Left  thy  God  too !  for  unions  like  to  these, 
Between  a  mortal  and  an  immortal,  cannot 
Be  happy  or  be  hallowed.     We  are  sent 
"Upon  the  earth  to  toil  and  die  ;  and  they 
Are  made  to  minister  on  high  unto 
The  Highest :  but  if  he  can  save  thee,  soon 
The  hour  will  come  in  which  celestial  aid 
Alone  can  do  so. 

Anah.  Ah  !    he  speaks  of  death. 

Sam.    Of  death  to  us !  and  those  who  are 
with  us; 
But  that  the  man  seems  full  of  sorrow,  I 
Could  smile. 

Japh.  I  grieve  not  for  myself,  nor  fear; 

I  am  safe,  not  for  my  own  deserts,  but  those 


Of  a  well-doing  sire,  who  hath  been  found 
Righteous  enough  to  save  his  children.   Would 
His  power  was  greater  of  redemption  !  or 
That  by  exchanging  my  own  life  for  hers, 
Who  could   alone   have  made  mine   happy, 

she, 
The  last  and  loveliest  of  Cain's  race,  could 

share 
The  ark  which  shall  receive  a  remnant  of 
The  seed  of  Seth ! 

Aho.  And  dost  thou  think  that  we, 

With  Cain's,  the  eldest  born  of  Adam's,  blood 
Warm    in   our  veins, — strong   Cain!    who 

was  begotten 
In  Paradise — would  mingle  with  Seth's  chil- 
dren ? 
Seth,  the  last  offspring  of  old  Adam's  dotage  ? 
No,  not  to  save  all  earth,  were  earth  in  peril! 
Our  race  hath  always  dwelt  apart  from  thine 
From  the  beginning,  and  shall  do  so  ever. 
Japh.     I    did    not  speak   to   thee,   Aholi- 

bamah ! 
Too  much  of  the  forefather  whom  thou  vaunt- 

est 
Has  come  down  in  that  haughty  blood  which 

springs 
From   him   who   shed   the   first,  and  that  a 

brother's! 
But  thou,  my  Anah  !  let  me  call  thee  mine, 
Albeit  thou  art  not ;  'tis  a  word  I  cannot 
Part  with,  although  I  must  from  thee.     My 

Anah! 
Thou  who  dost  rather  make  me  dream  that 

Abel 
Had  left  a  daughter,  whose  pure  pious  race 
Survived  in  thee,  so  much  unlike  thou  art 
The  rest  of  the  stern  Cainites,  save  in  beauty, 

For  all  of  them  are  fairest  in  their  favor 

Aho.     {interrupting  him).      And    wouldst 

thou  have  her  like  our  father's  foe 
In  mind,  in  sou!  ?     If  /  partook  thy  thought. 
And  dreamed  that  aught  of  AdeJ  was  in  her  !  — 
Get  thee  hence,  son  of  Noah ;  thou  makest 

strife. 

Japh.    Offspring  of  Cain,  thy  father  did  so  ! 

Aho.  But 

He  slew  not  Seth :  and  what  hast  thou  to  do 

With  other  deeds  between  his  God  and  him  ? 

yaph.     Thou  speakest  well :  his  God  hath 

judged  him,  and 
I  had  not  named  his  deed,  but  that  thyself 
Didst  seem  to  glory  in  him,  nor  to  shrink 
From  what  he  had  done. 

Aho.  He  was  our  father's  father : 

The  eldest  born  of  man,  the  strongest,  bravest, 
And  most  enduring  :  — Shall  I  blush  for  him 
From  whom  we  had  our  being  ?  Look  upon 
Our  race;    behold   their    stature    and  their 

beauty, 
Their    courage,     strength,    and     length     cJ 

days 

yaph.  They  are  numbered. 


SCENE   III.] 


HEAVEN  AND  EARTH. 


691 


Aho.    Be  h  so!  but  while  yet  their  hours 
endure, 
I  glory  in  my  brethren  and  our  fathers. 
Japh.     My  sire  and  race  but  glory  in  their 
God, 

Anah  !  and  thou  ? 

Anah.  Whate'er  our  God  decrees, 

The  God  of  Seth  as  Cain,  I  must  obey, 
And  will  endeavor  patiently  to  obey. 
But  could  I  dare  to  pray  in  his  dread  hour 
Of  universal  vengeance  (if  such  should  be), 
It  would  not  be  to  live,  alone  exempt 
Of  all  my  house.     My  sister  !  oh,  my  sister ! 
What  were  the  world,  or  other  worlds,  or  all 
The  brightest  future,  without  the  sweet  past  — 
Thy  love  —  my  father's  —  all  the  life,  and  all 
The  things  which  sprang  up  with  me,  like  the 

stars, 
Making  my  dim  existence  radiant  with 
Soft  lights  which  were  not  mine  ?     Aholi- 

bamah ! 
Oh  !  if  there  should  be  mercy  —  seek  it,  find 

it: 
I  abhor  death,  because  that  thou  must  die. 
Aho.     What,  hath   this  dreamer,  with   his 
father's  ark, 
The  bugbear  he  hath  built  to  scare  the  world, 
Shaken  my  sister  ?     Are  we  not  the  loved 
Of  seraphs?  and  if  we  were  not,  must  we 
Cling  to  a  son  of  Noah  for  our  lives  ? 

Rather    than    thus But    the    enthusiast 

dreams 
The  worst  of  dreams,  the  fantasies  engendered 
By  hopeless  love  and  heated  vigils.     Who 
Shall  shake  these  solid  mountains,  this  firm 

earth, 
And  bid  those  clouds  and  waters  take  a  shape 
Distinct  from  that  which  we  and  all  our  sires 
Have  seen  them  wear  on  their  eternal  way  ? 
Who  shall  do  this  ? 

Japh.    He  whose  one  word  produced  them. 
Aho.     Who  heard  that  word  ? 
Japh.  The  universe,  which  leaped 

To  life  before  it.    Ah !    smilest  thou  still  in 

scorn  ? 
Turn  to  thy  seraphs  :  if  they  attest  it  not, 
They  are  none. 

Sam.  Aholibamah,  own  thy  God  ! 

Aho.     I  have  ever  hailed  our  Maker,  Sa- 
miasa, 
As  thine,  and  mine  :  a  God  of  love,  not  sorrow. 
Japh.    Alas  !  what  else  is  love  but  sorrow  ? 
Even 
He  who  made  earth  in  love  had  soon  to  grieve 
Above  its  first  and  best  inhabitants. 
Aho.     'Tis  said  so. 
Japh.  It  is  even  so. 

Enter  NOAH  and  SHEM. 

Noah.  Japhet!  What 

Dost  thou  here  with  these   children   of  the 
wicked  ? 


Dread'st  thou  not  to  partake   their  coming 
doom  ? 

Japh.  Father,  it  cannot  be  a  sin  to  seek 
To  save  an  earth-born  being ;  and  behold, 
These  are  not  of  the  sinful,  since  they  have 
The  fellowship  of  angels. 

Noah.  These  are  they,  then, 

Who  leave  the  throne  of  God,  to  take  them 

wives 
From   out   the  race  of  Cain ;    the   sons  of 

heaven, 
Who  seek  earth's  daughters  for  their  beauty  ? 

Aza.  Patriarch ! 

Thou  hast  said  it. 

Noah.   Woe,  woe,  woe  to  such  communion  ! 
Has  not  God  made  a  barrier  between  earth 
And  heaven,  and  limited  each,  kind  to  kind  ? 

Sam.     Was  not  man  made  in  high  Jeho- 
vah's image  ? 
Did  God  not  love  what  he  had  made  ?    And 

what 
Do  we  but  imitate  and  emulate 
His  love  unto  created  love  ? 

Noah.  I  am 

But  man,  and  was  not  made  to  judge  mankind, 
Far  less  the  sons  of  God ;  but  as  our  God 
Has  deigned  to  commune  with  me,  and  reveal 
His  judgments,  I  reply,  that  the  descent 
Of  seraphs  from  their  everlasting  seat 
Unto  a  perishable  and  perishing, 
Even  on  the  very  eve  of  perishing,  world, 
Cannot  be  good. 

Aza.  What !  though  it  were  to  save  ? 

Noah.   Not  ye  in  all  your  glory  can  redeem 
Wha^  he  who  made  you  glorious  hath  con- 
demned. 
Were  your  immortal  mission  safety,  'twould 
Be  general,  not  for  two,  though  beautiful ; 
And  beautiful  they  are,  but  not  the  less 
Condemned. 

Japh.  Oh,  father !  say  it  not. 

Noah.  Son!  son! 

If  that  thou  wouldst  avoid  their  doom,  forget 
That  they  exist :  they  soon  shall  cease  to  be  ; 
While  thou  shalt  be  the  sire  of  a  new  world, 
And  better. 

Japh.  Let  me  die  with  this,  and  them  ! 

Noah.    Thou  shonldst  for  such  a  thought, 
but  shalt  not ;  he 
Who  can  redeems  thee. 

Sam.  And  why  him  and  thee, 

More  than  what  he,  thy  son,  prefers  to  both? 

Noah.     Ask   him  who  made  thee   greater 
than  myself 
And  mine,  but  not  less  subject  to  his  own        \, 
Almightiness.     And  lo  !  his  mildest  and 
Least  to  be  tempted  messenger  appears  ! 

Enter  RAPHAEL  1  the  Archangel. 


[In  the  original    MS.   "Michael."     "I    return 

you,"  says  Byron  to  Mr.  M.,  "  the  revise.     I  bare 

i  softened  the  part  to  which  Gifford  objected,   and 


692 


HEAVEN  AND  EARTH. 


[part  i. 


Raph.  Spirits ! 

Whose  seat  is  near  the  throne, 
What  do  ye  here  ? 
Is  thus  a  seraph's  duty  to  be  shown, 
Now  that  the  hour  is  near 
When  earth  must  be  alone  ? 
Return ! 
Adore  and  burn 
In  glorious  homage  with  the  elected  "  seven." 
Your  place  is  heaven. 
Sam.  Raphael ! 

The  first  and  fairest  of  the  sons  of  God, 
How  long  hath  this  been  law, 
That  earth  by  angels  must  be  left  untrod  ? 

Earth  !  which  oft  saw 
Jehovah's  footsteps  not  disdain  her  sod ! 
The  world  he  loved,  and  made 
For  love  ;  and  oft  have  we  obeyed 
His  frequent  mission  with  delighted  pinions  : 
Adoring  him  in  his  least  works  displayed  ; 
Watching  this  youngest  star  of  his  dominions  ; 
And,  as  the  latest  birth  of  his  great  word, 
Eager  to  beep  it  worthy  of  our  Lord. 
Why  is  thy  brow  severe  ? 
And  wherefore  speak'st  thou  of  destruction 
near  ? 
Raph.     Had  Samiasa  and  Azaziel  been 
In  their  true  place,  with  the  angelic  choir, 
Written  in  fire 
They  would  have  seen 
Jehovah's  late  decree, 
And  not  inquired  their  Maker's  breath  of  me  : 
But  ignorance  must  ever  be 
A  part  of  sin  ; 
And  even  the  spirits'  knowledge  shall  grow 
less 

As  they  wax  proud  within ; 
For  Blindness  is  the  first-born  of  Excess. 
When  all  good  angels  left  the  world,  ye 
stayed 
Stung  with  strange  passions,  and  debased 
By  mortal  feelings  for  a  mortal  maid : 
But  ye  are  pardoned  thus  far,  and  replaced 
With  your  pure  equals.    Hence  1  away !  away ! 
Or  stay, 
And  lose  eternity  by  that  delay. 
Aza.    And  thou !  if  earth  be  thus  forbidden 
In  the  decree 
To  us  until  this  moment  hidden, 
Dost  thou  not  err  as  we 
In  being  here  ? 
Raph.   I  came  to  call  ye  back  to  your  fit 

sphere, 
In  the  great  name  and  at  the  word  of  God. 
Dear,  dearest  in  themselves,  and  scarce  less 
dear 
That  which  I  came  to  do :  till  now  we  trod 
Together  the  eternal  space ;  together 


ehanged  the  name  of  Michael  to  Raphael,  who  was 
aa  angel  of  gentler  sympathies."  —  Byron  Letters, 
July  6, 1822/J 


Let  us  still  walk  the  stars.    True,  earth  must 
die! 
Her  race,  returned  into  her  womb,  must  wither. 
And  much  which  she  inherits  :  but  oh  1  why 
Cannot  this  earth  be  made,  or  be  destroyed, 
Without  involving  ever  some  vast  void 
In  the  immortal  ranks  ?  immortal  still 

In  their  immeasurable  forfeiture. 
Our  brother  Satan  fell ;  his  burning  will 
Rather  than  longer  worship  d^red  endure; 
But  ye  who  still  are  pure ! 
Seraphs !  less  mighty  than  that  mightiest  one, 

Think  how  he  was  undone! 
And  think  if  tempting  man  can  compensate 
For  heaven  desired  too  late  ? 
Long  have  I  warred, 
Long  must  I  war 
With  him  who  deemed  it  hard 
To  be  created,  and  to  acknowledge  him 
Who  midst  the  cherubim 
Made  him  as  suns  to  a  dependent  star, 
Leaving  the  archangeb  at  his  right  hand  dim. 
I    loved    him  —  beautiful    he    was:    oh 
heaven ! 
Save  his  who  mads,  what  beauty  and  what 

power 
Was  ever  like  to  Satan's !     Would  the  hour 
In  which  he  fell  could  ever  be  forgiven' 
The  wish  is  impious  :  but,  oh  ye ! 
Yet  undestroyed,  be  warned  !  Eternity 

With  him,  or  with  his  God,  is  in  your  choice  : 
He  hath  not  tempted  you ;  he  cannot  tempt 
The  angels,  from  his  further  snares  exempt : 

But  man  hath  listened  to  his  voice, 
And  ye  to  woman's  —  beautiful  she  is, 
The  serpent's  voice  less  subtle  than  her  kiss. 
The  snake  but  vanquished  dust ;  but  she  will 

draw 
A  second  host  from  heaven,  to  break  heaven's 
law. 

Yet,  yet,  oh  fly ! 
Ye  cannot  die ; 
But  they 
Shall  pass  away, 
While  ye  shall  fill  with  shrieks  the  upper  sky 

For  perishable  clay, 
Whose  memory  in  your  immortality 

Shall   long  outlast  the  sun  which  gave 
them  day. 
Think  how  your  essence  differeth  from  theirs 
In  all  but  suffering!  why  partake 
The  agony  to  which  they  must  be  heirs  — 
Born  to  be  ploughed  with  years,  and   sown 

with  cares, 
And  reaped  by  Death,  lord  of  the  human  soil  ? 
Even  had  their  days  been  left  to  toil  their 

path 
Through  time  to  dust,  unshortened  by  God's 

wrath, 
Still  they  are  Evil's  prey  and  Sorrow's  spoil. 

Aho.  Let  them  fly ! 

I  hear  the  voice  which  says  that  all  must  die 


■SCENE   III.] 


HEAVEN  AND  EARTH. 


69k 


•ooner  than  our  white-bearded    patriarchs 
died ; 

And  that  on  high 
An  ocean  is  prepared, 
While  from  below 
"he  deep  shall  rise  to  meet  heaven's  overflow. 

Few  shall  be  spared, 
ft  seems;  and,  of  that  few,  the  race  of  Cain 
Must  lift  their  eyes  to  Adam's  God  in  vain. 
Sister!  since  it  is  so, 
And  the  eternal  Lord 
In  vain  would  be  implored 
For  the  remission  of  one  hour  of  woe, 
Let  us  resign  even  what  we  have  adored, 
And  meet  the  wave,  as  we  would  meet  the 
sword, 

If  not  unmoved,  yet  undismayed, 
And  waiiing  less  for  us  than  those  who  shall 
Survive  in  mortal  or  immortal  thrall, 

And,  when  the  fatal  waters  are  allayed, 
Weep  for  the  myriads  who  can  weep  no  more. 
Fly,  seraphs !  to  your  own  eternal  shore, 
Where  winds  nor  howl  nor  waters  roar. 
Our  portion  is  to  die, 
And  yours  to  live  for  ever : 
But  which  is  best,  a  dead  eternity, 
Or  living,  is  but  known  to  the  great  Giver. 
Obey  him,  as  we  shall  obey ; 
I  would  not  keep  this  life  of  mine  in  clay 
An  hour  beyond  his  will; 
Nor  see  ye  lose  a  portion  of  his  grace, 
For  all  the  mercy  which  Seth's  race 
Find  still. 
Fly! 
And  as  your  pinions  bear  ye  back  to  heaven, 
Think  that  mv  love  still  mounts  with  thee  on 
high, 

Samiasa ! 
And  if  I  look  up  with  a  tearless  eye, 
'Tis  that  an  angel's  bride  disdains  to  weep,  — 
Farewell !    Now  rise,  inexorable  deep  I 
Anah.  And  must  we  die  ? 

And  must  I  lose  thee  too, 

Azaziel  ? 
Oh,  my  heart !  my  heart! 

Thy  prophecies  were  true ! 
And  yet  thou  wert  so  happy  too ! 
The  blow,  though  not  unlooked  for,  falls  as 
new: 

But  yet  depart ! 
Ah!  why? 
Yet  let  me  not  retain  thee  —  fly ! 
My  pangs  can  be  but  brief;  but  thine  would  be 
Eternal,  if  repulsed  from  heaven  for  me. 
Too  much  already  hast  thou  deigned 
To  one  of  Adam's  race ! 
Our  doom  is  sorrow :  not  to  us  alone, 
But  to  the  spirits  who  have  not  disdained 
To  love  us,  cometh  anguish  with  disgrace. 
The  first  who  taught  us  knowledge  hath  been 
hurled 
From  his  once  archangelic  throne 


Into  some  unknown  world : 
And  thou,  Azaziel !     No  — 
Thou  shalt  not  suffer  woe 
For  me.     Away !  nor  weep ! 
Thou  canst  not  weep ;  but  yet 
May'st  suffer  more,  not  weeping :  then  forge* 
Her,  whom  the  surges  of  the  all-strangling  deep 

Can  bring  no  pang  like  this.     Fly  !  fly ! 
Being  gone,  'twill  be  less  difficult  to  die. 
Japh.     Oh  say  not  so  ! 

Father !  and  thou,  archangel,  thou ! 
Surely  celestial  mercy  lurks  below 
That  pure  severe  serenity  of  brow  : 

Let  them  not  meet  this  sea  without  a  shore 
Save  in  our  ark,  or  let  me  be  no  more  ! 

Noah.     Peace,  child  of  passion,  peace! 
If  not  within  thy  heart,  yet  with  thy  tongue 

Do  God  no  wrong! 
Live  as  he  wills  it  —  die,  when  he  ordains, 
A  righteous  death,  unlike  the  seed  of  Cain's. 

Cease,  or  be  sorrowful  in  silence ;  cease 
To  weary  Heaven's  ear  with  thy  selfish  plaint. 
Wouldst  thou  have  God  commit  a  sin  for 
thee? 

Such  would  it  be 
To  alter  his  intent 
For  a  mere  mortal  sorrow.     Be  a  man ! 
And  bear  what  Adam's  race  trust  bear,  and 
can. 
yaph.    Ay,  father !  but  when  they  are  gone, 
And  we  are  all  alone, 
Floating  upon  the  azure  desert,  and 
The   depth  beneath  us  hides  our  own  dear 
land, 
And  dearer,  silent  friends  and  brethren,  all 
Buried  in  its  immeasurable  breast, 
Who,  who,  our  tears,  our  shrieks,  shall  then 

command  ? 
Can  we  in  desolation's  peace  have  rest  ? 
Oh  God !  be  thou  a  God,  and  spare 
Yet  while  'tis  time  ! 
Renew  not  Adam's  fall : 

Mankind  were  then  but  twain, 
But  they  are  numerous  now  as  are  the  waves 

And  the  tremendous  rain, 
Whose  drops  shall  be  less  thick  than  would 
their  graves, 
Were  graves  permitted  to  the  seed  of  Cain, 
Noah.     Silence,  vain  boy!    each  word  of 
thine's  a  crime. 
Angel !  forgive  this  stripling's  fond  despair. 
Rapk.      Seraphs !    these  mortals  speak  in 
passion !     Ye ! 
Who  are,  or  should  be,  passionless  and  pure. 
May  now  return  with  me. 

Sam.  It  may  not  be : 

We  have  chosen,  and  will  endure. 
Raph.     Say'st  thou  ? 

Aza.         He  hath  said  it,  and  I  say,  Ames, 
Raph.  Again ! 

Then  from  this  hour, 
Shorn  as  ye  are  of  all  celestial  power, 


694 


HEAVEN  AND  EARTH. 


[part  i, 


And  aliens  from  your  God, 
Farewell ! 
Japh.  Alas !  where  shall  they  dwell  ? 

Hark,  hark!    Deep  sounds,  and  deeper  still, 
Are  howling  from  the  mountain's  bosom  : 
There's  not  a  breath  of  wind  upon  the  hill, 
Yet  quivers  every  leaf,  and  drops  each  blos- 
som : 
Earth  groans  as  if  beneath  a  heavy  load. 
Noah.     Hark,  hark  !  the  sea-birds  cry ! 
In  clouds  they  overspread  the  lurid  sky, 
And  hover  round  the  mountain,  where  before 
Never  a  white  wing,  wetted  by  the  wave, 

Yet  dared  to  soar, 
Even  when  the  waters  waxed  too  fierce  to 
brave, 
soon  it  shall  be  their  only  shore, 
And  then,  no  more  ! 
Japh.  The  sun  !  the  sun  ! 

He  riseth,  but  his  better  light  is  gone ; 
And  a  black  circle,  bound 
His  glaring  disk  around, 
Proclaims  earth's  last  of  summer  days  hath 
shone ! 
The  clouds  return  into  the  hues  of  night, 
Save  where  their  brazen-colored  edges  streak 
The  verge  where  brighter  morns  were  wont 
to  break. 
Noah.     And  lo  !  yon  flash  of  light, 
The  distant  thunder's  harbinger,  appears ! 

It  cometh!  hence,  away! 
Leave  to  the  elements  their  evil  prey  1 
Hence  to  where  our  all-hallowed  ark  uprears 
Its  safe  and  wreckless  sides ! 
Japh.     Oh,  father,  stay  ! 
Leave  not  my  Anah  to  the  swallowing  tides ! 
Noah.     Must  we  not  leave  all  life  to  such  ? 

Begone ! 
Japh.  Not  I. 

Noah.  Then  die 

Wi*h  them ! 
How  darest  thou  look  on  that  prophetic  sky, 
And  seek  to  save  what  all  things  now  con- 
demn, 

In  overwhelming  unison 

With  just  Jehovah's  wrath ! 
Japh.     Can   rage   and  justice  join  in  the 

same  path  ? 
Noah.     Blasphemer!  darest  thou  murmur 

even  now  ? 
Raph.     Patriarch,  be  still  a  father !  smoothe 

thy  brow : 
Thy  son,  despite  his  folly,  shall  not  sink : 
He  knows  not  what  he  says,  yet  shall  not  drink 
With   sobs   the   salt  foam   of  the  swelling 
waters ; 
But  be,  when  passion  passeth,  good  as  thou, 
Nor  perish  like  heaven's  children  with  man's 

daughters. 
Aho.    The   tempest   cometh ;   heaven  and 
earth  unite 
For  the  annihilation  of  all  life. 


Unequal  is  the  strife 
Between  our  strength  and  the  Eternal  Might ! 
Sam.     But  ours  is  with  thee ;  we  will  bear 

ye  far 
To  some  untroubled  star, 
Where  thou  and  Anah  shalt  partake  our  lot : 
And  if  thou  dost  not  weep  for  thy  lost  earth, 
Our  forfeit  heaven  shall  also  be  forgot. 
Anah.    Oh !    my  dear  father's    tents,   my 
place  of  birth, 
And  mountains,  land,  and  woods !  when  ye 

are  not, 
Who  shall  dry  up  my  tears ! 

Aza.  Thy  spirit-lord. 

Fear  not ;  though  we  are  shut  from  heaven, 
Yet   much   is   ours,  whence  we    cannot    be 
driven. 
Raph.     Rebel !    thy  words  are  wicked,  as 
thy  deeds 
Shall  henceforth  be  but  weak :   the  flaming 

sword, 
Which  chased  the  first-born  out  of  Paradise, 
Still  flashes  in  the  angelic  hands. 
Aza.     It  cannot  slay  us  :  threaten  dust  with 
death, 
And  talk  of  weapons  unto  that  which  bleeds. 
What  are  thy  swords  in  our  immortal  eyes  ? 
Raph.    The.  moment   cometh   to   approve 
thy  strength ; 
And  learn  at  length 
How  vain  to  war  with  what  thy  God  com- 
mands ! 
Thy  former  force  was  in  thy  faith. 

Enter  Mortals,  flying  for  refuge. 

Chorus  of  Mortals. 

The  heavens  and  earth  are  mingling  —  God 

oh  God! 
What  have  we  done  ?     Yet  spare ! 
Hark !  even  the  forest  beasts  howl  forth  their 
prayer ! 
The  dragon  crawls  from  out  his  den, 
To  herd,  in  terror,  innocent  with  men  ; 
And  the  birds  scream  their  agony  through  air, 
Yet,  yet,  Jehovah  !  yet  withdraw  thy  rod 
Of  wrath,  and  pity  thine  own  world's  despair! 
Hear  not  man  only  but  all  nature  plead ! 
Raph.    Farewell,  thou  earth !  ye  wretched 
sons  of  clay, 
I  cannot,  must  not,  aid  you.     'Tis  decreed  ! 
{Exit  Raphael. 
Japh.     Some  clouds  sweep  on  as  vultures 
for  their  prey, 
While  others,  fixed  as  rocks,  await  the  word 
At  which  their  wrathful  vials  shall  be  poured. 
No  azure  more  shall  robe  the  firmament, 
Nor  spangled  stars  be  glorious  :  Death  hath 

risen : 
In  the  sun's  place  a  pale  and  ghastly  glare 
Hath  wound  itself  around  the  dying  air.2 


1  Tin  his  description  of  the  deluge,  which  is  a 


SCENE  in.] 


HEAVEN  AND  EARTH. 


695 


Aza.  Come,  Anah !  quit  this  chaos-founded 
prison, 
To  which  the  elements  again  repair, 
To  turn  it  into  what  it  was :  beneath 
The  shelter  of  these  wings  thou  shalt  be  safe, 
As  was  the  eagle's  nestling  once  within 
Its  mother's.  —  Let  the  coming  chaos  chafe 
With  all  its  elements !     Heed  not  their  din  ! 
A  brighter  world  than  this,  where  thou  shalt 

breathe 
Ethereal  life,  will  we  explore  : 
These  darkened  clouds  are  not  the  only  skies. 
[AZAZIEL  and  SAMIASA  fly  off,  and  disap- 
pear with  Anah  and  Aholibamah. 
yaph.     They  are  gone  !     They  have  disap- 
peared amidst  the  roar 
Of  the  forsaken  world ;  and  never  more, 
Whether  they  live,  or  die  with  all  earth's  life, 
Now  near  its  last,  can  aught  restore 
Anah  unto  these  eyes.1 

Chorus  of  Mortals. 

Oh  son  of  Noah  !  mercy  on  thy  kind  ! 
What!  wilt  thou  leave  us  all  —  all  —  all  be- 
hind ? 
While  safe  amidst  the  elemental  strife, 
Thou  sitt'st  within  thy  guarded  ark  ? 

A  Mother  (offering  her  infant  to  JAPHET). 
Oh  let  this  child  embark ! 
I  brought  him  forth  in  woe, 

But  thought  it  joy 
To  see  him  to  my  bosom  clinging  so. 
Why  was  he  born  ? 
What  hath  he  done — 
My  unweaned  son  — 
To  move  Jehovah's  wrath  or  scorn  ? 
What  is  there  in  this  milk  of  mine,  that  death 
Should  stir   all  heaven  and  earth  up  to  de- 
stroy 

My  boy, 
And  roll  the  waters  o'er  his  placid  breath  ? 
Save  him,  thou  seed  of  Seth ! 
Or  cursed  be  —  with  him  who  made 
Thee  and  thy  race,   for  which   we   are   be- 
trayed ! 
Japh.     Peace !  'tis  no  hour  for  curses,  but 
for  prayer. 

Chorus  of  Mortals. 

For  prayer  ! ! ! 
And  where 


varied  and  recurring  masterpiece,  —  (we  hear  it 
foretold,  and  we  see  it  come,)  —  Lord  Byron  appears 
to  us  to  have  had  an  eye  to  Poussin's  celebrated 
picture,  with  the  sky  hanging  like  a  weight  of  lead 
upon  the  waters,  the  sun  quenched  and  lurid,  the 
rocks  and  trees  upon  them  gloomily  watching  their 
fate,  and  a  few  figures  struggling  vainly  with  the 
overwhelming  waves.  —  Jeffrey  ■] 

1  [The  despair  of  the  mortal  lovers  for  the  loss  of 
their  mortal  mistresses  is  well  and  pathetically  ex- 
pressed. —  Jeffrey. \ 


Shall  prayer  ascend, 
When  the  swoln  clouds  unto  the  mountains 
bend 

And  burst, 
And  gushing  oceans  every  barrier  rend, 
Until  the  very  deserts  know  no  thirst  ? 
Accursed 
Be  he  who  made  thee  and  thy  sire ! 
We  deem  our  curses  vain  ;  we  must  expire  ; 

But  as  we  know  the  worst, 
Why  should  our  hymn  be  raised,  our  knees 

be  bent 
Before  the  implacable  Omnipotent, 
Since  we  must  fall  the  same  ? 
If  he  hath  made  earth,  let  it  be  his  shame, 
To  make  a  world  for  torture.  —  Lo !  they 
come, 
The  loathsome  waters,  in  their  rage ! 
And  with  their  roar  make  wholesome  nature 
dumb 
The  forest's  trees  (coeval  with  the  hour 
When  Paradise  upsprung, 

Ere    Eve   gave    Adam  knowledge   for  her 
dower, 
Or  Adam  his  first  hymn  of  slavery  sung), 

So  massy,  vast,  yet  green  in  their  old  age, 
Are  overtopped, 

Their  summer  blossoms  by  the  surges  lopped, 
Which  rise,  and  rise,  and  rise. 
Vainly  we  look  up  to  the  lowering  skies — - 

They  meet  the  seas, 
And  shut  out  God  from  our  beseeching  eyes. 

Fly,  son  of  Noah,  fly !  and  take  thine  ease 
In  thine  allotted  ocean-tent ; 
And  view,  all  floating  o'er  the  element, 
The  corpses  of  the  world  of  thy  young  days  ■ 
Then  to  Jehovah  raise 
Thy  song  of  praise  ! 
A  Mortal.     Blessed  are  the  dead 
Who  die  in  the  Lord ! 
And  though   the  waters  be   o'er  earth    out- 
spread, 

Yet,  as  his  word, 
Be  the  decree  adored  ! 
He  gave  me  life  —  he  taketh  but 
The  breath  which  is  his  own  : 
And  though  these  eyes  should  be  for  ever  shut, 
Nor  longer  this  weak  voice  before  his  throne, 
Be  heard  in  supplicating  tone, 

Still  blessed  be  the  Lord 
For  what  is  past, 
For  that  which  is  ; 
For  all  are  his, 
From  first  to  last  — 
Time  —  space  —  eternity  —  life  —  death  — 
The   vast   known   and   immeasurable  un- 
known. 
He  made,  and  can  unmake; 

And  shall  /,  for  a  little  gasp  of  breath, 
Blaspheme  and  groan  ? 
No;  let  me  die,  as  I  have  lived,  in  faith, 
Mor  quiver,  though  the  universe  may  quake! 


396 


HEAVEN  AND  EARTH. 


Chorus  of  Mortals. 
Where  shall  we  fly  ? 
Not  to  the  mountains  high; 
For  now  their  torrents  rush,  with  double  roar, 
To  meet  the  ocean,  which,  advancing  still, 
Already  grasps  each  drowning  hill, 
Nor  leaves  an  unsearched  cave. 

Enter  a   Woman. 
Woman.    Oh,  save  me,  save ! 
Our  valley  is  no  more  ; 

My  father  and  my  father's  tent, 
My  brethren  and  my  brethren's  herds, 
The  pleasant  trees  that  o'er  our  noonday 
bent, 
And  sent  forth  evening  songs  from  sweetest 

birds, 
The  little  rivulet  which  freshened  all 
Our  pastures  green, 
No  more  are  to  be  seen. 
When  to  the  mountain  cliff  I  climbed  this  morn, 
I  turned  to  bless  the  spot, 
And  not  a  leaf  appeared  about  to  fall;  — 

And  now  they  are  not !  — 
Why  was  I  born  ? 

Japh.  To  die !  in  youth  to  die ; 

And  happier  in  that  doom, 
Than  to  behold  the  universal  tomb 

Which  I 
Am  thus  condemned  to  weep  above  in  vain. 
Why,  when  all  perish,  why  must  I  remain  ?  l 
[  The  waters  rise  :  Men  fly  in  very  direction  ; 
many  are  overtaken  by  the  waves;  the  Cho- 
rus of  Mot  tals  disperses  in  search  of  safety 
up  the  mountains  ;  yaphet  remains  upon  a 
rock,  while  the  Ark  floats  towards  him  in 
the  distance. 


1  [This  poem,  or  rather  first  part  of  a  poem,  for  so 
it  is  stated  to  be,  carries  with  it  the  peculiar  impress 
of  the  writer's  genius.  It  displays  great  vigor, 
and  even  a  severity  of  style,  throughout;  which  is 
another  proof,  if  proof  were  needed,  that  elevation 
of  writing  is  to  be  obtained  only  by  a  rigid  regard 
to  simplicity.  It  may  be  perused  without  shocking 
the  feelings  of  the  sensitive,  or  furnishing  an  object 
for  the  discriminating  morality  of  the  Lord  Chan- 
cellor. Lord  Byron  has  evidently  endeavored  to 
sustain  the  interest  of  this  poem,  by  depicting 
natural,  but  deep  drawn  thoughts,  in  all  their  fresh- 
ness and  intensity,  with  as  little  fictitious  aid  as 
possible.  Nothing  is  circumlocutory:  there  is  no 
going  about  and  about  to  enter  at  length  upon  his 
object,  but  he  impetuously  rushes  into  it  at  once. 
All  over  the  poem  there  is  a  gloom  cast  suitable  to 
the  subject:  an  ominous  fearful  hue,  like  that  which 
Poussin  has  filing  over  his  inimitable  picture  of  the 


Deluge.  We  see  much  evil,  but  we  dread  mora 
All  is  out  of  earthly  keeping,  as  the  events  of  the 
time  are  out  of  the  course  of  nature.  Man's  wicked- 
ness, the  perturbed  creation,  fear-struck  mortals, 
demons  passing  to  and  fro  in  the  earth,  an  over- 
shadowing solemnity,  and  unearthly  loves,  form 
together  the  materials.  That  it  has  faults  is  obvi- 
ous: prosaic  passages,  and  too  much  tedious  solilo- 
quizing: but  there  is  the  vigor  and  force  of  Byror 
to  fling  into  the  scale  against  these  :  there  is  much 
of  the  sublime  in  description,  and  the  beautiful  in 
poetry.  Prejudice,  or  ignorance,  or  both,  may  con« 
demn  it;  but,  while  true  poetical  feeling  exists 
amongst  us,  it  will  be  pronounced  not  unworthy 
of  its  distinguished  author.  —  Campbell. 

It  appears  that  this  is  but  the  first  part  of  a  poem; 
but  it  is  likewise  a  poem,  and  a  fine  one  too,  within 
itself.  We  confess  that  we  see  little  or  nothing 
objectionable  in  it,  either  as  to  theological  ortho- 
doxy, or  general  human  feeling.  It  is  solemn, 
lofty,  fearful,  wild,  tumultuous,  and  shadowed  all 
over  with  the  darkness  of  a  dreadful  disaster.  Of 
the  angels  who  love  the  daughters  of  men  we  see 
little,  and  know  less  —  and  not  too  much  of  the  love 
and  passion  of  the  fair  lost  mortals.  The  incon- 
solable despair  preceding  and  accompanying  an 
incomprehensible  catastrophe  pervades  the  whole 
composition;  and  its  expression  is  made  sublime  by 
the  noble  strain  of  poetry  in  which  it  is  said  or  sung. 
Sometimes  there  is  heaviness  —  dulness  —  as  if  it 
were  pressed  in  on  purpose;  intended,  perhaps,  to 
denote  the  occasional  stupefaction,  drowsiness,  and 
torpidity  of  soul  produced  by  the  impending  destruc- 
tion upon  the  latest  of  the  Antediluvians.  But,  on 
the  whole,  it  is  not  unworthy  of  Lord  Byron.  —  Wil- 
son. 

Lord  Byron's  "  Mystery,"  with  whatever  crude- 
ness  and  defects  it  is  chargeable,  certainly  has  more 
poetry  and  music  in  it  than  any  of  his  dramatic 
writings  since  "  Manfred;  "  and  has  also  the  pecu- 
liar merit  of  throwing  us  back,  in  a  great  degree,  to 
the  strange  and  preternatural  time  of  which  it  pro- 
fesses to  treat.  It  is  truly,  and  in  every  sense  of  the 
word,  a  meeting  of  "  heaven  and  earth;  "  angels 
are  seen  ascending  and  descending,  and  the  win- 
dows of  the  sky  are  opened  to  deluge  the  face  of 
nature.  We  have  an  impassioned  picture  of  the 
strong  and  devoted  attachment  inspired  into  the 
daughters  of  men  by  angel  forms,  and  have  placed 
before  us  the  emphatic  picture  of  "  woman  wailing 
for  her  demon  lover."  There  is  a  like  conflict  of 
the  passions  as  of  the  elements — all  wild,  chaotic, 
uncontrollable,  fatal;  but  there  is  a  discordant  har 
mony  in  all  this  —  a  keeping  in  the  coloring  and  the 
time.  In  handling  the  unpolished  page,  we  look 
upon  the  world  before  the  flood,  and  gaze  upon  r 
doubtful  blank,  with  only  a  few  straggling  figures, 
part  human  and  part  divine;  while,  in  the  expres- 
sion of  the  former,  we  read  the  fancies,  ethereal  and 
lawless,  that  lifted  the  eye  of  beauty  to  the  skies, 
and,  in  the  latter,  the  human  passions  that  "  diiM 
angels  down  to  earth."  —  Jeffrey.} 


THE  DEFORMED  TRANSFORMED;  A   DRAMA. 


AUTHOR'S  PREFACE. 

This  production  is  founded  partly  on  the  story  of  a  novel  called  "  The  Three  Brothers,"  *  publish*) 
many  years  ago,  from  which  M.  G.  Lewis's  "  Wood  Demon  "  was  also  taken  —  and  partly  on  the  "  Faust  " 
ef  the  great  Goethe.  The  present  publication  contains*the  two  first  Parts  only,  and  the  opening  chorus 
of  the  third.    The  rest  may  perhaps  appear  hereafter. 


INTRODUCTION. 

This  drama  was  begun  at  Pisa  in  1821,  but  was  not  published  till  January,  1824.  Mr.  Medwin  says: 
—  "On  my  calling  on  Lord  Byron  one  morning,  he  produced  the  '  Deformed  Transformed.'  Handing 
it  to  Shelley,  as  he  was  in  the  habit  of  doing  his  daily  compositions,  he  said  — '  Shelley,  I  have  been 
writing  a  Faustish  kind  of  drama  tell  me  what  you  think  of  it.'  After  Reading  it  attentively,  Shelley 
returned  it.  '  Well,'  said  Lord  B., '  how  do  you  like  it  ? '  '  Least,'  replied  he,  of  '  any  thing  I  ever  saw  of 
j  yours.  It  is  a  bad  imitation  of  "  Faust,"  and  besiJes,  there  are  two  entire  lines  of  Southey's  in  it.'  Lord 
I  Byron  changed  color  immediately,  and  asked  hastily,  '  what  lines? '     Shelley  repeated, 

'  And  wate.r  shall  see  thee, 
And  fear  thee,  and  flee  thee." 

They  are  in  the  Curse  of  Kehama.'  His  Lordship  instantly  threw  the  poem  into  the  fire.  He  seemed 
to  feel  no  chagrin  at  seeing  it  consume  —  at  least  his  countenance  betrayed  none,  and  his  conversation 
became  more  gay  and  lively  than  usual.  Whether  it  was  hatred  of  Southey,  or  respect  for  Shelley's 
opinion,  which  made  him  commit  the  act  that  I  considered  a  sort  of  suicide,  was  always  doubtful  to  me. 
_  was  never  more  surprised  than  to  see,  two  years  afterwards, '  The  Deformed  Transformed  *  announced 
(supposing  it  to  have  perished  at  Pisa);  but  it  seems  that  he  must  have  had  another  copy  of  the  manu- 
script, or  that  he  had  rewritten  it  perhaps,  without  changing  a  word,  except  omitting  the  Kehama  lines. 

.  His  memory  was  remarkably  retentive  of  his  own  writings.  I  believe  he  could  have  quoted  almost  every 
fae  he  ever  wrote." 

Mrs.  Shelley  says:  —  "  This  had  long  been  a  favorite  subject  with  Lord  Byron.     I  think  that  he  men- 

1  <oned  it  also  in  Switzerland.     I  copied  it  —  he  sending  a  portion  of  it  at  a  time,  as  it  was  finished,  to  me. 

I  ^t  this  time  he  had  a  great  horror  of  its  being  said  that  he  plagiarized,  or  that  he  studied  for  ideas,  and 
wrote  with  difficulty.  Thus,  he  gave  Shelley  Aiken's  edition  of  the  British  Poets,  that  it  might  not  be 
lOund  in  his  house  by  some  English  lounger,  and  reported  home:  thus,  too,  he  always  dated  when  he 
began  and  when  he  ended  a  poem,  to  prove  hereafter  how  quickly  it  was  done.  I  do  not  think  that  he 
altered  a  line  in  this  drama  after  he  had  once  written  it  down.  He  composed  and  corrected  in  his  mind. 
I  do  not  know  how  he  meant  to  finish  if,  but  he  said  himself  that  the  whole  conduct  of  the  story  was 
already  conceived.  It  was  at  this  time  that  a  brutal  paragraph  alluding  to  his  lameness  appeared,  which 
he  repeated  to  me;  lest  I  should  hear  it  first  from  some  one  else.  No  action  of  Lord  Byron's  life  — 
scarce  a  line  he  has  wriiten  —  but  was  influenced  by  his  personal  defect." 

1  [The  "Three  Brothers  "is  a  romance,  published  in  1803,  the  work  of  a  Joshua  Pickersgill,  junior.] 


.08 


THE  DEFORMED    TRANSFORMED. 


[part  i 


Stranger,  afterwards  Caesar. 

Arnold. 

Bourbon. 

Philibert. 


DRAMATIS   PERSON/E. 
Cellini. 


Bertha. 
Olimpia. 


Spirits,  Soldiers,  Citizens  of  Rome,  Priests,  Peasants,  etc. 


Out,  hunchback !  • 

I  was  born  so,  mother !  * 

Out, 
Thou  nightmare !     Of  seven 


PART   I. 
Scene  I.  —  A  Forest. 
Enter  ARNOLD  and  his  mother  BERTHA. 

Bert. 

Am. 

Bert. 
Thou  incubus ! 

sons, 
The  sole  abortion ! 

Am.  Would  that  I  had  been  so, 

And  never  seen  the  light ! 

Bert.  I  would  so  too  ! 

But  as  thou  hast —  hence,  hence  —  and  do  thy 

best! 
That  back  of  thine  may  bear  its  burden  ;  'tis 
More  high,  if  not  so  broad  as  that  of  others. 

Am.     It  dears  its  burden  ;  —  but,  my  heart ! 
Will  it 
Sustain  that  which  you  lay  upon  it,  mother? 
I  love,  or,  at  the  least,  I  loved  you :  nothing 
Save  you,  in  nature,  can  love  aught  like  me. 
You  nursed  me  —  do  not  kill  me ! 

Bert.  Yes  —  I  nursed  thee, 

Because thouwertmyfirst-born, and  I  knewnot 
If  there  would  be  another  unlike  thee, 
That  monstrous  sport  of  nature.  But  get  hence, 
And  gather  wood ! 

Am.  I  will :  but  when  I  bring  it, 

Speak  to  me  kindly.     Though  my  brothers  are 
So  beautiful  and  lusty,  and  as  free 
As  the  free  chase  they  follow,  do  not  spurn  me  : 
Our  milk  has  been  the  same. 

Bert.  As  is  the  hedgehog's, 

Which  sucks  at  midnight  from  the  wholesome 

dam 
Of  the  young  bull,  until  the  milkmaid  finds 
The  nipple  next  day  sore  and  udder  dry.2 
Call  not  thy  brothers  brethren !     Call  me  not 


1  [Lord  Byron's  own  mother,  when  in  ill  humor 
with  him,  used  to  make  the  deformity  in  his  foot 
the  subject  of  taunts  and  reproaches.  She  would 
(we  quote  from  a  letter  written  by  one  of  her  rela- 
tions in  Scotland)  pass  from  passionate  caresses  to 
the  repulsion  of  actual  disgust;  then  devour  him 
with  kisses  again,  and  swear  his  eyes  were  as  beau- 
tiful as  his  father's.  —  Quar.  Rev.} 

'l  [This  is  now  believed  to  be  a  vulgar  error;  the 
smallness  of  the  animal's  mouth  rendering  it  incap- 
able of  the  mischief  laid  to  its  charge.] 


Mother;  for  if  I  brought  thee  forth,  it  was 
As  foolish  hens  at  times  hatch  vipers,  by 
Sitting  upon  strange  eggs.     Out,  urchin,  out! 
[Exit  Bertha, 
Am.  {solus).    Oh  Mother! She  is  gone, 

and  I  must  do 
Her  bidding;  —  wearily  but  willingly 
I  would  fulfil  it,  could  I  only  hope 
A  kind  word  in  return.     What  shall  I  do? 
[ARNOLD  begins  to  cut  wood :  in  doing  this 

he  wounds  one  of  his  hands. 
My  labor  for  the  day  is  over  now. 
Accursed  be  this  blood  that  flows  so  fast; 
For  double  curses  will  be  my  meed  now 
At  home  —  What  home?     I  have  no  home, 

no  kin,  f 
No  kind  —  not  made  like  other  creatures,  or 
To  share  their  sports  or  pleasures.     Must  I 

bleed  too 
Like  them?     Oh  that  each  drop  which  falls  to 

earth 
Would  rise  a  snake  to  sting  them,  as  they  have 

stung  me ! 
Or  that  the  devil,  to  whom  they  liken  me, 
Would  aid  his  likeness!     If  I  must  partake 
His  form,  why  not  his  power  ?     Is  it  because 
I  have  not  his  will  too  ?     For  one  kind  word 
From  her  that  bore  me  would  still  reconcile  m« 
Even  to  this  hateful  aspect.     Let  me  wash 
The  wound. 

[ARNOLD^w  to  a  spring,  and  stoops  to  wask 

his  hand  :  he  starts  back. 
They  are  right ;  and  Nature's  mirror  shows  me, 
What  she  hath  made  me.     I  will  not  look  on  it 
Again,  and  scarce  dare  think  on't.    Hideous 

wretch 
That  I  am !     The  very  waters  mock  me  with 
My  horrid  shadow  —  like  a  demon  placed 
Deep  in  the  fountain  to  scare  back  the  cattle 
From  drinking  therein.  [He  pauses. 

And  shall  I  live  on, 
A  burden  to  the  earth,  myself,  and  shame 
Unto  what  brought  me  into  life  !     Thou  blood, 
Which  flowest  so  freely  from  a  scratch,  let  ma 
Try  if  thou  wilt  not  in  a  fuller  stream 
Pour  forth  my  woes  for  ever  with  thyself 
On  earth,  to  which  I  will  restore  at  once 
This  hateful  compound  of  her  atoms,  and 
Resolve  back  to  her  elements,  and  take 
The  shape  of  any  reptile  save  myself. 


SCENE   I.] 


THE  DEFORMED    TRANSFORMED. 


699 


And  make  a  world  for  myriads  of  new  worms ! 
This  knife  !  now  let  me  prove  if  it  will  sever 
This  withered  slip  of  nature's  nightshade — my 
Vile  form  —  from  the  creation,  as  it  hath 
The  green  bough  from  the  forest. 

[A  RNOLD  places  the  knife  in  the  ground,  with 
the  point  upwards. 

Now  'tis  set, 
And  I  can  fall  upon  it.    Yet  one  glance 
On  the  fair  day,  which  sees  no  foul  thing  like 
Myself,  and  the  sweet  sun  which  warmed  me, 

but 
In  vain.     The  birds — how  joyously  they  sing ! 
So  let  them,  for  I  wouid  not  be  lamented : 
But  let  their  merriest  notes  be  Arnold's  knell; 
The  fallen  leaves  my  monument ;  the  murmur 
Of  the  near  fountain  my  sole  elegy. 
Now,  knife,  stand  firmly,  as  I  fain  would  fall! 
\As  he  rushes  to  throw  himself "upon  the  knife, 
his  eye  is  suddenly  caught  by  the  fountain, 
•which  seems  in  motion. 
The  fountain  moves  without  a  wind  :  but  shall 
The  ripple  of  a  spring  change  my  resolve  ? 
No.     Yet  it  moves  again  !     The  waters  stir, 
Not  as  with  air,  but  by  some  subterrane 
And  rocking  power  of  the  internal  world. 
What's  here  ?     A  mist !     No  more  ?  — 

[A  cloud  comes  from  the  fountain.    He  stands 
gazing  upon  it;  it  is  dispelled,  and  a  tall 
black  man  comes  towards  him. 
Arn.  What  would  you?     Speak ! 

Spirit  or  mu? 

Strati.  As  man  is  both,  why  not 

Say  both  in  one  ? 

Am.  Your  form  is  man's,  and  yet 

You  may  be  devil. 

Stran.  So  many  men  are  that 

Which  is  so  called  or  thought,  that  you  may 

add  me 
To  which  you  please,  without  much  wrong  to 

either. 
But  come  :  you  wish  to  kill  yourself;  —  pursue 
Yojr  purpose. 
Am.  You  have  interrupted  me. 

Stran.     What  is  that  resolution  which  can 
e'er 
Be  interrupted?     If  I  be  the  devil 
You  deem,  a  single  moment  would  have  made 

you 
Mine,  and  for  ever,  by  your  suicide ; 
And  yet  my  coming  saves  you. 

Arn.  I  said  not 

You  were  the  demon,  but  that  your  approach 
Was  like  one. 

Stran.  Unless  you  keep  company 

With  him  (and  you  seem  scarce  used  to  such 

high 
Society)  you  can't  tell  how  he  approaches ; 
And  for  his  aspect,  look  upon  the  fountain, 
And  then  on  me,  and  judge  which  of  us  twain 
Looks  likest  what  the  boors  believe  to  be 
Their  cloven-footed  terror. 


Arn.  Do  yon  —  dare  yeu 

To  taunt  me  with  my  born  deformity  ? 

Stran.     Were  I  to  taunt  a  buffalo  with  this 
Cloven  foot  of  thine,  or  the  swift  dromedary 
With  thy  sublime  of  humps,  the  animals 
Would  revel  in  the  compliment.     And  yet 
Both  beings  are  more  swift,  more  strong,  more 

mighty 
In  action  and  endurance  than  thyself, 
And  all  the  fierce  and  fair  of  the  same  kind 
With  thee.     Thy  form  is  natural :  'twas  only 
Nature's  mistaken  largess  to  bestow 
The  gifts  which  are  of  others  upon  man. 

Arn.     Give  me  the  strength  then  of  the  buf- 
falo's foot, 
When  he  spurs  high  the  dust,  beholding  his 
Near  enemy ;  or  let  me  have  the  long 
And  patient  swiftness  of  the  desert-ship, 
Thehelmless  dromedary!  —and  I'll  bear 
Thy  fiendish  sarcasm  with  a  saintly  patience. 

Stran.     I  will. 

Arn.  (with  surprise).     Thou  canst? 

Stran.      Perhaps.    Would  you  aught  else  ? 

Arn.    Thou  mockest  me. 

Stran.  Not  I.    Why  should  I  mock 

What  all  are  mocking?     That's  poor  sport, 

methinks. 
To  talk  to  thee  in  human  language  (for 
Thou  canst  not  yet  speak  mine),  the  forester 
Hunts  not  the  wretched  coney,  but  the  boar 
Or  wolf,  or  lion,  leaving  paltry  game 
To  petty  burghers,  who  leave  once  a  year 
Their  walls,  to  fill  their  household  caldrons  with 
Such  scullion  prey.     The   meanest  gibe  at 

thee, — 
Now  /  can  mock  the  mightiest. 

Arn.  Then  waste  not 

Thy  time  on  me  :  I  seek  thee  not. 

Stran.  Your  thoughts 

Are  not  far  from  me.     Do  not  send  me  back : 
I  am  not  so  easily  recalled  to  do 
Good  service. 

Arn.  What  wilt  thou  do  for  me? 

Stran.  Change 

Shapes  with  you,  if  you  will,  since  yours  ao  irkt 

you; 
Or  form  you  to  your  wish  in  any  shape. 

Arn.     Oh  !  then  you  are  indeed  the  demon 
for 
Nought  else  would  wittingly  wear  mine. 

Stran.  I'll  show  thee 

The  brightest  which  the  world  e'er  bore,  and 

give  thee 
Thy  choice. 

Am.  On  what  condition  ? 

Stran.  There's  a  question ! 

An  hour  ago  you  would  have  given  your  soul 
To  look  like  other  men,  and  now  you  pause 
To  wear  the  form  of  heroes. 

Arn.  No  ;  I  will  not 

I  must  not  compromise  my  soul. 

Stran.  What  soul, 


700 


THE  DEFORMED    TRANSFORMED. 


[part  l 


Worth  naming  so,  would  dwell  in  such  a  car- 
cass ? 
Arn.     Tis  an  inspiring  one,  whate'er  the 
tenement 
In  which  it  is  mislodged.      But  name   your 

compact : 
Must  it  be  signed  in  blood  ? 
Strati.  Not  in  your  own. 

Am.    Whose  blood  then  ? 
Stran.  We  will  talk  of  that  hereafter. 

But  I'll  be  moderate  with  you,  for  I  see 
Great  things  within  you.    You  shall  have  no 

bond 
But  your  own   will,   no   contract  save  your 

deeds. 
Are  you  content  ? 
Arn.  I  take  thee  at  thy  word. 

Stran.     Now  then  !  — 

f  The  Stranger  approaches  the  fountain,  and 
turns  to  Arnold. 

A  little  of  your  blood. 
Arn.  For  what  ? 

Stran.     To  mingle  with  the  magic  of  the 
waters, 
vnd  make  the  charm  effective. 
Arn.  (  holding  out  his  wounded  arm  ) .    Take 

it  all. 
Stran.     Not  now.    A  few  drops  will  suffice 

for  this. 
[  The  Stranger  takes  some  of  ARNOLD'S  blood 
in  his  hand,  and  casts  it  into  the  fountain. 
Stran.     Shadows  of  beauty ! 
Shadows  of  power! 
Rise  to  your  duty — ■ 
This  is  the  hour  ! 
Walk  lovely  and  pliant 

From  the  depth  of  this  fountain, 
As  the  cloud-shapen  giant 

Bestrides  the  Hartz  Mountain.1 
Come  as  ye  were, 

That  our  eyes  may  behold 
The  model  in  air 

Of  the  form  I  will  mould, 
Bright  as  the  Iris 

When  ether  is  spanned  ;  — 
Such /4«  desire  is,  [Pointing  to  ARNOLD. 

Such  my  command  1 
Demons  heroic  — 

Demons  who  wore 
The  form  of  the  stoic 

Or  sophist  of  yore  — 
Or  the  shape  of  each  victor, 
From  Macedon's  boy 


1  This  is  a  well-known  German  superstition  —  a 
gigantic  shadow  produced  by  reflection  on  the 
Brocken.  [The  Brocken  is  the  name  of  the  loftiest 
of  the  Hartz  mountains,  in  the  kingdom  of  Hano- 
ver. From  the  earliest  periods  of  authentic  history, 
the  Brocken  has  been  the  seat  of  the  marvellous. 
The  spectres  are  merely  shadows  of  the  observer 
projected  on  dense  vapor  or  thin  fleecy  clouds 
which  have  the  power  of  reflecting  much  light.] 


To  each  high  Roman's  picture, 
Who  breathed  to  destroy  — 
Shadows  of  beauty ! 

Shadows  of  power ! 
Up  to  your  duty  — 
This  is  the  hour! 
[  Various  Phantoms  arise  from  the  waters, 
and  pass  in  succession  before  the  Strange/ 
and  Arnold. 
Arn.     What  do  I  see  ? 
Stran.  The  black-eyed  Roman,  with 

The  eagle's  beak  between  those  eyes  which 

ne'er 
Beheld  a  conqueror,  or  looked  along 
The  land  he  made  not  Rome's,  while  Rom« 

became 
His,  and  all  theirs  who  heired  his  very  name, 
Arn.     The  phantom's   bald ;   my   quest   is 
beauty.     Could  I 
Inherit  but  his  fame  with  his  defects! 
Stran.     His  brow  was  girt  with  laurels  mora 
than  hairs. 
You  see  his  aspect  —  choose  it,  or  reject. 
I  can  but  promise  you  his  form  ;  his  fame 
Must  be  long  sought  and  fought  for. 

Arn.  I  will  fight  too. 

But  not  as  a  mock  Caesar.     Let  him  pass; 
His  aspect  mary  be  fair,  but  suits  me  not. 
Stran.     Then  you  are  far  more  difficult  tc 
please 
Than  Cato's  sister,  or  than  Brutus'  mother, 
Or  Cleopatra  at  sixteen  —  an  age 
When  love  is  not  less  in  the  eye  than  heart. 
But  be  it  so !     Shadow,  pass  on ! 

[  The  phantom  of  Julius  Ccesar  disappears. 
Am.  And  can  it 

Be,  that  the  man  who  shook  the  earth  is  gone, 
And  left  no  footstep  ? 

Stran.  There  you  err.     His  substance 

Left  graves  enough,  and  woesenough,  and  fame 
More  than  enough  to  track  his  memory ; 
But  for  his  shadow,  'tis  no  more  than  yours, 
Except  a  little  longer  and  less  crooked 
I'  the  sun.    Behold  another! 

\A  second  phantom  passes. 
Arn.  Who  is  he  ? 

Stran.    He  was  the  fairest  and  the  bravest  oi 
Athenians.     Look  upon  him  well. 

Am,  He  is 

More  lovely  than  the  last.     How  beautiful ! 2 
Stran.      Such  was  the  curled  son  of  Cli 
nias ;  —  wouldst  thou 
Invest  thee  with  his  form  ? 

Am.  Would  that  I  hacj 

Been  born  with  it !  But  since  that  I  may  choose 

further, 
I  wili  look  further. 

[  The  shade  of  Alcibiades  disappears. 
Stran.  Lo  !  behold  again ! 


2  ["  Upon  the  whole,  it  may  be  doubted  whether 
there  be  a  name  of  antiquity  which  comes  down 


SCENE  I.J 


THE  DEFORMED    TRANSFORMED. 


70i 


Arn.    What !  that  low,  swarthy,  short-nosed, 
round-eyed  satyr, 
With  the  wide  nostrils  and  Silenus'  aspect, 
The  splay  feet  and  low  stature!1  I  had  better 
Remain  that  which  I  am. 

Strati.  And  yet  he  was 

The  earth's  perfection  of  all  mental  beauty, 
And  personification  of  all  virtue. 
But  ycu  reject  him  ? 

Arn.  If  his  form  could  bring  me 

That  which  redeemed  it  —  no. 

Strati.  I  have  no  power 

To  promise  that ;  but  you  may  try,  and  find  it 
Easier  in  such  a  form,  or  in  your  own. 

Arn.     No.     I  was  not  born  for  philosophy, 
["hough  I  have  that  about  me  which  has  need 

on't. 
Let  him  fleet  on. 


with  such  a  general  charm  as  that  of  Alcibiades. 
Why?  I  cannot  answer.  Who  can?"*  —  Byron's 
Diary.] 

1  ["  The  outside  of  Socrates  was  that  of  a  satyr 
and  buffoon,  but  his  soul  was  all  virtue,  and  from 
within  him  came  such  divine  and  pathetic  things, 
as  pierced  the  heart,  and  drew  tears  from  the  hear- 
ers."—  Plato.] 


*  One  cannot  help  being  struck  with  Lord  By- 
ron's choice  of  a  favorite  among  the  heroic  names 
of  antiquity.  The  man  who  was  educated  by  Peri- 
cles, and  who  commanded  the  admiration  as  well 
as  the  affection  of  Socrates ;  whose  gallantry  and 
boldness  were  always  as  undisputed  as  the  pre-emi- 
nent graces  of  his  person  and  manners;  who  died 
at  forty-five,  after  having  been  successively  the 
delight  and  hero  of  Athens,  of  Sparta,  of  Persia;  — 
this  most  versatile  of  great  men  has  certainly  left  to 
the  world  a  very  splendid  reputation.  But  his 
fame  is  stained  with  the  recollections  of  a  most 
profligate  and  debauched  course  of  private  life,  and 
of  the  most  complete  and  flagrant  contempt  of  pub- 
lic principle;  and  it  is  to  be  hoped  that  there  are 
not  many  men  who  could  gravely  give  to  the  name 
of  Alcibiades  a  preference,  on  the  whole,  over  such 
an  one  as  that  of  an  Epaminondas  or  a  Leonidas, 
or  even  of  a  Miltiades  or  a  Hannibal.  But  the 
career  of  Alcibiades  was  romantic:  every  great 
event  in  which  he  had  a  share  has  the  air  of  a  per- 
sonal adventure;  and,  whatever  might  be  said  of 
his  want  of  principle,  moral  and  political,  nobody 
sver  doubted  the  greatness  of  his  powers  and  the 
brilliancy  of  his  accomplishments.  By  the  gift  of 
nature,  the  handsomest  creature  of  his  time,  and 
the  possessor  of  a  very  extraordinary  genius,  he 
was  by  accidents  or  by  fits,  a  soldier,  —  a  hero, — 
an  orator,  —  and  even,  it  should  seem,  a  philoso- 
pher; but  he  played  these  parts  only  because  he 
wished  it  to  be  thought  that  there  was  no  part 
which  he  could  not  play.  He  thought  of  nothing 
but  himself.  His  vanity  entirely  commanded  the 
direction  of  his  genius,  and  could  even  make  him 
abandon  occasionally  his  voluptuousness  for  the 
very  opposite  extreme;  which  last  circumstance, 
by  the  way,  was  probably  one  of  those  that  had  hit 
Lord  Byron's  fancy  —  as  indeed  it  may  be  sus- 
pected to  have  influenced  his  behavior.  —  Lock- 
hart. 


Stran.  Be  air,  thou  hemlock-drinker! 

[  The  shadow  of  Socrates  disappears  :  another 

rises. 
Arn.    What's  here?  whose  broad  brow  and 
whose  curly  beard 
And  manly  aspect  look  like  Hercules, 
Save  that  his  jocund  eye  hath  more  of  Bacchus 
Than  the  sad  purger  of  the  infernal  world, 
Leaning  dejected  on  his  club  of  conquest, 
As  if  he  knew  the  worthlessness  of  those 
For  whom  he  had  fought. 

Stran.  It  was  the  man  who  lost 

The  ancient  world  for  love. 

Arn.  I  cannot  blame  him, 

Since  I  have  risked  my  soul  because  I  find 

not 
That  which  he  exchanged  the  earth  for. 

Stran.  Since  so  far 

You  seem  congenial,  will  you  wear  his  features? 
Arn.     No.    As  you  leave  me  choice,  I  am 
difficult, 
If  but  to  see  the  heroes  I  should  ne'er 
Have  seen  else  on  this  side  of  the  dim  shore 
Whence  they  float  back  before  us. 

Strati.  Hence,  triumvir ! 

Thy  Cleopatra's  waiting. 

[  The  shade  of  Antony  disappears  :  another 

rises. 
Arn.  Who  is  this  ? 

Who  truly  looketh  like  a  demigod, 
Blooming  and  bright,  with  golden  hair,  and 

stature, 
If  not  more  high  than  mortal,  yet  immortal 
In  all  that  nameless  bearing  of  his  limbs, 
Which  he  wears  as  the  sun  his  rays  —  a  some- 
thing 
Which  shines  from  him,  and  yet  is  but  the 

flashing 
Emanation  of  a  thing  more  glorious  Still. 
Was  he  e'er  human  onlyf2 

Stran.  Let  the  earth  speak, 

If  there  be  atoms  of  him  left,  or  even 
Of  the  more  solid  gold  that  formed  his  urn. 
Arn.     Who  was  this  glory  of  mankind  ? 
Stran.  The  shame 

Of  Greece  in  peace,  her  thunderbolt  in  war — 
Demetrius  the  Macedonian,  and 
Taker  of  cities. 

Arn.  Yet  one  shadow  more. 

Stran.  {addressing  the  shadow).     Get  thee 

to  Lamia's  lap ! 
[  The  shade  of  Demetrius  Poliorcetes  van- 
ishes :  another  rises. 

I'll  fit  you  still, 
Fear  not,  my  hunchback:  if  the  shadows  of 


-  [The  beauty  and  mien  of  Demetrius  Poliorcetes 
were  so  inimitable,  that  no  statuary  or  painter 
could  hit  off  a  likeness.  His  countenance  had  a 
mixture  of  grace  and  dignity,  and  was  at  once 
amiable  and  awful,  and  the  unsubdued  and  eager 
air  of  youth  was  blended  with  the  majesty  of  the 
hero  and  the  king.  — Plutarch.] 


702 


THE  DEFORMED    TRANSFORMED. 


[PART  \ 


That  which  existed  please  not  your  nice  taste, 

I'll  animate  the  ideal  marble,  till 

Your  soul  be  reconciled  to  her  new  garment. 

Am.     Content!     I  will  fix  here. 

Strain.  I  must  commend 

Your  choice.     The  godlike  son  of  the  sea- 
goddess, 
The  unshorn  boy  of  Peleus,  with  his  locks 
As  beautiful  and  clear  as  the  amber  waves 
Of  rich  Pactolus,  rolled  o'er  sands  of  gold, 
Softened  by  intervening  crystal,  and 
Rippled  like  flowing  waters  by  the  wind, 
All  vowed  to  Sperchius  as  they  were  —  be- 
hold them ! 
And  him  —  as  he  stood  by  Polixena, 
With  sanctioned  and  with  softened  love,  be- 
fore 
The  altar,  gazing  on  his  Trojan  bride, 
With  some  remorse  within  for  Hector  slain 
And  Priam  weeping,  mingled  with  deep  pas- 
sion 
For  the  sweet  downcast  virgin,  whose  young 

hand 
Trembled  in  his  who  slew  her  brother.     So 
He  stood  i'  the  temple!     Look  upon  him  as 
Greece  looked  her  last  upon   her  best,  the 

instant 
Ere  Paris'  arrow  flew. 

Am.  I  gaze  upon  him 

As  if  I  were  his  soul,  whose  form  shall  soon 
Envelop  mine. 

Strati.    You  have  done  well.    The  greatest 
Deformity  should  only  barter  with 
The  extremest  beauty,  if  the  proverb's  true 
Of  mortals,  that  extremes  meet. 

Am.  Come  !     Be  quick  ! 

I  am  impatient. 

Strati.  As  a  youthful  beauty 

Before  her  glass.     You  both  see  what  is  not, 
But  dream  it  is  what  must  be. 

Am.  Must  I  wait  ? 

Stran.     No ;  that  .were  a  pity.     But  a  word 
or  two  : 
His  stature  is  twelve  cubits;   would  you  so 

far 
Outstep  these  times,  and  be  a  Titan  ?     Or 
(To  talk  canonically)  wax  a  son 
Of  Anak  ? 

Am.        Why  not  ? 

Sti  an.  Glorious  ambition  ! 

I  love  thee  most  in  dwarfs !     A  mortal  of 
Philistine  stature  would  have  gladly  pared 
His  own  Goliath  down  to  a  slight  David: 
But  thou,  my  manikin,  wouldst  soar  a  show 
Rather  than  hero.     Thou  shalt  be  indulged, 
If  such  be  thy  desire  ;  and  yet,  by  being 
A  little  less  removed  from  present  men 
In  figure,  thou  canst  sway  them  more;  for  all 
Would  rise  against  thee  now,  as  if  to  hunt 
A  new-found   mammoth ;    and   their  cursed 

engines, 
Their  culverins,  and  so  forth,  would  find  wav 


Through  our  friend's  armor  there,  with  greater 

ease 
Than  the  adulterer's  arrow  through  his  heel, 
Which  Thetis  had  forgotten  to  baptize 
In  Styx. 
Ant.     Then  let  it  be  as  thou  deem'st  best. 
Stran.    Thou   shalt  be  beauteous   ai  the 
thing  thou  seest, 

And  strong  as  what  it  was,  and 

Am.  I  ask  no' 

For  valor,  since  deformity  is  daring. 
It  is  its  essence  to  o'ertake  mankind 
By  heart  and  soul,  and  make  itself  the  equal  — 
Ay,  the  superior  of  the  rest.     There  is 
A  spur  in  its  halt  movements,  to  become 
All  that  the  others  cannot,  in  such  things 
As  still  are  free  to  both,  to  compensate 
For  stepdame  Nature's  avarice  at  first. 
They  woo  with  fearless  deeds  the  smiles  oi 

fortune, 
And  oft,  like  Timour  the  lame  Tartar,  win 
them. 
Stran.    Well  spoken !    And  thou  doubtless 
wilt  remain 
Formed  as  thou  art.    I  may  dismiss  the  mould 
Of  shadow,  which  must  turn  to  flesh,  to  in- 
case 
This  daring  scJul,  which  could  achieve  no  less 
Without  it. 

Am.  Had  no  power  presented  me 

The  possibility  of  change,  I  would 
Have  done  the  best  which  spirit  may  to  make 
Its  way  with  all  deformity's  dull,  deadly, 
Discouraging  weight  upon  me,  like  a  moun- 
tain, 
In  feeling,  on  my  heart  as  on  my  shoulders  — 
An  hateful  and  unsightly  molehill  to 
The   eyes  of  happier   men.     I  would  have 

looked 
On  beauty  in  that  sex  which  is  the  type 
Of  all  we  know  or  dream  of  beautiful 
Beyond  the  world  they  brighten,  with  a  sigh  — 
Not  of  love,  but  despair;  nor  sought  to  win, 
Though  to  a  heart  all  love,  what  could  not 

love  me 
In  turn,  because  of  this  vile  crooked  clog, 
Which  makes  me  lonely.     Nay,  I  could  have 

borne 
It  all,  had  not  my  mother  spurned  me  from 

her. 
The  she-bear  licks  her  cubs  into  a  sort 
Of  shape ;  —  my  dam  beheld  my  shape  was 

hopeless. 
Had  she  exposed  me,  like  the  Spartan,  ere 
I  knew  the  passionate  part  of  life,  I  had 
Been  a  clod  of  the  valley,  —  happier  nothing 
Than  what  I  am.     But  even  thus,  the  lowest, 
Ugliest,  and  meanest  of  mankind,  what  cour- 
age 
And  perseverance  could  have  done,  perchance 
Had  made  me  something — as  it  has  mad* 
heroes 


SCENE   I.] 


THE  DEFORMED    TRANSFORMED. 


703 


Of  the  same  mould  as  mine.    You  lately  saw 

me 
Master  of  my  own  life,  and  quick  to  quit  it ; 
And  he  who  is  so  is  the  master  of 
Whatever  dreads  to  die. 

Strati.  Decide  between 

What  you  have  been,  or  will  be. 

Am.  I  have  done  so. 

You  have  opened  brighter  prospects  to  my 

eyes, 
And  sweeter  to  my  heart.    As  I  am  now, 
I  might  be  feared,  admired,  respected,  loved 
Of  all  save  those  next  to  me,  of  whom  I 
Would  be  beloved.     As  thou  showest  me 
A  choice  of  forms,  I  take  the  one  I  view. 
Haste !  haste ! 

Strati.  And  what  shall  /  wear  ? 

Am.  Surely  he 

Who  can  command  all  forms  will  choose  the 

highest, 
Something  superior  even  to  that  which  was 
Pelides  now  before  us.     Perhaps  his 
Who    slew  him,    that    of   Paris  :    or  —  still 

higher  — 
The  poet's  god,  clothed  in  such  limbs  as  are 
Themselves  a  poetry. 

Strati.  Less  will  content  me  ; 

For  I,  too,  love  a  change. 

Am.  Your  aspect  is 

Dusky,  but  not  uncomely. 

Strati.  If  I  chose, 

I  might  be  whiter ;  but  I  have  a  penchant 
For  black —  it  is  so  honest,  and  besides 
Can  neither  blush  with  shame  nor  pale  with 

fear; 
But  I  have  worn  it  long  enough  of  late, 
And  now  I'll  take  your  figure. 

Am.  Mine ! 

Strati.  Yes.    You 

Shall   change  with  Thetis'  son,  and   I  with 

Bertha, 
Your  mother's  offspring.     People  have  their 

tastes ; 
You  have  yours —  I  mine. 
Am.  Despatch !  despatch ! 

Strati.  Even  so. 

[  The  Stranger  takes  some  earth  and  moulds 
it  along  the  turf,  and  then  addresses  the 
phantom  of  Achilles. 
Beautiful  shadow 

OfThetis'sboy! 
Who  sleeps  in  the  meadow 

Whose  grass  grows  o'er  Troy : 
From  the  red  earth,  like  Adam,1 

Thy  likeness  I  shape, 
As  the  being  who  made  him, 

Whose  actions  I  ape. 
Thou  clay,  be  all  glowing, 
Till  the  rose  in  his  cheek 


:  Adam  means  "  red  earth"  from  which  the 
Irst  man  was  formed. 


Be  as  fair  as,  when  blowing, 

It  wears  its  first  streak! 
Ye  violets,  I  scatter, 

Now  turn  into  eyes! 
And  thou,  sunshiny  water, 
Of  blood  take  the  guise! 
Let  these  hyacinth  boughs 
Be  his  long  flowing  hair, 
And  wave  o'er  his  brows, 
As  thou  wavest  in  air ! 
Let  his  heart  be  this  maible 

I  tear  from  the  rock ! 
But  his  voice  as  the  warble 

Of  birds  on  yon  oak  ! 
Let  his  flesh  be  the  purest 
Of  mould,  in  which  grew 
The  lily-root  surest, 

And  drank  the  best  dew! 
Let  his  limbs  be  the  lightest 

Which  clay  can  compound, 
And  his  aspect  the  brightest 

On  earth  to  be  found ! 
Elements,  near  me, 

Be  mingled  and  stirred, 
Know  me,  and  hear  me, 
And  leap  to  my  word ! 
Sunbeams,  awaken 

This  earth's  animation! 
'Tis  done !     He  hath  taken 
His  stand  in  creation  ! 
[ARNOLD  falls  senseless  ;  his  soul  passes  in- 
to the  shape  of  Achilles,  which  rises  from 
the  ground ;  while  the  phantom  has  dis- 
appeared, part  by  part,  as  the  figure  was 
formed  from  the  earth. 
Am.  {in  his  new  form).     I  love,  and  I  shall 
be  beloved !     Oh  life ! 
At  last  I  feel  thee !     Glorious  spirit ! 

Stran.  Stop ! 

What  shall  become  of  your  abandoned  gar- 
ment, 
Your  hump,  and  lump,  and  clod  of  ugliness. 
Which  late  you  wore,  or  were  ? 

Am.  Who  cares  ?     Let  wolvefs 

And  vultures  take  it,  if  they  will. 

Stran.  And  if 

They  do,  and  are  not  scared  by  it,  you'll  say 
It  must  be  peace-time,  and  no  better  fare 
Abroad  i'  the  fields. 

Am.  Let  us  but  leave  it  there ; 

No  matter  what  becomes  on't. 

Stran.  That's  ungracious, 

If  not  ungrateful.     WThatsoe'er  it  be, 
It  hath  sustained  your  soul  full  many  a  day. 
Am.    Ay,  as  the  dunghill  may  conceal  a 
gem 
Which  is  now  set  in  gold,  as  jewels  should  be. 
Stran.     But  if  I  give  another  form,  it  must  be 
By  fair  exchange,  not  robbery.     For  they 
Who  make  men  without  women's  aid  have 

long 
Had  patents  for  the  same,  and  do  not  love 


704 


THE  DEFORMED    TRANSFORMED. 


[part  i. 


Your  interlopers.    The  devil  may  take  men, 
Not  make  them,  —  though  he  reaped  the  ben- 
efit 
Of  the  original  workmanship:  —  and  therefore 
Some   one   must   be    found    to    assume    the 

shape 
You  have  quitted. 

Arn.  Who  would  do  so  ? 

Stran.  That  I  know  not, 

And  therefore  I  must. 
|     Arn.  You ! 

-     Stran.  I  said  it  ere 

Sfou  inhabited  your  present  dome  of  beaury. 

Arn.     True.     I  forget  all  things  in  the  new 
joy 
Of  this  immortal  change. 

Stran.  In  a  few  moments 

I  will  be  as  you  were,  and  you  shall  see 
Yourself  for  ever  by  you,  as  your  shadow. 

Arn.     I  would  be  spared  this. 

Strati.  But  it  cannot  be. 

What !  shrink  already,  being  what  you  are, 
From  seeing  what  you  were  ? 

Arn.  Do  as  thou  wilt. 

Stran.  {to  the  late  form  of  ARNOLD,  ex- 
tended on  the  earth). 
Clay  !  not  dead,  but  soul-less  ! 

Though  no  man  would  choose  thee, 
An  immortal  no  less 

Deigns  not  to  refuse  thee. 
Clay  thou  art ;  and  unto  spirit 
All  clay  is  of  equal  merit. 
Fire  !  without  which  nought  can  live ; 
Fire !  but  in  which  nought  can  live, 

Save  the  fabled  salamander, 

Or  immortal  souls,  which  wander, 
Praying  what  doth  not  forgive, 
Howling  for  a  drop  of  water, 

Burning  in  a  quenchless  lot : 
Fire!  the  only  element 

Where  nor  fish,  beast,  bird,  nor  worm, 
Save  the  worm  which  dieth  not, 

Can  preserve  a  moment's  form, 
But  must  with  thyself  be  blent : 
Fire !  man's  safeguard  and  his  slaughter  : 
Fire  !  Creation's  first-born  daughter, 

And  Destruction's  threatened  son, 

When  heaven  with  the  world  hath  done : 
Fire !  assist  me  to  renew 
Life  in  what  lies  in  my  view 

Stiff  and  cold! 
His  resurrection  rests  with  me  and  you ! 
One  little,  marshy  spark  of  flame  — 
And  he  again  shall  seem  the  same ; 

But  I  his  spirit's  place  shall  hold ! 

[An  ignis-fatuus  flits  through  the  wood  and 
rests  on  the  brow  of  the  body.  The  Stran- 
ger disappears  :  the  body  rises. 

Am.  (in  his  new  form) .     Oh!  horrible! 

Stran.  (in  ARNOLD'S  late  shape).  What! 
tremblest  thou  ? 

Arn,  Not  so  — 


I  merely  shudder.    Where  is  fled  the  shape 
Thou  lately  worest  ? 

Stran.  To  the  world  of  shadows, 

But  let  us  thread  the  present.    Whither  will 
thou? 
Arn.     Must  thou  be  my  companion  ? 
Stran.  Wherefore  not  ? 

Your  betters  keep  worse  company. 

Arn.  My  betters ! 

Stran.     Oh  !  you  wax  proud,  I  see,  of  your 

new  form  : 

I'm  glad  of  that.  Ungrateful  too  !  That's  well; 

You   improve   apace;  —  two  changes    in   an 

instant, 
And  you  are  old  in  the  world's  ways  already. 
But  bear  with  me :  indeed  you'll  find  me  useful 
Upon  your  pilgrimage.    But  come,  pronounce 
Where  shall  we  now  be  errant  ? 

Arn.  Where  the  world 

Is  thickest,  that  I  may  behold  it  in 
Its  workings. 

Stran.  That's  to  say,  where  there  is  war 

And  woman  in  activity.     Let's  see! 
Spain  —  Italy  —  the  new  Atlantic  world  — 
Afric,  with  all  its  Moors.     In  very  truth, 
There  is  small  choice :   the  whole  race  are 

just  now 
Tugging  as  usual  at  each  other's  hearts. 
Arn.     I  have  heard  great  things  of  Rome. 
Stran.  A  goodly  choice  — 

And  scarce  a  better  to  be  found  on  earth, 
Since  Sodom  was  put  out.    The  field  is  wide 

too ; 
For  now  the  Frank,  and  Hun,  and  Spanish 

scion 
Of  the  old  Vandals,  are  at  play  along 
The  sunny  shores  of  the  world's  garden. 

.  tin.  How 

Shall  we  proceed  ? 

Stran.         Like  gallants,  on  good  coursers. 
What   ho!    my  chargers!      Never  yet  were 

better, 
Since  Phaeton  was  upset  into  the  Po. 
Our  pages  too ! 

Enter  two  Pages,  with  four  coal-black  horses^ 

Arn.  A  noble  sight ! 

Stran.  And  of 

A  nobler  breed.     Match  me  in  Barbary, 
On  your  Kochlini  race  of  Araby, 
With  these! 

Arn.  The  mighty  steam,  which  volumes  high 
From   their  proud   nostrils,  burns  the   very 

air; 
And  sparks  of  flame,  like  dancing  fire-flies. 

wheel 
Around    their  manes,    as    common    insect* 

swarm 
Round  common  steeds  towards  sunset. 

Stran.  Mount,  my  lord' 

They  and  I  are  your  servitors. 

Am.  And  these 


SCENE  II.] 


THE  DEFORMED    TRANSFORMED. 


705 


Our  dark-eyed   pages  —  what   may  be  their 
names  ? 

Strait.    You  shall  baptize  them. 

Arn.  What !  in  holy  water  ? 

Strati.    Why  not  ?   The  deeper  sinner,  bet- 
ter saint. 

Am.    They  are  beautiful,  and  cannot,  sure, 
be  demons. 

Stran.     True  ;  the  devil's  always  ugly ;  and 
your  beauty 
fn  never  diabolical. 

Am.  I'll  call  him 

Who  bears  the  golden  horn,  and  wears  such 

bright 
And  blooming  aspect,  Huon;  for  he  looks 
Like  to  the  lovely  boy  lost  in  the  forest, 
And  never  found  till  now.    And  for  the  other 
And  darker,  and  more  thoughtful,  who  smiles 

not, 
But  looks  as  serious  though  serene  as  night, 
He  shall  be  Memnon,  from  the  Ethiop  king 
Whose  statue  turns  a  harper  once  a  day. 
And  you  ? 

Stran.     I  have  ten  thousand  names,  and 
twice 
As  many  attributes ;  but  as  I  wear 
A  human  shape,  will  take  a  human  name. 

Arn.   More  human  than  the  shape  (though 
it  was  mine  once) 
I  trust. 

Stran.    Then  call  me  Caesar. 

Arn.  Why,  that  name 

Belongs  to  empires,  and  has  been  but  borne 
By  the  world's  lords. 

Sttan.  And  therefore  fittest  for 

The  devil  in  disguise  —  since  so  you  deem  me, 
Unless  you  call  me  pope  instead. 

Arn.  Well,  then, 

Caesar  thou  shalt  be.     For  myself,  my  name 
Shall  be  plain  Arnold  still. 

Cces.  We'll  add  a  title  — 

"  Count  Arnold  :  "  it  hath  no  ungracious  sound, 
&nd  will  look  well  upon  a  billet-doux. 

Arn.     Or  in  an  order  for  a  battle-field. 

Cces.   (sings).    To    horse!    to   horse!    my 
coal-black  steed 
Paws  the  ground  and  snuffs  the  airl 

There's  not  a  foal  of  Arab's  breed 
More  knows  whom  he  must  bear; 

On  the  hill  he  will  not  tire, 

Swifter  as  it  waxes  higher , 

In  the  marsh  he  will  not  slacken, 

On  the  plain  be  overtaken  ; 

In  the  wave  he  will  not  sink, 

Nor  pause  at  the  brook's  side  to  drink; 

In  the  race  he  will  not  pant, 

In  the  combat  he'll  not  faint; 

On  the  stones  he  will  not  stumble, 

Time  nor  toil  shall  make  him  humble ; 

In  the  stall  he  will  not  stiffen, 

But  be  winged  as  a  griffin, 

Only  flying  with  his  feet : 


And  will  not  such  a  voyage  be  sweet  ? 

Merrily!  merrily!   never  unsound, 

Shall  our  bonny  black  horses  skim  over  the 

ground ! 
From  the  Alps  to  the  Caucasus,  ride  we,  or 

fly! 
For  we'll  leave  them  behind  in  the  glance  of 

an  eye. 
[  They  mount  their  horses,  and  disappear, 

SCENE  II.  —  A  Camp  before  the  Walls  of  Rone, 
Arnold  and  Oesar. 

Cass.    You  are  well  entered  now. 

Arn.  Ay ;  but  my  path 

Has  been  o'er  carcasses  :  mine  eyes  are  full 
Of  blood. 

Cces.    Then  wipe  them,   and  see   clearly. 
Why! 
Thou  art  a  conqueror ;  the  chosen  knight 
And  free  companion  of  the  gallant  Bourbon, 
Late  constable  of  France :  and  now  to  be 
Lord  of  the  city  which  hath  been  earth's  lord 
Under  its  emperors,  and  —  changing  sex, 
Not  sceptre,  an  hermaphrodite  of  empire  — 
Lady  of  the  old  world. 

Arn.  How  old  ?    Wnat!  are  there 

New  worlds  ? 

Cces.    To  you.    You'll  find  there  are  such 
shortly, 
By  its  rich  harvests,  new  disease,  and  gold ; 
From  one  halfoi  the  world  named  a  whole  new 

one, 
Because  you  know  no  better  than  the  dull 
And  dubious  notice  of  your  eyes  and  ears. 

Arn.     I'll  trust  them. 

Cms.     Do !     They  will  deceive  you  sweetly, 
And  that  is  better  than  the  bitter  truth. 

Arn.     Dog ! 

Cces.  Man ! 

Arn.  Devil ! 

Cess.  Your  obedient  humble  servant 

Am.     Say  master  rather.     Thou  has  lured 
me  on, 
Through  scenes  of  blood  and  lust,  till  I  am 
here. 

Cces.    And  where  wouldst  thou  be  ? 

Arn.  Oh,  at  peace  —  in  peace. 

Cces.    And  where  is  that  which  is  so?   From 
the  star 
To  the  winding  worm,  all  life  is  motion ;  and 
In  life  commotion  is  the  extremest  point 
Of  life.    The  planet  wheels  till  it  becomes 
A  comet,  and  destroying  as  it  sweeps 
The  stars,  goes  out.    The  poor  worm  winds 

its  way, 
Living  upon  the  death  of  other  things, 
But  still, like  them,  must  live  and  die,  the  subject 
Of  something  which  has  made  it  live  and  die. 
You  must  obey  what  all  obey,  the  rule 
Of  fixed  necessity  :  against  her  edict 
Rebellion  prospers  not. 


706 


THE  DEFORMED    TRANSFORMED. 


[part  t 


Am.  And  when  it  prospers 

Cces.     'Tis  no  rebellion. 

Am.  Will  it  prosper  now  ? 

Cces.    The  Bourbon  hath  given  orders  for 
the  assault, 
And  by  the  dawn  there  will  be  work. 

Am.  Alas ! 

And  shall  the  city  yield  ?  I  see  the  giant 
Abode  of  the  true  God,  and  his  true  saint, 
Saint  Peter,  rear  its  dome  and  cross  into 
That  sky  whence  Christ  ascended  from  the 

cross, 
Which  his  blood  made  a  badge  of  glory  and 
Of  joy  (as  once  of  torture  unto  him, 
God   and  God's   Son,  man's  sole   and  only 
refuge). 

Ccbs.     'Tis  there,  and  shall  be. 

Am.  What  ? 

Cces.  The  crucifix 

Above,  and  many  altar  shrines  below. 
Also  some  culverins  upon  the  walls, 
And  harquebusses,  and  what  not ;  besides 
The  men  who  are  to  kindle  them  to  death 
Of  other  men. 

Am.    And  those  scarce  mortal  arches, 
Pile  above  pile  of  everlasting  wall, 
The  theatre  where  emperors  and  their  sub- 
jects 
(Those  subjects  Romans)  stood  at  gaze  upon 
The  battles  of  the  monarchs  of  the  wild 
And  wood,  the  lion  and  his  tusky  rebels 
Of  the  then  untamed  desert,  brought  to  joust 
In  the  arena  (as  right  well  they  might, 
When  they  had  left   no  human  foe  uncon- 

quered)  ; 
Made  even  the  forest  pay  its  tribute  of 
Life  to  their  amphitheatre,  as  well 
As  Dacia  men  to  die  the  eternal  death 
For  a  sole  instant's  pastime,  and  "  Pass  on 
To  a  new  gladiator !  "  —  Must  it  fall  ? 

Cess.    The  city,  or  the  amphitheatre  ? 
The  church,  or  one,  or  all  ?  for  you  confound 
Both  them  and  me. 

Am.  To-morrow  sounds  the  assault 

With  the  first  cock-crow. 

Cms.  Which,  if  it  end  with 

The  evening's  first  nightingale,  will  be 
Something  new  in  the  annals  of  great  sieges ; 
For  men  must  have  their  prey  after  long  toil. 

Arn.    The  sun  goes  down  as  calmly,  and 
perhaps 
More  beautifully,  than  he  did  on  Rome 
On  the  day  Remus  leapt  her  wall. 

Cces.  I  saw  him. 

Arn.    You ! 

Cms.  Yes,  sir.    You  forget  I  am  or  was 

Spirit,  till  I  took  up  with  your  cast  shape 
And  a  worse  name.    I'm  Caesar  and  a  hunch- 
back 
Now.     Weil!  the  first  of  Oagsars  was  a  bald- 
head, 
Aad  loved  his  laurels  better  as  a  wig 


(So  history  says)  than  as  a  glory.1     Thus 
The  world  runs  on,  but  we'll  be  merry  still. 
I  saw  your  Romulus  (simple  as  I  am) 
Slay  his  own   twin,  quick-born  of  the  same 

womb, 
Because  he  leapt  a  ditch  ('twas  then  no  wall, 
Whate'er   it   now  be)  ;  and  Rome's   earliest 

cement 
Was  brother's  blood ;  and  if  its  native  blood 
Be  spilt  till  the  choked  Tiber  be  as  red 
As  e'er  'twas  yellow,  it  will  never  wear 
The  deep  hue  of  the  ocean  and  the  earth, 
Which  the  great  robber  sons  of  fratricide 
Have    made    their   never-ceasing  scene    o\ 

slaughter 
For  ages. 
Am.        But  what  have  these  done,  theii 
far 
Remote  descendants,  who  have  lived  in  peace, 
The  peace  of  heaven,  and  in  her  sunshine  of 
Piety  ? 

Cms.    And  what  had  they  done,  whom  the 
old 
Romans  o'erswept  ?  —  Hark ! 

Arn.  They  are  soldiers  singing 

A  reckless  roundelay,  upon  the  eve 
Of  many  deaths,  it  may  be  of  their  own. 
Cms.    And,  why  should   they  not  sing  as 
well  as  swans  ? 
They  are  black  ones,  to  be  sure. 

Am.  So,  you  are  learned, 

I  see,  too  ? 

Cms.  In  my  grammar,  certes.     I 

Was  educated  for  a  monk  of  all  times, 
And  once  I  was  well  versed  in  the  forgotten 
Etruscan  letters,  and  —  were  I  so  minded  — 
Could  make  their  hieroglyphics  plainer  than 
Your  alphabet. 
Arn.  And  wherefore  do  you  not  ? 

Cms.     It    answers    better    to    resolve   the 
alphabet 
Back   into  hieroglyphics.    Like  your  states- 
man, 
And  prophet,  pontiff,  doctor,  alchemist, 
Philospher,  and  what  not,  they  have  built 
More  Babels,  without  new  dispeusion,  than 
The  stammering  young  ones  of  the  flood's 

dull  ooze, 
Who  failed  and  fled  each  other.   Why  ?  why, 

marry, 
Because  no  man  could  understand  his  neigh- 
bor. 
They  are  wiser  now,  and  will  not  separate 
For  nonsense.     Nay,  it  is  their  brotherhood, 


1  [Suetonius  relates  of  Julius  Caesar,  that  his 
baldness  gave  him  much  uneasiness,  having  often 
found  himself,  upon  that  account,  exposed  to  the 
ridicule  of  his  enemies;  and  that,  therefore,  of  all 
the  honors  conferred  upon  him  by  the  senate  a»d 
people,  there  was  none  which  he  either  accepted  or 
used  with  so  much  pleasure  as  the  right  oi  wealing 
constantly  a  laurel  crown.] 


SCENE   II.] 


THE  DEFORMED    TRANSFORMED. 


707 


Their  Shibboleth,  their  Koran,  Talmud,  their 
Cabala;  their  best  brick-work,  wherewithal 

'They  build  more 

Am.    {interrupting  him).     Oh,  thou  ever- 
lasting sneerer ! 
Be  silent!     How  the   soldiers'  rough   strain 

seems 
Softened   by   distance    to    a    hymn-like    ca- 
dence ! 
Listen ! 

Cess.     Yes.     I  have  heard  the  angels  sing. 
Am.    And  demons  howl. 
Cess.  And  man  too.     Let  us  listen  ; 

'  love  all  music. 

Song  of  the  Soldiers  within. 

The  black  bands  came  over 

The  Alps  and  their  snow; 
With  Bourbon,  the  Rover, 

They  passed  the  broad  Po. 
We  have  beaten  all  foemen, 

We  have  captured  a  king, 
We  have  turned  back  on  no  men, 

And  so  let  us  sing ! 
Here's  the  Bourbon  for  ever! 

Though  pennyless  all, 
We'll  have  one  more  endeavor 

At  yonder  old  wall. 
With  the  Bourbon  we'll  gather 

At  day-dawn  before 
The  gates,  and  together 

Or  break  or  climb  o'er 
The  wall :  on  the  ladder 

As  mounts  each  firm  foot, 
Our  shouts  shall  grow  gladder, 

And  death  only  be  mute. 
With  the  Bourbon  we'll  mount  o'er 

The  walls  of  old  Rome, 
And  who  then  shall  count  o'er 

The  spoils  of  each  dome  ? 
Up  !  up  with  the  lily ! 

And  down  with  the  keys ! 
In  old  Rome,  the  seven-hilly, 

We'll  revel  at  ease. 
Her  streets  shall  be  gory, 

Her  Tiber  all  red, 
And  her  temples  so  hoary 

Shall  clang  with  our  tread. 
Oh,  the  Bourbon!  the  Bourbon! 

The  Bourbon  for  aye  ! 
Of  our  song  bear  the  burden ! 

And  fire,  fire  away  ! 
With  Spain  for  the  vanguard, 

Our  varied  host  comes ; 
And  next  to  the  Spaniard 

Beat  Germany's  drums ; 
And  Italy's  lances 

Are  couched  at  their  mother; 
But  our  leader  from  France  is, 

Who  warred  with  his  brother. 
Oh,  the  Bourbon!  the  Bourbon! 

Sans  country  or  home, 


We'll  follow  the  Bourbon, 
To  plunder  old  Rome. 

Cess.  An  indifferent  song 

For  those  within  the  walls,  methinks,  to  hear. 
Am.    Yes,  if  they  keep  to  their  chorus.   But 
here  comes 
The  general  with  his  chiefs  and  men  of  trust. 
A  goodly  rebel ! 

Enter  the  Constable  BOURBON  1  "  cum  suis,K 
etc.  etc. 

Phil.  How  now,  noble  prince, 

You  are  not  cheerful  ? 

Bourb.  Why  should  I  be  so  ? 

Phil.     Upon  the  eve  of  conquest,  such  as 
ours, 
Most  men  would  be  so. 
Bourb.  If  I  were  secure! 

Phil.     Doubt  not  our  soldiers.     Were  the 
walls  of  adamant, 
They'd  crack  them.     Hunger  is  a  sharp  artil- 
lery. 
Bourb.    That  they  will  falter  is  my  least  ai 
fears. 
That  they  will  be  repulsed,  with  Bourbon  for 
Their  chief,  and  all  their  kindled  appetites 
To  marshal  them  on  —  were  those  hoary  walls 
Mountains,  and  those  who  guard  them  like 

the  gods 
Of  the  old  fables,  I  would  trust  my  Titans ;  — 
But  now— — 
Phil.     They   are   but   men  who  war  with 

mortals. 
Bourb.     True  :  but  those  walls  have  girded 
in  great  ages, 
And  sent  forth  mighty  spirits.   The  past  earth 
And  present  phantom  of  imperious  Rome 
Is  peopled  with  those  warriors  ;  and  methinks 
They  flit  along  the  eternal  city's  rampart, 
And   stretch    their   glorious,  gory,   shadowy 

hands, 
And  beckon  me  away ! 

Phil.  So  let  them  !     Wilt  thou 

Turn  back  from  shadowy  menaces  of  shadows? 

Bourb.     They  do  not  menace  me.     I  could 

have  faced, 

Methinks,  a  Sylla's  menace  ;  but  they  clasp, 

And  raise,  and  wring  their  dim  and  deathlike 

hands, 
And  with   their   thin   aspen  faces  and  fixecj 

eyes 
Fascinate  mine.    Look  there ! 

Phil.  I  look  upoa 

A  lofty  battlement. 

Bourb.  And  there ! 

Phil.  Not  eve» 


1  [Charles  of  Bourbon  was  cousin  to  Francis  I 
and   Constable   of  France.      Being   bitterly  perse, 
cuted  by  the  queen-mother  for  having  declined  the 
honor  of  her  band,  and  also  by  the  king,  he  trans* 
ferred  his  services  to  the  Emperor  Charles  V.J 


708 


THE  DEFORMED    TRANSFORMED. 


[part  i. 


A  guard  in  sight ;  they  wisely  keep  below, 
Sheltered  by  the  gray  parapet  from  some 
Stray  bullet  of  our  lansquenets,  who  might 
Practise  in  the  cool  twilight. 

Bourb.  You  are  blind. 

Phil.     If  seeing  nothing  more  than  may  be 
seen 
Be  so. 

Bourb.     A  thousand  years   have   manned 
the  walls 
With  all  their  heroes,  —  the  last  Cato  stands 
And  tears  his  bowels,  rather  than  survive 
The  liberty  of  that  I  would  enslave. 
And  the  first  Caesar  with  his  triumphs  flits 
From  battlement  to  battlement. 

Phil.  Then  conquer 

The  walls  for  which   he  conquered,  and  be 
greater ! 

Bourb.     True :  so  I  will,  or  perish. 

Phil.  You  can  not. 

In  such  an  enterprise  to  die  is  rather 
The  dawn  of  an  eternal  day,  than  death. 

[Count  ARNOLD  and  C>ESAR  advance. 

Cess.    And   the   mere   men  —  do  they  too 
sweat  beneath 
The  noon  of  this  same  ever-scorching  glory  ? 

Bourb.  Ah ! 

Welcome    the   bitter    hunchback !    and    his 

master, 
The  beauty  of  our  host,  and  brave  as  beau- 
teous, 
And  generous  as  lovely.     We  shall  find 
Work  for  you  both  ere  morning. 

Cess.  You  will  find, 

So  please  your  highness,  no  less  for  yourself. 

Bourb.     And  if  I  do,  there  will  not  be  a 
laborer 
More  forward,  hunchback ! 

Cess.  You  may  well  say  so, 

For  you  have  seen  that  back — as  general, 
Placed  in  the  rear  in  action  —  but  your  foes 
Have  never  seen  it. 

Bourb.  That's  a  fair  retort, 

For  I  provoked  it :  — but  the  Bourbon's  breast 
Has  been,  and  ever  shall  be,  far  advanced 
In   danger's   face    as    yours,  were    you    the 
devil. 

Cess.    And  if  I  were,  I  might  have  saved 
myself 
The  toil  of  coming  here. 

Phil.  Why  so  ? 

Cess.  One  half 

Of  your  brave  bands  of  their  own  bold  accord 
Will  go  to  him,  the  other  half  be  sent, 
More  swiftly,  not  less  surely. 

Bourb.  Arnold,  your 

Slight  crooked  friend's  as  snake-iike  in  his 

words 
As  his  deeds. 

Cess.        Your  hignness  much  mistakes  me. 
The  first  snake  was  a  flatterer —  I  am  none ; 
And  for  my  deeds,  I  only  sting  when  stung. 


Bourb.    You  are  brave,  and  that's  enough 
for  me  ;  and  quick 
In   speech   as   sharp   in   action — and  that's 

more. 
I  am  not  alone  a  soldier,  but  the  soldiers' 
Comrade. 

Cess.    They  are  but  bad   company,  your 
highness, 
And  worse  even  for  their  friends  than  foes,  as 

being 
More  permanent  acquaintance. 

Phil.  How  now,  fellow! 

Thou  waxest  insolent,  beyond  the  privilege 
Of  a  buffoon. 

Cess.  You  mean  I  speak  the  truth. 

I'll  lie  —  it  is  as  easy:  then  you'll  praise  me 
For  calling  you  a  hero. 

Bourb.  Philibert ! 

Let  him  alone ;  he's  brave,  and  ever  has 
Been  first,  with  that  swart  face  and  mountain 

shoulder 
In  field  or  storm,  and. patient  in  starvation  ; 
And   for   his    tongue,    the   camp    is    full    of 

license, 
And  the  sharp  stinging  of  a  lively  rogue 
Is,  to  my  mind,  far  preferable  to 
The  gross,  dull,  heavy,  gloomy  execration 
Of  a  mere  famished,  sullen,  grumbling  slave, 
Whom  nothing  can  convince  save  a  full  meal, 
And  wine,  and  sleep,  and  a  few  maravedis, 
With  which  he  deems  him  rich. 

Cess.  It  would  be  well 

If  the  earth's  princes  asked  no  more. 

Bourb.  Be  silent ! 

Cess.     Ay,  but   not   idle.     Work  yourself 
with  words ! 
You  have  few  to  speak. 

Phil.      What  means  thi  audacious  prater  ? 

Cess.     To  prate,  like  other  prophets. 

Bourb.  Philibert ! 

Why  will  you  vex  him  ?  Have  we  not  enough 
To  think  on  ?  Arnold!  I  will  lead  the  attack 
To-morrow. 

Am.  I  have  heard  as  much,  my  lord. 

Bourb.     And  you  will  follow  ? 

Am.  Since  I  must  not  lead. 

Bourb.  'Tis  necessary  for  the  further  daring 
Of  our  too  needy  army,  that  their  chief 
Plant  the  first  foot  upon  the  foremost  ladder's 
First  step. 

Cess.  Upon  its  topmost,  let  us  hope  : 

So  shall  he  have  his  full  deserts. 

Bourb.  The  world's 

Great  capital  perchance  is  ours  to-morrow. 
Through  every  change  the   seven-hilled  city 

hath 
Retained    her    sway   o'er   nations,   and    the 

Caesars, 
But  yielded  to  the  Alarics,  the  Alarics 
Unto  the  pontiffs.     Roman,  Goth,  or  priest, 
Still  the  world's  masters.  Civilized,  barbarian, 
Or  saintly,  still  the  walls  of  Romulus 


SCENE   II.] 


THE  DEFORMED    TRANSFORMED. 


709 


Have  been  the  circus  of  an  empire.    Well ! 
'Twas  their  turn  —  now 'tis  ours;  and  let  us 

hope 
That  we  will   fight  as  well,  and  rule   much 
better. 
Cess.     No  doubt,  the  camp's  the  school  of 
civic  rights. 
What  would  you  make  of  Rome  ? 

Bourb.  That  which  it  was. 

Cces.     In  Alaric's  time  ? 

Bourb.  No,  slave  !  in  the  first  Caesar's, 

Whose  name  you  bear  like  other  curs 

Cms.  And  kings ! 

'Tis  a  great  name  for  blood-hounds. 

Bourb.  There's  a  demon 

In  that  fierce  rattlesnake  thy  tongue.    Wilt 

never 
Be  serious  ? 

Cces.  On  the  eve  of  battle,  no  ;  — 

That  were  not  soldier-like.     'Tis  for  the  gen- 
eral 
To  be  more  pensive  :  we  adventurers 
Must  be  more  cheerful.     Wherefore  should 

we  think 
Our  tutelar  deity,  in  a  leader's  shape, 
Takes  care  of  us.     Keep  thought  aloof  from 

hosts ! 
If  the  knaves  take  to  thinking,  you  will  have 
To  crack  those  walls  alone. 

Bourb.  You  may  sneer,  since 

'Tis  lucky  for  you  that  you  fight  no  worse 
for't. 
Cess.    I  thank  you  for  the  freedom  ;  'tis  the 
only 
Pay  I  have  taken  in  your  highness'  service. 
Bourb.     Well,  sir,  to-morrow  you  shall  pay 
yourself. 
Look  on  those  towers  ;  they  hold  my  treasury  : 
But,  Philibert,  we'll  in  to  council.    Arnold, 
We  would  request  your  presence. 

Arn.  Prince  !  my  service 

Is  yours,  as  in  the  field. 

Bourb.  In  both  we  prize  it, 

!  \nd  yours  will  be  a  post  of  trust  at  daybreak. 
Cess.    And  mine  ? 

Bourb.     To  follow  glory  with  the  Bourbon, 
iood  night ! 
Arn.  (to  C^SAR).     Prepare  our  armor  for 
the  assault, 
And  wait  within  mv  tent. 

[Exeunt  Bourbon,  Arnold,  Philibert, 

etc. 
Cess,  (solus).  Within  thy  tent! 

Think'st  thou  that  I  pass  from  thee  with  my 

presence  ? 
Or  that  this  crooked  coffer,  which  contained 
Thy  principle  of  life,  is  aught  to  me 
Except  a  mask  ?     And  these  are  men,  for- 
sooth ! 
Heroes   and   chiefs,  the    flower    of   Adam's 

bastards ! 
This  is  the  consequence  of  giving  matter 


The  power  of  thought.     It  is  a  stubborn  sub- 
stance, 

And  thinks  chaotically,  as  it  acts, 

Ever  relapsing  into  its  first  elements. 

Well !  I  must  play  with  these  poor  puppets : 
'tis 

The  spirit's  pastime  in  his  idler  hours. 

When  I  grow  weary  of  it,  I  have  business 

Amongst  the  stars,  which  these  poor  creatures 
deem 

Were  made  for  them  to  look  at.     'Twe-re  a 
jest  now 

To  bring  one  down  amongst  them,  and  set  fire 

Unto  their  anthill :  how  the  pismires  then 

Would  scamper  o'er  the  scalding  soil,  and, 
ceasing 

From  tearing  down  each  other's  nests,  pipe 
forth 

One  universal  orison !     Ha!  ha! 

[Exit  CAESAR. 


PART   II. 

Scene  I. —  Before  the  walls  of  Rome. —  The 
assault :  the  army  in  motion,  with  ladders  to 
scale  the  walls ;  BOURBON,  with  a  white 
scarf  over  his  armor,  foremost. 

Chorus  of  Spirits  in  the  air. 
i. 
'Tis  the  morn,  but  dim  and  dark. 
Whither  flies  the  silent  lark  ? 
Whither  shrinks  the  clouded  sun? 
Is  the  day  indeed  begun  ? 
Nature's  eye  is  melancholy 
O'er  the  city  high  and  holy: 
But  without  there  is  a  din 
Should  arouse  the  saints  within, 
And  revive  the  heroic  ashes 
Round  which  yellow  Tiber  dashes. 
Oh  ye  seven  hills  !  awaken, 
Ere  your  very  base  be  shaken ! 

2. 
Hearken  to  the  steady  stamp ! 
Mars  is  in  their  every  tramp ! 
Not  a  step  is  out  of  tune, 
As  the  tides  obey  the  moon ! 
On  they  march,  though  to  self-slaughter, 
Regular  as  rolling  water, 
Whose  high  waves  o'ersweep  the  border 
Of  huge  moles,  but  keep  their  order, 
Breaking  only  rank  by  rank. 
Hearken  to  the  armor's  clank  ! 
Look  down  o'er  each  frowning  warrior, 
How  he  glares  upon  the  barrier : 
Look  on  each  step  of  each  ladder, 
As  the  stripes  that  streak  an  adder. 


Look  upon  the  bristling  wall, 
Manned  without  an  interval! 


7'o 


THE  DEFORMED    TRANSFORMED. 


[part  II. 


Round  and  round,  and  tier  on  tier, 
Cannon's  black  mouth,  shining  spear, 
Lit  match,  bell-mouthed  musquetoon, 
Gaping  to  be  murderous  soon ; 
All  the  warlike  gear  of  old, 
Mixed  with  what  we  now  behold, 
In  this  strife  'twixt  old  and  new, 
Gather  like  a  locusts'  crew. 
Shade  of  Remus  !  'tis  a  time 
Awful  as  thy  brother's  crime! 
Christians  war  against  Christ's  shrine:  — 
Must  its  lot  be  like  to  thine  ? 

4- 
Near  —  and  near  —  and  nearer  still, 
As  the  earthquake  saps  the  hill, 
First  with  trembling,  hollow  motion, 
Like  a  scarce-awakened  ocean, 
Then  with  stronger  shock  and  louder, 
Till  the  rocks  are  crushed  to  powder, — 
Onward  sweeps  the  rolling  host ! 
Heroes  of  the  immortal  boast ! 
Mighty  chiefs !  eternal  shadows ! 
First  flowers  of  the  bloody  meadows 
Which  encompass  Rome,  the  mother 
Of  a  people  without  brother! 
Will  you  sleep  when  nations'  quarrels 
Plough  the  root  up  of  your  laurels  ? 
Ye  who  weep  o'er  Carthage  burning, 
Weep  not  — strike  !  for  Rome  is  mourning ! 1 


Onward  sweep  the  varied  nations ! 
Famine  long  hath  dealt  their  rations. 
To  the  wall,  with  hate  and  hunger, 
Numerous  as  wolves,  and  stronger, 
On  they  sweep.     Oh  !  glorious  city, 
Must  thou  be  a  theme  for  pity  ? 
Fight,  like  your  first  sire,  each  Roman ! 
Alaric  was  a  gentle  foeman. 
Matched  with  Bourbon's  black  banditti ! 
Rouse  thee,  thou  eternal  city ; 
Rouse  thee  !     Rather  give  the  torch 
With  thine  own  hand  to  thy  porch, 
Than  behold  such  hosts  pollute 
Your  worst  dwelling  with  their  foot. 

6. 
Ah !  behold  yon  bleeding  spectre ! 
Ilion's  children  find  no  Hector; 
Priam's  offspring  loved  their  brother; 
Rome's  great  sire  forgot  his  mother, 
When  he  slew  his  gallant  twin, 
With  inexpiable  sin. 
See  the  giant  shadow  stride 
O'er  the' ramparts  high  and  wide! 
When  the  first  o'erleapt  thy  wall, 


1  Scipio,  the  second  Africanus,  is  said  to  have 
repeated  a  verse  of  Homer,  and  wept  over  the  burn- 
ing of  Carthage.  He  had  better  have  granted  it  a 
capitulation. 


Its  foundation  mourned  thy  fall. 
Now,  though  towering  like  a  Babel, 
Who  to  stop  his  steps  are  able  ? 
Stalking  o'er  thy  highest  dome, 
Remus  claims  his  vengeance,  Rome! 

7- 
Now  they  reach  thee  in  their  anger: 
Fire  and  smoke  and  hellish  clangor 
Are  around  thee,  thou  world's  wonder! 
Death  is  in  thy  walls  and  under. 
Now  the  meeting  steel  first  clashes, 
Downward  then  the  ladder  crashes, 
With  its  iron  load  all  gleaming, 
Lying  at  its  foot  blaspheming ! 
Up  again !  for  every  warrior 
Slain,  another  climbs  the  barrier. 
Thicker  grows  the  strife  :  thy  ditches 
Europe's  mingling  gore  enriches. 
Rome  !  although  thy  wall  may  perish, 
Such  manure  thy  fields  will  cherish, 
Making  gay  the  harvest  home ; 
But  thy  hearths,  alas!  oh,  Rome!  — 
Yet  be  Rome  amidst  thine  anguish, 
Fight  as  thou  wast  wont  to  vanquish ! 


Yet  once  more,  ye  old  Penates ! 

Let  not  your  quenched  hearths  be  Ate's ! 

Yet  again  ye  shadowy  heroes, 

Yield  not  to  these  stranger  Neros  ! 

Though  the  son  who  slew  his  mother 

Shed  Rome's  blood,  he  was  your  brother  : 

'Twas  the  Roman  curbed  the  Roman  ;  — 

Brennus  was  a  baffled  foeman. 

Yet  again,  ye  saints  and  martyrs, 

Rise!  for  yours  are  holier  charters! 

Mighty  gods  of  temples  falling, 

Yet  in  ruin  still  appalling! 

Mightier  founders  of  those  altars, 

True  and  Christian,  —  strike  the  assaulters  I 

Tiber  !  Tiber  !   let  thy  torrent 

Show  even  nature's  self  abhorrent. 

Let  each  breathing  heart  dilated 

Turn,  as  doth  the  lion  baited ! 

Rome  be  crushed  to  one  wide  tomb, 

But  be  still  the  Roman's  Rome ! 

BOURBON,  ARNOLD,  C^:sar,  and  others,  ar- 
rive at  the  foot  of  the  wall.  ARNOLD  is 
about  to  plant  his  ladder. 

Bourb.     Hold,  Arnold  !     I  am  first. 
Am.  Not  so,  my  lord 

Bourb.     Hold,  sir,  I  charge  you  !     Follow! 
I  am  proud 
Of  such  a  follower,  but  will  brook  no  leader. 
[BOURBON  plants  his  ladder,  and  begins  io 
mount. 
Now,  boys !     On !  on ! 

[A  shot  strikes  Aim,  and  BOURBON  falh. 
Cms.  And  off! 

Am.  Eternal  powers! 


SCENE   II.] 


THE  DEFORMED    TRANSFORMED. 


711 


The  host  will  be  appalled,  —  but  vengeance! 

vengeance ! 

Bourb.     'Tis  nothing  —  lend  me  your  hand. 

[BOURBON  takes  ARNOLD  by  the  hand,  and 

rises;  but  as  he  puts  his  foot  on  the  step, 

falls  again. 

Arnold!   I  am  sped. 
Conceal  my  fall  —  all  will  go  well  —  conceal 

it! 
Fling  my  cloak  o'er  what  will  be  dust  anon ; 
Let  not  the  soldiers  see  it. 
Arn.  You  must  be 

Removed  ;  the  aid  of 

Bourb.  No,  my  gallant  boy ; 

Death  is  upon  me.     But  what  is  one  life  ? 
[The    Bourbon's   spirit  shall  command  them 

still. 
Keep  them  yet  ignorant  that  I  am  but  clay, 
!Till    they  are  conquerors  —  then  do  as   you 
may. 
Cces.     Would  not  your  highness  choose  to 
kiss  the  cross  ? 
We  have  no  priest  here,  but  the  hilt  of  sword 
May  serve  instead  :  —  it  did  the  same  for  Bay- 
ard.i 
Bourb.     Thou  bitter  slave !    to   name  him 
at  this  time ! 
But  I  deserve  it. 
Arn.    (to  Caesar).      Villain,    hold    your 

peace ! 
Cces.    What,  when  a  Christian  dies  ?  Shall 
I  not  offer 
A  Christian  "  Vade  in  pace  ?  " 

Arn.  Silence!  Oh! 

Those  eyes  are  glazing  which  o'erlooked  the 

world. 
And  saw  no  equal. 

Bourb.  Arnold,  should'st  thou  see 

France But  hark!  hark!  the  assault  grows 

warmer  —  Oh ! 
For  but  an  hour,  a  minute  more  of  life 
•To  die  within  the  wall !  Hence,  Arnold,  hence  ! 
i You   lose   time  —  they    will    conquer    Rome 
without  thee. 
Arn.     And  without  thee  ! 
Bourb.  Not  so  ;   I'll  lead  them  still 

In  spirit.     Cover  up  my  dust,  and  breathe  not 
That  I  have  ceased  to  breathe.    Away !  and 

be 
Victorious ! 


1  [Finding  himself  mortally  wounded,  Bayard 
ordered  one  of  his  attendants  to  place  him  under  a 
tree  with  his  face  towards  the  enemy;  then  fixing 
his  eyes  on  the  guard  of  his  sword,  which  he  held 
up  instead  of  a  cross,  he  addressed  his  prayers  to 
God,  and  in  this  posture  he  calmly  waited  the  ap- 
proach of  death.  —  Robertson's  Charles  V. 

Just  before  Bayard's  death  Bourbon  passing  by 
with  the  victorious  Imperialists,  expressed  his 
compassion.  "  Pity  not  me,"  said  Bayard,  "  for  I 
die  like  an  honest  man;  but  I  pity  you  who  are 
serving  against  your  king,  your  country,  and  your 
oath."    Hence  the  dying  Bourbon  exclaims  agakis* 


Arn.  But  I  must  not  leave  thee  thus. 

Bourb.    You    must  —  farewell  —  Up  !    up  ! 
the  world  is  winning.       [BOURBON  dies? 
Cess,  (to  Arnold).    Come,  count,  to  busi- 
ness. 
Arn.        True.     I'll  weep  hereafter. 
[Arnold  covers  Bourbon's  body  with  <* 
mantle,  and  mounts  the  ladder,  crying. 
The  Bourbon!  Bourbon!  On,  boys!  Rome  is 
ours ! 
Cces.     Good    night,   lord   constable !    thou 

wert  a  man. 
[C/ESAR  follows  ARNOLD ;    they  reach  the 
battlement;    ARNOLD   and  C^SAR    are 
struck  down. 
Cces.    A  precious  somerset !    Is  your  count 

ship  injured  ? 
Arn.     No.  [Remounts  the  ladder, 

Cces.    A  rare  blood-hound,  when  his  own  is 
heated ! 
And  'tis  no  boy's  play.     Now  he  strikes  them 

down  f 
His  hand  is  on  the  battlement  —  he  grasps  it 
As  though  it  were  an  altar;  now  his  foot 

Is  on  it,  and What  have  we  here  ?  —  a 

Roman?  [A  man  falls. 

The  first  bird  of  the  covey !  he  has  fallen 
On  the  outside  of  the  nest.    Why,  how  now, 
fellow  ? 
Wounded  Man.     A  drop  of  water ! 
Cces.  Blood's  the  only  liquid 

Nearer  than  Tiber. 

Wounded  Man.     I  have  died  for  Rome. 

[Dies. 

Cms.    And  so  did  Bourbon,  in  another  sense. 

Oh   these    immortal   men !    and    their   great 

motives ! 
But  I  must  after  my  young  charge.     He  is 
By  this  time  i'  the  forum.     Charge  !  charge  ! 
[C/SiSAR  mounts  the  ladder  ;  the  scene  closes. 

SCENE  II. —  The  City. —  Combats  between  the 
Besiegers  and  Besieged  in  the  streets.    In- 
habitants flying  in  confusion. 
Enter  CAESAR. 
Cces.     I  cannot  find  my  hero ;  he  is  mixed 

With  the  heroic  crowd  that  now  pursue 


Csesar  for  bringing  to  his  mind  the  rebuke  of  the 
dying  Bayard.] 

2  [On  the  ist  of  May,  1527,  the  Constable  and 
his  army  came  in  sight  of  Rome;  and  the  next 
morning  commenced  the  attack.  Bourbon  wore  a 
white  vest  over  his  armor,  in  order,  he  said,  to  be 
more  conspicuous  both  to  his  friends  and  foes.  He 
led  on  to  the  walls,  and  commenced  a  furious  as- 
sault, which  was  repelled  with  equal  violence.  See- 
ing that  his  army  began  to  waver,  he  seized  a  scal- 
ing-ladder from  a  soldier  standing,  and  was  in  the 
act  of  ascending,  when  he  was  pierced  by  a  mus- 
ket-ball, and  fell.  Feeling  that  his  wound  was 
mortal,  he  desired  that  his  body  might  be  concealed 
from  his  soldiers,  and  instantly  expired.  —  Robert 
son.] 


fl2 


THE  DEFORMED    TRANSFORMED. 


[part  II. 


The  fugitives,  or  battle  with  the  desperate. 
What  have  we  here  ?     A  cardinal  or  two 
That  do  not  seem  in  love  with  martyrdom. 
How   the   old  red-shanks  scamper !     Could 

they  doff 
Their   hose  as  they  have  doffed  their   hats, 

'twould  be 
A  blessing,  as  a  mark  the  less  for  plunder. 
But  let  them  fly;  the  crimson  kennels  now 
Will  not  much  stain  their  stockings,  since  the 

mire 
Is  of  the  self-same  purpie  hue. 

Enter  a  Party  fighting — ARNOLD  at  the  head 
of  the  Besiegers. 

He  comes, 
Hand  in  hand  with  the  mild  twins  Gore  and 

Glory. 
Holla!  hold,  count! 
Arn.  Away !  they  must  not  rally. 

Cms.     I   tell   thee,  be  not   rash ;  a  golden 
bridge 
Is  for  a  flying  enemy.     I  gave  thee 
A  form  of  beauty,  and  an 
Exemption  from  some  maladies  of  body, 
But  not  of  mind,  which  is  not  mine  to  give. 
But  though  I  gave  the  form  of  Thetis'  son, 
I  dipt  thee  not  in  Styx;  and  'gainst  a  foe 
I  would  not  warrant  thy  chivalric  heart 
More  than  Pelides'  heel;  why  then,  be  cau- 
tious, 
And  know  thyself  a  mortal  still. 

Arn.  And  who 

With  aught  of  soul  would  combat  if  he  were 
Invulnerable  ?     That  were  pretty  sport. 
Think'st  thou  I  beat  for  hares  when  lions  roar  ? 
[ARNOLD  rushes  into  the  combat. 
Cms.     A  precious  sample  of  humanity  ! 
Well,  his  blood's  up  ;  and  if  a  little's  shed, 
'Twill  serve  to  curb  his  fever. 

[ARNOLD  engages  with  a  Roman,  who  re- 
tires towards  a  portico. 
Arn.  Yield  thee,  slave  ! 

I  promise  quarter. 
Rom.  That's  soon  said. 

Arn.  And  done  — 

My  word  is  known. 
Rom.  So  shall  be  my  deeds. 

[They  reengage.     C^SAR  comes  forward. 
Cces.    Why,  Arnold !  hold  thine  own :  thou 
hast  in  hand 
A  famous  artisan,  a  cunning  sculptor ; 
Also  a  dealer  in  the  sword  and  dagger. 
Not  so,  my  musqueteer;  'twas  he  who  slew 
The  Bourbon  from  the  wall. 

Arn.  Ay,  did  he  so  ? 

Then  he  hath  carved  his  monument. 

Rom.  I  yet 

May  live  to  carve  your  betters. 

Cms.     Well  said,  my  man  of  marble  !  Ben- 
venuto, 
Thou  hast  some  practice  in  both  ways  ;  and  he 


Who  slays  Cellini  will  have  worked  as  hard 
As  e'er  thou  didst  upon  Carrara's  blocks.1 

[ARNOLD  disarms  and  wounds  CELLINI, 
but  slightly  :  the  latter  draws  a  pistol,  and 
fires  ;  then  retires,  and  disappears  through 
the  portico. 

Ccbs.     How  farest  thou  ?    Thou  hast  a  taste, 
methinks, 
Of  red  Bellona's  banquet. 

Arn.  {staggers).  'Tis  a  scratch. 

Lend  me  thy  scarf.     He  shall  not  'scape  me 
thus. 

Cms.     Where  is  it  ? 

Arn.  In  the  shoulder,  not  the  sword  arm  — 
And  that's  enough.  I  am  thirsty  :  would  I  had 
A  helm  of  water ! 

Ccbs.  That's  a  liquid  now 

In  requisition,  but  by  no  means  easiest 
To  come  at. 

Arn.  And  my  thirst  increases ;  —  but 

I'll  find  a  way  to  quench  it. 

Ccbs.  Or  be  quenched 

Thyself? 

Arn.        The  chance  is  even  ;  we  will  throw 

The  dice  thereon.     But  I  lose  time  in  prating  ; 

Prithee  be  quick.    [Caesar  binds  on  the  scarf. 

t       And  what  dost  thou  so  idly  ? 

Why  dost  not  strike  ? 

Cces.  Your  old  philosophers 

Beheld  mankind,  as  mere  spectators  of 
The  Olympic  games.     When  I  behold  a  prize 
Worth  wrestling  for,  I  may  be  found  a  Milo. 

Arn.    Ay,  'gainst  an  oak. 

Cms.  A  forest,  when  it  suits  me : 

I  combat  with  a  mass,  or  not  at  all. 
Meantime,  pursue  thy  sport  as  I  do  mine ; 
Which  is  just  now  to  gaze,  since  all  these  la- 
borers 
Will  reap  my  harvest  gratis. 

Arn.  Thou  art  still 

A  fiend! 

Ccbs.    And  thou  —  a  man. 

Arn.    Why,  such  I  fain  would  show  me. 

Cms.  True  —  as  men  are. 

Arn.    And  what  is  that  ? 

Cms.  Thou  feelest  and  thou  see'st. 

{Exit  ARNOLD,  joining  in  the  combat  which 
still  continues  between  detached  parties. 
The  scene  closes. 

SCENE  III.  —  St.  Peter's.—  The  Interior  of 

the  Church.  —  The  Pope  at  the  Altar.  — 
Priests,  etc.,  crowding  in  confusion,  and  Cit- 
izens flying  for  refuge,  pursued  by  soldiery. 

Enter  C^SAR. 

A  Spanish  Soldier.  Down  with  them,  com- 
rades !  seize  upon  those  lamps ! 


1  ["  Levelling  my  arquebuse,"  says  Benvenute 
Cellini,  "  I  discharged  it  with  a  deliberate  aim  at  a 
person  who  seemed  to  be  lifted  above  the  rest,    i 


SCENE   III.] 


THE  DEFORMED    TRANSFORMED. 


713 


Cleave  yon  bald-pated  shaveling  to  the  chine  ! 
His  rosary's  of  gold  ! 

Lutheran  Soldier.     Revenge  !  revenge  ! 
Plunder  hereafter,  but  for  vengeance  now  — 
Yonder  stands  Anti-Christ! 

Cces.  {interposing) .    How  now,  schismatic  ? 
What  wouldst  thou  ? 

Lutk.  Sold.  In  the  holy  name  of  Christ, 

Destroy  proud  Anti-Christ.    I  am  a  Christian. 
Cas.    Yea,  a  disciple  that  would  make  the 
founder 
Of  your  belief  renounce  it,  could  he  see 
Such  proselytes.  Best  stint  thyself  to  plunder. 
Luth.  Sold.     I  say  he  is  the  devil. 
Cces.  Hush  !  keep  that  secret, 

Lest  he  should  recognize  you  for  his  own. 
Luth.  Sold.     Why  would  you  save  him  ?    I 
repeat  he  is 
The  devil,  or  the  devil's  vicar  upon  earth. 
Cces.    And  that's  the  reason:   would  you 
make  a  quarrel 
With  your  best  friends  ?    You  had  far  best  be 

quiet ; 
His  hour  is  not  yet  come. 

Luth.  Sold.  That  shall  be  seen  ! 

[The  Lutheran  Soldier  rushes  forward ;  a 
shot  strikes   him  from  one  of  the  Pope's 
Guards,  and  he  falls  at  the  foot  of  the  Al- 
tar. 
Cces.  (to  the  Lutheran).     I  told  you  so. 
Luth.  Sold.     And  will  you  not  avenge  me  ? 
Cces.     Not  I !    You  know  that  "  Vengeance 
is  the  Lord's  :  " 
You  see  he  loves  no  interlopers. 

Luth.  Sold,  (dying).  Oh! 

Had  I  but  slain  him,  I  had  gone  on  high, 
Crowned  with  eternal  glory!   Heaven,  forgive 
My  feebleness  of  arm  that  reached  him  not, 
And  take  thy  servant  to  thy  mercy.     'Tis 
A  glorious  triumph  still;  proud  Babylon's 
No  more;  the  Harlot  of  the  Seven  Hills 
Hath  changed  her  scarlet  raiment  for  sack- 
cloth 
And  ashes  !  [The  Lutheran  dies. 

Cces.  Yes,  thine  own  amidst  the  rest. 

Well  done,  old  Babel ! 

[  The  Guards  defend  themselves  desperately, 
while  the  Pontiff  escapes,  by  a  private  pas- 
sage, to  the  Vatican  and  the  Castle  of  St. 
Angelo. 
Cces.  Ha !  right  nobly  battled  ! 

Now,  priest !  now,  soldier !  the  two  great  pro- 
fessions, 
Together  by  the  ears  and  hearts !  I  have  not 


cautiously  approached  the  walls,  and  perceived  that 
there  was  an  extraordinary  confusion  among  the 
assailants,  occasioned  by  our  having  shot  the  duke 
of  Bourbon:  he  was,  as  I  understood  afterwards, 
thaf  -,'nref  personage  whom  I  saw  raised  above  the 
res>." —  Vol.  i.  p.  120.  This,  however,  is  one  of 
the  many  stories  in  Cellini's  amusing  autobiogra- 
phy which  nobody  credits. J 


Seen  a  more  comic  pantomime  since  Titus 
Took  Jewry.    But  the  Romans  had  the  best 

then ; 
Now  they  must  take  their  turn. 

Soldiers.  He  hath  escaped! 

Follow ! 

Another  Sold.     They  have  barred  the  nar- 
row passage  up, 
And  it  is  clogged  with  dead  even  to  the  door. 

Cces.     I  am  glad  he  hath  escaped  :  he  may 
thank  me  for't 
In  part.  I  would  not  have  his  bulls  abolished — 
'Twere  worth  one  half  our  empire  :  his  indul- 
gences 
Demand  some  in  return  ;  —  no,  no,  he  must  not 
Fall ;  —  and  besides,  his  now  escape  may  fur- 
nish 
A  future  miracle,  in  future  proof 
Of  his  infallibility.     [To  the  Spanish  Soldiery. 

Well,  cut-throats ! 
What  do  you  pause  for  ?     If  you  make  not 

haste, 
There  will  not  be  a  link  of  pious  gold  left. 
And  you,  too,  catholics  !     Would  ye  return 
From  such  a  pilgrimage  without  a  relic  ? 
The  very  Lutherans  have  more  true  devotion  : 
See  how  they  strip  the  shrines  ! 

Soldiers.  By  Holy  Peter! 

He  speaks  the  truth ;  the  heretics  will  bear 
The  best  away. 

Cces.  And  that  were  shame  !     Go  to ! 

Assist  in  their  conversion. 

[  The    Soldiers    disperse ;     many    quit   the 
Church,  others  enter. 

Cces.  They  are  gone, 

And  others  come  :  so  flows  the  wave  on  wave 
Of  what  these  creatures  call  eternity, 
Deeming  themselves  the  breakers  of  the  ocean, 
While  they  are  but  its  bubbles,  ignorant 
That  foam  is  their  foundation.     So,  another! 

Enter  OlAWVlh.,  flying  from  the  pursuit.     She 
springs  upon  the  Altar. 

Sold.     She's  mine ! 

Another  Sold,  (opposing  the  former).     You 
lie,  I  tracked  her  first ;  and  were  she 
The  Pope's  niece,  I'll  not  yield  her. 

[They  fight. 
3d  Sold,    (advancing   towards   OLIMPIA). 
You  may  settle 
Your  claims ;  I'll  make  mine  good. 

Olimp.  Infernal  slave! 

You  touch  me  not  alive. 
jd  Sold.  Alive  or  dead ! 

Olimp.  (embracing  a  massive  crucifix) .   Re- 
spect your  God ! 
jd  Sold.  Yes,  when  he  shines  in  gold. 

Girl,  you  but  grasp  your  dowry. 

[As  he  advances,  OLIMPIA,   with  a  strong 
and  sudden  effort,  casts  down  the  crucifix : 
it  strikes  the  Soldier,  who  falls. 
^d  Sold.  Oh,  great  God! 


714 


THE   DEFORMED    TRANSFORMED. 


[part  II 


Olimp.     Ah  !  now  you  recognize  him. 
3<s?  Sold.  My  brain's  crushed  ! 

Comrades,  help,  ho  !     All's  darkpess ! 

[He  dies. 
Other  Soldiers  {coming  up).     Slay  her,  al- 
though she  had  a  thousand  lives : 
She  hath  killed  our  comrade. 

Olimp.  Welcome  such  a  death  ! 

You  have  no  life  to  give,  which  the  worst  slave 
Would   take.     Great   God!    through  thy  re- 
deeming Son, 
And  thy  Son's  Mother,  now  receive  me  as 
I  would  approach  thee,  worthy  her,  and  him, 
and  thee ! 

Enter  ARNOLD. 

Arti.     What  do  I  see  ?    Accursed  jackals  ! 
Forbear ! 

C<zs.    (aside  and  laughing).  Ha!  ha!  here's 
equity!     The  dogs 
Have  as  much  right  as  he.     But  to  the  issue ! 
Soldiers.     Count,  she  hath  slain  our  com- 
rade. 
Am.         With  what  weapon  ? 
Sold.    The   cross,   beneath    which    he    is 
crushed ;  behold  him 
Lie  there,  more  like  a  worm  than  man ;  she 

cast  it 
Upon  his  head. 

Am.  Even  so ;  there  is  a  woman 

Worthy  a  brave  man's  liking.  Were  ye  such, 
Ye  would  have  honored  her.  But  get  ye  hence, 
And  thank  your  meanness,  other  God  you 

have  none 
For  your  existence.     Had  you  touched  a  hair 
Of  those   dishevelled    locks,    I    would   have 

thinned 
Your  ranks  more  than  the  enemy.    Away! 
Ye  jackals  !  gnaw  the  bones  the  lion  leaves, 
But  not  even  these  till  he  permits. 

A  Sold,  (murmuring).  The  lion 

Might  conquer  for  himself  then. 

Am.  (cuts  him  down).  Mutineer! 

Rebel  in  hell  —  you  shall  obey  on  earth  ! 

[  The  Soldiers  assault  ARNOLD. 
Am.    Come  on  !  I'm  glad  on't!  I  will  show 
you,  slaves, 
How  you  should  be  commanded,  and  who  led 

you 
First  o'er  the  wall  you  were  so  shy  to  scale, 
Until  I  waved  my  banners  from  its  height, 
As  you  are  bold  within  it. 

[ARNOLD  maws  down  the  foremost ;  the  rest 

throw  down  their  arms. 
Soldiers.  Mercy  !  mercy ! 

Am.     Then   learn    to   grant    it.     Have    I 
taught  you  who 
Led  you  o'er  Rome's  eternal  battlements  ? 
Soldiers.     We  saw  it,  and  we  know  it ;  yet 
forgive 
A  moment's  error  in  the  heat  of  conquest  — 
The  conquest  which  you  led  to. 


Am.  Get  you  hence  \ 

Hence  to  your  quarters !  you  will  find  them 

fixed 
In  the  Colonna  palace. 

Olimp.  (aside).  In  my  father's 

House! 

Am.  (to  the  Soldiers) .     Leave  your  arms  ; 
ye  have  no  further  need 
Of  such:  the  city's  rendered.   And  mark  well 
You  keep  your  hands  clean,  or  I'll  find  out  a 

stream 
As  red  as  Tiber  now  runs,  for  your  baptism. 

Soldiers  (deposing  their  arms  and  depart- 
ing) .     We  obey ! 

Am.  (to  Olimpia).     Lady,  you  are  safe. 

Olimp.  I  should  be  so, 

Had  I  a  knife  even ;  but  it  matters  not  — 
Death  hath   a  thousand  gates ;    and  on  the 

marble, 
Even  at  the  altar  foot,  whence  I  look  down 
Upon  destruction,  shall  my  head  be  dashed, 
Ere  thou  ascend  it.     God  forgive  thee,  man ! 

Am.     I  wish  to  merit  his  forgiveness,  anrf 
Thine  own,  although  I  have  not  injured  thee, 

Olimp.     No!     Thou  hast  only  sacked  m» 
native  land, — 
No  injury !  -y  and  made  my  father's  house 
A  den  of  thieves  !  No  injury  !  —  this  temple  — 
Slippery  with  Roman  and  with  holy  gore. 
No  injury !  And  now  thou  would  preserve  me 
To  be but  that  shall  never  be  ! 

[She  raises  her  eyes  to  Heaven,  folds  her 
robe  round  her,  and  prepares  to  dash  her- 
self down  on  the  side  of  the  Altar  opposite 
to  that  where  ARNOLD  stands. 

Am.  Hold!  holdl 

I  swear. 

Olimp.     Spare  thine  already  forfeit  soul 
A  perjury  for  which  even  hell  would  loathe  thee, 
I  know  thee. 

Am.      No,  thou  know'st  me  not ;  I  am  not 
Of  these  men,  though 

Olimp.  I  judge  thee  by  thy  mates; 

It  is  for  God  to  judge  thee  as  thou  art. 
I  see  thee  purple  with  the  blood  of  Rome; 
Take  mine,  'tis  all  thou  e'er  shalt  have  of  me, 
And  here,  upon  the  marble  of  this  temple, 
Where  the  baptismal  font  baptized  me  God's, 
I  offer  him  a  blood  less  holy 
But  not  less  pure  (pure  as  it  left  me  then, 
A  redeemed  infant)  than  the  holy  water 
The  saints  have  sanctified  ! 

[OLIMPIA  waves  her  hand  to  ARNOLD  with 
disdain,  and  dashes  herself  o"  the  pave- 
ment from  the  Altar. 

Am.  Eternal  God ! 

I  feel  thee  now !     Help !  help !     She's  gone. 

Cces.  (approaches).  I  am  here. 

Am.     Thou!  but  oh,  save  her! 

Cces.  (assisting  hi  into  raise  OLIMPIAi 
hath  done  it  well ! 
The  leap  was  serious. 


SCENE    III. J 


THE  DEFORMED    TRANSFORMED. 


715 


Am.  Oh  !  she  is  lifeless  ! 

Ccbs.  If 

She  be  so,  I  have  nought  to  do  with  that : 
The  resurrection  is  beyond  me. 

Am.  Slave ! 

Ccbs.     Ay,  slave  or  master,  'tis  all  one  :  me- 
thinks 
Good  words,  however,  are  as  well  at  times. 

Am.     Words  !  —  Canst  thou  aid  her  ? 

Ccbs.  I  will  try.    A  sprinkling 

Of  that  same  holy  water  may  be  useful. 

[He  brings  some  in  his  helmet  from  the  font. 

Arn.     "Tis  mixed  with  blood. 

Ccbs.  There  is  no  cleaner  now 

In  Rome. 

Arn.     How  pale !  how  beautiful !    how  life- 
less ! 
Alive  or  dead,  thou  essence  of  all  beauty, 
I  love  but  thee ! 

Ccbs.  Even  so  Achilles  loved 

Penthesilea  :  with  his  form  it  seems 
You  have  his  heart,  and  yet  it  was  no  soft  one. 

Arn.     She  breathes  !    But  no,  'twas  nothing 
or  the  last 
Faint  flutter  life  disputes  with  death. 

Ccbs.  She  breathes. 

Arn.     Thou  say'st  it  ?     Then  'tis  truth. 

Cess.  You  do  me  right  — 

The  devil  speaks  truth  much  oftener  than  he's 

deemed : 
He  hath  an  ignorant  audience. 

Arn.   {without  attending  to  him).    Yes!  her 
heart  beats. 
Alas !  that  the  first  beat  of  the  only  heart 
I  ever  wished  to  beat  with  mine  should  vibrate 
To  an  assassin's  pulse. 

Ccbs.  A  sage  reflection, 

But  somewhat  late  i'  the  day.    Where  shall 

we  bear  her  ? 
I  say  she  lives. 

Am.  And  will  she  live  ? 

Ccbs.  As  much 

As  dust  can. 

Arn.  Then  she  is  dead  ! 

Cces.  Bah  !  bah  !     You  are  so, 

And  do  not  know  it.     She  will  come  to  life  — 
Such  as  you  think  so,  such  as  you  now  are ; 
But  we  must  work  by  human  means. 

Am.  We  will 

Convey  her  unto  the  Colonna  palace, 
Where  I  have  pitched  my  banner. 

Cess.     Come  then  !  raise  her  up  ! 

Arn.     Scftl- ! 

Cces.  As  softly  as  they  bear  the  dead. 

Perhaps  because  they  cannot  feel  the  jolting= 

Am.     But  doth  she  live  mdeeu  r 

Cfu.  Nay,  never  fear  1 

hox,  if  you  rue  it  after,  blame  not  me. 

Am.    Let  her  but  live ! 

Cess.  The  spirit  of  her  life 

Is  yet  within  her  breast,  and  may  revive. 
Count !  count !  I  am  your  servant  in  all  things. 


And  this  is  a  new  office :  —  'tis  not  oft 
I  am  employed  in  such ;  but  you  perceive 
How  stanch  a  friend  is  what  you  call  a  fiend. 
On  earth  you  have  often  only  fiends  for  friends ; 
Now  /  desert  not  mine.     Soft !  bear  her  hence, 
The  beautiful  half-clay,  and  nearly  spirit! 
I  am  almost  enamoured  of  her,  as 
Of  old  the  angels  of  her  earliest  sex. 

Arn.     Thou ! 

Ccbs.        I !     But  fear  not.     I'll  not  be  your 
rival. 

Am.     Rival ! 

Ccbs.  I  could  be  one  right  formidable; 

But  since  I  slew  the  seven  husbands  of 
Tobias'  future  bride  (and  after  all 
Was  smoked  out  by  some  incense) ,  I  have  laid 
Aside  intrigue  :  'tis  rarely  worth  the  trouble 
Of  gaining,  or  —  what  is  more  difficult  — 
Getting  rid  of  your  prize  again ;  for  there's 
The  rub !  at  least  to  mortals. 

Am.  Prithee,  peace ! 

Softly  !  mefhinks  her  lips  move,  her  eyes  open  ! 

Ccbs.     Like   stars,   no   doubt;   for  that's  a 
metaphor 
For  Lucifer  and  Venus. 

Arn.  To  the  palace 

Colonna,  as  I  told  you ! 

Ccbs.  Oh  !  I  know 

My  way  through  Rome. 

Arn,  Now  onward,  onward !  Gently! 

[Exeunt,   bearing   OLIMPIA.        The   scene 
closes. 


PART   III. 

SCENE  I.  —  A  Castle  in  the  Apennines,  sur- 
rounded by  a  wild  but  smiling  country. 
Chorus  of  Peasants  singing  before  the  Gates. 


The  wars  are  over, 

The  spring  is  come ; 
The  bride  and  her  lover 
Have  sought  their  home : 
They  are  happy,  we  rejoice ; 
Let  their  hearts  have  an  echo  in  every  voicel 


The  spring  is  come  ;  the  violet's  gone, 

The  first-born  child  of  the  early  sun : 

With  us  she  is  but  a  winter's  flower, 

The  snow  on  the  hills  cannot  blast  herbowei; 

And  she  lifts  up  her  dewy  eye  of  blue 

To  the  youngest  sky  of  the  self-same  hue. 


And  when  the  spring  comes  with  her  host 
Of  flowers,  that  flower  beloved  the  most 
Shrinks  from  the  crowd  that  may  confuse 
Her  heavenly  odor  and  virgin  hues. 


71« 


WERNER. 


Pluck  the  others,  but  still  remember 
Their  herald  out  of  dim  December  — 
The  morning  star  of  all  the  flowers, 
The  pledge  of  daylight's  lengthened  hours ; 
Nor,  midst  the  roses,  e'er  forget 
The  virgin,  virgin  violet. 

Enter  CitSAR. 
Cces.  {singing) .     The  wars  are  all  over, 
Our  swords  are  all  idle, 
The  steed  bites  the  bridle, 
The  casque's  on  the  wall. 
There's  rest  for  the  rover; 
But  his  armor  is  rusty, 
And  the  veteran  grows  crusty, 
As  he  yawns  in  the  hall. 

He  drinks  —  but  what's  drinking? 
A  mere  pause  from  thinking! 
No  bugle  awakes  him  with  life-and-death  call. 

CHORUS. 

But  the  hound  bayeth  loudly, 

The  boar's  in  the  wood, 
And  the  falcon  longs  proudly 

To  spring  from  her  hood : 
On  the  wrist  of  the  noble 

She  sits  like  a  crest, 
And  the  air  is  in  trouble 

With  birds  from  their  nest. 


Cess.    Oh !  shadow  of  glory ! 

Dim  image  of  war ! 
But  the  chase  hath  no  story, 

Her  hero  no  star, 
Since  Nimrod,  the  founder 

Of  empire  and  chase, 
Who  made  the  woods  wond«r 

And  quake  for  their  race; 
When  the  lion  was  young, 

In  the  pride  of  his  might, 
Then  'twas  sport  for  the  strong 

To  embrace  him  in  fight; 
To  go  forth,  with  a  pine 

For  a  spear,  'gainst  the  mammoth, 
Or  strike  through  the  ravine 

At  the  foaming  behemoth; 
While  man  was  in  stature 

As  towers  in  our  time, 
The  first-born  of  Nature, 

And,  like  her,  sublime! 

CHORUS. 
But  the  wars  are  over, 
The  spring  is  come; 
The  bride  and  her  lover 
Have  sought  their  home: 
They  are  happy,  and  we  rejoice ; 
Let  their  hearts  have  an  echo  from  every  voice- 
[Exeunt  the  Peasantry,  singing. 


WERNER;  OR,  THE  INHERITANCE. 
A   TRAGEDY. 


PREFACE. 


The  following  drama  is  taken  entirely  from  the  "  German's  Tale,  Kruitzner"  published  man} 
years  ago  in  Lee's  Canterbury  Tales;  written  (I  believe)  by  two  sisters,  of  whom  one  furnished  only 
this  story  and  another,  both  of  which  are  considered  superior  to  the  remainder  of  the  collection.1  1  have 
adopted  the  characters,  plan,  and  even  the  language,  of  many  parts  of  this  story.  Some  of  the  charac- 
ters  are  modified  or  altered,  a  few  of  the  names  changed,  and  one  character  (Ida  of  Stralenheim)  added 
by  myself:  but  in  the  rest  the  original  is  chiefly  followed.  When  I  was  young  (about  fourteen,  I  think), 
I  first  read  this  tale,  which  made  a  deep  impression  upon  me;  and  may,  indeed,  be  said  to  contain  th« 
germ  of  much  that  I  have  since  written.  I  am  not  sure  that  it  ever  was  very  popular;  or,  at  any  rate, 
its  popularity  has  since  been  eclipsed  by  that  of  other  great  writers  in  the  same  department.     But  I  have 

1  [This  is  not  correct.  "  The  Young  Lady's  Tale,  or  the  Two  Emily's,"  and  "  the  Clergyman's  Tale, 
at  Pembroke,"  were  contributed  by  Sophia  Lee.  The  "  German's  Tale,"  and  all  the  others  in  thr  «-•■* 
terbury  Collection,  were  written  by  Harriet,  the  younger  of  the  sisters.] 


WERNER.  71? 


generally  found  that  those  who  had  read  it,  agreed  with  me  in  their  estimate  of  the  singular  power  of 
>.nina  and  conception  which  it  develops.  I  should  also  add  conception,  rather  than  execution;  for  the 
story  might,  perhaps,  have  bee^  developed  with  greater  advantage.  Amongst  those  whose  opinions 
agreed  with  mine  upon  this  story,  I  could  mention  some  very  high  names:  but  it  is  not  necessary,  not 
indeed  of  any  use;  for  every  one  must  judge  according  to  his  own  feelings.  I  merely  refer  the  reader  to 
the  original  story,  that  he  may  see  to  what  extent  I  have  borrowed  from  it;  and  am  not  unwilling  that 
he  should  find  much  greater  pleasure  in  perusing  it  than  the  drama  which  is  founded  upon  its  contents. 

I  had  begun  a  drama  upon  this  tale  so  far  back  as  1815,  (the  first  I  ever  attempted,  except  one  at 
thirteen  years  old,  called  "  Ulric  and  Ilvina,"  which  I  had  sense  enough  to  burn,)  and  had  nearij 
completed  an  act,  when  I  was  interrupted  by  circumstances.  This  is  somewhere  amongst  my  papers  ui 
England;  but  as  it  has  not  been  found.  I  have  re-written  the  first,  and  added  the  subsequent  acts. 

The  whole  is  neither  intended,  nor  in  any  shape  adapted,  for  the  stage.' 

Pisa,  February,  182a. 


INTRODUCTION. 

The  tragedy  of  "  Werner"  was  begun  at  Pisa,  December  the  18th,  1821,  completed  January  the  20th, 
1822,  and  published  in  London  in  the  November  after.  The  contemporary  reviews  of  "  Werner  "  were, 
without  exception,  unfavorable.     The  critique  in  Blackwood  begins  thus:  — 

"  Who  could  be  so  absurd  as  to  think,  that  a  dramatist  has  no  right  to  make  free  with  other  people's 
fables?  On  the  contrary,  we  are  quite  aware  that  that  particular  species  of  genius  which  is  exhibited  in 
the  construction  of  plots,  never  at  any  period  flourished  in  England.  We  all  know  that  Shakspeare  him- 
self took  his  stories  from  Italian  novels,  Danish  sagas,  English  chronicles,  Plutarch's  Lives  —  from  any- 
where rather  than  from  his  own  invention.  But  did  he  take  the  whole  of  Hamlet,  or  Juliet,  or  Richard 
the  Third,  or  Antony  and  Cleopatra,  from  any  of  these  foreign  sources?  Did  he  not  invent,  in  the 
noblest  sense  of  the  word,  all  the  characters  of  his  pieces?  Who  dreams  that  any  old  Italian  novelist, 
or  ballad-maker,  could  have  formed  the  imagination  of  such  a  creature  as  Juliet?  Who  dreams  that  the 
Hamlet  of  Shakspeare,  the  princely  enthusiast,  the  melancholy  philosopher,  that  spirit  refined  even  to 
pain,  that  most  incomprehensible  and  unapproachable  of  all  the  creations  of  human  genius,  is  the  same 
being,  in  any  thing  but  the  name,  with  the  rough,  strong-hearted,  bloody-handed  Amlett  of  the  north? 
Who  is  there  that  supposes  Goethe  to  have  taken  the  character  of  his  Faust  from  the  nursery  rhymes 
and  penny  pamphlets  about  the  Devil  and  Doctor  Faustus?  Or  who,  to  come  nearer  home,  imagines 
that  Lord  Byron  himself  found  his  Sardanapalus  in  Dionysius  of  Halicarnassus? 

"But  here  Lord  Byron  has  invented  nothing  —  absolutely  nothing.  There  is  not  one  incident  in 
his  play,  not  even  the  most  trivial,  that  is  not  to  be  found  in  Miss  Lee's  novel,  occurring  exactly  in  the 
same  manner,  brought  about  by  exactly  the  same  agents,  and  producing  exactly  the  same  effects  on  the 
plot.  And  then  as  to  the  characters,  —  not  only  is  every  one  of  them  to  be  found  in  '  Kruitzner,'  but 
every  one  is  to  be  found  there  more  fully  and  powerfully  developed.  Indeed,  but  for  the  preparation 
which  we  had  received  from  our  old  familiarity  with  Miss  Lee's  own  admirable  work,  we  rather  incline 
to  think  that  we  should  have  been  unable  to  comprehend  the  gist  of  her  noble  imitator,  or  rather  copier, 
in  several  of  what  seem  to  be  meant  for  his  most  elaborate  delineations.  The  fact  is,  that  this  undeviating 
closeness,  this  humble  fidelity  of  imitation,  is  a  thing  so  perfectly  new  in  any  thing  worthy  of  the  name 
of  literature,  that  we  are  sure  no  one,  who  has  not  read  the  Canterbury  Tales,  will  be  able  to  form  the 
.feast  conception  of  what  it  amounts  to. 

"  Those  who  have  never  read  Miss  Lee's  book,  will,  however,  be  pleased  with  this  production;  for,  in 
truth,  the  story  is  one  of  the  most  powerfully  conceived,  one  of  the  most  picturesque,  and  at  the  same 
time  instructive  stories,  that  we  are  acquainted  with.  Indeed,  thus  led  as  we  are  to  name  Harriet  Lee,  we 
oannot  allow  the  opportunity  to  pass  without  saying,  that  we  have  always  considered  her  works  as  stand- 
ing upon  the  verge  of  the  very  first  rank  of  excellence;  that  is  to  say,  as  inferior  to  no  English  novels 

*  [Werner,  however,  has  been  produced  on  the  stage  with  tolerable  success  since  Byron's  death.] 


?*8 


WERNER. 


[act  \ 


whatever,  excepting  those  of  Fielding,  Sterne,  Smollett,  Richardson,  Defoe,  RadclifTe,  Godwin,  Edge- 
worth,  and  the  author  of  Waverley.  It  would  not,  perhaps,  be  going  too  far  to  say,  that  the  Canterbury 
Tales  exhibit  more  of  that  species  of  invention  which,  as  we  have  already  remarked,  was  never  commoi 
in  English  literature,  than  any  of  the  works  even  of  those  first-rate  novelists  we  have  named,  with  the 
single  exception  of  Fielding.  i 

" '  Kruitzner,  or  the  German's  Tale,'  possesses  mystery,  and  yet  clearness,  as  to  its  structure; 
•strength  of  characters,  and  admirable  contrast  of  characters;  and,  above  all,  the  most  lively  interest, 
""..anded  with  and  subservient  to  the  most  affecting  of  moral  lessons.  The  main  idea  which  lies  at  thd 
.oot  of  it  is,  the  horror  of  an  erring  father,  who,  having  been  detected  in  vice  by  his  son,  has  dared  tc 
defend  his  own  sin,  and  so  to  perplex  the  son's  notions  of  moral  rectitude,  on  finding  that  the  son,  in  his 
turn,  has  pushed  the  false  principles  thus  instilled  to  the  last  and  worst  extreme  —  on  hearing  his  rurfl 
sophistries  flung  in  his  face  by  a  —  Murderer." 

The  reader  will  find  a  minute  analysis,  introduced  by  the  above  remarks,  in  Blackwood,  vol    >ii. 


p.  710. 


TO  THE  ILLUSTRIOUS  GOETHE, 

BY  ONE  OF  HIS  HUMBLEST  ADMIRERS,  THIS  TRAGEDY  IS  DEDICATED. 


DRAMATIS   PERSONS. 


MEN. 

Werner. 

Ulric. 

Stralenheim. 

idenstein. 

Gabor. 

Fritz. 

Hen  rick. 

Eric. 


Arnheim. 
Meister. 

RODOLPH. 
LUDWIG. 


women. 

Josephine. 

Ida  Stralenheim. 


Scene — Partly  on  the  Frontier  of  Silesia,  and  partly  in  Siegendorf  Castle,  near  Pra^ft. 
Time  —  the  Close  of  the  Thirty  Years'  War. 


ACT  I. 

SCENE  I. —  The  Hall  of  a  decayed  Palace 
near  a  small  Town  on  the  Northern  Frontier 
of  Silesia  —  the  Night  tempestuous. 

Werner  and  Josephine  his  wife. 

Jos.    My  love,  be  calmer ! 

Wer.  I  am  calm. 

Jos.  To  me  — 

Yes,  but  not  to  thyself:  thy  pace  is  hurried, 
And  no  one  walks  a  chamber  like  to  ours 
With  steps  like  thine  when  his  heart  is  at  rest. 
Were  it  a  garden,  I  should  deem  thee  happy, 


And  stepping  with  the  bee  from  flower  to 

flower ; 
But  here  I 

Wer.      'Tis  chill ;  the  tapestry  lets  through 
The   wind   to  which   it  waves :  my  blood   is 
frozen. 
Jos.    Ah,  no ! 
Wer.  (smiling).  Why!  wouldst  thou  have 

it  so  ? 
Jos.  I  would 

Have  it  a  healthful  current. 

Wer.  Let  it  flow 

Until  'tis  spilt  or  checked  —  how  seen,  I  care 
not. 


9CENE  I.] 


WERNER. 


719 


Jos.     And  am  I  nothing  in  thy  heart  ? 
Wer.  All  — all. 

Jos.     Then  canst  thou  wish  for  that  which 

must  break  mine  ? 
Wer.  {approaching  her  slowly).     But  for 
thee  I  had  been  —  no  matter  what, 
But  much  of  good  and  evil ;  what  I  am, 
Thou  knowest ;  what  I  might  or  should  have 

been, 
Thou  knowest  not:  but  still  I  love  thee,  nor 
Shall  aught  divide  us. 

[Werner  walks  on  abruptly,  and  then  ap- 
proaches Josephine. 

The  storm  of  the  night 
Perhaps  affects  me;  I'm  a  thing  of  feelings, 
And  have  of  late  been  sickly,  as,  alas ! 
Thou  know'st  by  sufferings  more  than  mine, 

my  love! 
In  watching  me. 
Jos.  To  see  thee  well  is  much  — 

To  see  thee  happy 

Wer.  Where  hast  thou  seen  such  ? 

Let  me  be  wretched  with  the  rest! 

Jos.  But  think 

How  many  in  this  hour  of  tempest  shiver 
Beneath  the  biting  wind  and  heavy  rain, 
Whose  every  drop  bows   them  down   nearer 

earth 
Which  hath  no  chamber  for  them  save  be- 
neath 
Her  surface. 

Wer.  And  that's  not  the  worst :  who  cares 
For  chambers?  rest  is  all.  The  wretches  whom 
Thou  namest — ay,  the  wind  howls  round  them, 

and 
The  dull  and  dropping  rain   saps    in   their 

bones 
The  creeping  marrow.     I  have  been  a  soldier, 
A  hunter,  and  a  traveller,  and  am 
A  beggar,  and  should  know  the  thing   thou 
talk'st  of. 
Jos.    And  art  thou  not  now  sheltered  from 

them  all  ? 
Wer.    Yes.    And  from  these  alone. 
Jos.  '  And  that  is  something. 

Wer.    True  —  to  a  peasant. 
Jos.  Should  the  nobly  born 

Be    thankless  for    that  refuge    which  their 

habits 
Of  early  delicacy  render  more 
Needful  than  to  the  peasant,  when  the  ebb 
Of  fortune  leaves  them  on  the  shoals  of  life  ? 
Wer.     It  is  not  that,  thou  know'st  it  is  not ; 
we 
Have  borne  all  this,  I'll  not  say  patiently, 
Except  in  thee  —  but  we  have  borne  it. 
Jos.  Well  ? 

Wer.     Something  beyond  our  outward  suf- 
ferings (though 
These  were  enough  to  gnaw  into  our  souls) 
Hath  stung  me  oft,  and,  more  than  ever,  now. 
When,  but  for  this  untoward  sickness,  which 


Seized  me  upon  this  desolate  frontier,  and1 
Hath   wasted,    not    alone    my  strength,    but 

means, 
And  leaves  us  —  no!  this  is  beyond  me!2  — 

but 
Forthis  I  hadbeen  happy — thou  been  happy — 
The   splendor    of   my   rank   sustained — my 

name  — 
My  father's  name — been  still   upheld;  and, 

more 

Than  those 

Jos.  {abruptly).     My  son  —  our  son  —  our 

Ulric, 
Been  clasped  again  in  these  long-empty  arms, 
And  all  a  mother's  hunger  satisfied. 
Twelve  years  !  he  was  but  eight  then  :  —  beau- 
tiful 
He  was,  and  beautiful  he  must  be  now, 
My  Ulric !  my  adored ! 

Wer.  I  have  been  full  oft 

The  chase  of  Fortune;  now  she  hath  o'ertaken 

My  spirit  where  it  cannot  turn  at  bay, — 

Sick,  poor,  and  lonely. 

Jos.  Lonely !  my  dear  husband  ? 

Wer.    Or  worse  —  involving  all  I  love,  in 

this 
Far  worse  than  solitude.     Alone,  I  had  died, 
And  all  been  over  in  a  nameless  grave. 

Jos.     And    I   had  not  outlived   thee ;  but 

pray  take 
Comfort !    We  have  struggled  long ;  and  they 

who  strive 
With  Fortune  win  or  weary  her  at  last, 
So  that  they  find  the  goal  or  cease  to  feel 
Further.     Take  comfort,  —  we  shall  find  our 

boy. 
Wer.    We  were  in  sight  of  him,  of  every 

thing 


1  [In  this  play,  Lord  Byron  adopts  the  same 
nerveless  and  pointless  kind  of  blank  verse,  which 
was  a  sorrow  to  everybody  in  his  former  dramatic 
essays.  It  is,  indeed,  "  most  unmusical,  most  mel- 
ancholy."—  "Ofs,"  "tos,"  "ands,"  "fors,"  "bys," 
"  buts,"  and  the  like,  are  the  most  common  conclu- 
sions of  a  line;  there  is  no  ease,  no  flow,  no  har- 
mony, "in  linked  sweetness  long  drawn  out:" 
neither  is  there  any  thing  of  abrupt  fiery  vigor  to 
compensate  for  these  defects.  —  Blackwood.~\ 

2  [This  is,  indeed,  beyond  us.  If  this  be  poetry, 
then  we  were  wrong  in  taking  his  Lordship's  pref- 
ace for  prose.  It  will  run  on  ten  feet  as  well  as  the 
rest —  (See  p.  716,  ante.) 

"  Some  of  the  characters  are  modified 
Or  altered,  a  few  of  the  names  changed,  and 
One  character  (Ida  of  Stralenheim) 
Added  by  myself;  but  in  the  rest  the 
Original  is  chiefly  followed.     When 
I  was  young  (about  fourteen,  I  think)  I 
First  read  this  tale,  which  made  a  deep  impessrion 
Upon  me"  — 

Nor  is  there  a  line  in  these  so  lame  and  halting,  but 

we  could  point  out  many  in  the  drama  as  bad.— ■ 

Campbell.} 


720 


WERNER. 


[act  t. 


Which   could   bring   compensation  for  past 

sorrow  — 
And  to  be  baffled  thus ! 
Jos.  We  are  not  baffled. 

Wer.    Are  we  not  penniless  ? 
Jos.  We  ne'er  were  wealthy. 

Wer.     But  I  was  Lorn  to  wealth,  and  rank, 
and  power ; 
Enjoyed  them,  loved  them,  and,  alas  !  abused 

them, 
And  forfeited  them  by  my  father's  wrath, 
In  my  o'er-fervent  youth  ;   but  for  the  abuse 
Long   sufferings   have   atoned.     My  father's 

death 
Left  the  path  open,  yet  not  without  snares. 
This  cold  and  creeping  kinsman,  who  so  long 
Kept  his  eye  on  me,  as  the  snake  upon 
The  fluttering  bird,  hath  ere  this  time  outstept 

me, 
Become  the  master  of  my  rights,  and  lord 
Of  that  which  lifts  him  up  to  princes  in 
Dominion  and  domain. 

Jos.  Who  knows  ?  our  son 

May  have  returned  back  to  his  grandsire,  and 
Even  now  uphold  thy  rights  for  thee  ? 

Wer.  'Tis  hopeless. 

Since    his   strange    disappearance   from    my 

father's, 
Entailing,  as  it  were,  my  sins  upon 
Himself,  no  tidings  have  revealed  his  course. 
I  parted  with  him  to  his  grandsire,  on 
The  promise  that  his  anger  would  stop  short 
Of  the  third  generation  ;  but  Heaven  seems 
To  claim  her  stern  prerogative,  and  visit 
Upon  my  boy  his  father's  faults  and  follies. 
Jos.     I  must  hope  better  still,  —  at  least  we 
have  yet 
Baffled  the  long  pursuit  of  Stralenheim. 

Wer.     We  should  have  done,  but  for  this 
fatal  sickness ; 
More  fatal  than  a  mortal  malady, 
Because  it  takes  not  life,  but  life's  sole  solace  : 
Even  now  I  feel  my  spirit  girt  about 
By  the  snares  of  this  avaricious  fiend  ;  — 
How  do  I  know  he  hath  not  tracked  us  here  ? 
Jos.     He  does  not  know  thy  person ;  and 
his  spies, 
Who   so   long  watched  thee,  have  been  left 

at  Hamburgh. 
Our  unexpected  journey,  and  this  change 
Of  name,  leaves  all  discovery  far  behind: 
None  hold  us  here  for  aught  save  what  we 
seem. 
Wer.     Save  what  we  seem  !  save  what  we 
are — sick  beggars, 
Even  to  our  very  hopes.  —  Ha  !  ha  ! 

Jos.  Alas ! 

That  bitter  laugh! 

Wer.  Who  would  read  in  this  form 

The  high  soul  of  the  son  of  a  long  line  ? 
Who,  in  this  garb,  the  heir  of  princely  lands  ? 
Who,  in  this  sunken,  sickly  eye,  the  pride 


Of  rank  and  ancestry  ?  In  this  worn  cheek 
And  famine-hollowed  brow,  the  lord  of  halls 
Which  daily  feast  a  thousand  vassals  ? 

Jos.  You 

Pondered  not  thus  upon  these  worldly  things, 
My  We.i  er !  when  you  deigned  to  choose  for 

bride 
The  foreign  daughter  of  a  wandering  exile. 
Wer.     An  exile's  daughter  with  an  outcast 

son 
Were  a  fit  marriage ;  but  I  still  had  hopes 
To  lift  thee  to  the  state  we  both  were  born  for. 
Your  father's  house  was  noble,  though    de- 
cayed ; 
And  worthy  by  its  birth  to  match  with  ours. 
Jos.    Your  father  did  not  think  so,  though 

'twas  noble ; 
But  had  my  birth  been  all  my  claim  to  match 
With  thee,  I  should  have  deemed  it  what  it  is. 
Wer.    And  what  is  that  in  thine  eyes  ? 
Jos.  All  which  it 

Has  done  in  our  behalf,  —  nothing. 

Wer.  How,  —  nothing? 

Jos.     Or  worse ;  for  it  has  been  a  canker  in 
Thy  heart  from  the  beginning :  but  for  this, 
We  had  not  felt  our  poverty  but  as 
Millions  of  myriads  feel  it,  cheerfully; 
But  for  these  phantoms  of  thy  feudal  fathers, 
Thou  mightst  have  earned  thy  bread,  as  thou- 
sands earn  it ; 
Or.if  that  seem  too  humble,  tried  by  commerce, 
Or  other  civic  means,  to  amend  thy  fortunes. 
Wer.   (ironically).     And   been  an  Hanse- 

atic  burgher.     Excellent ! 
Jos.     Whate'er  thou  mightst  have  been,  to 

me  thou  art 
What  no  state  high  or  low  can  ever  change, 
My  heart's  first  choice  ;  — which  chose  thee, 

knowing  neither 
Thy  birth,  thy  hopes,  thy  pride;  nought,  sare 

thy  sorrows : 
While  they  last,  let  me  comfort  or  divide  them  ; 
When  they  end,  let  mine  end  with  them,  or 

thee!1' 
Wer.     My  better  angel !  such  I  have  ever 

found  thee ; 
This  rashness,  or  this  weakness  of  my  temper. 
Ne'er  raised   a    thought  to    injure    thee  or 

thine. 
Thou  didst  not  mar  my  fortunes :   my  own 

nature 
In  youth  was  such  as  to  unmake  an  empire, 
Had  such  been  my  inheritance ;  but  now, 

1  [Werner's  wife,  Josephine,  with  the  exception 
of  Ida,  the  only  female  in  the  drama,  is  an  example 
of  true  and  spotless  virtue.  A  true  woman,  she  not 
only  well  maintains  the  character  of  her  sex  by  gen- 
eral integrity,  but  equally  displays  the  endearing, 
soit,  and  unshaken  affection  of  a  wife:  cherishing 
and  comforting  a  suffering  husband  throughout  all 
the  adversities  of  his  fate,  and  all  the  errors  of  his 
own  conduct.  — Monthly  Rev.~\ 


SCENE  I.] 


WERNER. 


721 


Chastened,  subdued,  out-worn,  and  taught  to 

know 
Myself,  —  to  lose  this  for  our  son  and  thee  ! 
Trust    me,  when,   in    my  two-and-twentieth 

spring, 
My  father  barred  me  from  my  father's  house, 
The  last  sole  scion  of  a  thousand  sires, 
(For  I  was  then  the  last,)  it  hurt  me  less 
Than  to  behold  my  boy  and  my  boy's  mother 
Excluded  in  their  innocence  from  what 
My  faults  deserved  —  exclusion  ;  although  then 
My  passions  were  all  living  serpents,  and 
Twined  like  the  gorgon's  round  me. 

[A  loud  knocking  is  heard. 
Jos.  Hark ! 

Wer.  A  knocking ! 

Jos.     Who  can  it  be  at  this  lone  hour  ?  We 
have 
Few  visitors. 

Wer.  And  poverty  hath  none, 

Save  those  who  come  to  make  it  poorer  still. 
Well,  I  am  prepared. 

[WERNER  puts  his  hand  into  his  bosom,  as 

if  to  search  for  some  weapon. 
Jos.  Oh  !  do  not  look  so.     I 

Will  to  the  door.  It  cannot  be  of  import 
In  this  lone  spot  of  wintry  desolation  :  — 
The  very  desert  saves  man  from  mankind. 

[She  goes  to  the  door. 

Enter  iDENSTEIN.l 

Iden.    A   fair  good  evening  to  my  fairer 
hostess 
And  worthy  —  What's  your  name,  my  friend  ? 
Wer.  Are  you 

Not  afraid  to  demand  it  ? 

Iden.  Not  afraid  ? 

Egad  !   I  am  afraid.     You  look  as  if 
I  asked  for  something  better  than  your  name, 
By  the  face  you  put  on  it. 

Wer.  Better,  sir ! 

Iden.     Better  or  worse,   like    matrimony: 
what 
Shall  I  say  more  ?    You  have  been  a  guest 

this  month 
Here  in  the  prince's  palace  —  (to  be  sure, 
His  highness  had  resigned  it  to  the  ghosts 
And  rats  these  twelve  years  —  but  'tis  still  a 

palace)  — 
I  say  you  have  been  our  lodger,  and  as  yet 
We  do  not  know  your  name. 

Wer.  My  name  is  Werner. 

Iden.    A  goodly  name,  a  very  worthy  name 
As  e'er  was  gilt  upon  a  trader's'  board : 
I  have  a  cousin  in  the  lazaretto 
Of  Hamburgh,  who  has  got  a  wife  who  bore 
The  same.     He  is  an  officer  of  trust, 


1  [The  most  amusing  fellow  in  the  drama  is 
Monsieur  Idenstein;  who  makes  the  finest  speech, 
too,  beyond  comparison,  of  any  of  the  personages. 
Th«  only  wonder  is,  where  he  got  it.  —  Eel.  Rev.\ 


Surgeon's  assistant  (hoping  to  be  surgeon), 
And  has  done  miracles  i'  the  way  of  business1 
Perhaps  you  are  related  to  my  relative  ? 
Wer.     To  yours  ? 

Jos.  Oh,  yes ;   we  are,  but  distantly, 

[Aside  to  WERNER. 
Cannot  you  humor  the  dull  gossip  till 
We  learn  his  purpose  ? 

Iden.  Well,  I  am  glad  of  that; 

I  thought  so  all  along,  such  natural  yearnings 
Played  round  my  heart :  — blood  is  not  water, 

cousin ; 
And  so  let's  have  some  wine,  and  drink  unto 
Our  better  acquaintance  :    relatives  should  be 
Friends. 

Wer.    You  appear  to  have  drank  enough 
already ; 
And  if  you  had  not,  I've  no  wine  to  offer, 
Else  it  were  yours :    but  this  you  know,  or 

should  know : 
You  see  I  am  poor,  and  sick,  and  will  not  see 
That  I  would  be  alone  ;  but  to  your  business  ! 
What  brings  you  here  ? 

Iden.       Why,  what  should  bring  me  here  ? 
Wer.     I  know  not,  though  I  think  that  I 
could  guess 
That  which  will  send  you  hence. 
Jos.   {aside).  Patience,  dear  Werner! 

Iden.     You  don't  know  what  has  happened, 

then? 
Jos.  How  should  we  ? 

Iden.     The  river  has  o'erfiowed. 
Jos.  Alas  !  we  have  known 

That  to  our  sorrow  for  these  five  days  ;  since 
It  keeps  us  here. 

Iden.  But  what  you  don't  know  is, 

That  a  great  personage,  who  fain  would  cross 
Against    the    stream    and    three    postilions' 

wishes, 
Is  drowned  below  the  ford,  with  five  post' 

horses, 
A  monkey,  and  a  mastiff,  and  a  valet, 
Jos.     Poor  creatures  !  are  you  sure  ? 
Iden.  Yes,  of  the  monkey, 

And  the  valet,  and  the  cattle ;  but  as  yet 
We  know  not  if  his  excellency's  dead 
Or  no ;  your  noblemen  are  hard  to  drown, 
As  it  is  fit  that  men  in  office  should  be ; 
But  what  is  certain  is,  that  he  has  swallowed 
Enough  of  the  Oder  to  have  burst  two  peas- 
ants ; 
And  now  a  Saxon  and  Hungarian  traveller, 
Who,  at  their  proper  peril,  snatched  him  from 
The  whirling  river,  have  sent  on  to  crave 
A  lodging,  or  a  grave,  according  as 
It  may  turn  out  with  the  live  or  dead  body. 
Jos.    And   where  will  you   receive   him  ? 
here,  I  hope, 
If  we  can  be  of  service  —  say  the  word. 
Iden.     Here  ?  no  ;  but  in  the  prince's  own 
apartment, 
As  fits  a  noble  guest :  —  'tis  damp,  no  doubt, 


722 


WERNER. 


[act 


Not  having  been  inhabited  these  twelve  years ; 
But  then  he  comes  from  a  much  damper  place, 
So  scarcely  will  catch  cold  in't,  if  he  be 
Still  liable  to  cold  —  and  if  not,  why 
He'll  be  worse  lodged  to-morrow  :  ne'ertheless, 
I  have  ordered  fire  and  all  appliances 
To  be  got  ready  for  the  worst  —  that  is, 
[n  case  he  should  survive. 

Jos.  Poor  gentleman ! 

I  hope  he  will,  with  all  my  heart. 

Wer.  Intendant, 

Have    you    not    learned    his    name  ?      My 

Josephine,  {Aside  to  his  wife. 

Retire  :  I'll  sift  this  fool.      {Exit  JOSEPHINE. 

/den.  His  name  ?  oh  Lord  ! 

Who  knows  if  he  hath  now  a  name  or  no  ? 
Tis  time  enough  to  ask  it  when  he's  able 
To  give  an  answer ;  or  if  not,  to  put 
His  heir's  upon  his  epitaph.     Methought 
Just  now  you  chid  me  for  demanding  names  ? 

Wer.    True,  true,  I  did  so;   you  say  well 
and  wisely. 

Enter  GABOR. 

Gab.     If  I  intrude,  I  crave 

Iden.  Oh,  no  intrusion ! 

This  is  the  palace ;  this  a  stranger  like 
Yourself;   I  pray  you  make  yourself  at  home  : 
But  where's  his  excellency?  and  how  fares  he? 

Gab.     Wetly  and  wearily,  but  out  of  peril : 
He  paused  to  change  his  garments  in  a  cot- 
tage, 
(Where  I  doffed  mine  for  these,  and  came 

on  hither) 
And  has  almost  recovered  from  his  drenching. 
He  will  be  here  anon. 

Iden.  What  ho,  there  !  bustle ! 

Without    there,    Herman,    Weilburg,    Peter, 
Conrad ! 

[  Gives  directions  to  different  servants  who 
enter. 
A  nobleman  sleeps  here  to-night  —  see  that 
All  is  in  order  in  the  damask  chamber — 
Keep   up  the   stove  —  I   will   myself  to  the 

cellar  — 
And  Madame  Idenstein  (my  consort, stranger) 
Shall  furnish  forth  the  bed-apparel;  for, 
To  say  the  truth,  they  are  marvellous  scant  of 

this 
Within  the  palace  precincts,  since  his  highness 
Left  it  some  dozen  years  ago.    And  then 
His  excellency  will  sup,  doubtless? 

Gab.  Faith ! 

I  cannot  tell ;  but  I  should  think  the  pillow 
Would  please  him  better  than  the  table  after 
His  soaking  in  your  river :  but  for  fear 
Your  viands  should  be  thrown  away,  I  mean 
To  sup  myself,  and  have  a  friend  without 
Who  will  do  honor  to  your  good  cheer  with 
A  traveller's  appetite. 

Id'n.  But  are  you  sure 

Hi*  wcellency But  his  name :  what  is  it  ? 


Gab.     I  do  not  know. 

Iden.  And  yet  you  saved  his  life. 

Gab.     I  helped  my  friend  to  do  so. 

Iden.  Well,  that's  strange, 

To  save  a  man's  life  whom  you  do  not  know. 

Gab.     Not  so ;  for  there  are  some  I  know 
so  well, 
I  scarce  should  give  myself  the  trouble. 

Iden.  Pray, 

Good  friend,  and  who  may  you  be  ? 

Gab.  By  my  family, 

Hungarian. 

Iden.  Which  is  called  ? 

Gab.  It  matters  little. 

Iden.  (aside).     I  think  that  all  the  world  are 
grown  anonymous, 
Since  no  one  cares  to  tell  me  what  he's  called ! 
Pray,  has  his  excellency  a  large  suite  ? 

Gab.  Sufficient. 

Iden.     How  many  ? 

Gab.  I  did  not  count  them. 

We  came  up  by  mere  accident,  and  just 
In   time   to  drag   him   through  his  carriage 
window. 

Iden.     Well,  what  would  I  give  to  save  a 
great  man ! 
No   doubt  you'll  have  a  swinging  sum   as 
recompease. 

Gab.     Perhaps. 

Iden.     Now,  how  much  do  you  reckon  on  ? 

Gab.     I  have  not  yet  put  up  myself  to  sale  : 
In  the  mean  time,  my  best  reward  would  be 
A  glass  of  your  Hockcheimer  —  a.  green  glass, 
Wreathed  with  rich  grapes  and  Bacchanal 

devices, 
O'erfiowing  with  the  oldest  of  your  vintage; 
For  which  I  promise  you,  in  case  you  e'er 
Run  hazard  of  being  drowned,  (although  I  own 
It  seems,  of  all  deaths,  the  least  likely  for  you,) 
I'll   pull  you   out  for  nothing.     Quick,  my 

friend, 
And  think,  for  every  bumper  I  shall  quaff, 
A  wave  the  less  may  roll  above  your  head. 

Iden.  (aside).     I  don't  much  like  this  fellow 
—  close  and  dry 
He   seems,  two   things  which   suit  me  not; 

however 
Wine  he  shall  have ;  if  that  unlocks  him  not, 
I  shall  not  sleep  to-night  for  curiosity. 

[Exit  iDENSTEINo 

Gab.  (to  Werner).     This  master  of  the 
ceremonies  is 
The  intendant  of  the  palace,  I  presume : 
'Tis  a  fine  building,  but  decayed. 

Wer.  The  apartment 

Designed  for  him  you  rescued  will  be  found 
In  filter  order  for  a  sickly  guest. 

Gab.     I  wonder  then  you  occupied  it  not, 
For  you  seem  delicate  in  health. 

Wer.  (quickly).  Sir! 

Gab.  Pray 

Excuse  me :  have  I  said  aught  to  offend  yon? 


SCENE  I.] 


WERNER. 


723 


Wer.     Nothing:   but  we  are  strangers  to 
each  other. 

Gab.    And  that's  the  reason  I  would  have 
us  less  so : 
I  thought  our  bustling  guest  without  had  said 
You  were  a  chance  and  passing  guest,  the 

counterpart 
Of  me  and  my  companions. 

Wer.  Very  true. 

Gab.    Then,  as  we  never  met  before,  and 
never, 
It  may  be,  may  again  encounter,  why, 
I  thought  to  cheer  up  this  old  dungeon  here 
'At  least  to  me)  by  asking  you  to  share 
f  he  fare  of  my  companions  and  myself. 

Wer.     Pray,  pardon  me  ;  my  health 

Gab.  Even  as  you  please. 

I  have  been  a  soldier,  and  perhaps  am  blunt 
In  bearing. 

Wer.  I  have  also  served,  and  can 

Requite  a  soldier's  greeting. 

Gab.  In  what  servjce  ? 

The  Imperial  ? 

Wer.  {quickly,  and  then  interrupt'mg  him- 
self).    I  commanded  —  no  —  I  mean 
I  served ;  but  it  is  many  years  ago, 
When  first  Bohemia  raised  her  banner  'gainst 
The  Austrian. 

Gab.  Well,  that's  over  now,  and  peace 

Has  turned  some  thousand  gallant  hearts  adrift 
To  live  as  they  best  may ;  and,  to  say  truth, 
Some  take  the  shortest. 

Wer.  What  is  that  ? 

Gab.  Whate'er 

They  lay  their  hands  on.    All  Silesia  and 
Lusatia's  woods  are  tenanted  by  bands 
Of  the  late  troops,  who  levy  on  the  country 
Their  maintenance  :  the  Chatelains  must  keep 
Their  castle  walls  —  beyond  them   'tis    but 

doubtful 
Travel  for  your  rich  count  or  full-blown  baron. 
My  comfort  is  that,  wander  where  I  may, 
I've  little  left  to  lose  now. 

Wer.  And  I  —  nothing. 

Gab.    That's   harder  still.     You  say  you 
were  a  soldier. 

Wer.     I  was. 

Gab.  You  look  one  still.  All  soldiers  are 
Qr  should  be  comrades,  even  though  enemies. 
Our  swords   when   drawn    must   cross,  our 

engines  aim 
(While  levelled)  at  each  other's  hearts;  but 

when 
A  truce,  a  peace,  or  what  you  will,  remits 
The  steel  into  its  scabbard,  and  lets  sleep 
The  spark  which  lights  the  matchlock,  we  are 

brethren. 
You  axe  poor  and  sickly  —  I  am  not  rich  but 

healthy, 
I  want  for  nothing  which  I  cannot  want; 
You  seem  devoid  of  this  —  wilt  share  it  ? 

[Gabor  pulls  out  his  pur h. 


Wer.  Who 

Told  you  I  was  a  beggar  ? 

Gab.  You  yourself, 

In  saying  you  were  a  soldier  during  peace- 
time. 
Wer.  {looking  at  him  with  suspicion).    You 

know  me  not  ? 
Gab.  I  know  no  man,  not  even 

Myself:  how  should  I  then  know  one  I  ne'er 
Beheld  till  half  an  hour  since  ? 

Wer.  Sir,  I  thank  you. 

Your  offer's  noble  were  it  to  a  friend, 
And  not  unkind  to  an  unknown  stranger, 
Though  scarcely  prudent ;  but  no  less  I  thank 

you. 
I  am  a  beggar  in  all  save  his  trade ; 
And  when  I  beg  of  any  one,  it  shall  be 
Of  him  who  was  the  first  to  offer  what 
Few  can  obtain  by  asking.     Pardon  me. 

[Exit  Werner. 

Gab.  {solus) .    A  goodly  fellow  by  his  looks, 

though  worn, 

As  most  good  fellows  are,  by  pain  or  pleasure, 

Which  tear  life  out  of  us  before  our  time  ; 

I  scarce  know  which  most  quickly :   but  he 

seems 
To  have  seen  better  days,  as  who  has  not 
Who   has   seen   yesterday?  —  But    here   ap- 
proaches 
Our  sage  intendant,  with  the  wine  :  however, 
For  the  cup's  sake  I'll  bear  the  cupbearer. 

Enter  IDENSTEIN. 

/den.   'Tis  here !  the  supernaculum !  twenty 
years, 
Of  age,  if  'tis  a  day. 

Gab.  Which  epoch  makes 

Young  women  and  old  wine ;  and  'tis  great 

pity. 

Of   two   such    excellent    things,  increase   of 

years, 
Which  still  improves  the  one,  should  spoil 

the  other. 
Fill  full  —  Here's  to  our  hostess !  —  your  fair 

wife  !  [  Takes  the  glass, 

/den.    Fair !  —  Well,  I  trust  your  taste  in 

wine  is  equal 
To  that  you  show  for  beauty ;  but  I  pledge  you 
Nevertheless. 

Gab.  Is  not  the  lovely  woman 

I  met  in  the  adjacent  hall,  who,  with 
An  air,  and  port,  and  eye,  which  would  have 

better 
Beseemed  this  palace  in  its  brightest  days 
(Though  in  a  garb  adapted  to  its  present 
Abandonment),  returned  my  salutation  — 
Is  not  the  same  your  spouse  ? 

/den.  I  would  she  were ! 

But  you're  mistaken: — that's  the  stranger's 

wife. 
Gab.    And  by  her  aspect  she  might  be  a 

prince's : 


724 


WERNER. 


[act  i. 


Though  time  hath  touched  her  too,  she  still 

retains 
Much  beauty,  and  more  majesty. 

Iden.  And  that 

Is  more  than  I  can  say  for  Madame  Iden- 

stein, 
At  least  in  beauty  :  as  for  majesty, 
She  has  some  of  its  properties  which  might 
Be  spared  —  but  never  mind  ! 

Gab.  I  don't.     But  who 

May  be  this  stranger  ?  He  too  hath  a  bearing 
Above  his  outward  fortunes. 

Iden.  There  I  differ. 

He's  poor  as  Job,  and  not  so  patient ;  but 
Who  he  may  be,  or  what,  or  aught  of  him, 
Except  his  name  (and  that  I  only  learned 
To-night),  I  know  not. 

Gab.  But  how  came  he  here  ? 

Iden.     In  a  most  miserable  old  caleche, 
Abaut  a  month  since,  and  immediately 
Fell  sick,  almost  to  death.     He  should  have 
died. 

Gab.     Tender  and  true  !  — but  why  ? 

Iden.  Why,  what  is  life 

Without  a  living  ?     He  has  not  a  stiver. 

Gab.     In  that  case,  I  much  wonder  that  a 
person 
Of  your  apparent  prudence  should  admit 
Guests  so  forlorn  into  this  noble  mansion. 

Iden.    That's  true ;  but  pity,  as  you  know, 
does  make 
One's  heart  commit  these  follies  ;  and  besides, 
They  had  some  valuables  left  at  that  time, 
Which  paid  their  way  up  to  the  present  hour  ; 
And   so    I    thought    they   might   as   well   be 

lodged 
Here  as  at  the  small  tavern,  and  I  gave  them 
The  run  of  some  of  the  oldest  palace  rooms. 
They  served  to  air  them,  at  the  least  as  long 
As  they  could  pay  for  fire-wood. 

Gab.  Poor  souls ! 

Iden.  Ay, 

Exceeding  poor. 

Gab.  And  yet  unused  to  poverty, 

If  I  mistake  not.     Whither  were  they  going  ? 

Iden.   Oh !   Heaven  knows  where,  unless  to 
heaven  itself. 
Some  days  ago  that  looked  the  likeliest  jour- 
ney 
For  Werner. 

Gab.         Werner !  I  have  heard  the  name  : 
But  it  may  be  a  feigned  one. 

Iden.  Like  enough  ! 

But  hark  !  a  noise  of  wheels  and  voices,  and 
A  blaze  of  torches  from  without.     As  sure 
As  destiny,  his  excellency's  come. 
I  must  be  at  my  post :  will  you  not  join  me, 
To  help  him  from  his  carriage,  and  present 
Your  humble  duty  at  the  door  ? 

Gab.  I  dragged  him 

From  out  that  carriage  when  he  would  have 
given 


His  barony  or  county  to  repel 

The  rushing  river  from  his  gurgling  throat. 

He  has  valets  now  enough  :  they  stood  alool 
then, 

Shaking  their  dripping  ears  upon  the  shore, 

All  roaring  "  Help!  "  but  offering  none;  and 
as 

For  duty  (as  you  call  it)  —  I  did  mine  then, 

^ow  Ao  yours.     Hence,  and  bow  and  cringe 
him  here ! 
Iden.     I  cringe  !  —  but  I  shall  lose  the  op- 
portunity— 

Plague  take  it !  he'll  be  here,  and  I  not  there ! 
[Exit  IDENSTEIN  hastily. 

Reenter  WERNER. 

Wer.    (to   himself).      I   heard   a   noise   of 

wheels  and  voices.     How 
All  sounds  now  jar  me ! 

Still  here  !     Is  he  not        [Perceiving  GABOR. 
A  spy  of  my  pursuer's  ?     His  frank  offer 
So  suddenly,  and  to  a  stranger,  wore 
The  aspect  of  a  secret  enemy; 
For  friends  are  slow  at  such. 

Gab.  Sir,  you  seem  rapt; 

And  yet  the  time  is  not  akin  to  thought, 
These   old  walls  will  be   noisy  soon.    The 

baron,     ' 
Or  count   (or  whatsoe'er  this   half-drowned 

noble 
May  be),  for  whom  this  desolate  village  and 
Its  lone  inhabitants  show  more  respect 
Than  did  the  elements,  is  come. 

Iden.  (without).  This  way  — 

This  way,  your  excellency :  —  have  a  care, 
The  staircase  is  a  little  gloomy,  and 
Somewhat  decayed  ;  but  if  we  had  expected 
So  high  a  guest  —  Pray   take   my  arm,  my 

lord ! 

Enter  STRALENHEIM,  IDENSTEIN,  and  At- 
tendants— partly  his  own,  and  partly  Re- 
tainers of  the  Domain  of  which  IDENSTEIN 
is  Intendant. 

Stral.     I'll  rest  me  here  a  moment. 

Iden.  (to  the  servants).  Ho!  a  chair! 

Instantly,  knaves  !    [STRALENHEIM  sits  down. 

Wer.  (aside).        'Tishe! 

Stral.  I'm  better  now. 

Who  are  these  strangers  ? 

Iden.  Please  you,  my  good  lord. 

One  says  he  is  no  stranger. 

Wer.  (aloud  and  hastily).     Who  says  that  ? 
[  They  look  at  him  with  surprise, 

Iden.     Why,  no  one  spoke  of  you  or  to  you  I 
—  but 
Here's  one  his  excellency  may  be  pleased 
To  recognize.  [Pointing  to  GABOB. 

Gab.  I  seek  not  to  disturb 

His  noble  memory. 

Stral.  I  apprehend 

This  is  one  of  the  strangers  to  whose  aicj 


SCENE  I.] 


WERNER. 


725 


I  owe  my  rescue.     Is  not  that  the  other  ? 

[Pointing-  to  WERNER. 
My  state  when  I  was  succored  must  excuse 
My  uncertainty  to  whom  I  owe  so  much. 

Iden.    He!  —  no,  my  lord!  he  rather  wants 
for  rescue 
Than  can  afford  it.     'Tis  a  poor  sick  man, 
Travel-tired,  and  lately  risen  from  a  bed 
From  whence  he  never  dreamed  to  rise. 

Stral.  Methought 

That  there  were  two. 

Gab.  There  were,  in  company ; 

But,  in  the  service  rendered  to  your  lordship, 
I  needs  must  say  but  one,  and  he  is  absent. 
The  chief  part  of  whatever  aid  was  rendered 
Was  his  :  it  was  his  fortune  to  be  first. 
My  will  was  not  inferior,  but  his  strength 
And  youth  outstripped  me ;  therefore  do  not 

waste 
Your  thanks  on  me.    I  was  but  a  glad  second 
Unto  a  nobler  principal. 

Stral.  Where  is  he  ? 

An  Atten.     My  lord,  he  tarried  in  the  cot- 
tage where 
Your  excellency  rested  for  an  hour, 
And  said  he  would  be  here  to-morrow. 

Stral.  Till 

That  hour  arrives,  I  can  but  offer  thanks, 
And  then 

Gab.     I  seek  no  more,  and  scarce  deserve 
So  much.     My  comrade  may  speak  for  him- 
self. 

Stral.  (fixing  his  eyes  upon  WERNER  :  then 
aside ) . 
It  cannot  be !  and  yet  he  must  be  looked  to. 
'Tis  twenty  years  since  I  beheld  him  with 
These  eyes  ;  and,  though  my  agents  still  have 

kept 
Theirs  on  him,  policy  has  held  aloof 
My  own  from  his,  not  to  alarm  him  into 
Suspicion  of  my  plan.     Why  did  I  leave 
At  Hamburgh  those  who  would  have  made 

assurance 
If  this  be  he  or  no  ?     I  thought,  ere  now, 
To  have  been  lord  of  Siegendorf,  and  parted 
In  haste,  though  even  the  elements  appear 
To  fight  against  me,  and  this  sudden  flood 
May  keep  me  prisoner  here  till 

[He  pauses,  and  looks  at  WERNER;   then 
resumes. 

This  man  must 
Be  watched.     If  it  is  he,  he  is  so  changed, 
His  father,  rising  from  his  grave  again, 
Would  pass  him  by  unknown.  I  must  be  wary  : 
An  error  would  spoil  all. 

Iden.  Your  lordship  seems 

Pensive.     Will  it  not  please  you  to  pass  on  ? 

Stral.     'Tis   past   fatigue  which   gives   my 
weighed-down  spirit 
An  outward  show  of  thought.     I  will  to  rest. 

Iden.     The  prince's  chamber  is  prepared, 
with  all 


The  very  furniture  the  prince  used  wheo 
Last  here,  in  its  full  splendor. 

(Aside.)     Somewhat  tattered, 
And  devilish  damp,  but  fine  enough  by  torch- 
light; 
And  that's  enough  for  your  right  noble  blood 
Of  twenty  quarterings  upon  a  hatchment ; 
So  let  their  bearer  sleep  'neath  something  lake 

one 
Now,  as  he  one  day  will  forever  lie. 

Stral.     (rising   and    turning    to   GABOR). 
Good  night,  good   people !     Sir,  I    trust 
to-morrow 
Will  find  me  apter  to  requite  your  service. 
In  the  mean  time  I  crave  your  company 
A  moment  in  my  chamber. 

Gab.  I  attend  you. 

Stral.  (after  a  few  steps,  pauses,  and  calls 

Werner).    Friend! 
Wer.  Sir ! 

Iden.    Sir!    Lord  —  oh  Lord!    Why  don't 
you  say 
His  lordship,  or  his  excellency  ?     Pray, 
My  lord,  excuse  this  poor  man's  want  of  breed- 
ing. 
He  hath  not  been  accustomed  to  admission 
To  such  a  presence. 

Stral.  (to  IDENSTEIN).     Peace,  intendant! 
Iden.  Oh ! 

I  am  dumb. 
Stral.  (/<?  Werner).    Have  you  been  long 

here  ? 
Wer.        Long  ? 
Stral.  I  sought 

An  answer,  not  an  echo. 
Wer.    You  may  seek 
Both  from  the  walls.     I  am  not  used  to  answer 
Those  whom  I  know  not. 

Stral.  Indeed  !  Ne'er  the  less, 

You  might  reply  with  courtesy  to  what 
Is  asked  in  kindness. 

Wer.  When  I  know  it  such, 

I  will  requite  —  that  is,  reply — in  unison. 

Stral.     The  intendant  said,  you  had  been 

detained  by  sickness  — 

If  I  could  aid  you  —  journeying  the  same  way  ? 

Wer.  (quickly).     I  am  not  journeying  the 

same  way ! 
Stral.  How  know  ye 

That,  ere  you  know  my  route  ? 

Wer.  Because  there  is 

But  oneway  that  the  rich  and  poor  must  tread 
Together.  You  diverged  from  that  dread  path 
Some  hours  ago,  and  I  some  days  :  hence- 
forth 
Our  roads  must  lie  asunder,  though  they  tend 
All  to  one  home. 

Stral.  Your  language  is  above 

Your  station. 

Wer.  (bitterly).     Is  it? 
Stral.  Or,  at  least,  beyond 

Your  garb. 


726 


WERNER. 


[ACT  » 


Wer.        "lis  well  that  it  is  not  beneath  it, 
As  sometimes  happens  to  the  better  clad. 
But,  in  a  word,  what  would  you  with  me  ? 
Stral.  {startled).  I  ? 

Wer.    Yes  —  you!     You  know  me  not,  and 
question  me, 
And  wonder  that  I  answer  not  —  not  knowing 
My  inquisitor.     Explain  what  you  would  have, 
And  then  I'll  satisfy  yourself,  or  me. 

Stral.     I    knew  not  that  you  had  reasons 

for  reserve. 
Wer.    Many  have  such  :  —  Have  you  none  ? 
Stral.  None  which  can 

Interest  a  mere  stranger. 

Wer.  Then  forgive 

The  same  unknown  and  humble  stranger,  if 
He  wishes  to  remain  so  to  the  man 
Who  can  have  nought  in  common  with  him. 
Stral.  Sir, 

I  will  not  balk  your  humor,  though  untoward  : 
I  only  meant  you  service  —  but  good  night! 
Intendant,  show  the  way!   (  To  GABOR.)    Sir, 
you  will  with  me  ? 
[Exeunt  STRALENHEIM   and  attendants; 

IDENSTEIN  and  Gabor. 
Wer.  (solus) .     'Tis  he !  I  am  taken  in  the 
toils.     Before 
I  quitted  Hamburgh,  Giulio,  his  late  steward, 
Informed  me  that  he  had  obtained  an  order 
From  Brandenburg's  elector,  for  the  arrest 
Of  Kruitzner  (such  the  name  I    then  bore) 

when 
I  came  upon  the  frontier ;  the  free  city 
Alone  preserved  my  freedom  —  till  I  left 
Its  walls  —  fool  that  I  was  to  quit  them  !     But 
I  deemed  this  humble  garb,  and  route  obscure, 
Had  baffled  the  slow  hounds  in  their  pursuit. 
What's  to  be  done  ?     He  knows  me  not  by 

person 
Nor  could  aught,  save  the  eye  of  apprehen- 
sion, 
Have  recognized  him,  after  twenty  years, 
We  met  so  rarely  and  so  coldly  in 
Our  youth.     But  those  about  him!     Now  I 

can 
Divine  the  frankness  of  the  Hungarian,  who 
No  doubt  is  a  mere  tool  and  spy  of  Stralen- 

heim's, 
To    sound    and    to    secure    me.      Without 

means ! 
Sick,  poor  —  begirt  too  with  the  flooding  riv- 
ers, 
Impassable  even  to  the  wealthy,  with 
All  the  appliances  which  purchase  modes 
Of  overpowering  peril  with  men's  lives, — 
How  can  I  hope !     An  hour  ago  methought 
My  state  beyond  despair ;  and  now,  'tis  such, 
The  past  seems  paradise.     Another  day, 
And  I'm  detected,  —  on  the  very  eve 
Of  honors,  rights,  and  my  inheritance, 
When  a  few  drops  of  gold  might  save  me  still 
In  favoring  an  escape. 


Enter   IDENSTEIN  and  FRITZ   in   conver- 
sation. 
Fritz.  Immediately. 

/den.     I  tell  you,  'tis  impossible. 
Fritz.  It  must 

Be  tried,  however;  and  if  one  express 
Fail,  you  must  send  on  others,  till  the  answer 
Arrives  from  Frankfort,  from  the  command- 
dant. 
/den.     I  will  do  what  I  can. 
Fritz.  And  recollect 

To  spare  no  trouble ;  you  will  be  repaid 
Tenfold. 

/den.     The  baron  is  retired  to  rest? 
Fritz.     He   hath   thrown    himself   into   an 
easy  chair 
Beside  the  fire,  and  slumbers ;    and  has  or- 
dered 
He  may  not  be  disturbed  until  eleven, 
When  he  will  take  himself  to  bed. 

/den.  Before 

An  hour  is  past  I'll  do  my  best  to  serve  him. 
Fritz.     Remember !  [Exit  FRITZ. 

/den.     The  devil  take  these  great  men  !  they 
Think  all  things  made  for  them.     Now  here 

must  I 
Rouse  up  some  half  a  dozen  shivering  vassals 
From  their  scant  pallets,  and,  at  peril  of 
Their   lives,   despatch    them   o'er  the    river 

towards 
Frankfort.     Methinks  the   baron's   own   ex- 
perience 
Some   hours   ago   might   teach    him  fellow- 
feeling  : 
But  no,  "  it  must,"  and  there's  an  end.    How 

now  ? 
Are  you  there,  Mynheer  Werner  ? 

Wer.  You  have  left 

Your  noble  guest  right  quickly. 

/den.  Yes  —  he's  dozing, 

And  seems  to  like  that  none  should  sleep  be- 
sides. 
Here  is  a  packet  for  the  commandant 
Of  Frankfort,  at  all  risks  and  all  expenses ; 
But  I  must  not  lose  time  :  Good  night ! 

[Exit  IDEN. 
Wer.  "  To  Frankfort !  " 

So,  so,  it  thickens !     Ay,  "  the  commandant." 
This  tallies  well  with  all  the  prior  steps 
Of  this  cool,  calculating  fiend,  who  walks 
Between  me  and  my  father's  house.    No  doubt 
He  writes  for  a  detachment  to  convey  me 
Into  some  secret  fortress.  —  Sooner  than 

This 

[WERNER  looks  around,  and  snatches  up  a 
knife  lying  on  a  table  in  a  recess. 

Now  I  am  master  of  myself  at  least. 
Hark,  —  footsteps!      How   do   I    know    thai 

Stralenheim 
Will  wait  for  even  the  show  of  that  authority 
Which  is  to  overshadow  usurpation  ? 
That  he  suspects  me's  certain.     I'm  alone  ; 


SCENE   I.] 


WERNER. 


Ill 


He  with  a  numerous  train.     I  weak ;  he  strong 
In  gold,  in  numbers,  rank,  authority. 
1  nameless,  or  involving  in  my  name 
Destruction,  till  I  reach  my  own  domain; 
He  full-blown  with  his  titles,  which  impose 
Still  further  on  these  obscure  petty  burghers 
Than  thev  could  do  elsewhere.     Hark  !  nearer 

still.  ' 
±  11  to  the  secret  passage,  which  communicates 
With  the No!    all  is  silent — 'twas   my 

fancy !  — 
Still  as  the  breathless  interval  between 
The  flash  and  thunder  :  —  I  must  hush  my  soul 
Amidst  its  perils.     Yet  I  will  retire, 
To  see  if  still  be  unexplored  the  passage 
I  wot  of:  it  will  serve  me  as  a  den 
Of  secrecy  for  some  hours,  at  the  worst. 
[Werner  draws  a  panel,  and  exit,  closing 

it  after  him. 

Enter  GABOR  and  JOSEPHINE. 

Gab.     Where  is  your  husband  ? 

Jos.  Here,  I  thought :   I  left  him 

Not  long  since  in   his  chamber.     But   these 

rooms 
Have  many  outlets,  and  he  may  be  gone 
To  accompany  the  intendant. 

Gab.  Baron  Stralenheim 

Put  many  questions  to  the  intendant  on 
The  subject  of  your  lord,  and,  to  be  plain, 
I  have  mv  doubts  if  he  means  well. 

Jos.      '  Alas ! 

What  can  there  be  in  common  with  the  proud 
And  wealthy  baron, and  the  unknown  Werner  ? 

Gab.    That  you  know  best. 

Jos.  Or,  if  it  were  so,  how 

Come  you  to  stir  yourself  in  his  behalf, 
Rather  than  that  of  him  whose  life  you  saved  ? 

Gab.     I  helped  to  save  him,  as  in  peril ;  but 
I  did  not  pledge  myself  to  serve  him  in 
Oppression.     I  know  well  these  nobles,  and 
Their  thousand  modes  of  trampling  on  the 

poor. 
I  have  proved  them  ;  and  my  spirit  boils  up 

when 
I  find  them  practising  against  the  weak:  — 
This  is  my  only  motive. 

Jos.  It  would  be 

Not  easy  to  persuade  my  consort  of 
Your  good  intentions. 

Gab.  Is  he  so  suspicious? 

Jos.     He  was  not  once  ;  but  time  and  trou- 
bles have 
Made  him  what  you  beheld. 

Gab.  I'm  sorry  for  it. 

Suspicion  is  a  heavy  armor,  and 
With  its  own  weight  impedes  more  than  pro- 
tects. 
Good  night !     I  trust  to  meet  with  him  at  day- 
break. [Exit  Gaeor. 
Reenter  IDENSTEIN  and  some  Peasants. 
Josephine  retires  up  the  Hall. 


First  Peasant.     But  if  I'm  drowned  ? 
I  den.     Why,  you  will  be  well  paid  for  't, 
And  have  risked  more  than  drowning  for  as 

much, 
I  doubt  not. 
Second  Peasa?it.  But  our  wives  and  families  ? 
Iden.    Cannot  be  worse  off  than  they  are, 
and  may 
Be  better. 

Third  Peasant.    I    have   neither,  and  will 

venture. 
Iden.     That's  right.    A  gallant   carle,  and 
fit  to  be 
A  soldier.     I'll  promote  you  to  the  ranks 
In  the  prince's  body-guard  —  if  you  succeed; 
And  you  shall  have  besides,  in  sparkling  coin, 
Two  thalers. 

Third  Peasant.     No  more ! 
Iden.  Out  upon  your  avarice ! 

Can  that  low  vice  alloy  so  much  ambition  ? 
I  tell  thee,  fellow,  that  two  thalers  in 
Small  change  will  subdivide  into  a  treasure. 
Do  not  five  hundred  thousand  heroes  daily 
Risk   lives   and  souls  for  the   tithe   of  one 

thaler  ? 
When  had  you  half  the  sum  ? 

Third  Peasant.  Never  —  but  ne'er 

The  less  I  must  have  three. 

Iden.  Have  you  forgot 

Whose  vassal  you  were  born,  knave  ? 

Third  Peasant.  No  —  the  prince's 

And  not  the  stranger's. 

Iden.  Sirrah  !  in  the  prince'.'* 

Absence,  I'm  sovereign;  and  the  baron  is 
My  intimate  connection  ;    "  Cousin  Idenstein  ! 
(Quoth  he)  you'll  order  out  a  dozen  villains." 
And  so,  you  villains  !  troop  —  march  —  march, 

I  say ; 
And  if  a  single  dog's-ear  of  this  packet 
Be  sprinkled  by  the  Oder — -look  to  it! 
For  every  page  of  paper,  shall  a  hide 
Of  yours  be  stretched  as  parchment  on  a 

drum, 
Like  Ziska's  skin,  to  beat  alarm  to  all 
Refractory  vassals,  who  cannot  effect 
Impossibilities  —  Away,  ye  earth  worms! 

[Exit,  driving  them  out. 
Jos.  {coming  forward) .  I  fain  would  shun 
these  scenes,  too  oft  repeated, 
Of  feudal  tyranny  o'er  petty  victims ; 
I  cannot  aid,  and  will  not  witness  such. 
Even  here,  in  this  remote,  unnamed,  dull  spot, 
The  dimmest  in  the  district's  map,  exist 
The  insolence  of  wealth  in  poverty 
O'er  something  poorer    still  —  the    pride   of 

rank 
In   servitude,  o'er  something  still  more   ser- 
vile ; 
And  vice  in  misery  affecting  still 
A  tattered  splendor.     What  a  state  of  being ! 
In  Tuscany,  my  own  dear  sunny  land, 
Our  nobles  were  but  citizens  and  merchant^ 


728 


WERNER. 


[act  it 


Like  Cosmo.    We  had  evils,  but  not  such 
As   these;    and    our    all-ripe    and    gushing 

valleys 
Made    poverty   more    cheerful,  where  each 

herb 
Was  in  itself  a  meal,  and  every  vine 
Rained,  as  it  were,  the  beverage  which  makes 

glad 
The  heart  of  man ;  and  the  ne'er  unfelt  sun 
(But  rarely  clouded,  and  when  clouded,  leav- 
ing 
His  warmth  behind  in  memory  of  his  beams) 
Makes  the  worn  mantle,  and  the  thin  robe,  less 
Oppressive  than  an  emperor's  jewelled  purple. 
But,  here  !  the  despots  of  the  north  appear 
To  imitate  the  ice-wind  of  their  clime, 
Searching  the  shivering  vassal  through  his 

rags, 
To  wring  his  soul  —  as  the  bleak  elements 
His  form.     And  'tis  to  be  amongst  these  sov- 
ereigns 
My   husband   pants !  and   such  his   pride  of 

birth  — 
That  twenty  years  of  usage,  such  as  no 
Father  born  in  a  humble  state  could  nerve 
His  soul  to  persecute  a  son  withal, 
Hath  changed  no  atom  of  his  early  nature ; 
But  I,  born  nobly  also,  from  my  father's 
Kindness    was    taught    a    different    lesson. 

Father ! 
May  thy  long-tried  and  now  rewarded  spirit 
Look  down  on  us  and  our  so  long  desired 
Ulric !   I  love  my  son,  as  thou  didst  me ! 
What's  that  ?  Thou,  Werner !  can  it  be  ?  and 
thus? 

Enter  WERNER  hastily,  with  the  knife  in  his 
hand,  by  the  secret  panel,  which  he  closes 
hurriedly  after  him. 

Wer.  (not  at  first  recognizing  her).     Dis- 
covered! then  I'll  stab {Recognizing 

her.) 

Ah!  Josephine, 
Why  art  thou  not  at  rest  ? 

Jos.  What  rest  ?  My  God ! 

What  doth  this  mean  ? 

Wer.     {showing  a  rouleau).     Here's  gold 
—  gold,  Josephine, 
Will  rescue  us  from  this  detested  dungeon. 
Jos.  And  how  obtained  ?  —  that  knife  ! 
Wer.  'Tis  bloodless — yet. 

Away  —  we  must  to  our  chamber. 
Jos.  But  whence  comest  thou  ? 

Wer.    Ask  not !  but  let  us  think  where  we 
shall  go  — 
This  —  this  will  make  us  way  —  (showing  the 
gold)  —  I'll  fit  them  now. 
Jos.     I   dare  not  think  thee  guilty  of  dis- 
honor. 
Wer.  Dishonor! 

Jos.  I  have  said  it. 

Wer  Let  us  hence  : 


'Tis  the  last  night,  I  trust,  that  we  need  pass 
here. 
Jos.    And  not  the  worst,  I  hope. 
Wer.  Hope !   I  make  sure, 

But  let  us  to  our  chamber. 

Jos.  Yet  one  question  — 

What  hast  thou  done  f 

Wer.  (fiercely).        Left  one  thing  undone, 
which 
Had  made  all  well :  let  me  not  think  of  it! 
Away ! 

Jos.     Alas,  that  I  should  doubt  of  thee! 

[Exeunt, 


ACT   II. 

SCENE  I. —  A  Hall  in  the  same  Palace. 

Enter  IDENSTEIN  and  Others. 

/den.     Fine  doings!  goodly  doings !  honest 
doings ! 
A  baron  pillaged  in  a  prince's  palace ! 
Where,  till   this  hour,  such  a  sin  ne'er  was) 
heard  of. 
Fritz.     It  hardly  could,  unless  the  rats  de- 
spoiled    f 
The  mice  of  a  few  shreds  of  tapestry. 

/den.     Oh !  that   I   e'er  should  live  to  see 
this  day ! 
The  honor  of  our  city's  gone  for  ever. 

Fritz.     Well,  but  now  to  discover  the  de- 
linquent. 
The  baron  is  determined  not  to  lose 
This  sum  without  a  search. 

/den.  And  so  am  I. 

Fritz.     But  whom  do  you  suspect  ? 
/den.  Suspect !  all  people 

Withoutf—  within  —  above  —  below  —  Heaven 
help  me ! 
Fritz.     Is   there  no  other  entrance  to  the 

chamber  ? 
/den.     None  whatsoever. 
Fritz.  Are  you  sure  of  that  ? 

/den.    Certain.     I   have   lived  and  served 
here  since  my  birth. 
And  if  there  were  such    must  have  heard  oi 

such, 
Or  seen  it. 

Fritz.        Then  it  must  be  some  one  vrhc 
Had  access  to  the  antechamber. 

/den.  Doubtless, 

Fritz.     The  man  called  Werner's  poor ! 
/den.  Poor  as  a  miser. 

But  lodged  so  far  off,  in  the  other  wing, 
By  which  there's  no  communication  with 
The  baron's  chamber,  that  it  can't  be  he. 
Besides,  I  bade  him  "  good  night "  in  the  hal\ 
Almost  a  mile  off,  and  which  only  leads 
To  his  own  apartment,  about  the  same  time 
When  this  burglarious,  larcenous  felony 
Appears  to  have  been  committed. 


SCENE  I.] 


WERNER. 


729 


Fritz.  There's  another, 

The  stranger 

/den.  The  Hungarian  ? 

Frits.  He  who  helped 

To  fish  the  baron  from  the  Oder. 

I  den.  Not 

Unlikely.    But,  hold  —  might  it  not  have  been 
One  of  the  suite  ? 

Fritz.  How  ?      We,  sir ! 

/den.  No  —  notyou, 

But  some  of  the  inferior  knaves.    You  say 
The  baron  was  asleep  in  the  great  chair — 
The  velvet  chair  —  in  his  embroidered  night- 
gown ; 
His  toilet  spread  before  him,  and  upon  it 
A  cabinet  with  letters,  papers,  and 
Several  rouleaux  of  gold  ;  of  which  one  only 
Has  disappeared:  —  the  door  unbolted,  with 
No  difficult  access  to  any. 

Fritz.  Good  sir, 

Be  not  so  quick ;  the  honor  of  the  corps 
Which  forms  the  baron's  household's  unim- 

peached 
From  steward  to  scullion,  save  in  the  fair  way 
Of  peculation;  such  as  in  accompts, 
Weights,  measures,  larder,  cellar,  buttery, 
Where  all  men  take  their  prey ;  as  also  in 
Postage  of  letters,  gathering  of  rents, 
Purveying  feasts,  and  understanding  with 
The  honest  trades  who  furnish  noble  masters  : 
But  for  your  petty,  picking,  downright  thiev- 
ery, 
We  scorn  it  as  we  do  board-wages.    Then 
Had  one  of  our  folks  done  it,  .ie  would  not 
Have  been  so  poor  a  spirit  as  to  hazard 
His  neck  for  one  rouleau,  but  have  swooped 

all; 
Also  the  cabinet,  if  portable. 

/den.     There  is  some  sense  in  that 

Fritz.  No,  sir,  be  sure 

'Twas  none  of  our  corps ;  but  some  petty,  tri- 
vial 
Picker  and  stealer,  without  art  or  genius. 
The  only  question  is  —  who  else  could  have 
Access,  save  the  Hungarian  and  yourself? 
/den.    You  don't  mean  me  ? 
Fritz.  No,  sir ;  I  honor  more 

if  our  talents 

/den.  And  my  principles,  I  hope. 

Fritz.    Of  course.    But  to  the  point :  What's 

to  be  done  ? 
/den.     Nothing — but  there's  a  good  deal 
to  be  said. 
We'll  offer  a  reward  ;  move  heaven  and  earth. 
And  the  police  (though  there's  none  nearer 

than 
Frankfort)  ;  post  notices  in  manuscript 
(For  we've  no  printer)  ;  and  set  by  my  clerk 
To  read  them  (for  few  can,  save  he  and  I). 
We'll  send  out  villains  to  strip  beggars,  and 
Search  empty  pockets  ;  also,  to  arrest 
All  gipsies,  and  ill-clothed  and  sallow  people. 


Prisoners  we'll  have  at  least,  if  not  the  culprit ; 
And  for  the  baron's  gold  —  if  'tis  not  found, 
At  least  he  shall  have  the  full  satisfaction 
Of  melting  twice  its  substance  in  the  raising 
The  ghost  of  this  rouleau.     Here's  alchemy 
For  your  lord's  losses ! 

Fritz.  He  hath  found  a  better. 

/den.    Where  ? 

Fritz.  In  a  most  immense  inheritance. 

The  late  Count  Siegendorf,  his  distant  kins- 
man, 
Is  dead  near  Prague,  in  his  castle,  and  my  lord 
Is  on  his  way  to  take  possession. 

/den.  Was  there 

No  heir? 

Fritz.     Oh,  yes;  but  he  has  disappeared 
Long  from  the  world's  eye,  and  perhaps  the 

world. 
A  prodigal  son,  beneath  his  father's  ban 
For  the  last  twenty  years ;  for  whom  his  sire 
Refused  to  kill  the  fatted  calf;  and,  therefore, 
If  living,  he  must  chew  the  husks  still.     But 
The  baron  would  find  means  to  silence  him, 
Were  he  to  reappear  :  he's  politic, 
And  has  much  influence  with  a  certain  court. 

/den.     He's  fortunate. 

Fritz.  'Tis  true,  there  is  a  grandson, 

Whom  the  late  count  reclaimed  from  his  son's 

hands 
And  educated  as  his  heir ;  but  then 
His  birth  is  doubtful. 

/den.  How  so  ? 

Fritz.  His  sire  made 

A  left-hand,  love,  imprudent  sort  of  marriage, 
With  an  Italian  exile's  dark-eyed  daughter : 
Noble,  they  say,  too ;  but  no  match  for  such 
A  house  as  Siegendorfs.     The  grandsire  ill 
Could  brook  the  alliance ;  and  could  ne'er  be 

brought 
To  see  the  parents,  though  he  took  the  son. 

/den.     If  he's  a  lad  of  mettle,  he  may  ye* 
Dispute  your  claim,  and  weave  a  web  that 

may 
Puzzle  your  baron  to  unravel. 

Fritz.  Why, 

For  mettle,  he  has  quite  enough  :  they  say, 
He  forms  a  happy  mixture  of  his  sire 
And  grandsire's  qualities,  —  impetuous  as 
The  former,  and  deep  as  the  latter ;  but 
The  strangest  is,  that  he  too  disappeared 
Some  months  ago. 

/den.  The  devil  he  did  ! 

Fritz.  Why,  yes ; 

It  must  have  been  at  his  suggestion,  at 
An  hour  so  critical  as  was  the  eve 
Of  the   old   man's   death,  whose   heart   was 
broken  by  it. 

/den.    Was  there  no  cause  assigned  ? 

Fritz.  Plenty,  no  doubt, 

And  none  perhaps  the  true  one.  Some  averred 
It  was  to  seek  his  parents ;  some  because 
The  old  man  held  his  spirit  in  so  strictly 


no 


WERNER. 


[ACT  II 


(But  that  could  scarce  be,  for  he  doted   on 

him) ; 
A  third  believed  he  wished  to  serve  in  war, 
But  peace  being  made  soon  after  his  departure, 
He  might  have  since  returned,  were  that  the 

motive ; 
A.  fourth  set  charitably  have  surmised, 
As  there  was  something  strange  and  mystic  in 

him, 
That  in  the  wild  exuberance  of  his  nature 
He  had  joined  the  black  bands,  who  lay  waste 

Lusatia, 
The  mountains  of  Bohemia  and  Silesia, 
Since  the  last  years  of  war  had  dwindled  into 
A  kind  of  general  condottiero  system 
Of  bandit  warfare  ;  each  troop  with  its  chief, 
And  all  against  mankind. 

Iden.  That  cannot  be. 

A  young  heir,  bred  to  wealth  and  luxury, 
To  risk  his  life  and  honors  with  disbanded 
Soldiers  and  desperadoes ! 

Fritz.  Heaven  best  knows ! 

But  there  are  human  natures  so  allied 
Unto  the  savage  love  of  enterprise, 
That  they  will  seek  for  peril  as  a  pleasure. 
I've  heard  that  nothing  can  reclaim  your  In- 
dian, 
Or  tame  the  tiger,  though  their  infancy 
Were  fed  on  milk  and  honey.     After  all, 
Your  Wallenstein,  your  Tilly  and  Gustavus, 
Your  Bannier,  and  your  Torstenson  and  Wei- 
mar, 
Were  but  the  same  thing  upon  a  grand  scale ; 
And  now  that  they  are  gone,  and  peace  pro- 
claimed, 
They  who  would  follow  the  same  pastime  must 
Pursue  it  on  their  own  account.     Here  comes 
The  baron,  and  the  Saxon  stranger,  who 
Was  his  chief  aid  in  yesterday's  escape, 
But  did  not  leave  the  cottage  by  the  Oder 
Until  this  morning. 

Enter  STRALENHEIM  and  ULRIC. 

Stral.  Since  you  have  refused 

All  compensation,  gentle  stranger,  save 
Inadequate   thanks,  you  almost  check   even 

them, 
Making  me  feel  the  worthlessness  of  words, 
And  blush  at  my  own  barren  gratitude, 
They  seem  so  niggardly,  compared  with  what 

Your  courteous  courage  did  in  my  behalf 

Ulr.     I  pray  you  press  the  theme  no  further. 

Stral.  But 

Can  I  not  serve  you  ?    You  are  young,  and  of 

That  mould  which  throws  out  heroes ;  fair  in 

favor, 
Brave,  I  know,  by  my  living  now  to  say  so ; 
And  doubtlessly,  with  such  a  form  and  heart, 
Would  look  into  the  fiery  eyes  of  war, 
As  ardently  for  glory  as  you  dared 
An  obscure  death  to  save  an  unknown  stran- 
ger 


In  an  as  perilous,  but  opposite,  element. 
You  are  made  for  the  service  :  I  have  served ; 
Have   rank   by   birth    and    soldiership,   and 

friends, 
Who  shall  be  yours.     'Tis  true  this  pause  of 

peace 
Favors  such  views  at  present  scantily ; 
But  'twill  not  last,  men's  spirits  are  too  stirring ; 
And,  after  thirty  years  of  conflict,  peace 
Is  but  a  petty  war,  as  the  times  show  us 
In  every  forest,  or  a  mere  armed  truce. 
War  will  reclaim  his  own ;  and,  in  the  mean 

time, 
You  might  obtain  a  post,  which  would  insure 
A  higher  soon,  and,  by  my  influence,  fail  not 
To  rise.     I  speak  of  Brandenbiirg,  wherein 
I  stand  well  with  the  elector ;  in  Bohemia, 
Like  you,  I  am  a  stranger,  and  we  are  now 
Upon  its  frontier. 

Ulr.  You  perceive  my  garb 

Is  Saxon,  and  of  course  my  service  due 
To  my  own  sovereign.     If  I  must  decline 
Your  offer,  'tis  with  the  same  feeling  which 
Induced  it. 

Stral.  Why,  this  is  mere  usury ! 

I  owe  my  life  to  you,  and  you  refuse 
The  acquittance  of  the  interest  of  the  debt, 
To  heap  more  obligations  on  me,  till 
I  bow  beneath  them. 

Ulr.  You  shall  say  so  when 

I  claim  the  payment. 

Stral.  Well,  sir,  since  you  will  not  — 

You  are  nobly  born  ? 

Ulr.  I  have  heard  my  kinsman  say  so. 

Stral.     Your  actions  show  it.     Might  I  ask 

vour  name  ? 
Ulr.     Ulric. 

Stral.  Your  house's  ? 

Ulr.  When  I'm  worthy  of  it, 

I'll  answer  you. 

Stral.   {aside).  Most  probably  an  Austrian, 
Whom  these  unsettled  times  forbid  to  boast 
His  lineage  on  these  wild  and  dangerous  fron- 
tiers, 
Where  the  name  of  his  country  is  abhorred. 
[Aloud  to  Fritz  and  Idenstein. 
So,  sirs  !  how  have  ye  sped  in  your  researches  ? 

Iden.     Indifferent  well,  your  excellency. 

Stral.  Then 

I  am  to  deem  the  plunderer  is  caught  ? 

Iden.     Humph  !  — not  exactly. 

Stral.  Or  at  least  suspected  ? 

Iden.     Oh  !  for  that  matter,  very  much  sus- 
pected. 

Stral.    Who  may  he  be  ? 

Iden.  Why,  don't  you  know,  my  lord  ? 

Stral.     How  should  I  ?     I  was  fast  asleep. 

Iden.  And  so 

Was  I,  and  that's  the  cause  I  know  no  more 
Than  does  your  excellency. 

Stral.  Dolt ! 

Iden.  Why,  ft 


SCENE  I.] 


WERNER. 


731 


Your  lordship,  being  robbed,  don't  recognize 
The  rogue;  how  should  I,  not  being  robbed, 

identify 
The  thief  among  so  many  ?     In  the  crowd, 
May  it  please  your  excellency,  your  thief  looks 
Exactly  like  the  rest,  or  rather  better : 
'Tis  only  at  the  bar  and  in  the  dungeon 
That  wise  men  know  your  felon  by  his  fea- 
tures; 
But  I'll  engage,  that  if  seen  there  but  once, 
Whether  he  be  found  criminal  or  no, 
His  face  shall  be  so. 

Stral.   {to  Fritz).  Prithee,  Fritz,  inform  me 
What  hath  been  done  to  trace  the  fellow  ? 

Fritz.  Faith ! 

My  lord,  not  much  as  yet,  except  conjecture. 

Stral.     Besides   the   loss    (which,   I    must 
own,  affects  me 
Just  now  materially),  I  needs  would  find 
The  villain  out  of  public  motives  ;  for 
So  dexterous  a  spoiler,  who  could  creep 
Through  my  attendants,  and  so  many  peopled 
And  lighted  chambers,  on  my  rest,  and  snatch 
The  gold  before  my  scarce-closed  eyes,  would 

soon 
Leave  bare  your  borough,  Sir  Intendant ! 

Iden.  True ; 

If  there  were  aught  to  carry  off,  my  lord. 

Ulr.     What  is  all  this  ? 

Stral.  You  joined  us  but  this  morning, 

And  have  not  heard  that  I  was  robbed  last 
night. 

Ulr.     Some  rumor  of  it  reached  me  as  I 
passed 
The  outer  chambers  of  the  palace,  but 
I  know  no  further. 

Stral.  It  is  a  strange  business ; 

The  intendant  can  inform  you  of  the  facts. 

Iden.     Most  willingly.    You  see 

Stral.  {impatiently).  Defer  your  tale, 

Till  certain  of  the  hearer's  patience. 

Iden.  That 

Can    only    be    approved    by    proofs.    You 
see 

Stral.      {again  interrupting  him,  and  ad- 
dressing Ulric). 
In  short,  I  was  asleep  upon  a  chair, 
My  cabinet  before  me,  with  some  gold 
Upoii  it  (more  than  I  much  like  to  lose, 
Though  in  part  only)  :  some  ingenious  person 
Contrived  to  glide  through  all  my  own  attend- 
ants, 
Besides  those  of  the  place,  and  bore  away 
A  hundred  golden  ducats,  which  to  find 
I  would  be  fain,  and  there's  an  end.     Perhaps 
You  (as  I  still  am  rather  faint)  would  add 
To  yesterday's  great  obligation,  this, 
Though  slighter,  yet  not  slight,  to  aid  these  men 
(Who  seem  but  lukewarm)  in  recovering  it  ? 

Ulr.     Most  willingly,  and  without  lo1;:-  of 
time  — 
[  Te  IDENSTEIN.)     Come  hither,  mynheer ! 


Iden.  But  so  much  haste  bodes 

Right  little  speed,  and 

Ulr.  Standing  motionless 

None ;  so  let's  march :  we  talk  as  we  go  on, 

Iden.     But 

Ulr.     Show  the  spot,  and  then  I'll  answer 

you. 
Fritz.     I  will,  sir,  with  his  excellency's  leave. 
Stral.     Do  so,  and  take  yon  old  ass  with  you, 
Fritz.  Hence ! 

Ulr.    Come  on,  old  oracle,  expound  thy 
riddle ! 

[Exit  with  IDENSTEIN  and  FRITZ. 
Stral.  {solus).     A  stalwart,  active,  soldier- 
looking  stripling, 
Handsome  as  Hercules  ere  his  first  labor, 
And  with  a  brow  of  thought  beyond  his  years 
When  in  repose,  till  his  eye  kindles  up 
In  answering  yours.     I  wish  I  could  engage 

him : 
I  have  need  of  some  such  spirits  near  me  now, 
For  this  inheritance  is  worth  a  struggle.     . 
And  though  I  am  not  the  man  to  yield  with- 
out one, 
Neither  are  they  who  now  rise  up  between  me 
And  my  desire.     The  boy,  they  say,  's  a  bold 

one ; 
But  he  hath  played  the  truant  in  some  hour 
Of  freakish  folly,  leaving  fortune  to 
Champion   his   claims.      That's  well.      The 

father,  whom 
For  years  I've  tracked,  as  does  the  blood- 
hound, never 
In  sight,  but  constantly  in  scent,  had  put  me 
To  fault ;  but  here  I  have  him,  and  that's  better. 
It  must  be  he!  All  circumstance  proclaims  it ; 
And  careless  voices,  knowing  not  the  cause 
Of  my  inquiries,  still  confirm  it.  —  Yes! 
The  man,  his  bearing,  and  the  mystery 
Of  his  arrival,  and  the  time  ;  the  account,  too, 
The  intendant  gave  (for  I  have  not  beheld 

her) 
Of  his  wife's  dignified  but  foreign  aspect ; 
Besides  the  antipathy  with  which  we  met, 
As  snakes  and  lions  shrink  back  from  eacij 

other 
By  secret  instinct  that  both  must  be  foes 
Deadly,  without  being  natural  prey  to  either; 
All  — all  —  confirm  it  to  my  mind.     However, 
We'll  grapple,  ne'ertheless.     In  a  few  hours 
The   order   comes   from   Frankfort,  if  these 

waters 
Rise  not  the  higher  (and  the  weather  favors 
Their  quick  abatement),  and  I'll  have  him  safe 
Within  a  dungeon,  where  he  may  avouch 
His  real  estate  and  name;    and  there's  no 
v       harm  done, 
Should  he  prove  other  than  I  deem.    ThiF 

robbery 
(Save  for  the  actual  loss)  is  lucky  also : 
"'"'c  poor,  and   that's  suspicious — -he's  un- 
"onn, 


732 


WERNER. 


[ACT   tt 


And  that's  defenceless.  —  True,  we   have  no 

proofs 
Of  guilt,  —  but  what  hath  he  of  innocence  ? 
Were  he  a  man  indifferent  to  my  prospects, 
In  other  bearings,  I  should  rather  lay 
The  inculpation  on  the  Hungarian,  who 
Hath  something  which  I  like  not;  and  alone 
Of  all  around,  except  the  intendant,  and 
The  prince's  household  and  my  own,  had  in- 
gress 
Familiar  to  the  chamber. 

Enter  GABOR. 

Friend,  how  fare  you  ? 

Gab.    As  those  who  fare  well  everywhere, 
when  they 
Have  supped  and  slumbered,  no  great  matter 

how  — 
And  you,  my  lord  ? 

Stral.  Better  in  rest  than  purse  : 

Mine  inn  is  like  to  cost  me  dear. 

Gab.  I  heard 

Of  your  late  loss ;  but  'tis  a  trifle  to 
One  of  your  order. 

Stral.  You  would  hardly  think  so, 

Were  the  loss  yours. 

Gab.  I  never  had  so  much 

(At  once)  in  my  whole  life,  and  therefore  am 

not 
Fit  to  decide.    But  I  came  here  to  seek  you. 
Your  couriers  are  turned  back  —  I  have  out- 
stripped them, 
In  my  return. 

Stral.  You  1  —  Why  ? 

Gab.  I  went  at  daybreak, 

To  watch  for  the  abatement  of  the  river, 
As  being  anxious  to  resume  my  journey. 
Your  messengers  were  all  checked  like  myself; 
And,  seeing  the  case  hopeless,  I  await 
The  current's  pleasure. 

Stral.  Would  the  dogs  were  in  it! 

Why  did  they  not,  at  least,  attempt  the  pas- 
sage ? 
I  ordered  this  at  all  risks. 

Gab.  Could  you  order 

The  Oder  to  divide,  as  Moses  did 
The  Red  Sea  (scarcely  redder  than  the  flood 
Of  the  swoln  stream),  and  be  obeyed,  perhaps 
They  might  have  ventured. 

Stral.  I  must  see  to  it : 

The    knaves !    the   slaves !  —  but    they   shall 

smart  for  this.         [Exit  STRALENHEIM. 

Gab.  (solus).  There  goes  my  noble,  feudal, 
self-willed  baron ! 
Epitome  of  what  brave  chivalry 
The  preux  chevaliers  of  the  good  old  times 
Have  left  us.    Yesterday  he  would  have  given 
His  lands  (if  he  hath  any),  and,  still  dearer, 
His  sixteen  quarterings,  for  as  much  fresh  air 
As  would  have  filled  a  bladder,  while  he  lay 
Gurgling  and  foaming  half  way  through  the 
window 


Of  his  o'erset  and  water-logged  conveyance. 
And  now  he  storms  at  half  a  dozen  wretches 
Because  they  love  their  lifes  too  !     Yet,  he's 

right : 
'Tis  strange  they  should,  when  such  as  he  may 

put  them 
To  hazard  at  his  pleasure.    Oh  !  thou  world ! 
Thou  art  indeed  a  melancholy  jest ! 

[Exit  Gabor, 


Scene  II. 


The  Apartment  of  WERNER,  in 
the  Palace. 


Enter  JOSEPHINE  and  ULRIC. 

Jos.     Stand  back,  and  let  me  look  on  thee 
again ! 
My  Ulric?  —  my  beloved !  —  can  it  be  — 
After  twelve  years  ? 

Ulr.  My  dearest  mother ! 

Jos.  Yes! 

My  dream  is  realized  —  how  beautiful !  — 
How  more  than  all  I  sighed   for!     Heaven 

receive 
A  mother's  thanks! — a  mother's  tears  of  joy! 
This  is  indeed  thy  work !  — At  such  an  hour, 

too,  f 

He  comes  not  only  as  a  son,  but  saviour. 

Ulr.    If  such  a  joy  await  me,  it  must  double 
What  I  now  feel,  and  lighten  from  my  heart 
A  part  of  the  long  debt  of  duty,  not 
Of  love  (for  that  was  ne'er  withheld)  —  forgive 

me! 
This  long  delay  was  not  my  fault. 

Jos.  I  know  it, 

But  cannot  think  of  sorro.v  now,  and  doubt 
If  I  e'er  felt  it,  'tis  so  dazzled  from 
My  memory  by  this  oblivious  transport !  — 
My  son ! 

Enter  WERNER. 

Wer.    What  have  we  here, —  more  stran- 
gers ? 

Jos.         No ! 
Look  upon  him  !     What  do  you  see  ? 

Wer.  A  stripling, 

For  the  first  time 

Ulr.  (kneeling) .    For  twelve  long  years,  my 
father ! 

Wer.    Oh,  God ! 
Jos.  He  faints! 

Wer.  No — I  am  better  now  — 

Ulric !  [Embraces  him. 

Ulr.     My  father,  Siegendorf ! 

Wer.  (starting).  Hush!  boy  — 

The  walls  may  hear  that  name ! 

Ulr.  What  then  ? 

Wer.  Why,  then  — 

But  we  will  talk  of  that  anon.     Remember, 
I  must  be  known  here  but  as  Werner.   Come  ! 
Come  to  my  arms  again  !     Why,  thou  look'st 
all 


SCENE  II. j 


WERNER. 


733 


I  should  have  been,  and  was  not.    Josephine  ! 
Sure  'tis  no  father's  fondness  dazzles  me  ; 
But,  had  I  seen  that  form  amid  ten  thousand 
Youth  of  the  choicest,  my  heart  would  have 

chosen 
This  for  my  son ! 

Ulr.  And  yet  you  knew  me  not ! 

Wer.     Alas  !  I  have  had  that  upon  my  soul 
Which  makes  me  look  on  all  men  with  an  eye 
That  only  knows  the  evil  at  first  glance. 
Ulr.     My   memory  served    me    far  more 
fondly :  I 
Have  not  forgotten  aught ;  and  oft-times  in 
The  proud  and  princely  halls  of —  (I'll  not 

name  them, 
As  you  say  that   'tis    perilous)  —  but   i'    the 

pomp 
Of  your  sire's  feudal  mansion,  I  looked  back 
To  the  Bohemian  mountains  many  a  sunset, 
And  wept  to  see  another  day  go  down 
O'er  thee  and  me,  with  those  huge  hills  be- 
tween us. 
They  shall  not  part  us  more. 

Wer.  I  know  not  that. 

Are  you  aware  my  father  is  no  more  ? 

Ulr.     Oh,  heavens !  I  left  him  in  a  green 
old  age, 
And  looking  like  the  oak,  worn,  but  still  steady 
Amidst  the  elements,  whilst   younger  trees 
Fell   fast   around   him.     'Twas   scarce   three 
months  since. 
Wer.     Why  did  you  leave  him  ? 
Jos.  {embracing ULRIC).  Can  you  ask  that 
question  ? 
Is  he  not  here  f 

Wer.        True ;  he  hath  sought  his  parents, 
And  found  them  ;  but,  oh  !   how,  and  in  what 
state ! 
Ulr.    All  shall  be  bettered.  What  we  have 
to  do 
Is  to  proceed,  and  to  assert  our  rights, 
Or  rather  yours  ;  for  I  waive  all,  unless 
Your  father  has  disposed  in  such  a  sort 
Of  his  broad  lands  as  to  make  mine  the  fore- 
most, 
So  that  I  must  prefer  my  claim  for  form : 
But  I  trust  better,  and  that  all  is  yours. 

Wer.     Have  you  not  heard  of  Stralenheim  ? 
Ulr.  I  saved 

His  life  but  yesterday  :  he's  here. 

Wer.  You  saved 

The  serpent  who  will  sting  us  all ! 

Ulr.     You  speak  riddles  :  what  is  this  Stra- 
lenheim to  us  ? 
Wer.     Every  thing.     One  who  claims  our 
father's  lands ; 
Our  distant  kinsman,  and  our  nearest  foe. 
Ulr.     I  never  heard  his  name  till  now.   The 
count, 
Indeed,  spoke  sometimes  of  a  kinsman,  who, 
If  his  own  line  should  fail,  might  be  remotely 
\nvolved  in  the  succession ;  but  his  titles 


Were   never  named   before   me  —  and  what 

then  ? 
His  right  must  yield  to  ours. 

Wer.  Ay,  if  at  Prague  : 

But  here  he  is  all-powerful ;  and  has  spread 
Snares  for  thy  father,  which,  if  hitherto 
He  hath  escaped  them,  is  by  fortune,  not 
By  favor. 

Ulr.         Doth  he  personally  know  you  ? 
Wer.     No  ;  but  he  guesses  shrewdly  at  my 
person, 
As  he  betrayed  last  night;  and  I,  perhaps, 
But  owe  my  temporary  liberty 
To  his  uncertainty. 

Ulr.  I  think  you  wrong  him 

(Excuse  me  for  the  phrase)  ;  but  Stralenheim 
Is  not  what  you  prejudge  him,  or,  if  so, 
He   owes   me  something  both  for  past  and 

present. 
I  saved  his  life,  he  therefore  trusts  in  me. 
He  hath  been  plundered,  too,  since  he  came 

hither: 
Is  sick ;  a  stranger;  and  as  such  not  now 
Able  to  trace  the  villain  who  hath  robbed  him  : 
I  have  pledged  myself  to  do  so  ;  and  the  bus- 
iness 
Which  brought  me  here  was  chiefly  that :  i 

but  I 
Have  found,  in  searching  for  another's  dross, 
My  own  whole  treasure,  —  you,  my  parents! 

Wer.  {agitatedly).  Who 

Taught  you  to  mouth  that  name  of  "  villain?  " 
Ulr.  What 

More    noble     name    belongs    to    common 
thieves  ? 
Wer.    Who  taught  you  thus  to  brand  an 
unknown  being 
With  an  infernal  stigma  ? 

Ulr.  My  own  feelings 

Taught  me  to  name  a  ruffian  from  his  deeds. 
Wer.     Who  taught  you,  long-sought   and 
ill-found  boy !  that 
It  would  be  safe  for  my  own  son  to  insult  me  ? 
Ulr.     I  named  a  villain.     What  is  there  in 
common 
With  such  a  being  and  my  father  ? 

Wer.  Every  thing ! 

That  ruffian  is  thy  father !  2 


1  [The  following  is  the  original  passage  in  the 
novel:  —  "Stralenheim,"  said  Conrad,  "does  not 
appear  to  be  altogether  the  man  you  take  him  for: 
but  were  it  even  otherwise,  he  owes  me  gratitude 
not  only  for  the  past,  but  for  what  he  suppoees  to 
be  my  present  employment.  I  saved  his  life,  and 
he  therefore  places  confidence  in  me.  He  hath 
been  robbed  last  night  —  is  sick  —  a  stranger  —  and 
in  no  condition  to  discover  the  villain  who  has  plun- 
dered him;  and  the  business  on  which  I  sought  the 
intendant  was  chiefly  that,"  etc. — Miss  Lee.] 

2  ["  '  And  who,'  said  he,  starting  furiously  from 
his  seat,  '  has  entitled  you  to  brand  thus  with  igno- 
minious epithets  r  being  you  do  not  know?  Who,' 
he  added,  with  increasing  agitation,   'has  taught 


734 


WERNER. 


[act  n. 


Jos.                                       Oh,  my  son  ! 
Believe   him  not  —  and  yet! (Her  voice 

falters.) 
Ulr.  (starts,  looks  earnestly  at  WERNER,  and 

then  says  slowly).  And  you  avow  it  ? 

Wer.     Ulric,  before  you  dare  despise  your 

father, 
Learn  to  divine  and  judge  his  actions.    Young, 
Rash,  new  to  life,  and  reared  in  luxury's  lap, 
Is  it  for  you  to  measure  passion's  force, 
Or  misery's  temptation?     Wait — (not  long, 
It   cometh    like   the   night,    and    quickly)  — 

Wait !  — 
Wait  till,  like  me,  your  hopes  are  blighted  l  — 

till 
Sorrow  and   shame  are   handmaids  of  your 

cabin ; 
Famine  and  poverty  your  guests  at  table  ; 
Despair  your  bed-fellow  —  then  rise,  but  not 
From  sleep,  and  judge  !    Should  that  day  e'er 

arrive  — 
Should   you  see  then  the  serpent,  who  hath 

coiled 
Himself  around  all  that  is  dear  and  noble 
Of  you  and  yours,  lie  slumbering  in  your  path, 
With   but  his  folds  between  your  steps  and 

happiness, 
When  he,  who  lives  but  to  tear  from  you  name, 
Lands,  life  itself,  lies  at  your  mercy,  with 
Chance  your  conductor;    midnight  for  your 

mantle ; 
The  bare  knife  in  your  hand,  and  earth  asleep, 
Even  to  your  deadliest  foe ;  and  he  as  'twere 
Inviting  death,  by  looking  like  it,  while 
His  death  alone  can  save  you  :  —  Thank  your 

God! 
If  then,  like  me,  content  with  petty  plunder, 

You  turn  aside I  did  so. 

Ulr.  But 


you  that  it  would  be  even  safe  for  my  son  to  insult 
me?'  — '  It  is  not  necessary  to  know  the  person  of 
a  ruffian,'  replied  Conrad  indignantly,  '  to  give  him 
ihe  appellation  he  merits: — and  what  is  there  in 
common  between  my  father  and  such  a  character?' 

—  '  Every  thing,'  said  Siegendorf,  bitterly,  —  '  for 
that  ruffian  was  your  father!'"  —  Miss  Lee.] 

1  ["  Conrad,  before  you  thus  presume  to  chastise 
me  with  your  eye,  learn  to  understand  my  actions. 
Young,  and  inexperienced  in  the  world  —  reposing 
hitherto  in  the  bosom  of  indulgence  and  luxury,  is 
it  for  you  to  judge  of  the  force  of  the  passions,  or 
the  temptations  of  misery?  Wait  till,  like  me,  you 
have  blighted  your  fairest  hopes  —  have  endured 
humiliation  and  sorrow — poverty  and  famine  — 
before  you  pretend  to  judge  of  their  effects  on  you! 
Should  that  miserable  day  ever  arrive — -should  you 
see  the  being  at  your  mercy  who  stands  between 
you  and  every  thing  that  is  dear  or  noble  in  life! 
who  is  ready  to  tear  from  you  your  name  —  your 
inheritance  — your  very  life  itself — congratulate 
your  own  heart,  if,  like  me,  you  are  content  with 
petty  plunder,  and  are  not  tempted  to  exterminate 
a  serpent,  who  now  lives,  perhaps,  to  sting  us  all!  " 

—  Ibid.] 


Wer.  (abruptly) .  Hear  me  I 

I  will  not  brook  a  human  voice  —  scarce  dare 
Listen  to  my  own  (if  that  be  human  still)  — 
Hear  me!     You  do  not  know  this  man — I 

do.2 
He's  mean,  deceitful,  avaricious.     You 
Deem  yourself  safe,  as  young  and  brave ;  but 

learn 
None  are  secure  from  desperation,  few 
From  subtilty.     My  worst  foe,  Straldiheim, 
Housed  in  a  prince's  palace,  couched  within 
A  prince's  chamber,  lay  below  my  knife ! 
An  instant  —  a  mere  motion  —  the  least  im- 
pulse— 
Had  swept  him  and  all  fears  of  mine  from 

earth. 
He  was  within   my  power — my  knife   was 

raised  — 
Withdrawn  —  and  I'm  in  his  :  —  are  you  not 

so  ? 
Who  tells  you  that  he  knows  you  notf    Who 

says 
He  hath  not  lured  you  here  to  end  you  ?  or 
To  plunge  you  with  your  parents,  in  a  dun- 
geon ?  [He  pauses. 
Ulr.     Proceed  —  proceed ! 
Wer.                          Me  he  hath  ever  known, 
And  hunted  mrough  each  change  of  time  — 

name  —  fortune  — 
And  why  not  you  f    Are  you  more  versed  in 

men  ? 
He  wound  snares  round  me ;  flung  along  my 

path 
Reptiles,  whom,  in  my  youth,  I  would  have 

spurned 
Even  from   my  presence ;    but,  in   spurning 

now, 
Fill  only  with  fresh  venom.     Will  you  be 
More   patient  ?     Ulric !  —  Ulric  !  —  there  are 

crimes 
Made  venial  by  the  occasion,  and  temptations 
Which  nature  cannot  master  or  forbear.8 
Ulr.  (looks  first  at  him,  and  then  at  Jose- 
phine).    My  mother! 


2  ["You  do  not  know  this  man,"  continued  he: 
"I  do!  I  believe  him  to  be  mean,  sordid,  deceit- 
ful! You  will  conceive  yourself  safe,  because  you 
are  young  and  brave!  Learn,  however,  none  are 
so  secure  but  desperation  or  subtilty  may  reach 
them!  Stralenheim,  in  the  palace  of  a  prince,  wa« 
in  my  power!  My  knife  was  held  over  him  —  I 
forbore  —  and  I  am  now  in  his,"  etc.  etc.  —  /bid.] 

3  ["  Me  he  has  known  invariably  through  every 
change  of  fortune  or  name  —  and  why  not  you? 
Me  he  has  entrapped  —  are  you  more  discreet?  He 
has  wound  the  snares  of  Idenstein  around  me;  — d 
a  reptile  whom,  a  few  years  ago,  I  would  have 
spurned  from  my  presence,  and  whom,  in  spurning 
now,  I  have  furnished  with  fresh  venom.  Will  you 
be  more  patient?  Conrad,  Conrad,  there  are  crimes 
rendered  venial  by  the  occasion,  and  temptations 
too  exquisite  for  human  fortitude  tc  master  or  for 
bear,"  etc.  etc.  —  Ibid.] 


SCENE  II.] 


WERNER. 


735 


Wer.        Ay !  I  thought  so :  you  have  now 
Only  one  parent.    I  have  lost  alike 
Father  and  son,  and  stand  alone. 
,     Ulr.  But  stay ! 

[WERNER  rushes  out  of  the  chamber. 
Jos.  {to  ULRIC).   Follow  him  not,  until  this 
storm  of  passion 
'Abates.    Think'st  thou,  that  were  it  well  for 

him, 
I  had  not  followed  ? 

Ulr.  I  obey  you,  mother, 

Although  reluctantly.     My  first  act  shall  not 
Be  one  of  disobedience. 

Jos.  Oh !  he  is  good ! 

.Condemn  him  not  from  his  own  mouth,  but 

trust 
ITo  me,  who  have  borne  so  much  with  him, 

and  for  him, 
IThat  this  is  but  the  surface  of  his  soul, 
And  that  the  depth  is  rich  in  better  things. 
Ulr.     These  then  are  but  my  father's  prin- 
ciples ? 
My  mother  thinks  not  with  him  ? 

Jos.  Nor  doth  he 

;iThink  as  he  speaks.    Alas!   long  years   of 
grief 

I  Have  made  him  sometimes  thus. 

Ulr.  Explain  to  me 

IMore  clearly,  then,  these  claims  of  Stralen- 

heim, 
IThat,  when  I  see  the  subject  in  its  bearings, 

II  may  prepare  to  face  him,  or  at  least 
1T0  extricate  you  from  your  present  perils. 

II   pledge    myself   to    accomplish   this  —  but 

would 
1 1  had  arrived  a  few  hours  sooner! 

Jos.  Ay! 

IHadst  thou  but  done  so! 

Enter  GABOR  and  IDENSTEIN,  with  Attend- 
ants. 

Gab.  {to  ULRIC).   I  have  sought  you,  com- 
rade. 
rSo  this  is  my  reward! 

Ulr.  What  do  you  mean  ? 

Gab.    'Sdeath  !  have  I  lived  to  these  years, 
and  for  this ! 
(  To  Idenstein.)    But  for  your  age  and  folly, 

I  would 

Iden.  Help ! 

Hands  off!     Touch  an  intendant ! 

Gab.  Do  not  think 

I'll  honor  you  so  much  as  save  your  throat 
From    the    Ravenstone  i    by    choking    you 
myself. 
Iden.    I  thank  you  for  the  respite  :  but  there 
are 
Those  who  have  greater  need  of  it  than  me. 


1  Ravenstone,  "  Rabenstein,"  is  the  stone  gibbet 
of  Germany,  and  so  called  from  the  ravens  perch- 
ing oi»  ;t 


Ulr.     Unriddle  this  vile  wrangling,  or— - 

Gab.  At  once,  then, 

The  baron  has  been  robbed,  and  upon  me 
This  worthy  personage  has  deigned  to  fix 
His  kind  suspicions  —  me!   whom   he  ne'er 

saw 
Till  yester'  evening. 

Iden.  Wouldst  have  me  suspect 

My  own  acquaintances  ?     You  have  to  learn 
That  I  keep  better  company. 

Gab.  You  shall 

Keep  the  best  shortly,  and  the  last  for  all  men, 
The  worms !  you  hound  of  malice  ! 

[Gabor  seizes  on  him. 

Ulr.  {interfering).  Nay,  no  violence: 

He's  old,  unarmed — be  temperate,  Gabor! 

Gab.  {letting go  IDENSTEIN).  True: 

I  am  a  fool  to  lose  myself  because 
Fools  deem  me  knave  :  it  is  their  homage. 

Ulr.  {to  Idenstein).  How 

Fare  you  ? 

Iden.  Help ! 

Ulr.  I  have  helped  you. 

Iden.  Kill  him !  then 

I'll  say  so. 

Gab.         I  am  calm  —  live  on ! 

Ide?i.  That's  more 

Than  you  shall  do,  if  there  be  judge  or  judg- 
ment 
In  Germany.     The  baron  shall  decide ! 

Gab.    Does  he  abet  you  in  your  accusation? 

Iden.     Does  he  not  ? 

Gab.  Then  next  time  let  him  go  sink 

Ere  I  go  hang  for  snatching  him  from  drown- 
ing. 
But  here  he  comes! 

Enter  STRALENHEIM. 

Gab.  {goes  up  to  him).    My  noble  lord,  I'm 
here ! 

Stral.     Well,  sir ! 

Gab.  Have  you  aught  with  me  ? 

Stral.  What  should  I 

Have  with  you? 

Gab.  You  know  best,  if  yesterday's 

Flood  has  not  washed  away  your  memory  ; 
But  that's  a  trifle.     I  stand  here  accused, 
In  phrases  not  equivocal,  by  yon 
Intendant,  of  the  pillage  of  your  person 
Or  chamber  :  —  is  the  charge  your  own  or  his  ? 

Stral.     I  accuse  no  man. 

Gab.  Then  you  acquit  me,  baron  ? 

Stral.     I  know  not  whom  to  accuse,  or  to 
acquit, 
Or  scarcely  to  suspect. 

Gab.  But  you  at  least 

Should  know  whom  not  to  suspect.     I  am  in 

suited  — 
Oppressed  here  by  these  menials,  and  I  look 
To  you  for  remedy  —  teach  them  their  duty! 
To  look  for  thieves  at  home  were  part  of  it 
If  duly  taught ;  but,  in  one  word,  if  I 


736 


WERNER. 


[act  II. 


Have  an  accuser,  let  it  be  a  man 
Worthy  to  be  so  of  a  man  like  me. 
I  am  your  equal. 

Stral.  You ! 

Gab.  Ay,  sir ;  and,  for 

Aught  that  you  know,  superior ;  but  proceed — 
I  do  not  ask  for  hints,  and  surmises, 
And  circumstance,  and  proofs  ;  I  know  enough 
Of  what  I  have  done  for  you,  and  what  you 

owe  me, 
_To  have  at  least  waited  your  payment  rather 
(Than  paid  myself,  had  I  been  eager  of 
j  ^our  gold.     I  also  know,  that  were  I  even 
The  villain  I  am  deemed,  the  service  rendered 
So  recently  would  not  permit  you  to 
Pursue  me  to  the  death,  except  through  shame, 
Such  as  would  leave   your  scutcheon  but  a 

blank. 
But  this  is  nothing:  I  demand  of  you 
Justice  upon  your  unjust  servants,  and 
From  your  own  lips  a  disavowal  of 
All  sanction  of  their  insolence:  thus  much 
You  owe  to  the  unknown,  who  asks  no  more, 
And  never  thought  to  have  asked  so  much. 

Stral.  This  tone 

May  be  of  innocence. 

Gab.  'Sdeath !  who  dare  doubt  it 

Except  such  villains  as  ne'er  had  it  ? 

Stral.  You 

Are  hot,  sir. 

Gab.  Must  I  turn  an  icicle 

Before  the  breath  of  menials,  and  their  master? 

Stral.     Uiric  !  you  know  this  man  ;  I  found 
him  in 
Your  company. 

Gab.  We  found  you  in  the  Oder ; 

Would  we  had  left  you  there ! 

Stral.  I  give  you  thanks,  sir. 

Gab.     I've  earned  them  ;    but  might  have 
earned  more  from  others, 
Perchance,  if  I  had  left  you  to  your  fate. 

Stral.     Ulric  !    you  know  this  man  ? 

Gab.  No  more  than  you  do, 

If  he  avouches  not  my  honor. 

Ulr.  I 

Can  vouch  your  courage,  and,  as  far  as  my 
Own  brief  connection  led  me,  honor. 

Stral.  Then 

I'm  satisfied. 

Gab.  {ironically).     Right  easily,  methinks. 
What  is  the  spell  in  his  asseveration 
More  than  in  mine  ? 

Stral.  I  merely  said  that  / 

Was  satisfied —  not  that  you  are  absolved. 

Gab.    Again!     Am  I  accused  or  no  ? 

Stral.  Go  to ! 

You  wax  too  insolent.     If  circumstance 
And  general  suspicion  be  against  you, 
Is  the  fault  mine  ?     Is't  not  enough  that  I 
Decline  all  question  of  your  guilt  or  innocence? 

Gab.    My  lord,  my  lord,  this  is  mere  cozen- 
age, 


A  vile  equivocation ;  you  well  know 

Your   doubts   are   certainties  to  all    around 

you  — 
Your  looks  a  voice  —  your  frowns  a  sentence  ; 

you 
Are  practising  your  power  on  me  —  because 
You  have  it ;  but  beware  !  you  know  not  whoir 
You  strive  to  tread  on. 

Stral.  Threat'st  thou  ? 

Gab.  Not  so  much 

As  you  accuse.    You  hint  the  basest  injury, 
And  I  retort  it  with  an  open  warning. 

Stral.    As  you  have  said,  'tis  true  I  owe  you 
something, 
For  which  you  seem  disposed  to  pay  yourself. 
Gab.     Not  with  your  gold. 
Stral.  With  bootless  insolence. 

{To  his  Attendants  and  1DENSTEIN. 
You  need  not  further  to  molest  this  man, 
But  let  him  go  his  way.    Ulric,  good  morrow  ! 
[Exit  STRALENHEIM,  IDENSTEIN,  and  At- 
tendants. 

Gab.  {following).     I'll  after  him  and 

Ulr.  {stopping  him).  Not  a  step. 

Gab.  Who  shall 

Oppose  me  ? 

Ulr.        Yflur  own  reason,  with  a  moment's 
Thought. 

Gab.        Must  I  bear  this  ? 
Ulr.  Pshaw  !  we  all  must  bear 

The  arrogance  of  something  higher  than 
Ourselves  —  the  highest  cannot  temper  Satan, 
Nor  the  lowest  his  vicegerents  upon  earth. 
I've  seen  you  brave  the  elements,  and  bear 
Things  which  had  made  this  silkworm  cast 

his  skin  — 
And  shrink  you  from  a  few  sharp  sneers  and 
words  ? 
Gab.     Must  I  bear  to  be  deemed  a  thief? 
If  'twere 
A  bandit  of  the  woods,  I  could  hare  borne 

it  — 
There's  something  daring  in  it;  —  but  to  steal 
The  moneys  of  a  slumbering  man  !  — 

Ulr.  It  seems,  then, 

You  are  not  guilty  ? 

Gab.  Do  I  hear  aright  ? 

You  too ! 
Ulr.        I  merely  asked  a  simple  question. 
Gab.     If  the    judge   asked    me,    I    would 
answer  "  No"  — 
To  you  I  answer  thus.  [He  draws. 

Ulr.     {drawing).        With  all  my  heart ! 
Jos.    Without  there !  Ho !  help !  help !  — 
Oh,  God !  here's  murder ! 

[Exit  Josephine,  :hrX  vng. 
[GABOR  and  ULRIC  fight.     GaBOR  u  dis- 
armed just  as  STRALENHEIM,  JOSEPH  NE, 
IDENSTEIN,  etc.  reenter. 
Jos.     Oh  !  glorious  heaven  !  He's  safe 
Stral.  {to  JOSEPHINE).     Who's  safe  ? 
Jos.  My-      * 


SCENE   II. J 


WERNER. 


73? 


I  Ulr.     {interrupting    her   with   a   stern    look, 
and    turning    afterwards    to    STRALEN- 
HEIM).     Both! 
Here's  no  jreat  harm  done. 
Stral.  What  hath  caused  all  this  ? 

Ulr.     You,  baron,    I    believe ;  but   as   the 
effect 
is  harmless,  let  it  not  disturb  you.  —  Gabor ! 
There  is  your  sword ;  and  when  you  bare  it 

next, 
_,et  it  not  be  against  your  friends. 
{U LRIC  pronounces  the  last  words  slowly  and 
emphatically  in  a  low  voice  to  GABOR. 
Gab.  I  thank  you 

Less  for  my  life  than  for  your  counsel. 

Stral.  These 

Brawls  must  end  here. 

Gab.  (taking  his  sword).  They  shall.     You 
have  wronged  me,  Ulric, 
More  with  your  unkind  thoughts  than  sword  : 

I  would 
The  last  were  in  my  bosom  rather  than 
The  first  in  yours.     I  could  have  borne  yon 

noble's 
Absurd  insinuations  —  ignorance 
And  dull  suspicion  are  a  part  of  his 
Entail  will  last  him  longer  than  his  lands.  — 
But  I  may  fit  him  yet :  —  you  have  vanquished 

me. 
I  was  the  fool  of  passion  to  conceive 
That   I  could   cope  with  you,  whom   I  had 

seen 
Already  proved  by  greater  perils  than 
Rest  in  this  arm.     We  may  meet  by  and  by, 
However  —  but  in  friendship. 

[Exit  Gabor. 

Stral.  I  will  brook 

\o   more !     This  outrage  following   up  his 

insults. 
Perhaps  his  guilt,  has  cancelled  all  the  little 
I  owed  him  heretofore  for  the  so-vaunted 
Aid  which  he  added  to  your  abler  succor. 
Ulric,  you  are  not  hurt  ?  — 

Ulr.  Not  even  by  a  scratch. 

Stral.    (to  IDENSTEIN).      Intendant!    take 
your  measures  to  secure 
Von  fellow  •  I  revoke  my  former  lenity. 
He  shall  be  sent  to  Frankfort  with  an  escort 
The  instant  that  the  waters  have  abated. 
/den.   Secure  him  !    He  hath  got  his  sword 
again  — 
f\nd  seems  to  know  the  use   on't;    'tis    his 

trade, 
Belike  ;  —  I'm  a  civilian. 

Stral.  Fool !  are  not 

Yon  score  of  vassals  dogging  at  your  heels 
Enough    to   seize   a  dozen    such  ?     Hence ! 
after  him ! 
Ulr.     Baron,  I  do  beseech  you ! 
Stral.  I  must  be 

Obeyed.     No  words! 
/den.  Well,  if  it  must  be  so  — 


March,   vassals!    I'm  your  leader,  and  will 

bring 
The  rear  up  :  a  wise  general  never  should 
Expose  his  precious  life  —  on  which  all  rests. 
I  like  that  article  of  war. 

[Exit  IDENSTEIN  and  Attendants. 

Stral.  Come  hither, 

Ulric  :   what  does   that  woman   here  ?     Oh ! 

now 
I  recognize  her,  'tis  the  stranger's  wife 
Whom  they  nam-e  "  Werner." 

Ulr.  'Tis  his  name. 

Stral.  Indeed'. 

Is  not  your  husband  visible,  fair  dame  ?  — 

Jos.     Who  seeks  him  ? 

Stral.  No  one  —  for  the  present :  but 

I  fain  would  parley,  Ulric,  with  yourself 
Alone. 

Ulr.     I  will  retire  with  you. 

Jos.  Not  so : 

You  are  the  latest  stranger,  and  command 
All  places  here. 
(Aside  to  ULRIC,  as  she  goes  out.)     O  Ulric! 

have  a  care  — 
Remember  what  depends  on  a  rash  word ! 

Ulr.  (to  Josephine).  Fear  not !  — 

[Exit  Josephine. 

Stral.  Ulric,  I  think  that  I  may  trust  you: 
You  saved  my  life — and  acts  like  these  beget 
Unbounded  confidence. 

Ulr.  Say  on. 

Stral.  Mysterious 

And  long-engendered  circumstances  (not 
To  be  now  fully  entered  on)  have  made 
This  man  obnoxious  —  perhaps  fatal  to  me. 

Ulr.     Who  ?  Gabor,  the  Hungarian  ? 

Stral.  No  —  this  "  Werner  "  — 

With  the  false  name  and  habit. 

Ulr.  How  can  this  be  ? 

He  is  the  poorest  of  the  poor  —  and  yellow 
Sickness  sits  caverned  in  his  hollow  eye: 
The  man  is  helpless. 

Stral.  He  is  —  'tis  no  matter ;  -^ 

But  if  he  be  the  man  I  deem  (and  that 
He  is  so,  all  around  us  here  — ■  and  much 
That  is  not  here —  confirm  my  apprehension) 
He  must  be  made  secure  ere  twelve  hours 
further. 

Ulr.     And  what  have  I  to  do  with  this  ? 

Stral.  I  have  sent 

To  Frankfort,  to  the  governor,  my  friend 
(I  have  the  authority  to  do  so  by 
An  order  of  the  house  of  Brandenburgh), 
For  a  fit  escort  —  but  this  cursed  flood 
Bars  all  access,  and  may  do  for  some  hours. 

Ulr.     It  is  abating. 

Stral.  That  is  well. 

Ulr.  But  hovr 

Am  I  concerned  ? 

Stral.  As  one  who  did  so  much 

For  me,  you  cannot  be  indifferent  to 
That  which  is  of  more  import  to  me  than 


738 


WERNER. 


[act  in. 


The  life  you  rescued.  —  Keep  your  eye  on  him! 
The  man  avoids  me,  knows  that  I  now  know 

him.  — 
Watch  him! — as  you  would  watch  the  wild 

boar  when 
He  makes  against  you  in  the  hunter's  gap  — 
Like  him  he  must  be  speared. 
Ulr.  Why  so  ? 

Stral.  He  stands 

Between  me  and  a  brave  inheritance ! 
Oh  !  could  you  see  it !     But  you  shall. 

Ulr.  I  hope  so. 

Stral.  It  is  the  richest  of  the  rich  Bohemia, 
Unscathed  by  scorching  war.  It  lies  so  near 
The  strongest  city,  Prague,  that  fire  and  sword 
Have  skimmed  it  lightly  :  so  that  now,  besides 
Its  own  exuberance,  it  bears  double  value 
Confronted  with  whole  realms  far  and  near 
Made  deserts. 

Ulr.  You  describe  it  faithfully. 

Stral.     Ay  —  could  you  see  it,  you  would 
say  so  —  but, 
As  I  have  said,  you  shall. 

Ulr.  I  accept  the  omen. 

Stral.     Then  claim  a  recompense  from  it 
and  me, 
Such  as  both  may  make  worthy  your  accep- 
tance 
And  services  to  me  and  mine  for  ever. 

Ulr.     And  this   sole,  sick,  and   miserable 
wretch  — 
This  way-worn  stranger  —  stands  between  you 

and 
This  Paradise  ?  —  (As  Adam  did  between 
"The  devil  and  his)  —  [Aside.] 
Stral.  He  doth. 

Ulr.  Hath  he  no  right  ? 

Stral.     Right !  none.    A  disinherited  prod- 
igal, 
Who   for  these   twenty  years  disgraced  his 

lineage 
In  all  his  acts  —  but  chiefly  by  his  marriage,  < 
And  living  amidst  commerce-fetching  burgh- 
ers, 
And  dabbling  merchants,  in  a  mart  of  Jews. 
Ulr.     He  has  a  wife,  then  ? 
Stral.  You'd  be  sorry  to 

Call  such  your  mother.    You  have  seen  the 

woman 
He  calls  his  wife. 
Ulr.  Is  she  not  so  ? 

Stral.  No  more 

Than  he's  your  father  :  —  an  Italian  girl, 
The  daughter  of  a  banished  man,  who  lives 
On  love  and  poverty  with  this  same  Werner. 
Ulr.     They  are  childless,  then  ? 
Stral.  There  is  or  was  a  bastard, 

Whom  the  old  man —  the  grandsire  (as  old  age 
Is  ever  doting)  took  to  warm  his  bosom, 
As  it  went  chilly  downward  to  the  grave: 
Bu.the  imp  stands  not  in  my  path  —  he  has  fled, 
No  one  knows  whither ;  and  if  he  had  not, 


His  claims  alone  were  too  contemptible 
To  stand.  —  Why  do  you  smile  ? 

Ulr.  At  your  vain  fears  : 

A  poor  man  almost  in  his  grasp  — a  child 
Of  doubtless  birth  —  can  startle  a  grandee! 

Stral.     All's  to  be  feared,  where  all  is  to  bs 
gained. 

Ulr.     True ;  and  aught  done  to  save  or  to 
obtain  it. 

Stral.      You  have   harped  the  very  string 
next  to  my  heart. 
I  may  depend  upon  you  ? 

Ulr.  'Twere  too  latf 

To  doubt  it. 

Stral.  Let  no  foolish  pity  shake 

Your  bosom  (for  the  appearance  of  the  mar 
Is  pitiful)  —  he  is  a  wretch,  as  likely 
To  have  robbed  me  as  the  fellow  more  sus- 
pected, 
Except  that  circumstance  is  less  against  him ; 
He  being  lodged  far  off,  and  in  a  chamber 
Without  approach  to  mine  :  and,  to  say  truth, 
I  think  too  well  of  blood  allied  to  mine, 
To  deem  he  would  descend  to  such  an  act : 
Besides,  he  was  a  soldier,  and  a  brave  one 
Once  —  though  too  rash. 

Ulr.  And  they,  my  lord,  we  know 

By  our  experience,  never  plunder  till 
They  knock  the  brains  out  first  —  which  makes 

them  heirs, 
Not  thieves.     The  dead,  who  feel  nought,  can 

lose  nothing, 
Nor  e'er  be  robbed :  their  spoils  are   a  be- 
quest — 
No  more. 

Stral.     Go  to  !  you  are  a  wag.     But  say 
I  may  be  sure  you'll  keep  an  eye  on  this  man, 
And  let   me    know  his    slightest    movement 

towards 
Concealment  or  escape  ? 

Ulr.  You  may  be  sure 

You  yourself  could  not  watch  him  more  than  I 
Will  be  his  sentinel. 

Stral.  By  this  you  make  me 

Yours,  and  for  ever. 

Ulr.  Such  is  my  intention.     [Exeunt 


ACT   III. 

SCENE  I.  —  A  Hall  in  the  same  Palace,  from 
whence  the  secret  passage  leads. 

Enter  WERNER  and  Gabor. 

Gab.    Sir,  I  have  told  my  tale  :  if  it  so  please 
you 
To  give  me  refuge  for  a  few  hours,  well — 
If  not,  I'll  try  my  fortune  elsewhere. 

Wer.  How 

Can  I,  so  wretched,  give  to  Misery 
A  shelter  ?  —  wanting  such  myself  as  much 
As  e'er  the  huntec  deer  a  covert 


9CENE  1. 1 


WERNER. 


739 


G*b.  Or 

The  wounded  lion  his  cool  cave.  Methinks 
You  rather  look  like  one  would  turn  at  bay, 
And  rip  the  hunter's  entrails. 

Wer.  Ah! 

Gab.  I  care  not 

If  it  be  so,  being  much  disposed  to  do 
The  same  myself.     But  will  you  shelter  me  ? 
I  am  oppressed  like  you  —  and  poor  like  you  — 
Disgraced 

Wer.  {abruptly).     Who  told  you  that  I  was 
disgraced  ? 

Gab.     No  one;  nor  did  I  sa.y  you  were  so  : 
with 
Your  poverty  my  likeness  ended ;  but 
I  said  /  was  so  —  and  would  add,  with  truth, 
As  undeservedly  as  you. 

Wer.  Again ! 

As/? 

Gab.     Or  any  other  honest  man. 
What  the  devil  would  you  have  ?     You  don't 

believe  me 
Guilty  of  this  base  theft  ? 

Wer.  No,  no  —  I  cannot. 

Gab.     Why  that's  my  heart  of  honor !  yon 
young  gallant  — 
Your  miserly  intendant  and  dense  noble  — 
All  —  all  suspected  me  ;  and  why?  because 
I   am   the   worst-clothed,   and   least    named 

amongst  them ; 
Although,  were  Momus'  lattice  in  your  breasts, 
My  soul  might  brook  to  open  it  more  widely 
Than  theirs :  but  thus  it  is  —  you  poor  and 

helpless  — 
Both  still  more  than  myself. 

Wer.  How  know  you  that  ? 

Gab.     You're  right :  I  ask  for  shelter  at  the 
hand 
Which  I  call  helpless  ;  if  you  now  deny  it, 
I  were  well  paid.     But  you,  who  seem  to  have 

proved 
The  wholesome  bitterness  of  life,  know  well, 
By  sympathy,  that  all  the  outspread  gold 
Of  the  New  World  the  Spaniard  boasts  about 
Could  never  tempt  the  man  who  knows  its 

worth, 
Weighed  at  its  proper  value  in  the  balance, 
Save  in  such  guise  (and  there  I  grant  its  power, 
•  Because  I  feel  it)  as  may  leave  no  nightmare 
Upon  his  heart  o'  nights. 

Wer.  What  do  you  mean  ? 

Gab.  Just  what  I  say  ;  I  thought  my  speech 
was  plain  : 
You  are  no  thief — nor  I — and,  as  true  men, 
Should  aid  each  other. 

Wer.  It  is  a  damned  world,  sir. 

Gab.     So  is  the  nearest  of  the  two  next,  as 
The  priests  say  (and  no  doubt  they  should 

know  best), 
Therefore  I'll  stick  by  this —  as  being  loth 
To  suffer  martyrdom,  at  least  with  such 
An  epitaph  as  larceny  upon  my  tamb. 


It  is  but  a  night's  lodging  which  I  crave ; 

To-morrow  I  will  try  the  waters,  as 

The  dove  did,  trusting  that  they  have  abated. 

Wer.    Abated  ?  Is  there  hope  of  that  ? 

Gab.  There  wai 

At  noontide. 

Wer.  Then  we  may  be  safe. 

Gab.  Are  y»u 

In  peril  ? 

Wer.        Poverty  is  ever  so. 

Gab.    That  I  know  by  long  practice.    Will 
you  not 
Promise  to  make  mine  less  ? 

Wer.  Your  poverty  ? 

Gab.    No  —  you  don't  look  a  leech  for  that 
disorder; 
I  meant  my  peril  only :  you've  a  roof, 
And  I  have  none ;  I  merely  seek  a  covert. 

Wer.      Rightly;    for  how  should   such   a 
wretch  as  I 
Have  gold  ? 

Gab.   Scarce  honestly,  to  say  the  truth  on't, 
Although  I  almost  wish  you  had  the  baron's. 

Wer.     Dare  you  insinuate  ? 

Gab.  What  ? 

Wer.  Are  you  awara 

To  whom  you  speak  ? 

Gab.  No ;  and  I  am  not  used 

Greatly  to  care.  (A  noise  heard  without?)   But 
hark  !  they  come  ! 

Wer.  Who  come  ? 

Gab.    The  intendant  and  his  man-hounds 
after  me : 
I'd  face  them  — but  it  were  in  vain  to   expect 
Justice  at  hands  like  theirs.    Where  shall  I 

go? 
But  show  me  any  place.    I  do  assure  you, 
If  there  be  faith  in  man,  I  am  most  guilt- 
less: 
Think  if  it  were  your  own  case ! 

Wer.  {aside).  Oh, just  God! 

Thy  hell  is  not  hereafter!     Am  I  dust  still  ? 

Gab.     I  see  you're  moved ;    and  it  shows 
well  in  you : 
I  may  live  to  requite  it. 

Wer.  Are  you  not 

A  spy  of  Stralenheim's  ? 

Gab.  Not  I !  and  if 

I  were,  what  is  there  to  espy  in  you  ? 
Although  I  recollect  his  frequent  question 
About  you  and  your  spouse  might  lead  t« 

some 
Suspicion;  but  you  best  know  —  what  —  and 

why 
I  am  his  deadliest  foe. 

Wer.  You  ? 

Gab.  After  such 

A  treatment  for  the  service  which  in  part 
I  rendered  him,  I  am  his  enemy : 
If  you  are  not  his  friend,  you  will  assist  rae, 

Wer.    I  will. 

Gab.  But  how  ? 


740 


WERNER. 


[act  iu. 


Wer.  {showing  the  panel).  There  is  a  secret 
spring. 
Remember,  I  discovered  it  by  chance, 
And  used  it  but  for  safety. 

Gab.  Open  it, 

And  I  will  use  it  for  the  same. 

Wer.  I  found  it, 

As   I   have  said :  it  leads   through   winding 

walls, 
(So  thick  as  to  bear  paths  within  their  ribs, 
Yet  lose  no  jot  of  strength  or  stateliness,) 
And  hollow  cells,  and  obscure  niches,  to 
I  know  not  whither;  you  must  not  advance: 
Give  me  your  word. 

Gab.  It  is  unnecessary  : 

How   should   I    make    my  way  in   darkness 

through 
A  Gothic  labyrinth  of  unknown  windings  ? 
Wer.     Yes,  but  who  knows  to  what  place  it 
may  lead  ? 
/  know  not —  (mark  you  !)  — but  who  knows 

it  might  not 
Lead  even  into  the  chamber  of  your  foe  ? 
So  strangely  were  contrived  these  galleries 
By  our  Teutonic  fathers  in  old  days, 
When  man  built  less  against  the  elements 
Than  his  next  neighbor.     You  must  not  ad- 
vance 
Beyond  the  two  first  windings ;  if  you  do 
(Albeit  I  never  passed  them),  I'll  not  answer 
For  what  you  may  be  led  to. 

Gab.  But  I  will. 

A  thousand  thanks! 

Wer.     You'll  find  the  spring  more  obvious 
On  the  other  side ;  and,  when  you  would  re- 
turn, 
It  yields  to  the  least  touch. 

Gab.  I'll  in  —  farewell! 

[GABOR  goes  in  by  the  secret  panel. 
Wer.  {solus) .     What  have  I  done  ?    Alas ! 
what  had  I  done 
Before  to  make  this  fearful  ?     Let  it  be 
Still  some  atonement  that  I  save  the  man, 
Whose    sacrifice    had    saved    perhaps    my 

own  — 
They  come !  to  seek  elsewhere  what  is  before 
them ! 

Enter  IDENSTEIN  and  Others. 

/den.  Is  he  not  here  ?  He  must  have  van- 
ished then 

Through  the  dim  Gothic  glass  by  pious  aid 

Of  pictured  saints  upon  the  red  and  yellow 

Casements,  through  which  the  sunset  streams 
like  sunrise 

On  long  pearl-colored  beards  and  crimson 
crosses, 

And  gilded  crosiers,  and  crossed  arms,  and 
cowls, 

And  helms,  and  twisted  armor,  and  long 
swords, 

All  the  fantastic  furniture  of  windows 


Dim  with   brave   knights   and   holy  hermits, 

whose 
Likeness  and  fame  alike  rest  in  some  panes 
Of  crystal,  which  each  rattling  wind  proclaims 
As  frail  as  any  other  life  or  glory. 
He's  gone,  however. 

Wer.  Whom  do  you  seek  ? 

/den.  A  villain. 

Wer.     Why  need  you  come  so  far,  then  ? 

/den.  In  the  search 

Of  him  who  robbed  the  baron. 

Wer.  Are  you  sure 

You  have  divined  the  man  ? 

/den.  As  sure  as  you 

Stand  there  :  but  where's  he  gone  ? 

Wer.  Who  ? 

I  den.  He  we  sought. 

Wer.     You  see  he  is  not  here. 

/den.  And  yet  we  traced  him 

Up  to  this  hall.     Are  you  accomplices  ? 
Or  deal  you  in  the  black  art  ? 

Wer.  I  deal  plainly, 

To  many  men  the  blackest. 

/den.  It  may  be 

I  have  a  question  or  two  for  yourself 
Hereafter;  but  we  must  continue  now 
Our  search  for  t'other. 

Wer.         f  You  had  best  begin 

Your  inquisition  now :  I  may  not  be 
So  patient  always. 

/den.  I  should  like  to  know, 

In  good  sooth,  if  you  really  are  the  man 
That  Stralenheim's  in  quest  of. 

Wer.  Insolent ! 

Said  you  not  that  he  was  not  here  ? 

/den.  Yes,  one ; 

But   there's  another  whom   he  tracks   more 

keenly, 
And  soon,  it  may  be,  with  authority 
Both  paramount  to  his  and  mine.    But,  come ! 
Bustle,  my  boys  !  we  are  at  fault. 

[Exit  IDENSTEIN  and  Attendants, 

Wer.  In  what 

A  maze  hath  my  dim  destiny  involved  me ! 
And  one  base  sin  hath  done  me  less  ill  than 
The  leaving  undone  one  far  greater.     Down, 
Thou  busy  devil,  rising  in  my  heart ! 
Thou  art   too  late!     I'll  nought  to  do  with 
blood. 

Enter  ULRIC. 

Ulr.     I  sought  you,  father. 

Wer.  Is't  not  dangerous  7 

Ulr.     No;  Stralenheim  is  ignorant  of  all 
Or  any  of  the  ties  between  us  :  more  — 
He  sends  me  here  a  spy  upon  your  actions, 
Deeming  me  wholly  his. 

Wer.  I  cannot  think  it : 

'Tis  but  a  snare  he  winds  about  us  both, 
To  swoop  the  sire  and  son  at  once. 

Ulr.  I  cannot 

Pause  in  each  petty  fear,  and  stumble  at 


SCENE   I.J 


WERNER. 


741 


The  doubts  that  rise  like  briers  in  our  path, 
But  must  break  through  them,  as  an  unarmed 

carle 
Would,  though  with  naked  limbs,  were  the 

wolf  rustling 
In  the  same  thicket  where  he  hewed  for  bread. 
Nets  are  for  thrushes,  eagles  are  not  caught  so  : 
We'll  overfly  or  rend  them. 

Wer.  Show  me  how  ? 

Ulr.    Can  you  not  guess  ? 

Wer.  I  cannot. 

Ulr.  That  is  strange. 

Came  the  thought  ne'er  into  your  mind  last 
night? 

Wer.     I  understand  you  not. 

Ulr.  Then  we  shall  never 

More  understand  each  other.     But  to  change 
The  topic 

Wer.  You  mean  to  pursue  it,  as 

'Tis  of  our  safety. 

Ulr.  Right ;  I  stand  corrected. 

I  see  the  subject  now  more  clearly,  and 
Our  general  situation  in  its  bearings. 
The  waters  are  abating ;  a  few  hours 
Will  bring  his  summoned  myrmidons  from 

Frankfort, 
When  you  will  be  a  prisoner,  perhaps  worse, 
And  I  an  outcast,  bastardized  by  practice 
Of  this  same  baron  to  make  way  for  him. 

Wer.     And  now  your  remedy !    I   thought 
to  escape: 
By  means  of  this  accursed  gold ;  but  now 
I  dare  not  use  it,  show  it,  scarce  look  on  it. 
Methinks  it  wears  upon  its  face  my  guilt 
For  motto,  not  the  mintage  of  the  state ; 
And  for  the  sovereign's  head,  my  own  begirt 
With  hissing  snakes,  which  curl  around  my 

temples, 
And  cry  to  all  beholders,  Lo  !  a  villain! 

Uir.    You  must  not  use  it,  at  least  now ; 
but  take 
This  ring.  [He  gives  WERNER  a  jewel. 

Wer.       A  gem  !     It  was  my  father's ! 

Ulr.  And 

As  such  is  now  your  own.    With  this  you  must 
Bribe  the  intendant  for  his  old  caleche 
And  horses  to  pursue  your  route  at  sunrise, 
Together  with  my  mother. 

Wer.  And  leave  you, 

So  lately  found,  in  peril  too  ? 

Ulr.  Fear  nothing ! 

The  only  fear  were  if  we  fled  together, 
For  that  would  make  our  ties  beyond  all  doubt. 
The  waters  only  lie  in  flood  between 
This  burgh  and  Frankfort ;  so  far's  in  our  favor. 
The  route  on  to   Bohemia,   though   encum- 
bered, 
Is  not  impassable;  and  when  you  gain 
A  few  hours'  start,  the  difficulties  will  be 
The  same  to  your  pursuers.     Once  beyond 
The  frontier,  and  you're  safe. 

Wer.  My  noble  boy ! 


Ulr.     Hush !    hush !    no  transports :    we'll 
indulge  in  them 
In  Castle  Siegendorf!  Display  no  gold: 
Show  Idenstein  the  gem  (I  know  the  man, 
And  have  looked  through  him)  :  it  will  an- 
swer thus 
A  double  purpose.    Stralenheim  lost  gold  — 
No  jewel :  therefore  it  could  not  be  his  ; 
And  then  the  man  who  was  possest  of  this 
Can  hardly  be  suspected  of  abstracting 
The  baron's  coin,  when  he  could  thus  con 

vert 
This  ring  to  more  than  Stralenheim  has  lost 
By  his   last  night's  slumber.    Be   not   over 

timid 
In  your  address,  nor  yet  too  arrogant, 
And  Idenstein  will  serve  you. 

Wer.  I  will  follow 

In  all  things  your  direction. 

Ulr.  I  would  have 

Spared  you  the  trouble ;  but  had  I  appeared 
To  take  an  interest  in  you,  and  still  more 
By  dabbling  with  a  jewel  in  your  favor, 
All  had  been  known  at  once. 

Wer.  My  guardian  angel ! 

This  overpays  the  past.     But  how  wilt  thou 
Fare  in  our  absence  ? 

Ulr.  Stralenheim  knows  nothing 

Of  me  as  aught  of  kindred  with  yourself. 
I  will  but  wait  a  day  or  two  with  him 
To  lull  all  doubts,  and  then  rejoin  my  father. 

1 1  'er.     To  part  no  more  ! 

Ulr.  I  know  not  that ;  but  at 

The  least  we'll  meet  again  once  more. 

Wer.  My  boy ! 

My  friend  !  my  only  child,  and  sole  preserver ! 
Oh,  do  not  hate  me! 

Ulr.  Hate  my  father  ■ 

Wer.  Ay, 

My  father  hated  me.     Why  not  my  son  ? 

Ulr.    Your  father  knew  you  not  as  I  do. 

Wer.  Scorpions 

Are  in  thy  words !  Thou  know  me  ?  in  this 

guise 
Thou  canst  not  know  me,  I  am  not  myself; 
Yet  (hate  me  not)  I  will  be  soon. 

Ulr.  I'll  wait/ 

In  the  mean  time  be  sure  that  all  a  son 
Can  do  for  parents  shall  be  done  for  mine. 

Wer.     I  see  it,  and  I  feel  it ;  yet  I  feel 
Further  —  that  you  despise  me. 

Ulr.  Wherefore  should  I  ? 

Wer.     Must  I  repeat  my  humiliation  ? 

Ulr.  No! 

I  have  fathomed  it  and  you.     But  let  us  talk 
Of  this  no  more.     Or,  if  it  must  be  ever, 
Not  now.    Your  error  has  redoubled  all 
The  present  difficulties  of  our  house, 
At  secret  war  with  that  of  Stralenheim  : 
All  we  have  now  to  think  of  is  to  baffle 
Him.     I  have  shown  one  way. 

Wer.  The  only  one, 


742 


WERNER 


[ACt   lit 


And  I  embrace  it,  as  I  did  my  son, 

Who  showed  himself  and  father's  safety  in 

One  day. 

Ulr.         You  shall  be  safe  ;  let  that  suffice. 
Would  Stralenheim's  appearance  in  Bohemia 
Disturb  your  right,  or  mine,  if  once  we  were 
Admitted  to  our  lands  ? 

Wer.  Assuredly, 

Situate  as  we  are  now,  although  the  first 
Possessor  might,  as  usual,  prove  the  strongest, 
Especially  the  next  in  blood. 

Ulr.     '  Blood!  'tis 

A  word  of  many  meanings ;  in  the  veins, 
And  out  of  them,  it  is  a  different  thing  — 
And  so  it  should  be,  when  the  same  in  blood 
(As  it  is  called)  are  aliens  to  each  other, 
Like  Theban  brethren  :  when  a  part  is  bad, 
A  few  spilt  ounces  purify  the  rest. 

Wer,     I  do  not  apprehend  you. 

Ulr.  That  may  be  — 

And   should,  perhaps  —  and  yet but  get 

ye  ready ; 
You  and  my  mother  must  away  to-night. 
Here  comes  the  intendant:  sound  him  with 

the  gem ; 
'Twill  sink  into  his  venal  soul  like  lead 
Into  the  deep,  and  bring  up  slime  and  mud, 
And  ooze  too,  from  the  bottom,  as  the  lead 

doth 
With  its  greased  understratum ;  but  no  less 
Will  serve  to  warn  our  vessels  through  these 

shoals. 
The  freight  is  rich,  so  heave  the  line  in  time ! 
Farewell !     I  scarce  have  time,  but  yet  your 

hand. 
My  father ! 

Wer.  Let  me  embrace  thee  ! 

Ulr.  We  may  be 

Observed :  subdue  your  nature  to  the  hour ! 
Keep  off  from  me  as  from  your  foe ! 

Wer.  Accursed 

Be  he  who  is  the  stifling  cause  which  smothers 
The  best  and  sweetest  feeling  of  our  hearts  ; 
At  such  an  hour  too ! 

Ulr.  Yes,  curse  —  it  will  ease  you ! 

Here  is  the  intendant. 

Enter  IDENSTEIN. 

Master  Idenstein, 
How  fare  you  in  your  purpose  ?     Have  you 

caught 
The  rogue  ? 

/den.  No,  faith ! 

Ulr.  Well,  there  are  plenty  more  : 

You  may  have  better  luck  another  chase. 
Where  is  the  baron  ? 

Iden.  Gone  back  to  his  chamber : 

And  now  I  think  on't,  asking  after  you 
With  nobly-born  impatience. 

Ulr.  Your  great  men 

Must  be    answered  on  the   instant,   as  the 
bound 


Of  the  stung  steed  replies  unto  the  spur : 
'Tis  well  they  have  horses,  too  ;  for  if  they  had 

not, 
I  fear  that  men  must  draw  their  chariots,  as 
They  say  kings  did  Sesostris. 

Men.  Who  was  he  ? 

Ulr.     An    old    Bohemian  —  an    imperial 

gipsy. 

Men.     A  gipsy  or  Bohemian,  'tis  the  same, 
For  they  pass  by  both  names.     And  was  he 
one  ? 

Ulr.     I've  heard  so ;  but  I  must  take  leave. 
Intendant, 
Your  servant!  —  Werner  (to  Werner  slight- 
ly), if  that  be  your  name, 
Yours.  [Exit  Ulric. 

Men.     A   well-spoken,   pretty-faced   young 
man ! 
And  prettily  behaved !    He  knows  his  station. 
You  see,  sir  :  how  he  gave  to  each  his  due 
Precedence ! 

Wer.  I  perceived  it,  and  applaud 

His  just  discernment  and  your  own. 

Men.  That's  well  — 

That's  very  well.     You  also  know  your  place, 

too; 
And  yet   I    don't   know  that    I    know  your 
place. 

Wer.  (showing  the  ring).     Would  this  as- 
sist your  knowledge  ? 

Men.  How!— What!  — Eh! 

A  jewel ! 

Wer.     'Tis  your  own  on  one  condition. 

Men.     Mine  !  —  Name  it ! 

Wer.  That  hereafter  you  permit  me 

At  thrice  its  value  to  redeem  it:  'tis 
A  family  ring. 

Men.  A  family! — yours/ — a  gem! 

I'm  breathless! 

Wer.  You  must  also  furnish  me 

An  hour  ere  daybreak  with  all  means  to  quit 
This  place. 

/den.         But  is  it  real  ?    Let  me  look  on  it : 
Diamond,  by  all  that's  glorious  ! 

Wer.  Come,  I'll  trust  you : 

You  have  guessed,  no  doubt,  that  I  was  born 

above 
My  present  seeming. 

Men.  I  can't  say  I  did, 

Though  this  looks  like  it:    this  is  the  tri'- 

breeding 
Of  gentle  blood ! 

Wer.  I  have  important  reason. 

For  wishing  to  continue  privily 
My  journey  hence. 

/den.  So  then  you  are  the  ma  J , 

Whom  Stralenheim's  in  quest  of  ? 

Wer.  I  am  no':; 

But  being  taken  for  him  might  conduct 
So  much  embarrassment  to  me  just  now, 
And  to  the  baron's  self  hereafter  —  'tis 
To  spare  both  that  I  would  avoid  all  bustle. 


SCENE   III. J 


WERNER. 


743 


/den.     Be  you  the  man  or  no,  'tis  not  my 

business. 
Besides,  I  never  should  obtain  the  half 
From  this  proud,  niggardly  noble,  who  would 

raise 
The  country  for  some  missing  bits  of  coin, 
And  never  offer  a  precise  reward  — 
But  this!  —  another  look! 

Wer.  Gaze  on  it  freely  ; 

At  day-dawn  it  is  yours. 

Iden.  Oh,  thou  sweet  sparkler ! 

Thou  more  than  stone  of  the  philosopher ! 
Thou  touchstone  of  Philosophy  herself  ! 
Thou  bright  eye  of  the  Mine  !  thou  loadstar  of 
The  soul !  the  true  magnetic  Pole  to  which 
All  hearts  point   duly   north,  like   trembling 

needles ! 
Thou  flaming  Spirit  of  the  Earth !  which,  sit- 
ting 
High  on  the  monarch's  diadem,  attractest 
More  worship  than  the  majesty  who  sweats 
Beneath  the  crown   which   makes   his  head 

ache,  like 
Millions  of  hearts  which  bleed  to  lend  it  lustre  ! 
Shalt  thou  be  mine  ?    I  am,  methinks,  already 
A  little  king,  a  lucky  alchemist !  — 
A  wise  magician,  who  has  bound  the  devil 
Without  the  forfeit  of  his  soul.     But  come, 
Werner,  or  what  else  ? 

Wer.  Call  me  Werner  still. 

You  may  yet  know  me  by  a  loftier  title. 
/den.     I  do  believe  in  thee !    thou  art  the 

spirit 
Of  whom   I   long  have   dreamed   in   a   low 

garb.  — 
But  come,  I'll  serve  thee  ;  thou  shalt  be  as  free 
As  air,  despite  the  waters ;  let  us  hence  : 
I'll  show  thee  I  am  honest  —  (oh,  thou  jewel !) 
Thou  shalt  be  furnished,  Werner,  with  such 

means 
Of  flight,  that  if  thou  wert  a  snail,  not  birds 
Should  overtake  thee.  —  Let  me  gaze  again  ! 
I  have  a  foster-brother  in  the  mart 
Of    Hamburgh    skilled    in   precious    stones. 

How  many 
karats   may   it  weigh  ?  —  Come,  Werner,  I 

will  wing  thee.  [Exeunt. 

Scene  II. — Stralenheim's  Chamber. 
Stralenheim  and  FRITZ. 

Fritz.    All's  ready,  my  good  lord ! 

Stral.  I  am  not  sleepy, 

And  yet  I  must  to  bed ;   I  fain  would  say 
To  rest,  but  something  heavy  on  my  spirit, 
Too    dull    for    wakefulness,    too    quick    for 

slumber, 
Sits  on  me  as  a  cloud  along  the  sky, 
Which  will  not  let  the  sunbeams  through,  nor 

yet 
Descend  in  rain  and  end,  but  spreads  itself 


'Twixt  earth  and  heaven,  like  envy  between 

man 
And  man,  an  everlasting  mist ;  —  I  will 
Unto  my  pillow. 
Fritz.  May  you  rest  there  well ! 

Stral.     I  feel,  and  fear,  I  shall. 
Fritz.  And  wherefore  fear  ? 

Stral.     I  know  not  why,  and  therefore  do 
fear  more, 

Because  an  undescribable but  'tis 

All  folly.     Were  the  locks  (as  I  desired) 
Changed,  to-day,  of  this  chamber?   for  Last 

night's 
Adventure  makes  it  needful. 

Fritz.  Certainly, 

According  to  your  order,  and  beneath 
The  inspection  of  myself  and  the  young  Saxon 
Who  saved  your  life.     I  think  they  call  him 
"  Ulric." 
Stral.     You  think!  you  supercilious  slave! 
what  right 
Have  you  to  tax  your  memory,  which  should 

be 
Quick,  proud,  and  happy  to  retain  the  name 
Of  him  who  saved  your  master,  as  a  litany 
Whose  daily  repetition  marks  your  duty. — 
Get  hence !    "  You  think,"  indeed !    you  who 

stood  still 
Howling  and  drippling  on  the  bank,  whilst  I 
Lay  dying,  and  the  stranger  dashed  aside 
The  roaring  torrent,  and  restored  me  to 
Thank  him  —  and  despise  you.   "You  think!" 

and  scarce 
Can  recollect  his  name !     I  will  not  waste 
More  words  on  you.     Call  me  betimes. 

Fritz.  Good  night  1 

I  trust  to-morrow  will  restore  your  lordship 
To  renovated  strength  and  temper. 

[  The  scene  closes. 

Scene  III. —  The  Secret  Passage. 

Gab.  (solus).  Four  — 

Five — six  hours   have   I    counted,  like   the 

guard 
Of  outposts  on  the  never-merry  clock : 
That  hollow  tongue  of  time,  which,  even  when 
It  sounds  for  joy,  takes  something  from  en- 
joyment 
With  every  clang.     'Tis  a  perpetual  knell, 
Though  for  a  marriage-feast  it  rings :    each 

stroke 
Peals  for  a  hope  the  less ;  the  funeral  note 
Of  Love  deep-buried  without  resurrection 
In  the  grave  of  Possession ;  while  the  knoll 
Of  long-lived  parents  finds  a  jovial  echo 
To  triple  Time  in  the  son's  ear. 

I'm  cold  — 
I'm  dark  ;^  I've  blown  my  fingers  —  num- 
bered o'er 
And  o'er  my  steps  —  and  knocked  my  head 
against 


744 


WERNER. 


[act  HI 


Some  fifty  buttresses  —  and  roused  the  rats 

And  bats  in  general  insurrection,  till 

Their  cursed  pattering  feet  and  whirling  wings 

Leave  me  scarce  hearing  for  another  sound. 

A  light!     It  is  at  distance  (if  I  can 

Measure  in  darkness  distance)  :  but  it  blinks 

As  through  a  crevice  or  a  key-hole,  in 

The  inhibited  direction  :  I  must  on, 

Nevertheless,  from  curiosity. 

A  distant  lamp-light  is  an  incident 

In  such  a  den  as  this.     Pray  Heaven  it  lead 

me 
To    nothing    that   may  tempt  me!     Else  — 

Heaven  aid  me 
To  obtain  or  to  escape  it !    Shining  still ! 
Were  it  the  star  of  Lucifer  himself, 
Or  he  himself  girt  with  its  beams,  I  could 
Contain  no  longer.     Softly !  mighty  well ! 
That  corner's  turned  —  so — ah!  no;  —  right! 

it  draws 
Nearer.     Here  is  a  darksome  angle  —  so, 
That's  weathered. —  Let    me    pause.  —  Sup- 
pose it  leads 
Into  some  greater  danger  than  that  which 
I  have  escaped  —  no  matter,  'tis  a  new  one; 
And  novel  perils,  like  fresh  mistresses, 
Wear  more  magnetic  aspects  :  —  I  will  on, 
And  be  it  where  it  may  —  I  have  my  dagger, 
Which  may  protect  me  at  a  pinch.  —  Burn 

still, 
Thou  little  light!     Thou  art  my  ignis  fatuus / 
My  stationary  Will-o'-the-wisp !  —  So  !  so  i 
He  hears  my  invocation,  and  fails  not. 

[  The  scene  closes, 

SCENE  IV.  —  A  Garden. 

Enter  WERNER. 

Wer.    I   could   not   sleep  —  and   now  the 
hour's  at  hand ; 
All's  ready.     Idenstein  has  kept  his  word ; 
And  stationed  in  the  outskirts  of  the  town, 
Upon  the  forest's  edge,  the  vehicle 
Awaits  us.     Now  the  dwindling  stars  begin 
To  pale  in  heaven  ;  and  for  the  last  time  I 
Look  on  these  horrible  walls.     Oh !    never, 

never 
Shall  I  forget  them.     Here  I  came  most  poor, 
But  not  dishonored :  and  I  leave  them  with 
A  stain,  —  if  not  upon  my  name,  yet  in 
My  heart !  —  a  never-dying  canker  worm, 
Which  all  the  coming  splendor  of  the  lands, 
And  rights,  and  sovereignty  of  Siegendorf 
Can  scarcely  lull  a  moment.     I  must  find 
Some  means  of  restitution,  which  would  ease 
My  soul  in  part ;  but  how  without  discovery  ?  — 
It  must  be  done,  however;  and  I'll  pause 
Upon  the  method  the  first  hour  of  safety. 
The  madness  of  my  misery  led  to  this 
Base  infamy ;  repentance  must  retrieve  it : 
I  will  have  nought  of  Stralenheim's  upon 


My  spirit,  though  he  would  grasp  all  of  mine  , 
Lands,  freedom,  life, —  and  yet  he  sleeps  !    as 

soundly, 
Perhaps,  as  infancy,  with  gorgeous  curtains 
Spread  for  his  canopy,  o'er  silken  pillows, 

Such  as  when Hark  !  what  noise  is  that  .' 

Again ! 
The  branches  shake ;  and  some  loose  stones 

have  fallen 
From  yonder  terrace. 

[ULRIC  leaps  doivn  from  the  terrace. 
Ulric  !  ever  welcome ! 
Thrice  welcome  now !  this  filial 

Ulr.  Stop!  Before 

We  approach,  tell  me 

Wer.  Why  look  you  so? 

Ulr.  Do  I 

Behold  my  father,  or 

Wer.  What  ? 

Ulr.  An  assassin? 

Wer.     Insane  or  insolent ! 

Ulr.  Reply,  sir,  as 

You  prize  your  life,  or  mine ! 

Wer.  To  what  must  I 

Answer  ? 

Ulr.      Are #ou  or  are  you  not  the  assassin 
Of  Stralenheim  ? 

Wer.  I  never  was  as  yet 

The  murderer  of  any  man.    What  mean  you  ? 

Ulr.     Did  not  you  this  night  (as  the  night 
before) 
Retrace  the  secret  passage  ?     Did  you  not 

Again  revisit  Stralenheim's  chamber?  and • 

[Ulric  pauses. 

Wer.     Proceed. 

Ulr.  Died  he  not  by  your  hand  ? 

Wer.  Great  God! 

Ulr.    You  are  innocent,  then !  my  father's 
innocent! 
Embrace     me !       Yes,  —  your    tone  —  your 

look  —  yes,  yes,  — 
Yet  say  so. 

Wer.  If  I  e'er,  in  heart  or  mind, 

Conceived  deliberately  such  a  thought, 
But  rather  strove  to  trample  back  to  hell 
Such  thoughts  —  if  e'er  they  glared  a  moment 

through 
The  irritation  of  my  oppressed  spirit  — 
May  heaven  be  shut  forever  from  my  hopes 
As  from  mine  eyes  ! 

Ulr.  But  Stralenheim  is  dead. 

Wer.     'Tis   horrible!    'tis   hideous,  as    'tis 
hateful !  — 
But  what  have  I  to  do  with  this  ? 

Ulr.  No  bolt 

Is  forced;  no  violence  can  be  detected, 
Save  on  his  body.     Part  of  his  own  household 
Have  been  alarmed;  but  as  the  intendant  is 
Absent,  I  took  upon  myself  the  care 
Of  mustering  the  police.     His  chamber  has, 
Past  doubt,  been  entered  secretly.  Excuse  me 
If  nature 


SCENE   IV.  J 


WERNER. 


7+5 


Wer.       Oh,  my  boy!  what  unknown  woes 
Of  dark  fatality,  like  clouds,  are  gathering 
Above  our  house ! 

Ulr.  My  father  !   I  acquit  you  ! 

But  will  the  world  do  so  ?  will  even  the  judge, 

i  If But  you  must  away  this  instant. 

Wer.  No ! 

I'll  face  it.     Who  shall  dare  suspect  me  ? 

Ulr.  Yet 

You  had  no  guests  —  no  visitors  —  no  life 
Breathing  around  you,  save  my  mother's  ? 

Wer.  Ah ! 

The  Hungarian ! 

Ulr.  He  is  gone  !  he  disappeared 

:  Ere  sunset. 

Wer.  No  ;  I  hid  him  in  that  very 

Concealed  and  fatal  gallery. 

Ulr.  There  I'll  find  him. 

[ULRIC  is  going. 

Wer.     It  is  too  late :  he  had  left  the  palace 

ere 

I  quitted  it.     I  found  the  secret  panel 

Open,  and  the  doors  which  lead  from  that  hall 

'  Which    masks    it :    I    but   thought   he   had 

snatched  the  silent 
And  favorable  moment  to  escape 
The  myrmidons  of  Idenstein,  who  were 
I  Dogging  him  yester-even. 

Ulr.  You  reclosed 

The  panel  ? 

Wer.  Yes  ;  and  not  without  reproach 

(And  inner  trembling  for  the  avoided  peril) 
At  his  dull  heedlessness,  in  leaving  thus 
His  shelterer's  asylum  to  the  risk 
I  Of  a  discovery. 

Ulr.  You  are  sure  you  closed  it  ? 

Wer.     Certain. 

Ulr.       That's  well ;  but  had  been  better,  if 

'You  ne'er  had  turned  it  to  a  den  for 

\He  pauses. 
Wer.  Thieves ! 

Thou  wouldst  say:  I  must  bear  it  and  de- 
serve it ; 

!But  not 

Ulr.  No,  father;  do  not  speak  of  this  : 

This  is  no  hour  to  think  of  petty  crimes, 
'■  But  to  prevent  the  consequence  of  great  ones. 
Why  would  you  shelter  this  man  ? 

Wer.  Could  I  shun  it  ? 

A  man  pursued  by  my  chief  foe  ;  disgraced 
For  my  own  crime  ;  a  victim  to  my  safety, 
Imploring  a  few  hours'  concealment  from 
The  very  wretch  who  was  the  cause  he  needed 
Such  refuge.     Had  he  been  a  wolf,  I  could  not 
Have  in  such  circumstances  thrust  him  forth. 
Ulr.     And  like  the  wolf  he  hath  repaid  you. 
But 
It  is  too  late  to  ponder  thus  :  —  you  must 
Set  out  ere  dawn.     I  will  remain  here  to 
Trace  the  murderer,  if  'tis  possible. 

Wer.     But  this  my  sudden  flight  will  give 
the  Moloch 


Suspicion  :  two  new  victims  in  the  lieu 
Of  one,  if  I  remain.     The  fled  Hungariaa, 

Who  seems  the  culprit,  and 

Ulr.  Who  seems  ?     Who  else 

Can  be  so  ? 

Wer.  Not  I,  though  just  now  you 

doubted  — 

You,  my  son!  —  doubted 

Ulr.  And  do  you  doubt  of  him 

The  fugitive  ? 

Wer.  Boy  !  since  I  fell  into 

The  abyss    of  crime    (though    not    of  such 

crime),  I, 
Having  seen  the  innocent  oppressed  for  me, 
May  doubt  even  of  the  guilty's  guilt.     Your 

heart 
Is  free,  and  quick  with  virtuous  wrath  to  accuse 
Appearances  ;  and  views  a  criminal 
In  Innocence's  shadow,  it  may  be, 
Because  'tis  dusky. 

Ulr.  And  if  I  do  so, 

What  will   mankind,  who  know  you  not,  or 

knew 
But  to  oppress?    You  must  not  stand  the 

hazard. 
Away  !  —  I'll  make  all  easy.     Idenstein 
Will  for  his  own  sake  and  his  jewel's  hold 
His  peace  —  he  also  is  a  partner  in 

Your  flight  —  moreover 

Wer.  Fly !  and  leave  my  name 

Linked  with  the  Hungarian's,  or  preferred  as 

poorest, 
To  bear  the  brand  of  bloodshed  ? 

Ulr.  Pshaw  !  leave  anything 

Except  our  father's  sovereignty  and  castles, 
For  which  you  have  so  long  panted  and  in 

vain ! 
What  name  f     You  have  no  name  since  that 

you  bear 
Is  feigned. 

Wer.     Most  true;  but   still    I    would    not 

have  it 
Engraved  in  crimson  in  men's  memories, 
Though  in  this  most  obscure  abode  of  men  — 

Besides,  the  search 

Ulr.  I  will  provide  against 

Aught  that  can  touch  you.     No  one  knows 

you  here 
As  heir  of  Siegendorf :  if  Idenstein 
Suspects,  'tis  but  suspicion,  and  he  is 
A  fool :  his  folly  shall  have  such  employment, 
Too,  that  the  unknown  Werner  shall  give  way 
To  nearer  thoughts  of  self.  The  laws  (if  e'er 
Laws  reached  this  village)  are  all  in  abeyance 
With  the  late  general  war  of  thirty  years, 
Or  crushed,  or  rising  slowly  from  the  dust, 
To  which  the  march  of  armies  trampled  them. 
Stralenheim,  although  noble,  is  unheeded 
Here,  save  as  such  —  without  lands,  influence, 
Save  what  hath  perished  with  him.    Few  pro- 
long 
A  week  beyond  their  funeral  rites  their  sway 


W6 


WERNER. 


[act  IV. 


O'er  men,  nnleas  by  relatives,  whose  interest 
Is  roused  :  such  is  not  here  the  case ;  he  died 
Alone,  unknown,  —  a  solitary  grave, 
Obscure  as  his  deserts,  without  a  scutcheon, 
Is  all  he'll  have,  or  wants.     If  /  discover 
The  assassin,  'twill  be  well  —  if  not,  believe  me 
None   else ;    though  all   the   full-fed  train  of 

menials 
May  howl  above  his  ashes  (as  they  did 
Around  him  in  his  danger  on  the  Oder), 
Will  no  more  stir  a  finger  now  than  then. 
Hence  !  hence  !   I  must  not  hear  your  answer. 

—  Look ! 
The  stars  are  almost  faded,  and  the  gray 
Begins  to  grizzle  the  black  hair  of  night. 
You  shall  not  answer  : —  Pardon  me  that  I 
Am  peremptory;  'tis  your  son  that  speaks, 
Your    long-lost,   late-found  son.  —  Let's   call 

my  mother! 
Softly  and  swiftly  step,  and  leave  the  rest 
To  me:  I'll  answer  for  the  event  as  far 
As  regards  ,)■<?«,  and  that  is  the  chief  point, 
As  my  first  duty,  which  shall  be  observed. 
We'll  meet  in  Castle  Siegendorf — once  more 
Our  banners  shall  be  glorious!  Think  of  that 
Alone,  and  leave  all  other  thoughts  to  me, 
Whose  youth  may  better  battle  with  them. — 

Hence ! 
And  may  your  age  be  happy  !  —  I  will  kiss 
My  mother  once  more,  then  Heaven's  speed 

be  with  you ! 
Wer.  This  counsel's  safe  —  but  is  it  honor- 
able ? 
Ulr.    To  save  a  father  is  a  child's   chief 

honor.  [Exeunt. 


ACT   IV. 

SCENE  I. —  A   Gothic  Hall  in  the    Castle  of 
Siegendorf,  near  Prague. 

Enter  ERIC  and  Hf.NRICK,  Retainers  of  the 
Count. 

Eric.     So  better  times  are  come  at  last ;  to 
these 
Old   walls  new  masters  and  high   wassail  — 

both 
A  long  desideratum. 

Hen.  Yes,  for  masters. 

It  might  be  unto  those  who  long  for  novelty, 
Though  made  by  a  new  grave:    but  as   for 

•vassail, 
Methinks  the  old   Count   Siegendorf  main- 
tained 
His  feudal  hospitality  as  high 
As  e'er  another  prince  of  the  empire. 

Eric.  Why, 

For  the  mere  cup  and  trencher,  we  no  doubt 
Fared  passing  well ;  but  as  for  merriment 
And  sport,  without  which   salt  and  sauces 
season 


The  cheer  but  scantily,  our  sizings  were 
Even  of  the  narrowest. 

Hen.  The  old  count  loved  not 

The  roar  of  revel ;  are  you  sure  that  this  does  ? 

Eric.    As  yet  he  hath  been  courteous  as 
he's  bounteous, 
And  we  all  love  him. 

Hen.  His  reign  is  as  yet 

Hardly  a  year  o'erpast  its  honey-moon, 
And  the  first  year  of  sovereigns  is  bridal : 
Anon,  we  shall  perceive  his  real  sway 
And  moods  of  mind. 

Eric.  Pray  Heaven  he  keep  the  present! 
Then  his  brave  son,  Count  Ulric  —  there's  a 

knight. 
Pitv  the  wars  are  o'er ! 

Hen.  Why  so  ? 

Eric.  Look  on  him! 

And  answer  that  yourself. 

Hen.  He's  very  youthful, 

And  strong  and  beautiful  as  a  young  tiger. 

Eric.   That's  not  a  faithful  vassal's  likeness. 

Hen.  But 

Perhaps  a  true  one. 

Eric.  Pity,  as  I  said, 

The  wars  aije  over :  in  the  hall,  who  like 
Count  Ulric  for  a  well-supported  pride, 
Which  awes,  but  yet  offends  not  ?  in  the  field, 
Who  like  him  with  his  spear  in  hand,  when, 

gnashing 
His  tusks,  and  ripping  up  from  right  to  left 
The  howling  hounds,  the  boar  makes  for  the 

thicket? 
Who  backs  a  horse,  or  bears  a  hawk,  or 

wears 
A  sword    like    him  ?     Whose  plume   nods 
knightlier  ? 

Hen.     No  one's,  I  grant  you.    Do  not  fear, 
if  war 
Be  long  in  coming,  he  is  of  that  kind 
Will  make  it  for  himself,  if  he  hath  not 
Already  done  as  much. 

Eric.  What  do  you  mean  ? 

Hen.     You  can't  deny  his  train  of  followers 
(But  few  our  native  fellow  vassals  born 
On  the  domain)  are  such  a  sort  of  knaves 
As {Pauses.) 

Eric.  What  ? 

Hen.     The  war  (you  love  so  much)  leaves 
living. 
Like    other    parents,   she    spoils    her  worst 
children. 

Eric.     Nonsense !  they  are  all  brave  iron- 
visaged  fellows, 
Such  as  old  Tilly  loved. 

Hen.  And  who  loved  Tilly  ? 
Ask  that  at  Magdebourg  —  or  for  that  matter 
Wallenstein  either ;  — thev  are  gone  to 

Enc.  Rest ; 

But  what  beyond  'tis  not  ours  to  pronounce. 

Hen.     I  wish  they  had  left  us  something  o/ 
their  rest : 


SCENE  I.] 


WERNER. 


747 


The  country  (nominally  now  at  peace) 
Is  over-run  with  —  God  knows  who  :  they  fly 
By  night,  and  disappear  with  sunrise;  but 
Leave  us  no  less  desolation,  nay,  even  more, 
Than  the  most  open  warfare. 

Eric.  But  Count  Ulric  — 

vVhat  has  all  this  to  do  with  him  ? 

Hen.  With  him! 

He might  prevent  it.  As  you  say  he's  fond 

Of  war,  why  makes  he  it  not  on  those  ma- 
rauders ? 

Eric.     You'd  better  ask  himself. 

Hen.  I  would  as  soon 

Ask  the  lion  why  he  laps  not  milk. 

Eric.     And  here  he  comes  ! 

Hen.     The  devil !  you'll  hold  your  tongue  ? 

Eric.     Why  do  you  turn  so  pale  ? 

Hen.  'Tis  nothing  —  but 

Be  silent. 

Eric.         I  will,  upon  what  you  have  said. 

Hen.     I    assure  you  I  meant  nothing  —  a 
mere  sport 
Of  words,  no   more;    besides,   had   it  been 

otherwise, 
He  is  to  espouse  the  gentle  Baroness 
Ida  of  Stralenheim, the  late  baron's  heiress; 
And  she,  no  doubt,  will  soften  whatsoever 
Of  fierceness  the  late  long  intestine  wars 
Hath  given  all  natures,  and  most  unto  those 
Who  were  born  in  them,  and  bred  up  upon 
The  knees  of  Homicide  ;  sprinkled,  as  it  were, 
With  blood  even  at  their  baptism.     Prithee, 

peace 
On  all  that  I  have  said ! 

Enter  ULRIC  and  RODOLPH. 

Good  morrow,  count. 

Ulr.  Good  morrow,  worthy  Henrick.  Eric,  is 
All  ready  for  the  chase  ? 

Eric.  The  dogs  are  ordered 

Down  to  the  forest,  and  the  vassals  out 
To  beat  the  bushes,  and  the  day  looks  prom- 
ising. 
Shall  I  call  forth  your  excellency's  suite  ? 
What  courser  will  you  please  to  mount  ? 

Ulr.  The  dun, 

Walstein. 

Eric.  I  fear  he  scarcely  has  recovered 
The  toils  of  Monday  :  'twas  a  noble  chase  : 
You  speared  four  with  your  own  hand. 

Ulr.  True,  good  Eric  ; 

I  had  forgotten  —  let  it  be  the  gray,  then, 
Old  Ziska :  he  has  not  been  out  this  fortnight. 

Eric.     He  shall  be   straight   caparisoned. 
How  many 
Of  your  immediate  retainers  shall 
Escort  you  ? 

Ulr.  I  leave  that  to  Weilburgh,  our 

Master  of  the  horse.  [Exit  ERIC. 

Rodolph ! 

Rod.  My  lord ! 

Ulr.  The  news 


Is  awkward  from  the —  (RODOLPH  points  te 
Henrick.) 

How  now,  Henrick  ?  why 
Loiter  you  here  ? 

Hen.  For  your  commands,  my  lord. 

Ulr.     Go  to  my  father,  and  present  my  duty, 

And  learn  if  he  would  aught  with  me  before 

I  mount.  [Exit  HENRICK. 

Rodolph,  our  friends  have  had  a  check 

Upon  the  frontiers  of  Franconia,  and 

'Tis  rumored  that  the  column  sent  against  them 

Is  to  be  strengthened.    I  must  join  them  soon. 

Rod.     Best  wait  for  further  and  more  sure 

advices. 
Ulr.     I  meant  it  —  and  indeed  it  could  not 
well 
Have  fallen  out  at  a  time  more  opposite 
To  all  my  plans. 

Rod.  It  will  be  difficult 

To   excuse   your  absence  to  the  count  your 
father. 
Ulr.     Yes,  but  the  unsettled  state  of  our 
domain 
In  high  Silesia  will  permit  and  cover 
My  journey.     In  the  mean  time,  when  we  are 
Engaged  in  the  chase,  draw  off  the  eighty  men 
Whom  Wolffe    leads  —  keep   the  forests   on 

your  route : 
You  know  it  well  ? 

Rod.  As  well  as  on  that  night 

When  we 

Ulr.  We  will  not  speak  of  that  until 

We  can  repeat  the  same  with  like  success : 
And  when  you  have  joined,  give  Rosenberg 
this  letter.  [Gives  a  letter. 

Add  further,  that  I  have  sent  this  slight  addi- 
tion 
To  our  force  with  you  and  Wolffe,  as  herald  of 
My  coming,  though  I  could  but  spare  them  ill 
At  this  time,  as  my  father  loves  to  keep 
Full  numbers  of  retainers  round  the  castle, 
Until  this  marriage,  and  its  feasts  and  fooleries. 
Are  rung  out  with  its  peal  of  nuptial  nonsense. 
Rod.     I  thought  you  loved  the  lady  Ida  ? 
Ulr.  Why, 

I  do  so  —  but  it  follows  not  from  that 
I  would  bind  in  my  youth  and  glorious  years, 
So  brief  and  burning,  with  a  lady's  zone, 
Although  'twere  that  of  Venus; — but  I  love 

her, 
As  woman  should  be  loved,  fairly  and  solely. 
Rod.    And  constantly  ? 
Ulr.  I  think  so  ;  for  I  love 

Nought   else.  —  But  I    have  not  the  time  to 

pause 
Upon  these  gewgaws  of  the  heart.  Great  things 
We  have  to  do  ere  long.  Speed  !  speed  !  good 
Rodolph ! 
Rod.     On  my  return,  however,  I  shfcll  find 
The   Baroness  Ida  lost  in  Countess  Siegen- 
dorf? 
Ulr.  Perhaps  my  father  wishes  it ;  and  sooth 


748 


WERNER. 


[act  IV, 


"Tis  no  bad  policy :  this  union  with 
The  last  bud  of  the  rival  branch  at  once 
Unites  the  future  and  destroys  the  past. 

Rod.    Adieu. 

Ulr.  Yet  hold  —  we  had  better  keep  together 
Until  the  chase  begins ;  then  draw  thou  off, 
And  do  as  I  have  said. 

Rod.  I  will.     But  to 

Return  —  'twas  a  most  kind  act  in  the  count 
Your  father  to  send  up  to  Konigsberg 
For  this  fair  orphan  of  the  baron,  and 
To  hail  her  as  his  daughter. 

Ulr.  Wondrous  kind ! 

Especially  as  little  kindness  till 
Then  grew  between  them. 

Rod.  The  late  baron  died 

Of  a  fever,  did  he  not  ? 

Ulr.  How  should  I  know  ? 

Rod.     I  have  heard  it  whispered  there  was 
something  strange 
About  his  death  —  and  even  the  place  of  it 
Is  scarcely  known. 

Ulr.  Some  obscure  village  on 

The  Saxon  or  Silesian  frontier. 

Rod.  He 

Has  left  no  testament  —  no  farewell  words  ? 

Ulr.     I  am  neither  confessor  nor  notary, 
So  cannot  say. 

Rod.  Ah  !  here's  the  lady  Ida. 

Enter  Ida  Stralenheim.1 

Ulr.    You  are  early,  my  sweet  cousin  ! 
Ida.  Not  too  early, 

Dear  Ulric,  if  I  do  not  interrupt  you. 
Why  do  you  call  me  "cousin?" 

Ulr.  {smiling) .  Are  we  not  so  ? 

Ida.    Yes,  but  I  do  not  like  the  name ;  me- 
thinks 
It  sounds  so  cold,  as  if  you  thought  upon 
Our  pedigree,  and  only  weighed  our  blood. 
Ulr.  {starting).  Blood! 

Ida.    Why    does   yours  start    from    your 

cheeks  ? 
Ulr.  Ay !   doth  it  ? 

Ida.    It  doth — but  no !  it  rushes  like  a  tor- 
rent 
Even  to  your  brow  again. 

Ulr.  {recovering  himself).    And  if  it  fled, 
It  only  was  because  your  presence  sent  it 
Back  to  my  heart,  which  beats  for  you,  sweet 
cousin! 
Ida.    "  Cousin"  again. 
Ulr.  Nay,  then,  I'll  call  you  sister. 

Ida.  I  like  that  name  still  worse.  —  Would 
we  had  ne'er 
Been  aught  of  kindred ! 


1  [Ida,  the  tie-w  personage,  is  a  precocious  girl 
of  fifteen,  in  a  great  hurry  to  be  married;  and  who 
has  very  little  to  do  in  the  business  of  the  play,  but 
to  produce  an  effect  by  fainting  at  the  discovery  of 
the  villany  of  her  beloved,  and  partially  touching 
on  it  in  a  previous  scene.  —  Eel.  Rev.\ 


Ulr.  {gloomily).         Would  we  never  had! 
Ida.     Oh  heavens!  and  c&n  you  wish  thatf 

Ulr.  Dearest  Ida! 

Did  I  not  echo  your  own  wish  ? 

Ida.  Yes,  Ulric, 

But  then  I  wished  it  not  with  such  a  glance, 
And  scarce  knew  what  I  said ;  but  let  me  be 
Sister,  or  cousin,  what  you  will,  so  that 
I  still  to  you  am  something. 

Ulr.  You  shall  be 

All  — all 

Ida.  And  you  to  me  are  so  already ; 

But  I  can  wait. 

Ulr.  Dear  Ida! 

Ida.  Call  me  Ida, 

Your  Ida,  for  I  would  be  yours,  none  else's  — 
Indeed  I  have  none  else  left,  since  my  poor 
father —  [She  pauses. 

Ulr.     You  have  mine  —  you  have  me. 

Ida.  Dear  Ulric,  how  I  wish 

My  father  could  but  view  my  happiness, 
Which  wants  but  this ! 

Ulr.  Indeed ! 

Ida.  You  would  have  loved  him, 

He  you  ;  for  the  brave  ever  love  each  other  : 
His  manner  v/as  a  little  cold,  his  spirit 
Proud  (as  is  birth's  prerogative)  ;  but  under 

This  grave  exterior Would  you  had  known 

each  other! 
Had  such  as  you  been  near  him  on  his  jour- 
ney, 
He  had  not  died  without  a  friend  to  soothe 
His  last  and  lonely  moments. 

Ulr.  Who  says  thatf 

Ida.    What  ? 

Ulr.  That  he  died  alone. 

Ida.  The  general  rumor, 

And  disappearance  of  his  servants,  who 
Have  ne'er  returned :    that  fever  was  most 

deadly 
Which  swept  them  all  away. 

Ulr.  If  they  were  near  him, 

He  could  not  die  neglected  or  alone. 

Ida.  Alas !  what  is  a  menial  to  a  deathbed, 
When  the  dim  eye  rolls  vainly  round  for  what 
It  loves  ?  —  They  say  he  died  of  a  fever. 

Ulr.  Say! 

It  was  so. 

Ida.  I  sometimes  dream  otherwise. 

Ulr.    All  dreams  are  false. 

Ida.  And  yet  I  see  him  as 

I  see  you. 

Ulr.         Where? 

Ida.  In  sleep —  I  see  him  lie 

Pale,  bleeding,  and  a  man  with  a  raised  knife 
Beside  him. 

Ulr.  But  you  do  not  see  his  face? 

Ida  {looking  at  him).     No!     Oh,  my  GodI 
do  you  ? 

I  'lr.  Why  do  you  ask  ? 

Ida.     Because  you  look  as   if  you  saw  a 
murderer ! 


SCENE   I.] 


WERNER. 


749 


Ulr.  {agitatedly).     Ida,  this  is  mere  child- 
ishness ;  your  weakness 
infects  me,  to  my  shame ;  but  as  all  feelings 
Of  yours  are  common  to  me,  it  affects  me. 
Prithee,  sweet  child,  change 

Ida.  Child,  indeed !  I  have 

Full  fifteen  summers  !  \A  bugle  sounds. 

Rod.  Hark,  my  lord,  the  bugle  ! 

Ida  {peevishly  to   RODOLPH).     Why  need 
you  tell  him  that  ?     Can  he  not  hear  it 
Without  your  echo  ? 

Rod.  Pardon  me,  fair  baroness  ! 

Ida.     I  will  not  pardon  you,  unless  you  earn 
it 
By  aiding  me  in  my  dissuasion  of 
Count  Ulric  from  the  chase  to-day. 

Rod.  You  will  not, 

Lady,  need  aid  of  mine. 

Ulr.  I  must  not  now 

Forego  it. 

Ida.  But  you  shall ! 

Ulr.  Shall/ 

Ida.  Yes,  or  be 

«No  true  knight.  —  Come,  dear  Ulric!  yield  to 

me 
tn  this,  for  this  one  day  :  the  day  looks  heavy, 
And  you  are  turned  so  pale  and  ill. 

Ulr.  You  jest. 

Ida.     Indeed  I  do  not :  — ask  of  Rodolph. 

Rod.  Truly, 

My  lord,  within  this  quarter  of  an  hour 
You  have  changed  more  than  e'er  I  saw  you 

change 
In  years. 

Ulr.        'Tis  nothing ;  but  if  'twere,  the  air 
Would  soon  restore  me.     I'm  the  true  cha- 
meleon, 
'And  live  but  on  the  atmosphere  ;  your  feasts 
In  castle  halls,  and  social  banquets,  nurse  not 
My  spirit —  I'm  a  forester  and  breather 
Of  the  steep  mountain-tops,  where  I  love  all 
iThe  eagle  loves. 

Ida.  Except  his  prey,  I  hope. 

Ulr.     Sweet  Ida,  wish  me  a  fairchase,  and  I 
i  Will  bring  you  six  boars'  heads  for  trophies 
home. 

Ida.     And  will  you  not  stay,  then  ?     You 
shall  not  go ! 
Dome  !  I  will  sing  to  you. 

Ulr.  Ida,  you  scarcely 

Will  make  a  soldier's  wife. 

Ida.  I  do  not  wish 

To  be  so ;  for  I  trust  these  wars  are  over, 
And  you  will  live  in  peace  on  your  domains. 

£k^Werner  as  Count  Siegendorf. 

Ulr.     My  father,  I  salute  you,  and  it  grieves 
me 
With  such  brief  greeting.  —  You  have  heard 

our  bugle ; 
The  vassals  wait. 
Sieg.  So  let  them.  —  You  forget 


To-morrow  is  the  appointed  festival 

In  Prague  for  peace  restored.     You  axe  apt 

to  follow 
The  chase  with  such  an  ardor  as  will  scarce 
Permit  you  to  return  to-day,  or  if 
Returned,  too  much  fatigued  to  join  to-morrow 
The  nobles  in  our  marshalled  ranks. 

Ulr.  You,  count, 

Will  well  supply  the  place  of  both  —  I  am  not 
A  lover  of  these  pageantries. 

Sieg.  No,  Ulric: 

It  were  not  well  that  you  alone  of  all 

Our  young  nobility 

Ida.  And  far  the  noblest 

In  aspect  and  demeanor. 

Sieg.  {to  Ida).  True,  dear  child, 

Though  somewhat  frankly  said  for  a  fair  dam- 
sel.— 
But,  Ulric,  recollect  too  our  position, 
So  lately  reinstated  in  our  honors. 
Believe  me,  'twould  be  marked  in  any  house, 
But  most  in  ours,  that  one  should  be  found 

wanting 
At  such  a  time  and  place.     Besides,  the  Heaven 
Which  gave  us  back  our  own,  in  the  same 

moment 
It    spread   its    peace  o'er  all,   hath   double 

claims 
On  us  for  thanksgiving:  first,  for  our  country ; 
And  next,  that  we  are  here  to  share  its  bless- 
ings. 
Ulr.   {aside).   Devout,   too!      Well,   sir,  I 
obey  at  once. 

(  Then  aloud  to  a  Servant.) 
Ludwig,  dismiss  the  train  without ! 

[Exit  Ludwig. 
Ida.  And  so 

You  yield  at  once  to  him  what  I  for  hours 
Might  supplicate  in  vain. 

Sieg.  {smiling).  You  are  not  jealous 

Of  me,  I  trust,  my  pretty  rebel !  who 
Would  sanction  disobedience  against  all 
Except   thyself?      But   fear   not;    thou   shalt 

rule  him 
Hereafter  with  a  fonder  sway  and  firmer. 
Ida.     But  I  should  like  to  govern  now. 
Sieg.  You  shall, 

Your  harp,  which  by  the  way  awaits  you  with 
The  countess   in  her   chamber.      She  com- 
plains 
That  you  are  a  sad  truant  to  your  music : 
She  attends  you. 

Ida.     Then  good   morrow,  my  kind  kins- 
men! 
Ulric,  you'll  come  and  hear  me  ? 

Ulr.  By  and  by. 

Ida.    Be  sure  I'll  sound  it  better  than  your 
bugles ; 
Then  pray  you  be  as  punctual  to  its  notes  : 
I'll  play  you  King  Gustavus'  march. 

Ulr.  And  why  not 

Old  Tilly's  ? 


750 


WERNER. 


[ACT  IV. 


Ida.         Not  that  monster's  !   I  should  think 
My  harp-strings  rang   with  groans,  and   not 

with  music, 
Could  aught  of  his  sound  on  it :  —  but  come 

quickly  ! 
Your  mother  will  be  eager  to  receive  you. 

{Exit  Ida. 
Sieg.    Ulric,   I    wish   to    speak   with   you 

alone. 
Ulr.     My  time's  your  vassal. 
{Aside  to  RODOLPH.)   Rodolph,  hence!  and 

do 
As  I  directed  :  and  by  his  best  speed 
And  readiest  means  let  Rosenberg  reply. 
Rod.      Count   Siegendorf,   command    you 
aught  ?     I  am  bound 
Upon  a  journey  past  the  frontier. 

Sieg.  {starts).  Ah  !  — 

Where  ?  on  zvhat  frontier  ? 

Rod.  The  Silesian,  on 

My  way — {Aside  to  ULRIC.)  —  Where  shall 
I  sav  ? 
Ulr.   {aside  to  RODOLPH).  To  Hamburgh. 
{Aside  to  himself.)   That 
Word  will,  I  think,  put  a  firm  padlock  on 
His  further  inquisition. 

Rod.  Count,  to  Hamburgh. 

Sieg.  {agitated).  Hamburgh!     No,  I  have 
nought  to  do  there,  nor 
Am  aught  connected  with  that  city.     Then 
God  speed  you ! 

Rod.  Fare  ye  well,  Count  Siegendorf! 

[Exit  Rodolph. 
Sieg.     Ulric,  this    man,  who  has   just  de- 
parted, is 
One  of  those  strange   companions  whom  I 

fain 
Would  reason  with  you  on. 

Ulr.  My  lord,  he  is 

Noble  by  birth,  of  one  of  the  first  houses 
In  Saxony. 

Sieg.  I  talk  not  of  his  birth, 

But  of  his  bearing.   Men  speak  lightly  of  him. 
Ulr.     So  they  will  do  of  most  men.     Even 
the  monarch 
Is  not  fenced  from  his  chamberlain's  slander, 

or 
The  sneer  of  the  last  courtier  whom  he  has 

made 
Great  and  ungrateful. 

Sieg.  If  I  must  be  plain, 

The  world  speaks  more  than  lightly  of  this 

Rodolph  : 
They  say  he  is  leagued  with  the  "  black  bands  " 

who  still 
Ravage  the  frontier. 

Ulr.  And  will  you  believe 

The  world  ? 

Sieg.  In  this  case  —  yes. 

Ulr.  In  any  case, 

I  thought  you  knew  it  better  than  to  take 
An  accusation  for  a  sentence. 


Sieg.  Son ! 

I  understand  you  :  you  refer  to but 

My  Destiny  has  so  involved  about  me 
Her  spider  web,  that  I  can  only  flutter 
Like  the  poor  fly,  but  break  it  not.    Take  heed, 
Ulric ;  you  have  seen  to  what  the  passions  led 

me : 
Twenty  long  years  of  misery  and  famine 
Quenched  them  not  —  twenty  thousand  more. 

perchance, 
Hereafter  (or  even  here  in  moments  which 
Might  date  for  years,  did  Anguish  make  th« 

dial) 
May  not  obliterate  or  expiate 
The  madness  and  dishonor  of  an  instant. 
Ulric,  be  warned  by  a  father !  —  I  was  not 
By  mine,  and  you  behold  me! 

Ulr.  I  behold 

The  prosperous  and  beloved  Siegendorf, 
Lord  of  a  prince's  appanage,  and  honored 
By  those  he  rules  and  those  he  ranks  with. 

Sieg.  Ah ! 

Why  wilt  thou  call  me  prosperous,  while  I  fear 

For  thee  ?  Beloved,  when  thou  lovest  me  not ! 

All  hearts  but  one  may  beat  in  kindness  for 

me —  i 

But  if  «iy  son's  is  cold ! 

Ulr.  Who  dare  say  that  ? 

Sieg.     None  else  but  I,  who  see  it  — feel  it 
—  keener 
Than  would  your  adversary,  who  dared  say  so, 
Your  sabre  in  his  heart!     But  mine  survives 
The  wound. 

Ulr.  You  err.     My  nature  is  not  given 

To  outward  fondling:   how  should  it  be  so, 
After  twelve    years'    divorcement    from    my 
parents  ? 
Sieg.  And  did  not  /  too  pass  those  twelve 
torn  years 
In  a  like  absence  ?  But  'tis  vain  to  urge  you  — 
Nature    was    never   called   back   by   remon- 
strance. 
Let's  change  the  theme.     I  wish  you  to  con- 
sider 
That  these  young  violent  nobles  of  high  name, 
But  dark  deeds  (ay,  the  darkest,  if  all  Rumor 
Reports  be  true),  with  whom  thou  consortest, 

Will  lead  thee 

Ulr.  {impatiently).    I'll  be  led hy  no  man. 
Sieg.  Not 

Be  leader  of  such,  I  would  hope  :  at  once 
To  wean  thee  from  the  perils  of  thy  youth 
And  haughty  spirit,  I  have  thought  it  well 
That  thou  shouldst  wed  the  lady  Ida  —  more 
As  thou  appear 'st  to  love  her. 

Ulr.  I  have  said 

I  will  obey  your  orders,  were  they  to 
Unite  with  Hecate  —  can  a  son  say  more  ? 
Sieg.     He  says  too  much  in  saying  this.    II 
is  not 
The  nature  of  thine  age,  nor  of  thy  blood, 
Nor  of  thy  temperament,  to  talk  so  coolly, 


■,CENE  I.] 


WERNER. 


751 


}r  act  so  carelessly,  in  that  which  is 
The  bloom  or  blight  of  all  men's  happiness, 
For  Glory's  pillow  is  but  restless  if 
Love  lay  not  down  his  cheek  there)  :   some 

strong  bias, 
some  master  fiend  is  in  thy  service  to 
Misrule  the  mortal  who  believes  him  slave, 
\nd  makes  his  every  thought  subservient ;  else 
Thou'dst  say  at  once  —  "  I  love  young  Ida,  and 
Will  wed  her ;  "  or,  "  I  love  her  not,  and  all 
TTie  powers  of  earth  shall  never  make  me."  — 

So 
Would  I  have  answered. 

Ulr.  Sir,  you  wed  for  love  ? 

Sieg.     I  did,  and  it  has  been  my  only  refuge 
In  many  miseries. 

Ulr.  Which  miseries 

Had  never  been  but  for  this  love-match. 

Sieg.  Still 

Against  your  age  and  nature  !   Who  at  twenty 
E'er  answered  thus  till  now  ? 

Ulr.  Did  you  not  warn  me 

Against  your  own  example  ? 

Sieg.  Boyish  sophist ! 

In  a  word,  do  you  love,  or  love  not,  Ida  ? 

Ulr.     What  matters  it,  if  I  am  ready  to 
Obey  you  in  espousing  her  ? 

Sieg.  As  far 

As  you  feel,  nothing,  but  all  life  for  her. 
She's  young  —  all  beautiful  —  adores  you —  is 
Endowed  with  qualities  to  give  happiness, 
Such  as  rounds  common  life  into  a  dream 
Of  something  which  your  poets  cannot  paint, 
And  ( if  it  were  not  wisdom  to  love  virtue) 
For  which  Philosophy  might  barter  Wisdom  ; 
And  giving  so  much  happiness,  deserves 
A  little  in  return.     I  would  not  have  her 
Break  her  heart  for  a  man  who  has  none  to 

break ; 
Or  wither  on  her  stalk  like  some  pale  rose 
Deserted  by  the  bird  she  thought  a  nightin- 
gale, 
According  to  the  Orient  tale.     She  is 

Ulr.    The  daughter  of  dead  Stralenheim, 
your  foe. 
I'll  wed  her,  ne'ertheless  ;  though,  to  say  truth, 
Just  now  I  am  not  violently  transported 
In  favor  of  such  unions. 

Sieg.  But  she  loves  you. 

Ulr.     And  I  love  her,  and  therefore  would 
think  twice. 

Sieg.    Alas !    Love  never  did  so. 

Ulr,  Then  'tis  time 

He  should  begin,  and  take  the  bandage  from 
His  eyes,  and  look  before  he  leaps:  till  now 
He  hath  ta'en  a  jump  i'  the  dark. 

Sieg.  But  you  consent? 

Ulr.     I  did,  and  do. 

Sieg.  Then  fix  the  day. 

Ulr.  'Tis  usual, 

And  certes  courteous,  to  leave  that  to  the  lady. 

Sieg.    I  will  engage  for  her. 


Ulr.  So  will  not  / 

For  any  woman ;  and  as  what  I  fix, 
I  fain  would  see  unshaken,  when  she  gives 
Her  answer,  I'll  give  mine. 

Sieg.  But  'tis  your  office 

To  woo. 

Ulr.     Count,  'tis  a  marriage  of  your  making, 
So  be  it  of  your  wooing;  but  to  please  you 
I  will  now  pay  my  duty  to  my  mother, 
With  whom,  you  know,  the  lady  Ida  is. — 
What  would  you  have  ?    You  have  forbid  my 

stirring 
For  manly  sports  beyond  the  castle  walls, 
And  I  obey;  you  bid  me  turn  a  chamberer, 
To  pick  up  gloves,  and  fans,  and  knitting- 
needles, 
And  list  to  songs  and  tunes,  and  watch  for 

smiles, 
And  smile  at  pretty  prattle,  and  look  into 
The  eyes  of  feminine,  as  though  they  were 
The  stars  receding  early  to  our  wish 
Upon  the  dawn  of  a  world-winning  battle  — 
What  can  a  son  or  man  do  more  ? 

[Exit  Ulric. 
Sieg.  (solus).  Too  much  !  — ■ 

Too  much  of  duty  and  too  little  love ! 
He  pays  me  in  the  coin  he  owes  me  not: 
For  such  hath  been  my  wayward  fate,  I  could 

not 
Fulfil  a  parent's  duties  by  his  side 
Till  now ;  but  love  he  owes  me,  for  my  thoughts 
Ne'er  left  him,  nor  my  eyes  longed  without 

tears 
To  see  my  child  again,  arid  now  I  have  found 

him ! 
But   how  !  —  obedient,   but  with    coldness  ; 

duteous 
In  my  sight,  but  with  carelessness ;    mysteri- 
ous— 
Abstracted  — ■  distant  —  much   given   to   long 

absence, 
And  where  —  none  know  —  in  league  with  the 

most  riotous 
Of  our  young  nobles ;    though,  to  do   him 

justice, 
He  never  stoops  down  to  their  vulgar  pleas- 
ures ; 
Yet  there's  some  tie  between  them  which  ». 

cannot 
Unravel.     They   look  up  to   him  —  consult 

him  — 
Throng  round  him  as  a  leader :  but  with  me 
He  hath  no  confidence !     Ah !  can  I  hope  it 
After — what!  doth  my  father's  curse  descend 
Even  to  my  child  ?     Or  is   the  Hungarian 

near 
To  shed  more  blood?  or  —  Oh!  if  it  should 

be! 
Spirit  of  Stralenheim,  dost  thou  walk  these 

walls 
To  wither  him  and  his  —  who,  though  they 
slew  not, 


752 


WERNER. 


[act  rv. 


Unlatched  the  door  of  death  ior  thee  ?    'Twas 

not 
Our  fault,  nor  is  our  sin :  thou  wert  our  foe, 
And  yet  I  spared  thee  when  my  own  destruction 
Slept  with  thee,  to  awake  with   thine   awak- 
ening! 
And  only  took  —  Accursed  gold!  thou  liest 
Like  poison  in   my  hands ;    I   dare  not  use 

thee, 
Nor  part  from  thee ;   thou  earnest  in  such  a 

guise, 
Methinks  thou  wouldst  contaminate  all  hands 
Like  mine.    Yet  I   have  done,  to  atone  for 

thee, 
Thou  villanous  gold!  and  thy  dead  master's 

doom, 
Though  he  died  not  by  me  or  mine,  as  much 
As  if  he  were  my  brother  !     I  have  ta'en 
His  orphan  Ida  —  cherished  her  as  one 
Who  will  be  mine. 

Enter  an  ATTENDANT. 

Atten.  The  abbot,  if  it  please 

Your  excellency,  whom  you  sent  for,  waits 
Upon  you.  [Exit  ATTENDANT. 

Enter  the  Prior  Albert. 

Prior.       Peace  be  with  these  walls,  and  all 
Within  them ! 

Sieg.  Welcome,  welcome,  holy  father ! 

And  may  thy  prayer  be  heard !  —  all  men  have 

need 
Of  such,  and  I 

Prior.  'Have  the  first  claim  to  all 

The  prayers  of  our  community.    Our  convent, 
Erected  by  your  ancestors,  is  still 
Protected  by  their  children. 

Sieg.  Yes,  good  father  ; 

Continue  daily  orisons  for  us 
In  these  dim  days  of  heresies  and  blood, 
Though  the  schismatic  Swede,  Gustavus,  is 
Gone  home. 

Prior.     To  the  endless  home  of  unbelievers, 
Where  there  is  everlasting  wail  and  woe, 
Gnashing  of  teeth,  and  tears  of  blood,  and 

fire 
Eternal,  and  the  worm  which  dieth  not ! 

Sieg.     True,   father :    and    to    avert    those 
pangs  from  one, 
Who,  though  of  our  most  faultless  holy  church, 
Yet  died  without  its  last  and  dearest  offices, 
Which  smooth  the  soul  through  purgatorial 

pains, 
I  have  to  offer  humbly  this  donation 
In  masses  for  his  spirit. 

[SlEGENDORF  offers  the  gold  which  he  had 
taken  from,  STRALENHEIM. 

Prior.  Count,  if  I 

Receive  it,  'tis  because  I  know  too  well 
Refusal  would  offend  you.  Be  assured 
The  largess  shall  be  only  dealt  in  alms, 
And  every  mass  no  less  sung  for  the  dead. 


Our  house  needs   no  donations,  thanks   to 

yours, 
Which  has  of  old  endowed  it;  but  from  you 
And  yours  in  all  meet  things  'tis  fit  we  obey. 
For  whom  shall  mass  be  said  ? 

Sieg.  (faltering).        For  —  for — the  dead. 
Prior.     His  name? 

Sieg.  Tis  from  a  soul,  and  not  a  name 

I  would  avert  perdition. 

Prior.  I  meant  not 

To  pry  into  your  secret.     We  will  pray 
For    one    unknown,    the    same    as    for    the 
proudest. 
Sieg.     Secret !  I  have  none  ;  but,  father,  he 
who's  gone 
Might   have  one;   or,  in   short,  he   did   be- 
queathe— 
No,  not  bequeathe — but  I  bestow  this  sum 
For  pious  purposes. 

Prior.  A  proper  deed 

In  the  behalf  of  our  departed  friends. 
Sieg.     But  he  who's  gone  was  not  my  friend, 
but  foe, 
The  deadliest  and  the  stanchest. 

Prior.  Better  still ! 

To  employ  our  means  to  obtain  heaven  foi 

the  souts 
Of  our  dead  enemies  is  worthy  those 
Who  can  forgive  them  living. 

Sieg.  But  I  did  not 

Forgive  this  man.     I  loathed  him  to  the  last, 
As  he  did  me.     I  do  not  love  him  now, 

But 

Prior.    Best  of  all !  for  this  is  pure  religion  ! 
You   fain   would  rescue  him  you  hate  from 

hell  — 
An  evangelical  compassion  —  with 
Your  own  gold  too ! 

Sieg.  Father,  'tis  not  my  gold. 

Prior.     Whose  then  ?     You  said  it  was  no 

legacy. 
Sieg.     No  matter  whose  —  of  this  be  sure, 
that  he 
Who  owned  it  never  more  will  need  it,  save 
In  that  which  it  may  purchase  from  your  altars  : 
'Tis  yours,  or  theirs. 
Prior.  Is  there  no  blood  upon  it  ? 

Sieg,     No  ;  but  there's  worse  than  blood  — 

eternal  shame ! 
Prior.     Did  he  who  owned  it  die  in  his 

bed? 
Sieg.       Alas ! 
He  did. 

Prior.    Son !  you  relapse  into  revenge, 
If  you  regret  your  enemy's  bloodless  death. 
Sieg.     His  death  was  fathomlessly  deep  in 

blood. 
Prior.     You  said  he  died  in  bed,  not  battle, 
Sieg.  He 

Died,  I  scarce  know  —  but  —  he  was  stabbed 

i'  the  dark, 
And  now  you  have  it  —  perished  on  his  pillow 


SCENE   I.J 


WERNER. 


753 


By  a  cut-throat !  —  Ay !  —  you  may  look  upon 
me ! 

/  am  not  the  man.     I'll  meet  your  eye  on  that 
point, 

As  I  can  one  day  God's. 

Prior.  Nor  did  he  die 

By  means,  or  men,  or  instrument  of  yours  ? 
Sieg.     No!    by   the   God    who    sees    and 

strikes ! 
Prior.  Nor  know  you 

Who  slew  him  ? 

Sieg.  I  could  only  guess  at  one. 

And  he  to  me  a  stranger,  unconnected, 

As  unemployed.    Except  by  one  day's  knowl- 
edge, 

I  never  saw  the  man  who  was  suspected. 
Prior.     Then  you  are  free  from  guilt. 
Sieg.  {eagerly) .  Oh  !  am  I  ?  —  say. 

Prior.     You  have  said  so,  and  know  best. 
Sieg.  Father  !  I  have  spoken 

The  truth,  and  nought  but  truth,  if  not  the 
whole : 

Yet  say  I  am  not  guilty  !  for  the  blood 

Of  this  man  weighs  on  me,  as  if  I  shed  it, 

Though,  by  the    Power  who   abhorreth   hu- 
man blood, 

I    did    not !  —  nay,    once    spared    it,    when 
I   might 

And  could  —  ay,  perhaps,  should  (if  our  self- 
safety 

Be  e'er  excusable  in  such  defences 

Against  the  attacks  of  over-potent  foes)  : 

But    pray    for    him,    for    me,    and    all    my 
house ; 

For,  as  I  said,  though  I  be  innocent, 

I  know  not  why,  a  like  remorse  is  on  me, 

As  if  he  had  fallen  by  me  or  mine.     Pray  for 
me, 

Father  !  I  have  prayed  myself  in  vain. 

Prior.  I  will. 

I  Be    comforted !       You    are    innocent,    and 
should 

Be  calm  as  innocence. 

Sieg.  But  calmness  is  not 

Always  the  attribute  of  innocence. 

I  feel  it  is  not. 
Prior.  But  it  will  be  so, 

When  the  mind  gathers  up  its  truth  within 
it. 

Remember  the  great  festival  to-morrow, 

In  which  you  rank  amidst  our  chiefest  no- 
bles, 

As  well  as  your  brave  son  ;  and  smooth  your 
aspect, 

Nor  in  the  general  orison  of  thanks 

For  bloodshed  stopt,  let  blood  you  shed  not 
rise, 

A    cloud    upon   your  thoughts.      This  were 
to  be 

Too  sensitive.     Take  comfort,  and  forget 

Such   things,   and   leave   remorse    unto    the 
guilty.  [Exeunt. 


ACT  V. 

SCENE  I.  —  A  large  and  magnificent  Gothic 
Hall  in  the  Castle  of  Siegendorf,  decorated 
with  Trophies,  Banners,  and  Arms  of  that 
Family. 

Enter  ARNHEIM  and  MEISTER,  attendants  of 
Count  Siegendorf. 

Arn.    Be  quick !  the  count  will  soon  return  : 
the  ladies 
Already  are  at  the  portal.     Have  you  sent 
The  messengers  in  search  of  him  he  seeks 
for? 

Meis.  I  have,  in  all  directions,  over 
Prague, 
As  far  as  the  man's  dress  and  figure  could 
By  your  description  track  him.  The  devil  take 
These  revels  and  processions  !  All  the  pleasure 
(If  such  there  be)  must  fall  to  the  spectators. 
I'm  sure  none  doth  to  us  who  make  the  show. 

Arn.     Go  to  !  my  lady  countess  comes. 

Meis.  I'd  rather 

Ride  a  day's  hunting  on  an  outworn  jade, 
Than  follow  in  the  train  of  a  great  man 
In  these  dull  pageantries. 

Arn.  Begone  !  and  rail 

Within.  [Exeunt. 

Enter    the    COUNTESS    JOSEPHINE    SIEGEN- 
DORF and  Ida  Stralenheim. 

"Jos.    Well,  Heaven  be  praised,  the  show  is 

over. 
Ida.     How  can  you  say  so !  never  have  I 
dreamt 
Of   aught    so   beautiful.      The    flowers,  the 

boughs, 
The  banners,  and  the  nobles,  and  the  knights, 
The  gems,  the  robes,  the  plumes,  the  happy 

faces, 
The  coursers,  and  the  incense,  and  the  sun 
Streaming  through  the  stained  windows,  even 

the  tombs. 
Which    looked  so   calm,  and   the    celestial 

hymns, 
Which  seemed  as  if  they  rather  came  from 

heaven 
Than  mounted  there.     The  bursting  organ's 

peal 
Rolling  on  high  like  an  harmonious  thunder', 
The  white  robes  and  the  lifted  eyes  ;  the  world 
At  peace  !  and  all  at  peace  with  one  another! 
Oh,  my  sweet  mother ! 

[Embracing  JOSEPHINE. 
Jos.  My  beloved  child  ! 

For  such,  I  trust,  thou  shalt  be  shortly. 

Ida.  Oh  I 

I  am  so  already.     Feel  how  my  heart  beats ! 
Jos.     It  does,  my  love ;  and  never  may  it 
throb 
With  aught  more  bitter. 
Ida,  Never  shall  it  do  so' 


754 


WERNER. 


[act  V 


How   should    it?      What    should    make    us 

grieve  ?     I  hate 
To  hear  of  sorrow :  how  can  we  be  sad, 
Who  love  each  other  so  entirely  ?    You, 
The  count,  and  Ulric,  and  your  daughter  Ida. 

yos.     Poor  child ! 

Ida.  Do  you  pity  me? 

yos.  No ;  I  but  envy. 

And  that  in  sorrow,  not  in  the  world's  sense 
Of  the  universal  vice,  if  one  vice  be 
More  general  than  another. 

Ida.  I'll  not  hear 

A  word  against  a  world  which  still  contains 
You  and  my  Ulric.     Did  you  ever  see 
Aught  like  him  ?      How  he  towered  amongst 

them  all ! 
How  all  eyes  followed  him !     The  flowers  fell 

faster  — 
Rained   from   each    lattice   at   his   feet,   me- 

thought, 
Than  before  all  the  rest ;  and  where  he  trod 
I  dare  be  sworn  that  they  grow  still,  nor  e'er 
Will  wither. 

yos.  You  will  spoil  him,  little  flatterer, 

If  he  should  hear  you. 

Ida.  But  he  never  will. 

I  dare  not  say  so  much  to  him  —  I  fear  him. 

yos.    Why  so  ?  he  loves  you  well. 

Ida.  But  I  can  never 

Shape  my  thoughts  of  him  into  words  to  him. 
Besides,  he  sometimes  frightens  me. 

yos.  How  so  ? 

Ida.    A  cloud   comes   o'er  his   blue   eyes 
suddenly, 
Yet  he  says  nothing. 

yos.  It  is  nothing  :  all  men, 

Especially  in  these  dark  troublous  times, 
Have  much  to  think  of. 

Ida.  But  I  cannot  think 

Of  aught  save  him. 

yos.  Yet  there  are  other  men, 

In  the  world's  eye,  as  goodly.    There's,  for  in- 
stance, 
The  young  Count  Waldorf,  who  scarce  once 

withdrew 
His  eyes  from  yours  to-day. 

Ida.  I  did  not  see  him, 

But  Ulric.     Did  you  not  see  at  the  moment 
When   all  knelt,  and   I  wept  ?  and  yet  rae- 

thought, 
Through  my  fast  tears,  though  they  were  thick 

and  warm, 
I  saw  him  smiling  on  me. 

yos.  I  could  not 

See   aught  save  heaven,  to  which   my  eyes 

were  raised 
Together  with  the  people's. 

Ida.  I  thought  too 

Of  heaven,  although  I  looked  on  Ulric. 

yos.  Come, 

Let  us  retire ;  they  will  be  here  anon 
Expectant  of  the  banquet.    We  will  lay 


Aside   these  nodding  plumes  and  dragging 

trains. 
Ida.    And,  above  all,  these  stiff  and  heavy 

jewels, 
Which  make  my  head  and  heart  ache,  as 

both  throb 
Beneath  their  glitter  o'er  my  brow  and  zone. 
Dear  mother,  I  am  with  you. 

Enter  COUNT  SlEGENDORF,  in  full  dress, 
from  the  solemnity,  and  Luinvic. 

Sieg.  Is  he  not  found  ? 

Lud.     Strict  search  is  making  everywhere  , 
and  if 
The  man  be  in  Prague,  be  sure  he  wi"  be 
found. 
Sieg.     Where's  Ulric  ? 
Lud.  He  rode  round  the  other  way 

With  some  young  nobles ;  but  he  left  them 

soon ; 
And,  if  I  err  not,  not  a  minute  since 
I  heard  his  excellency,  with  his  train, 
Gallop  o'er  the  west  drawbridge. 

Enter  ULRIC,  splendidly  dressed. 

Sieg.  {to  Ludwig).  See  they  cease  not 

Their  quest  or  him  I  have  described. 

[Exit  Ludwig. 
Oh,  Ulric ! 
How  have  I  longed  for  thee ! 

Ulr.  Your  wish  is  granted  — 

Behold  me ! 

Sieg.  I  have  seen  the  murderer. 

Ulr.    Whom  ?     Where  ? 

Sieg.     The  Hungarian,  who  slew  Stralen- 
heim. 

Ulr.         You  dream. 

Sieg.        I  live !  and  as  I  live,  I  saw  him  — 
Heard  him  !  he  dared  to  utter  even  my  name. 

Ulr.    What  name  ? 

Sieg.  Werner !  'twas  mine. 

Ulr.  It  must  be  so 

No  more  :  forget  it. 

Sieg.  Never!  never!  all 

My  destinies  were  woven  in  that  name : 
It  will  not  be  engraved  upon  my  tomb, 
But  it  may  lead  me  there. 

Ulr.  To  the  point  —  the  Hungarian  ? 

Sieg.    Listen  !  —  The  church  was  thronged  ; 
the  hymn  was  raised ; 
"  Te  Deum"  pealed  from  nations,  rather  than 
From  choirs,  in  one  great  cry  of  "  God  be 

praised  " 
For  one  day's  peace,  after  thrice  ten  dread 

years, 
Each  bloodier  than  the  former:  I  arose, 
With  all  the  nobles,  and  as  I  looked  down 
Along  the  lines  of  lifted  faces,  —  from 
Our  bannered  and  escutcheoned  gallory,  I 
Saw,  like  a  flash  of  lightning  (for  I  saw 
A  moment  and  no  more),  what  struck  me 
sightless 


SCENE  I.] 


WERNER. 


755 


To  all  else  —  the  Hungarian's  face!     I  grew 
Sick ;  and  when  I  recovered  from  the  mist 
Which  curled  about  my  senses,  and  again 
Looked  down,  I  saw  him  not.    The  thanks- 
giving 

Was   over,  and  we   marched  back   in  pro- 
cession. 

Ulr.     Continue. 

Sieg.  When  we  reached  the  Muldau's 

bridge, 
The  joyous  crowd  above,  the  numberless 
Barks   manned  with   revellers   in  their  best 

garbs, 

Which  shot  alone  the  glancing  tide  below, 
The  decorated  street,  the  long  array, 
The  clashing  music,  and  the  thundering 
Of  far  artillery,  which  seemed  to  bid 
A  long  and  loud  farewell  to  its  great  doings, 
The  standards   o'er  me  and  the  tramplings 

round, 
The   roar   of   rushing   thousands,  —  all — all 

could  not 
Chase  this  man  from  my  mind,  although  my 

senses 
No  longer  held  him  palpable. 

Ulr.  You  saw  him 

No  more,  then  ? 

Sieg.  I  looked,  as  a  dying  soldier 

Looks  at  a  draught  of  water,  for  this  man : 
But  still  I  saw  him  not;  but  in  his  stead — ; — 

Ulr.     What  in  his  stead  ? 

Sieg.  My  eye  for  ever  fell 

Upon  your  dancing  crest ;  the  loftiest, 
As  on  the  loftiest  and  the  loveliest  head 
It  rose  the  highest  of  the  stream  of  plumes, 
Which   overflowed   the   glittering    streets    of 
Prague. 

Ulr.     What's  this  to  the  Hungarian  ? 

Sieg.  Much  ;  for  I 

Had  almost  then  forgot  him  in  my  son ; 
.When  just  as  the  artillery  ceased,  and  paused 
iThe  music,  and  the  crowd  embraced  in  lieu 
Of  shouting,  I  heard  in  a  deep,  low  voice, 
Distinct  and  keener  far  upon  my  ear 
Than  the  late  cannon's  volume,  this  word  — 
"  Werner  /" 

Ulr.     Uttered  by 

Sieg.  Him!  I  turned  —  and  saw  —  and  fell. 

Llr.     And  wherefore  ?     Were  you  seen  ? 

Sieg.  The  officious  care 

Of  those  around  me  dragged  me  from  the  spot, 
Seeing  my  faintness,  ignorant  of  the  cause  ; 
You,  too,  were  too  remote  in  the  procession 
(The   old  nobles  being   divided  from   their 

children) 
To  aid  me. 

Ulr.  But  I'll  aid  you  now. 

Sieg.  In  what  ? 

Ulr.     In   searching  for  this   man,  or 

When  he's  found, 
What  shall  we  do  with  him? 

Sieg.  I  know  not  that. 


Ulr.    Then  wherefore  seek  ? 

Sieg.  Because  I  cannot  rest 

Till  he  is  found.    His  fate,  and  Stralenheim's, 
And  ours,  seem  intertwisted !  nor  can  be 
Unravelled,  till 

Enter  an  ATTENDANT. 

Atten.  A  stranger  to  wah  on 

Your  excellency. 

Sieg.  Who  ? 

Atten.  He  gave  no  name. 

Sieg.     Admit  him,  ne'ertheless. 

[T/ie  Attendant  introduces  Gabor,  and 
afterwards  exit. 

Ah! 

Gab.  'Tis,  then,  Werner! 

Sieg.  {haughtily).   The  same  you  knew,  sir, 
by  that  name  ;  and  you  I 

Gab.    {looking  round).      I    recognize    you 
both  :  father  and  son, 
It  seems.     Count,  I  have  heard  that  you,  or 

yours, 
Have  lately  been  in  search  of  me :  I  am  here. 

Sieg.     I  have  sought  you,  and  have  found 
you :  you  are  charged 
(Your  own  heart  may  inform  you  why)  with 

such 
A  crime  as [He  pauses. 

Gab.  Give  it  utterance,  and  then 

I'll  meet  the  consequences. 

Sieg.  You  shall  do  so  — 

Unless 

Gab.  First,  who  accuses  me  ? 

Sieg.  All  things, 

If  not  all  men  :  the  universal  rumor  — 
My  own  presence  on  the  spot  —  the  place  — 

the  time  — 
And  every  speck  of  circumstance  unite 
To  fix  the  blot  on  you. 

Gab.  And  on  me  only? 

Pause  ere  you  answer :  is  no  other  name, 
Save  mine,  stained  in  this  business  ? 

Sieg.  Trifling  villain ! 

Who   play'st  with  thine   own  guilt !     Of  all 

that  breathe 
Thou  best  dost  know  the  innocence  of  him 
'Gainst  whom   thy  breath  would   blow  thy 

bloody  slander. 
But  I  will  talk  no  further  with  a  wretch, 
Further  than  justice  asks.    Answer  at  once 
And  without  quibbling,  to  my  charge. 

Gab.  'Tis  false ! 

Sieg.    Who  says  so  ? 

Gab.  I. 

Sieg.  And  how  disprove  it  ? 

Gab.  By 

The  presence  of  the  murderer. 

Sieg.  Name  him ! 

Gab.  He 

May  have  more  names  than  one.    Your  lord- 
ship had  so 
Once  on  a  time. 


756 


WERNER. 


[act  t. 


Sieg.  If  you  mean  me,  I  dare 

Your  utmost. 

Gab.  You  may  do  so,  and  in  safety ; 

J  know  the  assassin. 
Sieg.  Where  is  he  ? 

Gab.  {pointing  to  Ulric).         Beside  you! 
[ULRIC  rushes  forward    to  attack  GABOR ; 

SIEGENDORF  interposes. 
Sieg.     Liar  and  fiend !  but  you  shall  not  be 
slain  ; 
These  walls  are  mine,  and  you  are  safe  within 
them.  [He  turns  to  ULRIC. 

Ulric,  repel  this  calumny,  as  I 
Will  do.     I  avow  it  is  a  growth  so  monstrous, 
I  could   not   deem    it    earth-born :    but    be 

calm ; 
It  will  refute  itself.     But  touch  him  not. 

[ULRIC  endeavors  to  compose  himself. 
Gab.  Look  at  him,  count,  and  then  hear  me. 
Sieg.  [first  to  GABOR,  and  then  looking  at 

Ulric). 

I  hear  thee. 

My  God !  you  look 

Ulr.  How  ? 

Sieg.  As  on  that  dread  night 

When  we  met  in  the  garden. 

Ulr.  (composes  himself).        It  is  nothing. 
Gab.     Count,  you  are  bound  to  hear  me.     I 
came  hither 
Not  seeking  you,  but  sought.     When  I  knelt 

down 
Amidst  the  people  in  the  church,  I  dreamed 

not 
To  find  the  beggared  Werner  in  the  seat 
Of  senators  and  princes;  but  you  have  called 

me, 
And  we  have  met. 

Sieg.  Go  on,  sir. 

Gab.  Ere  I  do  so, 

Ailow  me  to  inquire  who  profited 
By  Stralenheim's  death  ?     Was't  I  —  as  poor 

as  ever; 
And  poorer  by  suspicion  on  my  name ! 
The  baron  lost  in  that  last  outrage  neither 
Jewels  nor  gold  ;  his  life  alone  was  sought, — 
A  life  which  stood  between  the  claims  of  others 
To  honors  and  estatesscarce  less  than  princely. 
Sieg.     These  hints,  as  vague  as  vain,  attach 
no  less 
To  me  than  to  my  son. 

Gab.  I  can't  help  that. 

But  let  the  consequence  alight  on  him 
Who  feels  himself  the  guilty  one  amongst  us. 
I  speak  to  you,  Count  Siegendorf,  because 
I  know  you  innocent,  and  deem  you  just. 
But  ere  I  can   proceed  —  dare  you    protect 

me  ? 
Da>e  you  command  me  ? 

fSlEGENDORFyfrtf  looks  at  the  Hungarian, 
and  then,  at  ULRIC,  who  has  unbuckled 
hi*  sabre,  and  is  drawing  lines  with  it  on 
the  floor  —  still  rn  its  sheath. 


Ulr.     [looks  at  his  father  and  says'). 

Let  the  man  go  ont 
Gab.     I  am  unarmed,  count  —  bid  your  soa 
lay  down 
His  sabre. 

Ulr.     {offers  it  to  him  contemptuously). 

Take  it. 
Gab.  No,  sir,  'tis  enough 

That  we  are  both   unarmed  —  I  would   not 

choose 
To  wear  a  steel  which  may  be  stained  with 

more 
Blood  than  came  there  in  battle. 

Ulr.     (casts  the  sabre  pom  him  in  contempt). 

It  —  or  some 

Such  other  weapon,  in  my  hands  —  spared 

yours 
Once  when  disarmed  and  at  my  mercy. 

Gab.  True  -~ 

I  have  not  forgotten  it :  you  spared  me  for 
Your  own  especial  purpose  —  to  sustain 
An  ignominy  not  my  own. 

Ulr.  Proceed. 

The  tale  is  doubtless  worthy  the  relater. 
But  is  it  of  my  father  to  hear  further  ? 

'  [To  Siegendorf. 

Sieg.  (takes  his  son  by  the  hand). 
My  son,  I  know  my  own  innocence,  and  doubt 

not 
Of  yours — but  I  have  promised  this  man  pa- 
tience. 
Let  him  continue. 

Gab.  I  will  not  detain  you 

By  speaking  of  myself  much  ;    I  began 
Life  early  —  and  am  what  the  world  has  mada 

me. 
At  Frankfort  on  the  Oder,  where  I  passed 
A  winter  in  obscurity,  it  was 
My  chance  at  several  places  of  resort 
(Which  I  frequented  sometimes  but  not  often) 
To  hear  related  a  strange  circumstance 
In  February  last.     A  martial  force, 
Sent  by  the  state,  had,  after  strong  resistance, 
Secured  a  band  of  desperate  men,  supposed 
Marauders  from   the  hostile   camp.  —  They 

proved, 
However,  not  to  be  so  —  but  banditti, 
Whom  either  accident  or  enterprise 
Had  carried  from   their  usual  haunt  —  the 

forests 
Which  skirt  Bohemia — even  into  Lusatia. 
Many  amongst  them  were  reported  of 
High  rank  —  and  martial  law  slept  for  a  time. 
At  last  they  were  escorted  o'er  the  frontiers, 
And  placed  beneath  the  civil  jurisdiction 
Of  the  free  town  of  Frankfort.     Of  their  fate, 
I  know  no  more. 
Sieg.  And  what  is  this  to  Ulric  ? 

Gab.    Amongst  them  there  was  said  to  ba 
one  man 
Of  wonderful  endowments :  —  birth  and  foe 
tune, 


sCENE   I.J 


WERNER. 


757 


Youth,   strength,  and  beauty,  almost  super- 
human, 
And  courage  as  unrivalled,  were  proclaimed 
His  by  the  public  rumor;  and  his  sway, 
Not  only  over  his  associates,  but 
'  His  judges,  was  attributed  to  witchcraft. 
Such  was  his  influence  :  —  I  have  no  great  faith 
In  any  magic  save  that  of  the  mine  — 
I  therefore  deemed  him  wealthy.  —  But  my  soul 
Was  roused  with  various  feelings  to  seek  out 
This  prodigy,  if  only  to  behold  him. 
Sieg.    And  did  you  so  ? 
Gab.        You'll  hear.     Chance  favored  me: 
A  popular  affray  in  the  public  square 
(Drew  crowds  together — it  was  one  of  those 
Occasions   where   men's   souls   look    out    of 

them, 
And  show  them  as  they  are  —  even  in  their 

faces : 
The  moment  my  eye  met  his,  I  exclaimed, 
"  This  is  the  man!  "  though  he  was  then,  as 

since, 
With  the  nobles  of  the  city.     I  felt  sure 
I  had  not  erred,  and  watched  him  long  and 

nearly. 
I  noted  down  his  form  —  his  gesture  —  fea- 
tures, 
Stature,  and  bearing  —  and  amidst  them  all, 
Midst  every  natural  and  acquired  distinction, 
I  could  discern,  methought,  the  assassin's  eye 
And  gladiator's  heart. 

Ulr.  {smiling).  The  tale  sounds  well. 

Gab.     And   may   sound    better. —  He   ap- 
peared to  me 
One  of  those  beings  to  whom  Fortune  bends 
As  she  doth  to  the  daring  —  and  on  whom 
The  fates  of  others  oft  depend;  besides, 
'An  indescribable  sensation  drew  me 
Near  to  this  man,  as  if  my  point  of  fortune 
I  Was  to  be  fixed  by  him.  —  There  I  was  wrong. 
Sieg.     And  may  not  be  right  now. 
Gab.  I  followed  him, 

Solicited  his  notice  —  and  obtained  it  — 
Though  not  his  friendship :  —  it  was  his  inten- 
tion 
To  leave  the  city  privately  —  we  left  it 
Together  —  and  together  we  arrived 
In   the   poor   town  where  Werner  was  con- 
cealed, 

And  Stralenheim  was  succored Now  we 

are  on 
The  verge  —  dare  you  hear  further  ? 

Sieg.  I  must  do  so  — 

Or  I  have  heard  too  much. 

Gab.  I  saw  in  you 

A  man  above  his  station  —  and  if  not 
So  high,  as  now  I  find  you,  in  my  then 
Conceptions,  'twas  that  I  had  rarely  seen 
Men  such  as  you  appeared  in  height  of  mind 
In  the  most  high  of  worldly  rank  ;  you  were 
Poor,  even  to  all   save  rags :  I  would   have 
shared 


My  purse,  though   slender,  with  you — you 
refused  it. 
Sieg.     Doth  my  refusal  make  a  debt  to  you. 
That  thus  you  urge  it  ? 

Gab.  Still  you  owe  me  something, 

Though  not  for  that ;  and    I  owed  you  my 

safety, 
At  least  my  seeming  safety,  when  the  slaves 
Of  Stralenheim  pursued  me  on  the  grounds 
That  /  had  robbed  him. 

Sieg.  I  concealed  you — I. 

Whom  and  whose  house  you  arraign,  reviving 
viper ! 
Gab.     I  accuse  no  man  —  save  in  my  de- 
fence. 
You,  count,   have  made  yourself  accuser  — 

judge : 
Your  hall's  my  court,  your  heart  is  my  tribunal. 
Be  just,  and  /'ll  be  merciful ! 

Sieg.  You  merciful ! 

You !     Base  calumniator ! 

Gab.  I.     'Twill  rest 

With  me  at  last  to  be  so.    You  concealed  me  — 
In  secret  passages  known  to  yourself, 
You  said,  and  to  none  else.     At  dead  of  night, 
Weary  with  watching  in  the  dark,  and  dubious 
Of  tracing  back  my  way,  I  saw  a  glimmer, 
Through  distant  crannies,  of  a  twinkling  light : 
I  followed  it,  and  reached  a  door — a  secret 
Portal  —  which  opened  to  the  chamber,  where, 
With   cautious  hand   and   slow,  having  first 

undone 
As  much  as  made  a  crevice  of  the  fastening, 
I  looked  through  and  beheld  a  purple  bed, 
And  on  it  Stralenheim  !  — 

Sieg.  Asleep !     And  yet 

You  slew  him !  —  Wretch  ! 

Gab.  He  was  already  slain, 

And  bleeding  like  a  sacrifice.     My  own 
Blood  became  ice. 

Sieg.  But  he  was  all  alone ! 

You  saw  none  else  ?    You  did  not  see  the ■ 

\He  pauses  from  agitation. 
Gab.  No, 

He,  whom  you  dare  not  name,  nor  even  I 
Scarce  dare  to  recollect,  was  not  then  in 
The  chamber. 
Sieg.  (to  Ulric).     Then,   my  boy!   thou 
art  guiltless  still  — 
Thou  bad'st  me  say  /was  so  once  —  Oh  !  now 
Do  thou  as  much ! 

Gab.  Be  patient !  I  can  not 

Recede  now,  though  it  shake  the  very  walls 
Which  frown  above  us.     You  remember,  —  or 
If  not,  your  son  does,  —  that  the  locks  were 

changed 
Beneath  his  chief  inspection  on  the  morn 
Which  led  to  this  same  night :  how  he  had 

entered 
He  best  knows  —  but  within  an  antechamber, 
The  door  of  which  was  half  ajar,  I  saw 
A  man  who  washed  his  bloody  hands,  and  oft 


758 


WERNER. 


With  stern  and  anxious  glance  gazed  back 

upon 
The  bleeding  body  —  but  it  moved  no  more. 
Sieg.     Oh  !  God  of  fathers  ! 
Gab.  I  beheld  his  features 

As  I  see   yours  —  but  yours  they  were  not, 

though 
Resembling  them — behold  them   in  Count 

Ulric's ! 
Distinct  as  I  beheld  them,  though  the  expres- 
sion 
Is  not  now  what  it  then  was; — but  it  was  so 
When  I  first  charged  him  with  the  crime  —  so 

lately. 

Sieg.     This  is  so 

Gab.  {interrupting  him).     Nay  —  but  hear 

me  to  the  end ! 
Now  you  must  do  so.  —  I  conceived  myself 
Betrayed  by  you  and  him  (for  now  I  saw 
There  was  some  tie  between  you)  into  this 
Pretended  den  of  refuge,  to  become 
The  victim  of  your  guilt ;  and  my  first  thought 
Was  vengeance :    but  though  armed  with  a 

short  poniard 
(Having  left  my  sword  without)  I  was  no  match 
For  him  at  any  time,  as  had  been  proved 
That  morning  —  either  in  address  or  force. 
I  turned,  and  fled  —  i'  the  dark  :  chance  rather 

than 
Skill  made  me  gain  the  secret  door  of  the  hall , 
And  thence  the  chamber  where  you  slept :  if  I 
Had  found  you  waking.  Heaven  alone  can  tell 
What  vengeance  and  suspicion  might  have 

prompted ; 
But  ne'er  slept  guilt  as  Werner  slept  that  night. 
Sieg.     And  yet  I  had  horrid  dreams !  and 

such  brief  sleep, 
The  stars  had  not  gone  down  when  I  awoke. 
Why  didst  thou  spare  me  ?     I  dreamt  of  my 

father  — 
And  now  my  dream  is  out ! 

Gab.  'Tis  not  my  fault, 

If  I  have  read  it.  —  Well!  I  fled  and  hid  me  — 
Chance  led  me  here  after  so  many  moons  — 
And  showed  me  Werner  in  Count  Siegendorf! 
Werner,  whom  I  had  sought  in  huts  in  vain, 
Inhabited  the  palace  of  a  sovereign  ! 
You  sought  me  and  have  found  me  —  now 

you  know 
My  secret,  and  may  weigh  its  worth. 

Sieg.  {after  a  pause).  Indeed! 

Gab.     Is  it  revenge  or  justice  which  inspires 
Your  meditation  ? 

Sieg.  Neither  —  I  was  weighing 

The  value  of  your  secret. 

Gab.  You  shall  know  it 

At   once: — When  you  were    poor,   and   I, 

though  poor, 
Rich  enough  to  relieve  such  poverty 
As  might  have  envied  mine,  I  offered  you 
My  purse  —  you  would  not  share  it: —  I'll 

be  franker 


With  you  :  you  are  wealthy,  noble,  trusted  by 

The  imperial  powers  —  you  understand  me  ? 

Sieg.  Yes. 

Gab.      Not   quite.    You   think  me   venal, 

and  scarce  true : 

'Tis  no  less  true,  however,  that  my  fortunes 

Have  made  me  both  at  present.    You  shall 

aid  me : 
I  would  have  aided  you  —  and  also  have 
Been  somewhat  damaged  in  my  name  to  save 
Yours  and  your  son's.    Weigh  well   what  I 
have  said. 
Sieg.     Dare  you  await  the  event  of  a  few 
minutes' 
Deliberation  ? 

Gab.  {casts  his  eyes  on  ULRIC,  who  is  lean- 
ing against  a  pillar).    If  I  should  do  so  ? 
Sieg.     I  pledge  my  life  for  yours.    With- 
draw into 
This  tower.  [Opens  a  turret  door. 

Gab.  {hesitatingly).  This  is  the  second  safe 
asylum 
You  have  offered  me. 

Sieg.  And  was  not  the  first  so  ? 

Gab.     I  know  not  that  even  now  —  but  will 
approve' 
The  second.     I  have  still  a  further  shield. — 
I  did  not  enter  Prague  alone ;  and  should  I 
Be  put  to  rest  with  Stralenheim,  there  are 
Some  tongues  without  will  wag  in  my  behalf. 
Be  brief  in  your  decision  ! l 

Sieg.  I  will  be  so.  — 

My  word  is  sacred  and  irrevocable 
Within  these  walls,  but  it  extends  no  further. 
Gab.     I'll  take  it  for  so  much. 
Sieg.  {points  to  ULRIC'S  sabre  still  upon 
the  ground).  Take  also  that  — 

I  saw  you  eye  it  eagerly,  and  him 
Distrustfully. 

Gab.  {takes  up  the  sabre).     I  will;  and  so 
provide 
To  sell  my  life  —  not  cheaply. 

[GABOR  goes  into  the  turret,  which  SlIGEN- 

DORF  closes. 
Sieg.  {advances  to  ULRIC).     Now,  Count 
Ulric ! 
For  son  I  dare  not  call  thee  —  What  say'st 
thou  ? 
Ulr.     His  tale  is  true. 
Sieg.  True,  monster ! 

Ulr.  Most  true,  father! 

And  you  did  well  to  listen  to  it :  what 
We  know,  we  can  provide  against.     He  must 
Be  silenced. 


1  ["  Gab.  I  have  yet  an  additional  security  —  I 
did  not  enter  Prague  a  solitary  individual;  and 
there  are  tongues  without  that  will  speak  for  me, 
although  I  should  even  share  the  fate  of  Stralen- 
heim. Let  your  deliberation  be  short."  —  "  Sieg: 
My  promise  is  solemn,  sacred,  irrevocable:  It  ex- 
tends not,  however,  beyond  these  walls."  —  MiA 
Lee.] 


SCENE  I.J 


WERNER. 


759 


Sieg.  Ay,  with  half  of  my  domains ; 

And  with  the  other  half,  could  he  and  thou 
|  Unsay  this  villany. 

Ulr.  It  is  no  time 

,  For  trifling  or  dissembling.     I  have  said 
liis  story's  true  ;  and  he  too  must  be  silenced. 

Sieg.     How  so  ? 

Ulr.      As  Stralenheim  is.    Are  you  so  dull 
As  never  to  have  hit  on  this  before  ? 
When  we  met  in  the  garden,  what  except 
Discovery  in  the  act  could  make  me  know 
His  death  ?     Or  had  the  prince's  household 

been 
Then  summoned,  would  the  cry  for  the  police 
Been  left  to  such  a  stranger  ?     Or  should  I 
Have  loitered  on  the  way  ?    Or,  could  you, 

Werner, 
The  object  of  the  baron's  hate  and  fears, 
Have  fled,  unless  by  many  an  hour  before 
Suspicion  woke  ?  I  sought  and  fathomed  you, 
Doubting  if  you  were  false  or  feeble  :  I 
Perceived  you  were  the  latter ;  and  yet  so 
Confiding  have  I  found  you,  that  I  doubted 
At  times  your  weakness.'1 

Sieg.  Parricide  !  no  less 

Than  common  stabber!     What  deed  of  my 

life, 
Or  thought  of  mine,  could  make  you  deem 

me  fit 
For  your  accomplice  ? 

Ulr.  Father,  do  not  raise 

The  devil  you  cannot  lay  between  us.     This 
Is  time  for  union  and  for  action,  not 
For  family  disputes.   While  you  were  tortured, 


1  [I  am  ready  to  allow  every  fair  license  to  dra- 
iraatic  verse;  but  still  it  must  have  more  than  the 
ibare  typographic  impress  of  metre.  Ten  syllables, 
counted  by  finger  and  thumb,  will  not  do.  None 
of  us  imagine  — 

Day  and  Martin 
To  prevent  fraud,  request  purchasers  to 
Look  on  the  signature  on  the  patent  Blacking 
Bottles,  etc.  — 

to  be  versification,  and  the  great  majority  of  the 
lines  in  this  tragedy  are  just  as  harmonious:  — e.g. 
— "  Ul.  He  too  must  be  silenced. —  IVer.  How 
so? —  Ul.  As  Stralenheim  is.  Are  you  so  dull 
as  never  to  have  hit  on  this  before?  When  we 
met  in  the  garden,  what  except  discovery  in  the 
act  could  make  me  know  his  death?  Or  had  the 
prince's  household  been  then  summoned,  would  the 
cry  for  the  police  been  left  to  such  a  stranger?  [Pietty 
English  this  last  sentence  by  the  by!]  Or  should 
I  have  loitered  on  the  way?  Or  could  you,  Wer- 
ner, the  object  of  the  baron's  hate  and  fears,  have 
fled  —  unless  by  many  an  hour  before  suspicion 
woke?  I  sought  and  fathomed  you,  doubting  if 
you  were  false  or  feeble :  I  perceived  you  were 
the  latter;  and  yet  so  confiding  have  I  found  you, 
that  I  doubted  at  times  your  weakness,"  e:_  etc. 
There  are  other  passages  still  more  prosaic.  Why 
they  are  printed  for  verse,  I  cannot  foi  the  life  of 
me  conjecture:  they  are  as  plain  prose  as  a  turn- 
pike act.  —  Dr.  Magztin.] 


Could  /  be  calm  ?    Think  you  that  I  have 

heard 
This  fellow's  tale  without   some   feeling  ?  — ■ 

You 
Have  taught  me  feeling  for  you  and  myself; 
For  whom  or  what  else  did  you  ever  teach  it  ? 
Sieg.     Oh!    my   dead  father's   curse!    'tis 

working  now. 
Ulr.     Let  it  work  on !  the  grave  will  keep 

it  down ! 
Ashes  are  feeble  foes  :  it  is  more  easy 
To  baffle  such,  than  countermine  a  mole, 
Which  winds  its  blind  but  living  path  beneath 

you. 
Yet  hear  me  still !  —  It  you  condemn  me,  yet 
Remember  who  hath  taught  me  once  too  often 
To  listen  to  him !      Who  proclaimed  to  me 
That  there  were  crimes  made  venial  by  the 

occasion  ? 
That  passion  was  our  nature  ?  that  the  goods 
Of  Heaven  waited  on  the  goods  of  fortune  ? 
Who  showed  me  his  humanity  secured 
By  his  nerves  only  ?      Who  deprived  me  of 
All  power  to  vindicate  myself  and  race 
In  open  day  ?     By  his  disgrace  which  stamped 
(It  might  be)  bastardy  on  me,  and  on 
Himself — a  felon's  brand!     The  man  who  is 
At  once  both  warm  and  weak  invites  to  deeds. 
He  longs  to  do,  but  dare  not.     Is  it  strange 
That  I  should  act  what  you  could  think?   We 

have  done 
With  right  and  wrong;  and  now  must  only 

ponder 
Upon  effects,  not  causes.     Stralenheim, 
Whose  life  I  saved  from  impulse,  as  unknown, 
I  would  have  saved  a  peasant's  or  a  dog's,  I 

slew 
Known  as  our  foe  —  but  not  from  vengeance. 

He 
Was  a  rock  in  our  way  which  I  cut  through, 
As  doth  the  bolt,  because  it  stood  between  us 
And  our  true  destination — but  not  idly. 
As  stranger  I  preserved  him,  and  he  owed  me 
His  life :  when  due,  I  but  resumed  the  debt. 
He,  you,  and  I  stood  o'er  a  gulf  wherein 
I  have  plunged  our  enemy.2    You  kindled  first 


2  ["  Ulr.  We  stood  on  a  precipice  down  which 
one  of  three  must  inevitably  have  plunged;  for  I 
will  not  deny  that  I  knew  my  own  situation  to  be 
as  critical  as  yours.  I  therefore  precipitated  Stra- 
lenheim !  You  held  the  torch !  You  pointed  out 
the  path !  Show  me  now  that  of  safety ;  or  let  me 
show  it  you !  — 

Sieg.  I  have  done  with  life ! 

Ulr.     Let  us  have  done  with  retrospection.     We 

have  nothing  more  either  to  learn  or  to  conceal 

from  each   other.      I  have  courage  and  partisans; 

they  are  even  within  the  walls,  though  you  do  not 

know  them.     Keep  your  own  secret.     Preserve  an 

unchanged   countenance.       Without    your   further 

|  interference  I  will  forever  secure  you  from  the  in- 

i  discretion    of  a  third   person,"   etc.   etc.  —  Miss 

\LeeA 


760 


WERNER. 


The  torch  — you  showed  the  path  ;  now  trace 

me  that 
Of  safety  —  or  let  me ! 
Sieg.  I  have  done  with  life ! 

Ulr.     Let  us  have  done  with  that  which 

cankers  life  — 
Familiar  feuds  and  vain  recriminations 
Of  things  which  cannot  be  undone.   We  have 
No  more  to  learn  or  hide:  I  know  no  fear, 
And  have  within  these  very  walls  men  who 
(Although  you  know  them  not)  dare  venture 

all  things. 
You  stand  high  with  the  state ;  what  passes  here 
Will  not  excite  her  too  great  curiosity : 
Keep  your  own  secret,  keep  a  steady  eye, 
Stirnot,  and  speak  not;  —  leave  the  rest  to 

me : 
We  must  have  no  third  babblers  thrust  be- 
tween us.  [Exit  ULRIC. 
Sieg.  {solus) .     Am  I  awake  ?  are  these  my 

father's  halls  ? 
And  you  —  my  son  ?   My  son  !    mine  !    who 

have  ever 
Abhorred  both  mystery  and  blood,  and  yet 
Am  plunged  into  the  deepest  hell  of  both  ! 
I  must  be  speedy,  or  more  will  be  shed  — 
The  Hungarian's  ! — Ulric  —  he  hath  partisans, 
It  seems :   I   might  have   guessed   as   much. 

Oh  fool ! 
Wolves  prowl  in  company.     He  hath  the  key 
(As  I  too)  of  the  opposite  door  which  leads 
Into  the  turret.     Now  then  !  or  once  more 
To  be  the  father  of  fresh  crimes,  no  less 
Than  of  the  criminal !     Ho  !   Gabor !  Gabor ! 
[Exit  into  the  turret,  closing  the  door  after 

him. 

SCENE    II. —  The  Interior  of  the  Turret. 
Gabor  and  Siegendorf. 

Gab.     Who  calls  ? 

Sieg.    I  —  Siegendorf!  Take  these,  and  fly  ! 
Lose  not  a  moment ! 

[  Tears  off  a  diamond  star  and  other  jewels, 
and  thrusts  them  into  GABOR'S  hand. 

Gab.  What  am  I  to  do 

With  these  ? 

Sieg.  Whate'er  you  will :  sell  them,  or  hoard, 
And  prosper  ;  but  delay  not,  or  you  are  lost ! 

Gab.  You  pledged  your  honor  for  my  safety  ! 

Sieg.  And 

Must  thus  redeem  it.     Fly!  I  am  not  master, 
It  seems,  of  my  own  castle  —  of  my  own 
Retainers —  nay,  even  of  these  very  walls, 
Or  I  would  bid  them  fall  and  crush  me  !•  Fly ! 
Or  you  will  be  slain  by 

Gab.  Is  it  even  so  ? 

Farewell,  then!     Recollect,  however,  Count, 
You  sought  this  fatal  interview ! 

Sieg.  I  did : 

Let  it  not  be  more  fatal  still !  —  Begone ! 

Gab.    By  the  same  path  I  entered  ? 


Sieg.  Yes ;  that's  safe  still, 

But  loiter  not  in  Prague ;  —  you  do  not  know 
With  whom  you  have  to  deal. 

Gab.  I  know  too  well  — 

And  knew  it  ere  yourself,  unhappy  sire ! 
Farewell !  [Exit  GaBok.. 

Sieg.  {solus  and  listening).    He  hath  cleared 
the  staircase.    Ah  !  I  hear 
The  door  sound  loud  behind  him  !  He  is  safe ! 
Safe  ! —  Oh,  my  father's  spirit ! —  I  am  faint —  — 

[He  leans  down  upon  a  stone  seat,  near  the 
wall  of  the  tower,  in  a  drooping  posture. 

Enter  ULRIC,  with  others   armed,   and  with 
iveapons  drawn. 

Ulr,     Despatch !  —  he's  there ! 

Lud.  The  count,  my  lord  5 

Ulr.  {recognizing  SIEGENDORF).  You  here, 

sir! 
Sieg.    Yes :   if  you  want   another    victim, 

strike ! 
Ulr.  {seeing  himstript  of  his  jewels) .   Where 
is  the  ruffian  who  hath  plundered  you  ? 
Vassals,  despatch  in  search  of  him  !  You  see 
'Twas  as  I,  said — the  wretch  hath  stript  my 

father 
Of  jewels  which  might  form  a  prince's  heir- 
loom ! 
Away  !   I'll  follow  you  forthwith. 

[Exeunt  all  £m/*'Siegendorf  and  ULRIC. 
What's  this  ? 
Where  is  the  villain  ? 

Sieg.  There  are  two,  sir :  which 

Are  you  in  quest  of  ? 

Ulr.  Let  us  hear  no  more 

Of  this  :  he  must  be  found.    You  have  not  let 
him  escape  ? 
Sieg.     He's  gone. 

Ulr.  With  your  connivance  ? 

Sieg.  Witb 

My  fullest,  freest  aid. 

Ulr.  Then  fare  you  well ! 

[Ulric  is  going. 
Sieg.    Stop!     I  command  —  entreat  —  im- 
plore!    Oh,  Ulric! 
Will  you  then  leave  me  ? 

Ulr.  What !   remain  to  be 

Denounced  —  dragged,  it  may  be,  in  chains; 

and  all 
By  your  inherent  weakness,  half-humanity, 
Selfish  remorse,  and  temporizing  pity, 
That  sacrifices  your  whole  race  to  save 
A  wretch  to  profit  by  our  ruin  !     No,  count, 
Henceforth  you  have  no  son  ! 

Sieg.  I  never  had  one ; 

And  would  you  ne'er  had  borne  the  useless 

name ! 
Where  will  you  go  ?     I  would  not  send  you 

forth 
Without  protection. 

Ulr.  Leave  that  unto  me. 

I  am  not  alone ;  nor  merely  the  vain  heir 


DON  JUAN. 


761 


Of  your  domains  ;  a  thousand,  ay,  ten  thousand 
Swords,  hearts,  and  hands,  are  mine. 

Sieg.  The  foresters ! 

With  whom  the  Hungarian  found  you  first  at 

Frankfort ! 
Ulr.    Yss  —  men  —  who  are  worthy  of  the 

name !  Go  tell 
Vour  senators  that  they  look  well  to  Prague ; 
Their  feast  of  peace  was  early  for  the  times  ; 
There  are  more  spirits  abroad  than  have  been 

laid 
With  Wallenstein ! 

Enter  JOSEPHINE  and  IDA. 

Jos.     What  is't  we  hear  ?     My  Siegendorf, 
Thank  Heaven,  I  see  you  safe ! 

Sieg.  Safe ! 

Ida.  Yes,  dear  father ! 

Sieg.    No.no;    I  have  no  children:  never 
more 
Call  me  by  that  worst  name  of  parent. 

Jos.  What 

Means  my  good  lord  I 


Sieg.  That  you  have  given  birth 

To  a  demon ! 

Ida.     {taking  ULRIC'S  hand).     Who  shall 

dare  say  this  of  Ulric  ? 
Sieg.    Ida,  beware !  there's-blood  upon  that 

hand. 
Ida.  {stooping  to  kiss  it).     I'd   kiss   it  off, 

though  it  were  mine. 
Sieg.  It  is  so ! 

Ulr.    Away !  it  is  your  father's ! 

[Exit  Ulric. 
Ida.  Oh,  great  God  ! 

And  I  have  loved  this  man ! 

[IDA  falls    senseless — JOSEPHINE  stands 

speechless  with  horror. 
Sieg.  The  wretch  hath  slain 

Them  both!  —  My  Josephine!    we  are  now 

alone ! 
Would  we  had  ever  been  so !  — All  is  over 
For  me !  —  Now    open    wide,    my    sire,    thy 

grave ; 
Thy  curse  hath  dug  it  deeper  for  thy  son 
In  mine !  —  The  race  of  Siegendorf  is  past. 


DON   JUAN. 


FRAGMENT 

On  the  back  of  the  Poet's  MS.  of  Canto  I. 

I  WOULD  to  heaven  that  I  were  so  much  clay, 
As   I   am   blood,  bone,   marrow,  passion, 
feeling — 
Because  at  least  the  past  were  passed  away  — 
And  for  the  future —  (but  I  write  this  reel- 
ing, 
Having  got  drunk  exceedingly  to-day, 

So  that  I  seem  to  stand  upon  the  ceiling) 
{  say — the  future  is  a  serious  matter  — 
\nd  so — for  God's  sake  —  hock  and   soda- 
water  1 


DEDICATION. 

I. 
Bob    Southey  !      You're    a    Poet  —  Poet- 
laureate, 
And  representative  of  all  the  race, 
Although  'tis  true  that  you  turned  out  a  Tory  at 


Last,  —  yours  has  lately  been  a  common 
case,  — 
And  now,  my  Epic  Renegade !  what  are  ye  at  ? 

With  all  the  Lakers,  in  and  out  of  place  ? 
A  nest  of  tuneful  persons,  to  my  eye 
Like  "  four  and  twenty  Blackbirds  in  a  pye ; 

II. 
"  Which  pye  being  opened  they  began  to  sing" 
(This  old  song  and  new  simile  holds  good), 
"A  dainty  dish  to  set  before  the  King," 

Or   Regent,   who    admires    such    kind   of 
food ;  — ■ 
And  Colejidge,  too,  has  'aiely  taken  wing, 
But    like   a   hawk    encumbered    with    his 
hood, — 
Explaining  metaphysics  to  the  nation  — 
I  wish  he  would  explain  his  Explanation. 


You,  Bob  !  are  rather  insolent,  you  know, 
At  being  disappointed  in  your  wish 

To  supersede  all  warblers  here  below, 
And  be  the  only  Blackbird  in  the  dish ; 


762 


DON  JUAN. 


And  then  you  overstrain  yourself,  or  so, 

And  tumble  downward  like  the  flying  fish 
Gasping  on  deck,  because  you  soar  too  high, 

Bob, 
And  fall,  for  lack  of  moisture  quite  a-dry,  Bob  ! 


And  Wordsworth,  in  a  rather  long  "  Excur- 
sion " 
(I    think   the   quarto   holds   five    hundred 
pages), 
Has  given  a  sample  from  the  vasty  version 
Of  his  new  system  to  perplex  the  sages ; 
'Tis  poetry  —  at  least  by  his  assertion, 
And    may  appear  so  when    the   dog-star 
rages  — 
And  he  who  understands  it  would  be  able 
To  add  a  story  to  the  Tower  of  Babel. 

V. 

You  —  Gentlemen!  by  dint  of  long  seclusion 
From  better  company,  have  kept  your  own 

At   Keswick,     and,   through   still    continued 
fusion 
Of  one  another's  minds,  at  last  have  grown 

To  deem  as  a  most  logical  conclusion, 
That  Poesy  has  wreaths  for  you  alone : 

There  is  a  narrowness  in  such  a  notion, 

Which   makes   me  wish  you'd   change  your 
lakes  for  ocean. 


I  would  not  imitate  the  petty  thought, 

Nor  coin  my  self-love  to  so  base  a  vice, 
For  all  the  glory  your  conversion  brought, 
Since  gold  alone  should  not  have  been  its 
price. 
You   have  your  salary ;    was't   for  that  you 
wrought  ? 
And  Wordsworth  has  his  place  in  the  Ex- 
cise. 
You're  shabby  fellows  — ■  true  —  but  poets  still, 
And  duly  seated  on  the  immortal  hill. 

vn. 
Vbur  bays   may  hide   the   boldness   of  your 
brows  — 
Perhaps  some  virtuous  blushes  ;  — let  them 
go  — 
To  you  I  envy  neither  fruit  nor  boughs  — 

And  for  the  fame  you  would  engross  below, 
The  field  is  universal,  and  allows 

Scope  to  all  such  as  feel  the  inherent  glow  : 
Scott,  Rogers,  Campbell,  Moore,  and  Crabbe, 

will  try 
'Gainst  you  the  question  with  posterity. 

VIII. 

^or    me,    who,  wandering  with    pedestrian 
Muses, 
Contend  not  with  you  on  the  winged  steed. 


I    wish    your    fate    may  yield  ye,  when  sin 
chooses, 

The  fame  you  envy,  and  the  skill  you  need ; 
And  recollect  a  poet  nothing  loses 

In  giving  to  his  brethren  their  full  meed 
Of  merit,  and  complaint  of  present  days 
Is  not  the  certain  path  to  future  praise. 


He  that  reserves  his  laurels  for  posterity 
(Who  does  not  often  claim  the  bright  re- 
version) 
Has  generally  no  great  crop  to  spare  it,  he 
Being  only  injured  by  his  own  assertion  ; 
And  although  here  and  there  some  glorious 
rarity 
Arise  like  Titan  from  the  sea's  immersion, 
The  major  part  of  such  appellants  go 
To  —  God  knows  where  —  for  no  one  else  can 
know. 

x. 
If  fallen  in  evil  days  on  evil  tongues, 

Milton  appealed  to  the  Avenger,  Time, 
If  Time,  the  Avenger,  execrates  his  wrongs, 
And   ma*kes   the  word   "  Miltonic "    mean 
"  sublime" 
He  deigned  not  to  belie  his  soul  in  songs, 

Nor  turn  his  very  talent  to  a  crime ; 
He  did  not  loathe  the  Sire  to  laud  the  Son, 
But  closed  the  tyrant-hater  he  begun. 

XI. 
Think'st    thou,    could   he— the    blind    Old 
Man  —  arise 
Like  Samuel  from  the  grave,  to  freeze  once 
more 
The  blood  of  monarchs  with  his  prophecies, 

Or  be  alive  again  —  again  all  hoar 
With  time  and  trials,  and  those  helpless  eyes, 
And  heartless  daughters  —  worn  —  and  pale 
—  and  poor; 
Would  he  adore  a  sultan  ?  he  obey 
The  intellectual  eunuch  Castlereagh  ? 

XII. 
Cold-blooded, smooth-faced, placid  miscreant! 

Dabbling  its  sleek  young  hands  in  Erin's 
gore, 
And  thus  for  wider  carnage  taught  to  pant, 

Transferred  to  gorge  upon  a  sister  shore, 
The  vulgarest  tool  that  Tyranny  could  want, 

With  just  enough  of  talent,  and  no  more, 
To  lengthen  fetters  by  another  fixed, 
And  offer  poison  long  already  mixed. 

XIII. 

An  orator  of  such  set  trash  of  phrase 

Ineffably — legitimately  vile, 
That  even  its  grossest  flatterers  dare  not  praise 

Nor   foes  —  all    nations  —  condescend   tt 
smile, — 


DON  JUAN: 


763 


Not  even  a  sprightly  blunder's  spark  can  blaze 
From  that  Ixion  grindstone's  ceaseless  toil, 
That  turns  and  turns  to  give  the  world  a  notion 
Of  endless  torments  and  perpetual  motion. 


A  bung.er  even  in  its  disgusting  trade, 
And  botching,  patching,  leaving  still  behind 

Something  of  which  its  masters  are  afraid, 
States   to  be  curbed,  and   thoughts   to  be 
confined, 

Conspiracy  or  Congress  to  be  made  — 
Cobbling  at  manacles  for  all  mankind  — 

A    tinkering    slave-maker,  who    mends    old 
chains, 

With  God  and  man's  abhorrence  for  its  gains. 

XV. 
If  we  may  judge  of  matter  by  the  mind, 

Emasculated  to  the  marrow  It 
Hath  but  two  objects,  how  to  serve,  and  bind, 

Deeming  the  chain  it  wears  even  men  may 
fit, 
Eutropius  of  its  many  masters,  —  blind 

To  worth  as  freedom,  wisdom  as  to  wit, 
Fearless  —  because  no  feeling  dwells  in  ice, 
Its  very  courage  stagnates  to  a  vice. 


XVI. 
Where   shall    I    turn    me    not    to    view    its 
bonds, 
For  I  will  never  feel  them  ;  —  Italy  ! 
Thy  late  reviving  Roman  soul  desponds 
Beneath  the  lie  this   State-thing  breathed 
o'er  thee  — 
Thy   clanking    chain,  and  Erin's  yet  green 
wounds, 
Have   voices  —  tongues   to   cry  aloud   for 
me. 
Europe  has  slaves  —  allies — kings  —  armies 

still, 
And  Southey  lives  to  sing  them  very  ill. 

XVII. 

Meantime  —  Sir    Laureate  —  I    proceed    to 
dedicate, 
In  honest  simple  verse,  this  song  to  you. 
And,  if  in  flattering  strains  I  do  not  predi- 
cate, 
'Tis  that  I  still  retain  my  "  buff  and  blue ;  " 
My  politics  as  yet  are  all  to  educate : 

Apostasy's  so  fashionable,  too, 
To  keep  one  creed's  a  task  grown  quite  Her- 
culean ; 
Is  it  not  so,  my  Tory,  ultra-Julian  ? 
Venice,  September  16,  1818. 


CANTO  THE   FIRST. 


I. 

I  WANT  a  hero :  an  uncommon  want, 

When  every  year  and  month  sends  forth  a 
new  one, 

Till,  after  cloying  the  gazettes  with  cant, 
The  age  discovers  he  is  not  the  true  one ; 

Of  such  as  these  I  should  not  care  to  vaunt, 
I'll  therefore,  take  our  ancient  friend  Don 
Juan  — 

We  all  have  seen  him,  in  the  pantomime, 

Sent  to  the  devil  somewhat  ere  his  time. 

II. 
Vernon,    the    butcher    Cumberland,    Wolfe, 
Hawke, 
Prince  Ferdinand,  Granby,  Burgoyne,  Kep- 
pel,  Howe, 
Evil  and  good  have  had  their  tithe  of  talk, 
And  filled  their  sign-posts  then,  like  Welles- 
ley  now, 
Each  in  their  turn  like  Banquo's  monarchs 
stalk, 
Followers  of  fame,  "  nine  farrow  "  of  thaf 
sow: 
France,     too,    had    Buonaparte     and    Dr 

mourier 
Recorded  in  the  Moniteur  and  Courier. 


HI. 

Barnave,  Brissot,  Condorcet,  Mirabeau, 
Petion,  Clootz,  Danton,  Marat,  La  Fayette, 

Were  French,  and  famous  people,  as  we  know  ; 
And  there  were  others,  scarce  forgotten  yet, 

Joubert,   Hoche,  Marceau,   Lannes,  Desaix, 
Moreau, 
With  many  of  the  military  set, 

Exceedingly  remarkable  at  times, 

But  not  at  all  adapted  to  my  rhymes. 

IV. 
Nelson  was  once  Britannia's  god  of  war, 

And  still  should  be  so,  but  the  tide  is  turned : 
There's  no  more  to  be  said  of  Trafalgar, 

'Tis  with  our  hero  quietly  inurned ; 
Because  the  army's  grown  more  popular, 

At  which  the  naval  people  are  concerned ; 
Besides,  the  prince  is  all  for  the  land-service, 
Forgetting  Duncan,  Nelson,  Howe,  and  Jervis. 


Brave  men  were  living  before  Agamemnon 
And  since,  exceeding  valorous  and  sage, 

A  good  deal  like  him  too,  though  quite  the 
same  none  ; 
But  then  they  shone  not  on  the  poet's  pagt; 


764 


DON  JUAN. 


And  so  have  been  forgotten :  —  I  condemn 
none, 
But  can't  find  any  in  the  present  age 
Fit  for  my  poem  (that  is,  for  my  new  one) ; 
So,  as  I  said,  I'll  take  my  friend  Don  Juan. 

VI. 

Most  epic  poets  plunge  "  in  medias  res  " 
(Horace   makes   this  the   heroic   turnpike 
road), 

And  then  your  hero  tells,  whene'er  you  please, 
What  went  before  —  by  way  of  episode, 

While  seated  after  dinner  at  his  ease, 
Beside  his  mistress  in  some  soft  abode, 

Palace,  or  garden,  paradise,  or  cavern, 

Which  serves  the  happy  couple  for  a  tavern. 


That  is  the  usual  method,  but  not  mine  — 
My  way  is  to  begin  with  the  beginning ; 

The  regularity  of  my  design 

Forbids  all  wandering  as  the  worst  of  sin- 
ning, 

And  therefore  I  shall  open  with  a  line 

(Although  it  cost  me  half  an  hour  in  spin- 
ning) 

Narrating  somewhat  of  Don  Juan's  father, 

And  also  of  his  mother,  if  you'd  rather. 

VIII. 

In  Seville  was  he  born,  a  pleasant  city, 
Famous  for  oranges  and  women  —  he 

Who  has  not  seen  it  will  be  much  to  pity, 
So  says  the  proverb  —  and  I  quite  agree  ; 

Of  all  the  Spanish  towns  is  none  more  pretty, 
Cadiz  perhaps  —  but   that   you  soon  may 
see .  — 

Don  Juan's  parents  lived  beside  the  river, 

A  noble  stream,  and  called  the  Guadalquivir. 

IX. 

His  father's  name  was  J6se — Don,  of  course, 

A  true  Hidalgo,  free  from  every  stain 
Of  Moor  or  Hebrew  blood,  he  traced  his  source 
Through   the    most   Gothic    gentlemen   of 
Spain ; 
A  better  cavalier  ne'er  mounted  horse, 

Or,  being  mounted,  e'er  got  down  again, 
Than  J6se,  who  begot  our  hero,  who 
Begot  —  but  that's  to  come Well,  to  re- 
new: 

X. 

His  mother  was  a  learned  lady,  famed 

For  every  branch  of  every  science  known  — 

In  every  Christian  language  ever  named, 
With  virtues  equalled  by  her  wit  alone 

She  made  the  cleverest  people  quite  ashamed, 
And  even  the  good  with  inward  envy  groan, 

Finding  themselves  so  very  much  exceeded 

In  their  own  way  by  all  the  things  that  she  did. 


Her  memory  was  a  mine  :  she  knew  by  heart 
All  Calderon  and  greater  part  of  Lope, 

So  that  if  any  actor  missed  his  part 
She  could  have  served  him  for  the  promp- 
ter's copy ; 

For  her  Feinagle's  were  an  useless  art, 
And  he  himself  obliged  to  shut  up  shop  —  he 

Could  never  make  a  memory  so  fine  as 

That  which  adorned  the  brain  of  Donna  Inez. 


Her  favorite  science  was  the  mathematical, 
Her  noblest  virtue  was  her  magnanimity, 
Her  wit  (she  sometimes  tried  at  wit)  was  At- 
tic all, 
Her  serious  sayings  darkened  to  sublimity ; 
In  short,  in  all  things  she  was  fairly  what  I  call 
A  prodigy  —  her  morning  dress  was  dimity, 
Her  evening  silk,  or,  in  the  summer,  muslin, 
And  other  stuffs,  with  which  I  won't  stay  puz- 
zling. 

XIII. 
She   knew  the   Latin — that  is,  "the  Lord's 
prayer,"  r 
And   Greek  —  the   alphabet — I'm   nearly 
sure; 
She  read  some  French  romances  here  and 
there, 
Although  her  mode  of  speaking  was  not 
pure ; 
For  native  Spanish  she  had  no  great  care, 

At  least  her  conversation  was  obscure ; 
Her  thoughts  were   theorems,   her  words  a 

problem, 
As  if  she  deemed  that  mystery  would  ennoble 
'em. 

XIV. 

She  liked  the  English  and  the  Hebrew  tongue, 

And  said  there  was  analogy  between  'em  ; 
She  proved  it  somehow  out  of  sacred  song, 
But  I  must  leave  the  proofs  to  those  who've 
seen  'em, 
But  this  I  heard  her  say,  and  can't  be  wrong. 
And  all  may  think  which  way  their  judg- 
ments lean  'em, 
"  'Tis    strange  —  the     Hebrew    noun    which 

means  '  I  am,' 
The  English  always  used  to  govern  d  —  n." 


Some  women  use  their  tongues  —  she  looked 
a  lecture, 

Each  eye  a  sermon,  and  her  brow  a  homily, 
An  all-in-all-sufficient  self-director, 

Like  the  lamented  late  Sir  Samuel  Romilly, 
The  Law's  expounder,  and  the  State's  correo 
tor, 

Whose  suicide  was  almost  an  anomaly  — 
One  sad  example  more,  that  "  All  is  vanity,"  — 
(The  jury  brought  their  verdict  in  "  Insanity.") 


DON  JUAN. 


765 


XVI. 
In  short,  she  was  a  walking  calculation, 
Miss  Edgeworth's  novels  stepping  from  their 
covers, 
Or  Mrs.  Trimmer's  books  on  education, 
Or  "  Ccelebs'  Wife "   set   out   in   quest   of 
lovers, 
Morality's  prim  personification, 

In  which  not  Envy's  self  a  flaw  discovers  ; 
To  others'  share  let  "  female  errors  fall," 
For  she  had  not  even  one  —  the  worst  of  all. 

XVII. 
Oh  !  she  was  perfect  past  all  parallel  — 

Of  any  modern  female  saint's  comparison  ; 
So  far  above  the  cunning  powers  of  hell, 
Her  guardian  angel  had  given  up  his  gar- 
rison ; 
Even  her  minutest  motions  went  as  well 
As  those  of  the  best  time-piece  made  by 
Harrison : 
In  virtues  nothing  earthly  could  surpass  her, 
Save  thine  "  incomparable  oil,"  Macassar! 

XVIII. 
Perfect  she  was,  but  as  perfection  is 

Insipid  in  this  naughty  world  of  ours, 
Where  our  first  parents  never  learned  to  kiss 
Till    they   were   exiled    from   their  earlier 
bowers, 
Where  all  was  peace,  and   innocence,  and 
bliss 
(I  wonder  how  they  got  through  the  twelve 
hours) 
Don  Jose,  like  a  lineal  son  of  Eve, 
Went  plucking  various  fruit  without  her  leave. 


He  was  a  mortal  of  the  careless  kind, 

With   no  great   love   for   learning,  or  the 
learned, 

Who  chose  to  go  where'er  he  had  a  mind, 
And  never  dreamed  his  lady  was  concerned  ; 

The  world,  as  usual,  wickedly  inclined 
To  see  a  kingdom  or  a  house  o'erturned, 

Whispered  he  had  a  mistress,  some  said  two, 

But  for  domestic  quarrels  one  will  do. 


Now  Donna  Inez  had,  with  all  her  merit, 
A  great  opinion  of  her  own  good  qualities  ; 

Neglect,  indeed,  requires  a  saint  to  bear  it, 
And  such,  indeed,  she  was  in  her  moralities  ; 

But  then  she  had  a  devil  of  a  spirit, 
And  sometimes  mixed  up  fancies  with  real- 
ities, 

And  let  few  opportunities  escape 

Of  getting  her  liege  lord  into  a  scrape. 

XXI. 

This  was  an  easy  matter  with  a  man 
Oft  in  the  wrong,  and  never  on  his  guard ;  .[ 


And  even  the  wisest,  do  the  best  they  can, 
Have  moments,  hours,  and  days,  so  unpre- 
pared, 
That  you  might  "  brain  them  with  their  lady's 
fan  ;  " 
And  sometimes  ladies  hit  exceeding  hard, 
And  fans  turn  into  falchions  in  fair  hands, 
And  why  and  wherefore  no  one  understands. 


'Tis  pity  learned  virgins  ever  wed 

With  persons  of  no  sort  of  education, 

Or  gentlemen,  who,  though  wellborn  and  bred, 
Grow  tired  of  scientific  conversation  : 

I  don't  choose  to  say  much  upon  this  head, 
I'm  a  plain  man,  and  in  a  single  station,  • 

But  —  Oh!  ye  lords  of  ladies  intellectual, 

Inform  us   truly,  have  they  not  hen-pecked 
you  all  ? 

XXIII. 
Don  Jose  and  his  lady  quarrelled  —  why. 

Not  any  of  the  many  could  divine, 
Though  several  thousand  people  chose  to  try, 

'Twas  surely  no  concern  of  theirs  nor  mine  ; 
I  loathe  that  low  vice  —  curiosity; 

But  if  there's  any  thing  in  which  I  shine, 
'Tis  in  arranging  all  my  friends'  affairs, 
Not  having,  of  my  own,  domestic  cares. 

XXIV. 
And  so  I  interfered,  and  with  the  best 

I  ntentions,  but  their  treatment  was  not  kind ; 
I  think  the  foolish  people  were  possessed, 

For  neither  of  them  could  I  ever  find, 
Although  their  porter  afterwards  confessed  — 

But  that's  no  matter,  and  the  worst's  behind, 
For  little  Juan  o'er  me  threw,  down  stairs, 
A  pail  of  housemaid's  water  unawares. 

XXV. 

A  little  curly-headed,  good-for-nothing, 

And    mischief-making    monkey   from    his 
birth ; 
His  parents  ne'er  agreed  except  in  doting 

Upon  the  most  unquiet  imp  on  earth ; 
Instead   of  quarrelling,  had   they   been   but 
both  in 
Their  senses,  they'd  have  sent  young  mas- 
ter forth 
To  school,  or  had  him  soundly  whipped  af 

home, 
To  teach  him  manners  for  the  time  to  come. 

XXVI. 

Don  J6se  and  the  Donna  Inez  led 

For  some  time  an  unhappy  sort  of  life, 

Wishing  each  other,  not  divorced,  but  dead  ; 
They  lived  respectably  as  man  and  wife, 

Their  conduct  was  exceedingly  well-bred, 
And  gave  no  outward  signs  of  inward  strife 

Until  at  length  the  smothered  fire  broke  out, 

And  put  the  business  past  all  kind  of  doubt. 


766 


DON  JUAN. 


For  Inez  called  some  druggists  and  physicians, 
And  tried  to  prove  her  loving  lord  was  mad. 

But  as  he  had  some  lucid  intermissions, 
She  next  decided  he  was  only  bad ; 

Vet  when  they  asked  her  for  her  depositions, 
No  sort  of  explanation  could  be  had, 

Save  that  her  duty  both  to  man  and  God 

Required  this  conduct — which  seemed  very 
odd. 

XXVIII. 

She  kept  a  journal,  where  his  faults  were  noted, 
And  opened  certain  trunks  of  books  and 
letters, 
All    which    might,   if   occasion    served,    be 
quoted ; 
And  then  she  had  all  Seville  for  abettors, 
Besides    her    good   old    grandmother   (who 
doted) ; 
The  hearers  of  her  case  became  repeaters, 
Then  advocates,  inquisitors,  and  judges, 
Some  for  amusement,  others  for  old  grudges. 

XXIX. 

And  then  this  best  and  meekest  woman  bore 

With  such  serenity  her  husband's  woes, 
J»st  as  the  Spartan  ladies  did  of  yore, 

Who  saw  their  spouses  killed,  and  nobly 
chose 
Never  to  say  a  word  about  them  more  — 

Calmly  she  heard  each  calumny  that  rose, 
And  saw  his  agonies  with  such  sublimity, 
That  all  the  world  exclaimed,  "  What  magna- 
nimity 1  " 

XXX. 

No  doubt  this  patience,  when  the  world  is 
damning  us, 
Is  philosophic  in  our  former  friends ; 
'Tis  also  pleasant  to   be  deemed  magnani- 
mous, 
The  more  so  in  obtaining  our  own  ends ; 
And  what  the  lawyers  call  a  "  ma/us  animus  " 
Conduct   like  this  by  no  means   compre- 
hends : 
Revenge  in  person's  certainly  no  virtue, 
But  then  'tis  not  my  fault,  if  others  hurt  you. 

XXXI. 

And  if  our  quarrels  should  rip  up  old  stories, 
And  help  them  with  a  lie  or  two  additional, 
I'm  not   to   blame,  as  you  well  know  —  no 
more  is 
Any  one   else  —  they  were  become   tradi- 
tional ; 
3esides,  their  resurrection  aids  our  glories 
By  contrast,  which   is  what  we  just  were 
wishing  all : 
And  science  profits  by  this  resurrection  — 
Dead  scandals  form  good  subjects  for  dis- 
section. 


XXXII. 

Their  friends  had  tried  at  reconciliation, 
Then   their  relations,   who  made    matters 
worse, 

("Twere  hard  to  tell  upon  a  like  occasion 
To  whom  it  may  be  best  to  have  recourse— 

I  can't  say  much  for  friend  or  yet  relation)  : 
The  lawyers  did  their  utmost  for  divorce, 

But  scarce  a  fee  was  paid  on  either  side 

Before,  unluckily,  Don  J6se  died. 

XXXIII. 

He  died  :  and  most  unluckily,  because, 
According  to  all  hints  I  could  collect 

From  counsel  learned  in  those  kinds  of  laws, 
(Although  their  talk's  obscure  and  circum- 
spect) 

His  death  contrived  to  spoil  a  charming  cause , 
A  thousand  pities  also  with  respect 

To  public  feeling,  which  on  this  occasion 

Was  manifested  in  a  great  sensation. 


But  ah  !  he  cjied ;  and  buried  with  him  lay 
The  public  feeling  and  the  lawyers'  fees  : 

His  house  was  sold,  his  servants  sent  away, 
A  Jew  took  one  of  his  two  mistresses, 

A  priest  the  other  - — at  least  so  they  say : 
I  asked  the  doctors  after  his  disease  — 

He  died  of  the  slow  fever  called  the  tertian, 

And  left  his  widow  to  her  own  aversion. 

XXXV. 

Yet  J6se  was  an  honorable  man, 

That  1  must  say,  who  knew  him  very  well ; 
Therefore  his  frailties  I'll  no  further  scan, 

Indeed  there  were  not  many  more  to  tell: 
And  if  his  passions  now  and  then  outran 
Discretion,  and  were  not  so  peaceable 
As    Numa's    (who   was    also    named    Pom- 

pilius), 
He  had  been  ill  brought  up,  and  was  born 
bilious. 

xxxvi. 
Whate'er  might  be  his  worthlessness  or  worth, 
Poor  fellow !  he  had  many  things  to  wound 
him. 
Let's  own  —  since    it   can   do   no    good    on 
earth  — 
It  was  a  trying  moment  that  which  found  him 
Standing  alone  beside  his  desolate  hearth, 
Where  all  his  household  gods  lay  shivered 
round  him. 
No  choice  was  left  his  feelings  or  his  pride, 
Save  death   or   Doctors'  Commons  —  so  he 
died. 

XXXVII. 
Dying  intestate,  Juan  was  sole  heir 
To   a  chancery  suit,  and   messuages,  and 
lands, 


DON  JUAN. 


761 


Which,  with  a  long  minority  and  care, 
Promised  to  turn  out  well  in  proper  hands : 

Inez  became  sole  guardian,  which  was  fair, 
And  answered  but  to  nature's  just  demands ; 

An  only  son  left  with  an  only  mother 

Is  brought  up  much  more  wisely  than  another. 

XXXVIII. 

Sagest  of  women,  even  of  widows,  she 

Resolved    that    Juan    should    be    quite   a 
paragon, 
find  worthy  of  the  noblest  pedigree: 
(His   sire  was  of  Castile,   his  dam   from 
Aragon.) 
Then  for  accomplishments  of  chivalry, 
In  case  our  lord  the  king  should  go  to  war 
again, 
He  learned  the  arts  of  riding,  fencing,  gun- 
nery, 
And  how  to  scale  a  fortress  —  or  a  nunnery. 

xxxix. 

But  that  which  Donna  Inez  most  desired, 
And  saw  into  herself  each  day  before  all 

The  learned  tutors  whom  for  him  she  hired, 
Was,  that  his  breeding  should  be  strictly 
moral : 

Much  into  all  his  studies  she  inquired, 
And  so  they  were  submitted  first  to  her,  all, 

Arts,  sciences,  no  branch  was  made  a  mystery 

To  Juan's  eyes,  excepting  natural  history. 

XL. 

The  languages,  especially  the  dead, 

The  sciences,  and  most  of  all  the  abstruse. 

The  arts,  at  least  all  such  as  could  be  said 
To  be  the  most  remote  from  common  use, 

In  all  these  he  was  much  and  deeply  read; 
But  not  a  page  of  anything  that's  loose, 

Or  hints  continuation  of  the  species, 

Was  ever  suffered,  lest  he  should  grow  vicious. 

XLI. 

His  classic  studies  made  a  little  puzzle, 
Because  of  filthy  loves  of  gods  and  goddesses, 

Who  in  the  earlier  ages  raised  a  bustle, 
But  never  put  on  pantaloons  or  bodices  ; 

His  reverend  tutors  had  at  times  a  tussle, 
And  for  their  ^Eneids,  Iliads,  and  Odysseys, 

Were  forced  to  make  an  odd  sort  of  apology, 

For  Donna  Inez  dreaded  the  Mythology. 

XLI  I. 

Ovid's  a  rake,  as  half  his  verses  show  him, 
Anacreon's  morals  are  a  still  worse  sample, 

Catullus  scarcely  has  a  decent  poem, 

I  don't  think  Sappho's  Ode  a  good  example, 

Although  Longinus  tells  us  there  is  no  hymn 
Where  the  sublime  soars  forth  on  wir<?s 
more  ample ; 


But  Virgil's  songs  are  pure,  except  that  horrid 

one 
Beginning  with  "  Formosum  Pastor  Corydon." 


Lucretius'  irreligion  is  too  strong 

For   early  stomachs,  to  prove  wholesome 
food ; 
I  can't  help  thinking  Juvenal  was  wrong, 

Although  no  doubt  his  real  intent  was  good, 
For  speaking  out  so  plainly  in  his  song, 

So  much  indeed  as  to  be  downright  rude ; 
And  then  what  proper  person  can  be  partial 
To  all  those  nauseous  epigrams  of  Martial  ? 


Juan  was  taught  from  out  the  best  edition, 
Expurgated  by  learned  men,  who  place, 

Judiciously,  from  out  the  schoolboy's  vision, 
The  grosser  parts  ;  but  fearful  to  deface 

Too  much  their  modest  bard  by  this  omission, 
And  pitying  sore  his  mutilated  case, 

They  only  add  them  all  in  an  appendix, 

Which  saves,  in  fact,  the  trouble  of  an  index; 


For  there  we  have  them  all  "  at  one  fell  swoop," 
Instead    of    being    scattered   through   the 
pages ; 

They  stand  forth  marshalled  in  a  handsome 
troop, 
To  meet  the  ingenuous  youth  of  future  ages, 

Till  some  less  rigid  editor  shall  stoop 

To  call  them  back  into  their  separate  cages, 

Instead  of  standing  staring  altogether, 

Like  garden  gods  — and  not  so  decent  either. 


The  Missal  too  (it  was  the  family  Missal) 
Was  ornamented  in  a  sort  of  way 

Which  ancient  mass-books  often  are,  and  this 
all 
Kinds  of  grotesques  illumined ;   and  how 
they, 

Who  saw  those  figures  on  the  margin  kiss  all, 
Could  turn  their  optics  to  the  text  and  pray, 

Is  more  than  I  know  —  but  Don  Juan's  mother 

Kept  this  herself,  and  gave  her  son  another. 

XLVII. 
Sermons  he  read,  and  lectures  he  endured, 
And  homilies,  and  lives  of  all  the  saints  ; 
To  Jerome  and  to  Chrysostom  inured, 

He  did  not  take  such  studies  for  restraints ; 
But  how  faith  is  acquired,  and  then  insured, 

So  well  not  one  of  the  aforesaid  paints 
As  Saint  Augustine  in  his  fine  Confessions, 
Which  makes  the  reader  envy  his  transgra* 
sions. 

XLVIII. 

This,  too,  was  a  sealed  book  to  little  )uan  — 

7  can't  but  say  that  his  mamma  was  right, 


768 


DON  JUAN. 


If  such  an  education  was  the  true  one. 

She  scarcely  trusted  him  from  out  her  sight ; 
Her  maids  were  old,  and  if  she  took  a  new  one, 

You  might  be  sure  she  was  a  perfect  fright, 
She  did  this  during  even  her  husband's  life  — 
I  recommend  as  much  to  every  w  ife. 

XLIX. 

Young  Juan  waxed  in  goodliness  and  grace ; 
i     At  six  a  charming  child,  and  at  eleven 
I  With  all  the  promise  of  as  fine  a  face 

As  e'er  to  man's  maturer  growth  was  given  : 
He  studied  steadily,  and  grew  apace. 
And  seemed,  at  least,  in  the  right  road  to 
heaven, 
For  half  his  days  were  passed  at  church,  the 

other 
Between  his  tutors,  confessor,  and  mother. 

L. 

At  six,  I  said,  he  was  a  charming  child, 
At  twelve  he  was  a  fine,  but  quiet  boy ; 

Although  in  infancy  a  little  wild, 
They  tamed  him  down  amongst  them :   to 
destroy 

His  natural  spirit  not  in  vain  they  toiled. 
At  least  it  seemed  so  ;  and  his  mother's  joy 

Was  to  declare  how  sage,  and  still,  and  steady, 

Her  young  philosopher  was  grown  already. 


I  had  my  doubts,  perhaps  I  have  them  still, 
But  what  I  say  is  neither  here  nor  there  : 

I  knew  his  father  well,  and  have  some  skill 
In  character  —  but  it  would  not  be  fair 

From  sire  to  son  to  augur  good  or  ill : 
He  and  his  wife  were  an  ill-sorted  pair, 

But  scandal's  my  aversion  —  I  protest 

Against  all  evil  speaking,  even  in  jest. 

LII. 
For  my  part  I  say  nothing — nothing  —  but 

This  I  will  say  —  my  reasons  are  my  own  — 
That  if  I  had  an  only  son  to  put 
To  school  (as  God  be  praised  that  I  have 
none), 
'Tis  not  with  Donna  Inez  I  would  shut 
Him  up  to  learn  his  catechism  alone, 
No — no — I'd  send  him  out  betimes  to  col- 
lege, 
For  there  it  was  I  picked  up  my  own  knowl- 
edge. 

LIII. 
For  there  one  learns  —  'tis  not  for  me  to  boast, 
Though  I  acquired  —  but  I  pass  over  that. 
As  well  as  all  the  Greek  I  since  have  lost : 
I  say  that  there's  the  place  —  but  "  Verbum 
sat," 
I  think  I  picked  up  too,  as  well  as  most, 
Knowledge    of    matters  —  but    no    matter 
what— 


I  never  married — but,  I  think,  I  know 
That  sons  should  not  be  educated  so. 


Young  Juan  now  was  sixteen  years  of  age 
Tall,  handsome,  slender,  but  well  knit:  ha 
seemed 

Active,  though  not  so  sprightly,  as  a  page ; 
And  every  body  but  his  mother  deemed 

Him  almost  man ;  but  she  flew  in  a  rage 
And  bit  her  lips  (for  else  she  might  have 
screamed) 

If  any  said  so,  for  to  be  precocious 

Was  in  her  eyes  a  thing  the  most  atrocious. 

LV. 
Amongst  her  numerous  acquaintance,  all 

Selected  for  discretion  and  devotion, 
There  was  the  Donna  Julia,  whom  to  call 

Pretty  were  but  to  give  a  feeble  notion 
Of  many  charms  in  her  as  natural 

As  sweetness  to  the  flower,  or  salt  to  ocean, 
Her  zone  to  Venus,  or  his  bow  to  Cupid, 
(But  this  lasf  simile  is  trite  and  stupid). 


The  darkness  of  her  Oriental  eye 
Accorded  with  her  Moorish  origin; 

(Her  blood  was  not  all  Spanish,  by  the  by ; 
In  Spain,  you  know,  this  is  a  sort  of  sin). 

When  proud  Granada  fell,  and,  forced  to  fly, 
Boabdil  wept,  of  Donna  Julia's  kin 

Some  went  to  Africa,  some  stayed  in  Spain, 

Her  great  great  grandmamma  chose  to  re- 
main. 

LVII. 

She  married  (I  forget  the  pedigree) 

With  an  Hidalgo,  who  transmitted  down 
His  blood  less  noble  than  such  blood  should 
be; 
At  such  alliances  his  sires  would  frown, 
In  that  point  so  precise  in  each  degree 
That   they  bred   in   and  in,  as   might   be 
shown, 
Marrying  their  cousins  —  nay,  their  aunts,  and 

nieces, 
Which  always  spoils  the  breed,  if  it  increases. 

LVIII. 
This    heathenish   cross  restored    the  breed 
again, 
Ruined   its  blood,  but  much  improved  its 
flesh ; 
For  from  a  root  the  ugliest  in  Old  Spain 

Sprung  up  a  branch  as  beautiful  as  fresh ; 
The  sons  no  more  were  short,  the  daughterj 
plain ; 
But  there's  a  rumor  which  I  fain  would  hush, 
'Tis  said  that  Donna  Julia's  grandmamma 
Produced  her  Don  more  heirs  at  love  tfcafl 
law. 


DON  JUAN. 


769 


LIX. 

However  this  might  be,  the  race  went  on 
Improving  still  through  every  generation, 

Until  it  centred  in  an  only  son, 
Who  left  an  only  daughter;  my  narration 

May  have  suggested  that  this  single  one 
Could  be  but  Julia  (whom  on  this  occasion 

I  shall  have  much  to  speak  about),  and  she 

Was  married,  charming,  chaste,  and  twenty- 
three. 

LX. 

•Her  eye  (I'm  very  fond  of  handsome  eyes) 
Was  large  and  dark,  suppressing  half  its 
fire 
I  Until  she  spoke,  then  through  its  soft  disguise 
Flashed  an  expression  more  of  pride  than 
ire, 
And  love  than  either;  and  there  would  arise 
A  something  in  them  which  was  not  desire, 
But  would  have  been,  perhaps,  but  for  the  soul 
Which  struggled  through  and  chastened  down 
the  whole. 

LXI. 

|  Her  glossy  hair  was  clustered  o'er  a  brow 
Bright    with    intelligence,    and    fair,    and 
smooth ; 

I  Her  eyebrow's  shape  was  like  the  aerial  bow, 
Her  cheek  all  purple  with  the  beam  of  youth, 

|  Mounting,  at  times,  to  a  transparent  glow, 
As  if  her  veins  ran  lightning;  she,  in  sooth, 

|  Possessed  an  air  and  grace   by  no   means 
common  : 

I  Her  stature  tall  —  I  hate  a  dumpy  woman. 


i  Wedded  she  was  some  years,  and  to  a  man 
Of  fifty,  and  such  hu^ands  are  in  plenty ; 
And  yet,  I  think,  instead  of  such  a  ONE 
'Twere  better  to   have  two  of  five-and- 
twenty, 
Especially  in  countries  near  the  sun  : 

And  now  I  think  on't,  "  mi  vien  in  mente," 
Ladies  even  of  the  most  uneasy  virtue 
Prefer    a    spouse    whose    age    is    short    of 
thirty. 

LXIII. 

Tis  a  sad  thing,  I  cannot  choose  but  say, 
And  all  the  fault  of  that  indecent  sun, 

Who  cannot  leave  alone  our  helpless  clay, 
But  will  keep  baking,  broiling,  burning  on, 

That  howsoever  people  fast  and  pray, 
The  flesh  is  frail,  and  so  the  soul  undone : 

What  men  call  gallantry,  and  gods  adultery, 

Is  much  more  common  where  the  climate's 
sultry. 

LXIV. 

Happy  the  nations  of  the  moral  North! 

Where  all  is  virtue,  and  the  winter  season 
-Bends  sin,  v  ithout  a  rag  on,  shivering  forth 


('Twas  snow  that  brought  St.  Anthony  to 
reason)  ; 
Where  juries  cast  up  what  a  wife  is  worth, 
By  laying  whate'er    sum,    in    mulct,    they 
please  on 
The  lover,  who  must  pay  a  handsome  price, 
Because  it  is  a  marketable  vice. 


Alfonso  was  the  name  of  Julia's  lord, 

A  man  well  looking  for  his  years,  and  who 

Was  neither  much  beloved  nor  yet  abhorred  . 
They  lived  together,  as  most  people  do, 

Suffering  each  other's  foibles  by  accord, 
And  nut  exactly  either  otie  or  two ; 

Yet  he  was  jealous,  though  he  did  not  show  it. 

For  jealousy  dis.Hkes  the  world  to  know  it. 


Julia  was  —  yet  I  never  could  see  why  — 
With  Donna  Inez  quite  a  favorite  friend; 

Between  their  tastes  there  was  small  sympathy, 
For  not  a  line  had  Julia  ever  penned : 

Some  people  whisper  (but,  no  doubt,  they  lie, 
For  malice  still  imputes  some  private  end) 

That  Inez  had,  ere  Don  Alfonso's  marriage, 

Forgot  with  him  her  very  prudent  carriage ; 

LXVII. 

And  that  still  keeping  up  the  old  connection, 
Which  time  had  lately  rendered  much  mora 
chaste, 
She  took  his  lady  also  in  affection, 
And   certainly  this  course  was   much  tha 
best: 
She  flattered  Julia  with  her  sage  protection, 

And  complimented  Don  Alfonso's  taste; 
And  if  she   could  not   (who  can  ?)   silenca 

scandal, 
At  least  she  left  it  a  more  slender  handle. 

LXVII  I. 

I  can't  tell  whether  Julia  saw  th©  affair 
With  other  people's  eyes,  or  if  her  own 

Discoveries  made,  but  none  could  be  aware 
Of  this,  at  least  no  symptom  e'er  was  shown ; 

Perhaps  she  did  not  know,  or  did  not  care, 
Indifferent  from  the  first,  or  callous  grown: 

I'm  really  puzzled  what  to  think  or  say, 

She  kept  her  counsel  in  so  close  a  way. 

LXIX. 
Juan  she  saw,  and,  as  a  pretty  child, 

Caressed  him  often  —  such  a  thing  might  be 
Quite  innocently  done,  and  harmless  styied, 

When  she  had  twenty  years,  and  thirteen  he ; 
But  I  am  not  so  sure  I  should  have  smiled 

When  he  was  sixteen,  Julia  twenty-three ; 
These  few  short  years  make  w  >  idrous  altera 

tions 
Particularly  amongst  sun-burn    nations. 


770 


DON  JUAN. 


Whate'er  the  cause  might  be,  they  had  become 
Changed ;   for  the  dame  grew  distant,  the 
youth  shy, 

Their  looks  cast  down,  their  greetings  almost 
dumb, 
And  much  embarrassment  in  either  eye ; 

There  surely  will  be  little  doubt  with  some 
That  Donna  Julia  knew  the  reason  why, 

But  as  for  Juan,  he  had  no  more  notion 

Than  he  who  never  saw  the  sea  of  ocean. 

LXXI. 

Yet  Julia's  very  coldness  still  was  kind, 
And  tremulously  gentle  her  small  hand 

Withdrew  itself  from  his,  but  left  behind 
A  little  pressure,  thrilling,  and  so  bland 

And  slight,  so  very  slight,  that  to  the  mind 
'Twas  but  a  doubt;   but  ne'er  magician's 
wand 

Wrought  change  with  all  Armida's  fairy  art 

Like  what  this  light  touch  left  on  Juan's  heart. 

LXXII. 
And  if  she  met  him,  though  she  smiled  no 
more, 
She  looked  a  sadness  sweeter  than  her  smile, 
As  if  her  heart  had  deeper  thoughts  in  store 
She  must  not  own,  but  cherished  more  the 
while 
For  that  compression  in  its  burning  core ; 
Even  innocence  itself  has  many  a  wile, 
And  will  not  dare  to  trust  itself  with  truth, 
And  love  is  taught  hypocrisy  from  youth. 

LXXIII. 

But  passion  most  dissembles,  yet  betrays 
Even  by  its  darkness ;  as  the  blackest  sky 

Foretells  the  heaviest  tempest,  it  displays 
Its  workings  through  the  vainly  guarded 
eye, 

And  in  whatever  aspect  it  arrays 
Itself,  'tis  still  the  same  hypocrisy; 

Coldness  or  anger,  even  disdain  or  hate, 

Are  masks  it  often  wears,  and  still  too  late. 

LXXIV. 

Then  there  were  sighs,  the   deeper  for  sup- 
pression, 
And  stolen  glances,  sweeter  for  the  theft, 
And  burning  blushes,  though   for  no  trans- 
gression. 
Tremblings    when    met,    and    restlessness 
when  left, 
All  these  are  little  preludes  to  possession, 

Of  which  young  passion  cannot  be  bereft, 
And  merely  tend  to  show  how  greatly  love  is 
Embarrassed  at  first  starting  with  a  novice. 

LXXV. 

Poor  Julia's  heart  was  in  an  awkward  state ; 
She  felt  it  going,  and  resolved  to  make 


The  noblest  efforts  for  herself  and  mate, 
For  honor's,  pride's,  religion's,  virtue's  sake 

Her  resolutions  were  most  truly  great, 
And  almost  might  have   made  a  Tarquin 
quake : 

She  prayed  the  Virgin  Mary  for  her  grace, 

As  being  the  best  judge  of  a  lady's  case. 

LXXVI. 

She  vowed  she  never  would  see  Juan  more, 
And  next  day  paid  a  visit  to  his  mother, 

And  looked  extremely  at  the  opening  door, 
Which,  by  the  Virgin's  grace,  let  in  another  j 

Grateful  she  was,  and  yet  a  little  sore  — 
Again  it  opens,  it  can  be  no  other, 

'Tis  surely  Juan  now —  No !  I'm  afraid 

That  night  the  Virgin  was  no  further  prayed. 

LXXVI  I. 
She  now  determined  that  a  virtuous  woman 
Should  rather  face  and  overcome  tempta- 
tion, 
That  flight  was  base  and  dastardly,  and  no 
man 
Should  ever  give  her  heart  the  least  sensa- 
tion ; 
That  is  to  say,  a  thought  beyond  the  common 
Preference,  that  we  must  feel  upon  occasion, 
For  people  who  are  pleasanter  than  others, 
But  then  they  only  seem  so  many  brothers. 


And  even  if  by  chance  —  and  who  can  tell  ? 
The   devil's  so  very  sly  —  she  should    dis' 
cover 
That  all  within  was  not  so  very  well, 

And,  if  still  free,  that  such  or  such  a  lover 
Might  please  perhaps,  a  virtuous  wife   can 
quell 
Such  thoughts,  and    be  the  better  when 
they're  over; 
And  if  the  man  should  ask,  'tis  but  denial : 
I  recommend  young  ladies  to  make  trial. 

LXXIX. 

And  then  there  are  such  things  as  love  divine, 
Bright  and  immaculate,  unmixed  and  pure, 

Such  as  the  angels  think  so  very  fine, 
And  matrons,  who  would  be  no  less  secure, 

Platonic,  perfect,  "just  such  love  as  mine  :  " 
Thus  Julia  said  —  and  thought  so,  to  be 
sure; 

And  so  I'd  have  her  think,  were  I  the  map 

On  whom  her  reveries  celestial  ran. 


Such  love  is  innocent,  and  may  exist 

Between  young  persons  without  any  danger, 

A  hand  may  first,  and  then  a  lip  be  kist ; 
For  my  part,  to  such  doings  I'm  a  stranger, 

But  hear  these  freedoms  form   the  utmost 
list 


DON  JUAN. 


771 


Of    all   o'er   which    such    love  may  be  a 
ranger : 
If  people  go  beyond,  'tis  quite  a  crime, 
But  not  my  fault —  I  tell  them  all  in  time. 

LXXXI. 

Love,  then,  but  love  within  its  proper  limits, 
Was  Julia's  innocent  determination 

■In  young  Don  Juan's  favor,  and  to  him  its 
Exertion  might  be  useful  on  occasion ; 

'And,  lighted  at  too  pure  a  shrine  to  dim  its 
Ethereal  lustre,  with  what  sweet  persuasion 

He   might  be   taught,  bv  love  and   her  to- 
gether — 

I  really  don't  know  what,  nor  Julia  either. 

LXXXII. 

Fraught  with  this   fine    intention,  and   well 
fenced 

In  mail  of  proof — her  purity  of  soul, 
She,  for  the  future  of  her  strength  convinced, 

And  that  her  honor  was  a  rock,  or  mole, 
Exceeding  sagely  from  that  hour  dispensed 

With  any  kind  of  troublesome  control; 
But  whether  Julia  to  the  task  was  equal 
Is  that  which    must  be   mentioned    in   the 
sequel. 

LXXXIII. 

Her  plan  she  deemed  both  innocent  and  feas- 
ible, 
And,  surely,  with  a  stripling  of  sixteen 
Not  scandal's  fangs  could  fix  on  much  that's 
seizable, 
Or  if  they  did  so,  satisfied  to  mean 
Nothing  but  what  was  good,  her  breast  was 

peaceable  — 
1    A  quiet  conscience  makes  one  so  serene  ! 
Christians  have  burnt  each  other,  quite  per- 
suaded 
That  all  the  Apostles  would  have  done  as  they 
did. 

LXXXIV. 
And  if  in  the  mean  time  her  husband  died, 
But  Heaven   forbid   that   such   a  thought 
should  cross 
Her  brain,  though  in  a  dream !   (and  then  she 
sighed) 
Never  could  she  survive  that  common  loss  ; 
But  just  suppose  that  moment  should  betide, 

I  only  say  suppose  it  —  inter  nos. 
(This  should  be  entre  nous,  for  Julia  thought 
In  French,  but  then  the  rhyme  would  go  for 
nought.) 

LXXXV. 

[  only  say  suppose  this  supposition  : 
Juan  being  then  grown  up  to  man's  estate 

Would  fully  suit  a  widow  of  condition, 
Even  seven  years  hence  it  would  not  be  too 
late ; 

^.nd  in  the  interim  (to  pursue  this  vision) 
The  mischief,  after  all,  could  not  be  great, 


For  he  would  learn  the  rudiments  of  love, 
I  mean  the  seraph  way  of  those  above. 

LXXXVI. 

So  much  for  Julia.     Now  we'll  turn  to  Juan, 
Poor  little  fellow  !  he  had  no  idea 

Of  his  own  case,  and  never  hit  the  true  one ; 
In  feelings  quick  as  Ovid's  Miss  Medea, 

He  puzzled  over  what  he  found  a  new  one, 
But  not  as  yet  imagined  it  could  be  a 

Thing  quite  in  course,  and  not  at  all  alarming, 

Which,  with    a  little   patience,   might  grow 
charming. 

LXXXVII. 

Silent  and  pensive,  idle,  restless,  slow, 
His  home  deserted  for  the  lonely  wood, 

Tormented  with  a  wound  he  could  not  know, 
His,  like  all  deep  grief,  plunged  in  solitude : 

I'm  fond  myself  of  solitude  or  so, 

But  then,  I  beg  it  may  be  understood, 

By  solitude  I  mean  a  sultan's,  not 

A  hermit's,  with  a  haram  for  a  grot. 

LXXXVIII. 
"  Oh  Love  !  in  such  a  wilderness  as  this, 

Where  transport  and  security  entwine, 
Here  is  the  empire  of  thy  perfect  bliss, 

And  here  thou  art  a  god  indeed  divine." 
The  bard  I  quote  from  does  not  sing  amiss, 

With  the  exception  of  the  second  line, 
For  thatsame  twining  "  transport  and  security* 
Are  twisted  to  a  phrase  of  some  obscurity. 

LXXXIX. 
The  poet  meant,  no  doubt,  and  thus  appeals 

To  the  good  sense  and  senses  of  mankind, 
The  very  thing  which  everybody  feels, 

As  all  have  found  on  trial,  or  may  find, 
That  no  one  likes  to  be  disturbed  at  meals 

Or  love.  —  I  won't   say  more  about  "en- 
twined " 
Or  "  transport,"  as  we  knew  all  that  before, 
But  beg  " Security"  will  bolt  the  door. 

XC. 
Young  Juan  wandered  by  the  glassy  brooks 

Thinking  unutterable  things  ;  he  threw 
Himself  at  length  within  the  leafy  nooks 
Where  the  wild  branch  of  the  cork  forest 
grew; 
There  poets  find  materials  for  their  books, 
And  every  now  and  then  we   read   them 
through, 
So  that  their  plan  and  prosody  are  eligible, 
Unless,  like  Wordsworth,  they  prove  unintel- 
ligible. 

XCI. 
He,  Juan,  (and  not  Wordsworth)  so  pursued 
His  self-communion  with  his  own  high  soul, 
Until  his  mighty  heart,  in  its  great  mood, 
Had  mitigated  part,  though  not  the  whole 


772 


VON  JVAN. 


Of  its  disease ;  he  did  the  best  he  could 

With  things  not  very  subject  to  control, 
And  turned,  without  perceiving  his  condition, 
Like  Coleridge,  into  a  metaphysician. 

XCII. 

He  thought  abouthimself,  and  the  whole  earth, 
Of  man  the  wonderful,  and  of  the  stars, 

And  how  the  deuce  they  ever  could  have  birth  ; 
And  then  he  thought  of  earthquakes,  and 
of  wars, 

How   many  miles   the  moon  might  have   in 
girth, 
Of  air-balloons,  and  of  the  many  bars 

To  perfect  knowledge  of  theboundless  skies;  — 

And  then  he  thought  of  Donna  Julia's  eyes. 

XCIII. 
In  thoughts  like  these  true  wisdom  may  dis- 
cern 
Longings  sublime,  and  aspirations  high, 
Which  some  are  born  with,  but  the  most  part 
learn 
To  plague  themselves  withal,  they  know  not 
why: 
'Twas  strange  that  one  so  young  should  thus 
concern 
His  brain  about  the  action  of  the  sky; 
\lyou  think  'twas  philosophy  that  this  did, 
I  can't  help  thinking  puberty  assisted. 

XCIV. 
He  pored  upon  the  leaves,  and  on  the  flowers, 
And  heard  a  voice  in  all  the  winds  ;  and  then 
He  thought  of  wood-nymphs  and  immortal 
bowers, 
And  how  the  goddesses  came  down  to  men  : 
He  missed  the  pathway,  he  forgot  the  hours, 

And  when  he  looked  upon  his  watch  again, 
He  found  how  much  old  Time  had  been  a 

winner — 
He  also  found  that  he  had  lost  his  dinner. 


Sometimes  he  turned  to  gaze  upon  his  book, 
Boscan,  or  Garcilasso  ;  — by  the  wind 

Even  as  the  page  is  rustled  while  we  look, 
So  by  the  poesy  of  his  own  mind 

Over  the  mystic  leaf  his  soul  was  shook, 
As  if 'twere  one  whereon  magicians  bind 

Their  spells,  and  give  them  to  the  passing  gale, 

According  to  some  good  old  woman's  tale. 

XCVI. 

Thus  would  he  while  his  lonely  hours  away 
Dissatisfied,  nor  knowing  what  he  wanted  ; 

Nor  glowing  reverie,  nor  poet's  lay, 
Could  yield  his  spirit  that  for  which  it  panted, 

A  bosom  whereon  he  his  head  might  lay. 
And  hear  the  heart  beat  with   the  love  it 
granted. 


With several  other  things,  which  I  forget, 

Or  which,  at  least,  I  need  not  mention  yet. 

XCVII. 

Those  lonely  walks,  and  lengthening  reveries, 
Could  not  escape  the  gentle  Julia's  eyes ; 

She  saw  that  Juan  was  not  at  his  ease ; 
But  that  which  chiefly  may,  and  must  sur- 
prise, 

Is,  that  the  Donna  Inez  did  not  tease 
Her  only  son  with  question  or  surmise; 

Whether  it  was  she  did  not  see,  or  would  not 

Or,  like  all  very  clever  people,  could  not. 

XCVIII. 

This  may  seem  strange,  but  yet  'tis  very  com- 
mon ; 
For  instance  —  gentlemen,  whose  ladies  take 
Leave  to  o'erstep  the  written  rights  of  woman, 

And  break  the Which  commandment 

is't  they  break  ? 

(I  have  forgot  the  number,  and  think  no  man 

Should  rashly  quote,  for  fear  of  a  mistake.) 

I  say,  when  these  same  gentlemen  are  jealous, 

They  make  some  blunder,  which  their  ladies 

tell  us. 

f  XCIX. 

A  real  husband  always  is  suspicious, 

But  still  no  less  suspects  in  the  wrong  place. 

Jealous  of  some  one  who  had  no  such  wishes, 
Or  pandering  blindly  to  his  own  disgrace. 

By   harboring  some   dear  friend    extremely 
vicious ; 
The  last  indeed's  infallibly  the  case : 

And  when  the  spouse  and  friend  are  gone  off 
wholly, 

He  wonders  at  their  vice,  and  not  his  folly. 


Thus  parents  also  are  at  times  short-sighted ; 

Though  watchful  as  the  lynx,  they  ne'er  dis- 
cover, 
The  while  the  wicked  world  beholds  delighted, 

Young  Hopeful's  mistress,  or  Miss  Fanny's 
lover, 
Till  some  confounded  escapade  has  blighted 

The  plan  of  twenty  years,  and  all  is  over; 
And  then  the  mother  cries,  the  father  swears, 
And  wonders  why  the  devil  he  got  heirs. 

CI. 

But  Inez  was  so  anxious,  and  so  clear 
Of  sight,  that  I  must  think,  on  this  occa- 
sion, 

She  had  some  other  motive  much  more  near 
For  leaving  Juan  to  this  new  temptation  ; 

But  what  that  motive  was,  I  sha'n't  say  here  ;     ( 
Perhaps  to  finish  Juan's  education, 

Perhaps  to  open  Don  Alfonso's  eyes, 

In  case  he  thought  his  wife  too  great  a  prize 


DON  JUAN. 


773 


CI  I. 


'*.  was  upon  a  day,  a  summer's  day;  — 

Summer's  indeed  a  very  dangerous  season, 
And  so  is  spring  about  the  end  of  May ; 

The  sun,  no  doubt,  is  the  prevailing  reason  ; 
3ut  whatsoe'er  the  cause  is,  one  may  say, 
And  stand  convicted  of  more   truth   than 
treason, 
That  there  are  months  which  nature   grows 

mi  re  merry  in, — 
March  has  its  hares,  and  May  must  have  its 
heroine. 

cm. 

Twas  on  a  summer's    day  —  the  sixth   of 
June: — 
I  like  to  be  particular  in  dates, 
*>Iot  only  of  the  age,  and  year,  but  moon ; 
They  are  a  sort  of  post-house,  where  the 
Fates 
Change  horses,  making    history  change    its 
tune, 
Then  spur  away  o'er  empires  and  o'er  states, 
saving  at  last  not  much  besides  chronology, 
ixcepting  the  post-obits  of  theology. 

CIV. 

Twas  on  the  sixth  of  June,  about  the  hour 
Of    half-past  six  —  perhaps    still    nearer 
seven  — 
When  Julia  sate  within  as  pretty  a  bower 

As  e'er  held  houri  in  that  heathenish  heaven 
described     by     Mahomet,    and     Anacreon 
Moore, 
To  whom  the  lyre  and  laurels  have  been 
given, 
With  all  the  trophies  of  triumphant  song  — 
ie  won  them  well,  and  may  he  wear  them 
long! 

cv. 

.he  sate,  but  not  alone ;  I  know  not  well 
How  this  same  interview  had  taken  place, 

ind  even  if  I  knew,  I  should  not  tell  — 
People  should  hold   their   tongues   in  any 
case; 

■Jo  matter  how  or  why  the  thing  befell, 
But  there  were  she  and  Juan,  face  to  face  — 

Vhen  two  such  faces  are  so,  'twould  be  wise, 

Jut  very  difficult,  to  shut  their  eyes. 


low  beautiful  she  looked !  her  conscious  heart 
Glowed  in  her  cheek,  and  yet  she  felt  no 
wrong. 

)h  Love !  how  perfect  is  thy  mystic  art, 
Strengthening  the  weak,  and  trampling  on 
the  strong, 

low  self-deceitful  is  the  sagest  part 
Oi  mortals  whom  thy  lure  hath  led  along  « 

>.e  precipice  she  stood  on  was  immense, 

<o  was  hei  creed  in  her  own  innocence. 


CVII. 


She  thought  of  her  own  strength,  and  juan't 
youth, 

And  of  the  folly  of  all  prudish  fears, 
Victorious  virtue,  and  domestic  truth, 

And  then  of  Don  Alfonso's  fifty  vears: 
I  wish  these  last  had  not  occurred,  in  sooth, 

Because  that  number  rarely  much  endears, 
And  through  all  Slimes,  the  snowy  and  the 

sunny, 
Sounds  ill  in  Iove.whate'er  it  may  in  money* 

CVIII. 
When  people  say,  "  I've  told  yon  fifty  times," 

They  mean  to  scold,  and  very  often  de ; 
When  poets  say,  "  I've  written  fifty  rhymes," 

They  make  you  dread  that  they'll  recite 
them  too ; 
In  gangs  oi  fifty,  thieves  commit  their  crimes; 

PA  fifty  love  for  love  is  rare,  'tis  true, 
But  then,  no  doubt,  it  equally  as  true  is, 
A  good  deal  may  be  bought  for  fifty  Louis. 

CIX. 

Julia  had  honor,  virtue,  truth,  and  love, 

For  Don  Alfonso  ;    and  she  inly  swore, 
By  all  the  vows  below  to  powers  above, 

She  never  would  disgrace  the  ring  she  wore, 
Nor  leave  a  wish  which  wisdom  might  reprove ; 
And  while  she  pondered  this,  besides  much 
more, 
One  hand  on  Juan's  carelessly  was  thrown, 
Quite  by  mistake  —  she  thought  it  was  her 
own ; 

ex. 
Unconsciously  she  leaned  upon  the  other, 

Which  played  within  the  tangles  other  hair; 
And  to  contend  with  thoughts  she  could  not 
smother 
She  seemed,  by  the  distraction  of  her  air. 
'Twas  surely  very  wrong  in  Juan's  mother 

To  leave  together  this  imprudent  pair, 
She  who  for  many  years  had  watched  her  son 

so — 
I'm  very  certain  mine  would  not  have  done  so. 

CXI. 

The  hand  which  still  held  Juan's  by  degrees 
Gently,  but  palpably  confirmed  its  grasp. 

As  if  it  said,  "  Detain  me,  if  you  please;  " 
Yet  there's  no  doubt  she  only  meant  to  clasp 

His  fingers  with  a  pure  Platonic  squeeze ; 
She  would  have  shrunk  as  from  a  toad  or  asp, 

Had  she  imagined  such  a  thing  could  rouse 

A  feeling  dangerous  to  a  prudent  spouse. 


cxx. 

Here  my  chaste  Muse  a  liberty  must  take  ■  — 
Start  not!    still   chaster  reader  —  she'll  be 
nice  hence- 


774 


DON  JUAN. 


Forward,  and  there  is  no  great  cause  to  quake ; 

This  liberty  is  a  poetic  license, 
Which  some  irregularity  may  make 

In  the  design,  and  as  I  have  a  high  sense 
Of  Aristotle  and  the  Rules,  'tis  fit 
To  beg  his  pardon  when  I  err  a  bit. 


Ihis  license  is  to  hope  the  reader  will 
Suppose  from  June  the  sixth  (the  fatal  day, 

Without  whose  epoch  my  poetic  skill 

For  want  of  facts  would  all  be  thrown  away) , 

But  keeping  Julia  and  Don  Juan  still 

In  sight,  that  several  months  have  passed; 
we'll  say 

'Twas  in  November,  but  I'm  not  so  sure 

About  the  day  —  the  era's  more  obscure. 

CXXII. 

We'll  talk  of  that  anon.  —  'Tis  sweet  to  hear 
At  midnight  on  the  blue  and  moonlit  deep 

The  song  and  oar  of  Adda's  gondolier, 

By   distance    mellowed,    o'er    the    water's 
sweep ; 

'Tis  sweet  to  see  the  evening  star  appear; 
'Tis  sweet  to  listen  as  the  night-winds  creep 

From  leaf  to  leaf;  'tis  sweet  to  view  on  high 

The  rainbow,  based  on  ocean,  span  the  sky. 

CXXII  I. 

'Tis  sweet  to   hear  the  watch-dog's   honest 
bark 
Bay  deep-mouthed   \welcome  as  we   draw 
near  home ; 
'Tis  sweet  to  know  there  is  an  eye  will  mark 
Our  coming,  and  look  brighter  when  we 
come  ; 
'Tis  sweet  to  be  awakened  by  the  lark, 

Or  lulled  by  falling  waters  ;  sweet  the  hum 
Of  bees,  the  voice  of  girls,  the  song  of  birds, 
The  lisp  of  children,  and  their  earliest  words. 

CXXIV. 

Sweet  is  the  vintage,  when   the   showering 
grapes 

In  Bacchanal  profusion  reel  to  earth 
Purple  and  gushing  :  sweet  are  our  escapes 

From  civic  revelry  to  rural  mirth  ; 
Sweet  to  the  miser  are  his  glittering  heaps, 

Sweet  to  the  father  is  his  first-born's  birth, 
Sweet  is  revenge  —  especially  to  women, 
Pillage  to  soldiers,  prize-money  to  seamen. 

cxxv. 

Sweet  is  a  legacy,  and  passing  sweet 
The  unexpected  death  of  some  old  lady 

Or  gentlemen  of  seventy  years  complete, 
Who've  made  "us  youth"  wait  too  —  too 
long  already 

For  an  estate,  or  cash,  or  country-seat, 
Still  breaking,  but  with  stamina  so  steady, 


That  all  the  Israelites  are  fit  to  mob  its 
Next   owner  for   their  doublerdamned  post 
obits. 

cxxvi. 
'Tis  sweet  to  win,  no  matter  how,  one's  laurels 

By  blood  or  ink ;  'tis  sweet  to  put  an  end 
To  strife ;    'tis  sometimes  sweet  to  have  out 
quarrels, 
Particularly  with  a  tiresome  friend  : 
Sweet  is  old  wine  in  bottles,  ale  in  barrels ; 
Dear  is  the  helpless  creature  we  defend 
Against  the  world ;   and  dear  the  schoolboj 

spot 
We  ne'er  forget,  though  there  we  are  forgot. 


But  sweeter  still  than  this,  than  these,  than 
all, 
Is  first  and  passionate  love —  it  stands  alone, 
Like  Adam's  recollection  of  his  fall ; 
The  tree  of  knowledge  has  been  plucked  — 
all's  known  — 
And  life  yields  nothing  further  to  recall 

Worthy  of  this  ambrosial  sin,  so  shown, 
No  doubt  in  fable,  as  the  unforgiven 
Fire  which   Prometheus  filched  for  us  from 
heaven, 

CXXVIII. 

Man's  a  strange  animal,  and  makes  strange 
use 
Of  his  own  nature,  and  the  various  arts, 
And  likes  particularly  to  produce 

Some  new  experiment  to  show  his  parts; 
This  is  the  age' of  oddities  let  loose, 
Where  different  talents  find  their  different 
marts ; 
You'd  best  begin  with  truth,  and  when  you've 

lost  your 
Labor,  there's  a  sure  market  for  imposture. 

CXXIX. 

What  opposite  discoveries  we  have  seen ! 

(Signs    of    true    genius,    and    of    empty 
pockets.) 
One  makes  new  noses,  one  a  guillotine, 

One  breaks  your  bones,  one  sets  them  in 
their  sockets ; 
But  vaccination  certainly  has  been 

A  kind  antithesis  to  Congreve's  rockets. 
With  which  the  Doctor  paid  off  an  old  pox; 
By  borrowing  a  new  one  from  an  ox. 


CXXXII. 

This  is  the  patent  age  of  new  inventions 
For  killing  bodies,  and  for  saving  souls, 

All  propagated  with  the  best  intentions- 
Sir    Humphry    Davy's    lantern,   by  which 
coals 

Are  safely  mined  for  in  the  mode  he  mention^ 
Tombuctoo  travels,  voyages  to  the  Poles, 


DON  JUAN. 


775 


Are  ways  to  benefit  mankind,  as  true, 
Perhaps,  as  shooting  them  at  Waterloo. 

CXXXIII. 

Man's  a  phenomenon,  one  knows  not  what, 
And  wonderful  beyond  all  wondrous  meas- 
ure ; 
'Tis  pity  though,  in  this  sublime  world,  that 
Pleasure's  a  sin,  and  sometimes  sin's  a  pleas- 
ure ; 
Few  mortals  know  what  end  they  would  be  at, 
But  whether  glory,  power,  or  love,  or  treas- 
ure, 
The   path   is   through   perplexing  ways,  and 

when 
The  goal  is  gained,  we  die,  you  know  —  and 
then 

CXXXIV. 

What  then  ?  —  I  do  not  know,  no  more  do 
you  — 

And   so    good-night.  —  Return   we   to   our 
story : 
'Twas  in  November,  when  fine  days  are  few, 

And  the  far  mountains  wax  a  little  hoary, 
And  clap  a  white  cape  on  their  mantles  blue  ; 

And  the  sea  dashes  round  the  promontory, 
And  the  loud  breaker  boils  against  the  rock, 
And  sober  suns  must  set  at  five  o'clock. 

cxxxv. 
'Twas,  as  the  watchmen  say,  a  cloudy  night ; 

No  moon,  no  stars,  the  wind  was  low  or  loud 
By  gusts,  and  many  a  sparkling  hearth  was 
bright 
With  the  piled  wood,  round  which  the  fam- 
ily crowd ; 
There's  something   cheerful   in   that   sort   of 
light, 
Even  as  a  summer  sky's  without  a  cloud  : 
I'm  fond  of  fire,  and  crickets,  and  all  that, 
A  lobster  salad,  and  champagne,  and  chat. 

cxxxvi. 

'Twas  midnight  — •  Donna  Julia  was  in  bed, 
Sleeping,  most  probably,  —  when  at  her  door 

Arose  a  clatter  might  awake  the  dead, 
If  they  had  never  been  awoke  before, 

And  that  they  have  been  so  we  all  have  read, 
And  are  to  be  so,  at  the  least,  once  more  ;  — 

The  door  was  fastened,  but  with  voice  and  fist 

First   knocks  were   heard,   then  "  Madam  — 
Madam  —  hist! 


CXXXVIII. 

By  this  time  Don  Alfonso  was  arrived, 
With  torches,  friends,  and  servants  in  great 
number ; 
The  major  part  of  them  had  long  been  wived, 
And   therefore  paused  not   to  disturb   the 
slumber 


Of  any  wicked  woman,  who  contrived 

By  stealth  her  husband's  temples  to  encum- 
ber : 
Examples  of  this  kind  are  so  contagious, 
Were  one  not  punished,  all  would  be  outra- 
geous. 

CXXXIX. 
I  can't  tell  how,  or  why,  or  what  suspicion 

Could  enter  into  Don  Alfonso's  head ; 
But  for  a  cavalier  of  his  condition 

It  surely  was  exceedingly  ill-bred, 
Without  a  word  of  previous  admonition, 
To  hold  a  levee  round  his  lady's  bed, 
And   summon  lackeys,  armed  with  fire  and 

sword, 
To  prove  himself  the  thing  he  most  abhorred. 

***** 
CXLIII. 
He  searched,  they  searched,  and  rummaged 
everywhere, 
Closet  and  clothes'  press,  chest  and  window- 
seat, 
And  found  much  linen,  lace,  and  several  pair 
Of  stockings,  slippers,  brushes,  combs,  com- 
plete, 
With  other  articles  of  ladies  fair, 

To  keep  them  beautiful,  or  leave  them  neat : 
Arras   they  pricked   and   curtains  with  their 

swords, 
And  wounded  several    shutters,   and    some 
boards. 


CXLV. 

During  this  inquisition  Julia's  tongue 
Was  not  asleep  —  "  Yes,  search  and  search," 
she  cried, 

"  Insult  on  insult  heap,  and  wrong  on  wrong! 
It  was  for  this  that  I  became  a  bride! 

For  this  in  silence  I  have  suffered  long 
A  husband  like  Alfonso  at  my  side ; 

But  now  I'll  bear  no  more,  nor  here  remain, 

If  there  be  law  or  lawyers,  in  all  Spain. 

CXLVI. 

"  Yes,  Don  Alfonso  !   husband  now  no  more, 
If  ever  you  indeed  deserved  the  name, 

Is't  worthy  of  your  years  ?  — you  have  three- 
score — 
Fifty,  or  sixty,  it  is  all  the  same  — 

Is't  wise  or  fitting,  causeless  to  explore 

For  facts  against  a  virtuous  woman's  fame? 

Ungrateful,  perjured,  barbarous  Don  Alfonso, 

How  dare  you  think  your  lady  would  go  on  so  ? 


CLXI. 

But  Don  Alfonso  stood  with  downcast  looks, 

And,  truth  to  say,  he  made  a  foolish  figure  ; 

When,  after  searching  in  five  hundred  nooks, 


776 


DON  JUAN. 


And  treating  a  young  wife  with  so    much 
rigor, 
He  gained  no  point,  except  some  self-rebukes, 

Added  to  those  his  lady  with  such  vigor 
Had  poured  upon  him  for  the  last  half-hour, 
Quick,    thick,   and   heaty —  as    a    thunder- 
shower. 

CI.XII. 

kt  first  he  tried  to  hammer  an  excuse, 
To   which   the   sole   reply  was   tears,  and 
sobs, 

And  indications  of  hysterics,  whose 

Prologue    is    always    certain    throes,   and 
throbs, 

Gasps,  and  whatever  else  the  owners  choose  : 
Alfonso  saw  his  wife,  and  thought  of  Job's ; 

He  saw  too,  in  perspective,  her  relation's, 

And  then  he  tried  to  muster  all  his  patience. 

CLXIII.     ' 

He  stood  in  act  to  speak,  or  rather  stammer, 

But  sage  Antonia  cut  him  short  before 
The  anvil  of  his  speech  received  the  hammer, 
With  "  Pray,  sir,  leave  the  room  and  say  no 
more, 
Or  madam  dies."  —  Alfonso  muttered,  "  D  —  n 
her," 
But  nothing  else,  the   time  of  words  was 
o'er ; 
He  cast  a  rueful  look  or  two,  and  did, 
He  knew  not  wherefore,  that  which  he  was  bid. 

CLXIV. 

With  him  retired  his  "posse  comitates" 

The  attorney  last,  who   lingered  near  the 
door, 

Reluctantly,  still  tarrying  there  as  late  as 
Antonia  let  him  —  not  a  little  sore 

At  this  most  strange  and  unexplained  "  hiatus  " 
In  Don  Alfonso's  facts,  which  just  now  wore 


An  awkward  look  ;  as  he  revolved  the  case, 
The  door  w-as  fastened  in  his  legal  face. 


clxxxviii. 
Here  ends  this  canto.  —  Need  I  sing,  or  say, 

How  Juan,  naked,  favored  by  the  night, 
Who  favors  what  she  should  not,  found  his 
way, 
And    reached   his   home   in   an    unseemly 
plight  ? 
The  pleasant  scandal  which  arose  next  day, 
The  nine  days'  wonder  which  was  brought 
to  light. 
And  how  Alfonso  sued  for  a  divorce,' 
Were  in  the  English  newspapers,  of  course. 

CLXXXIX. 

If  you  would  like  to  see  the  whole  proceed- 
ings, 
The  depositions,  and  the  cause  at  full, 
The  names  of  all  the  witnesses,  the  pleadings 

Of  counsel  to  nonsuit,  or  to  annul, 
There's  more  than  one  edition,  and  the  read- 
ings 
Are  varioustbut  they  none  of  them  are  dull ; 
The  best  is  that  in  short-hand  ta'en  by  Gur- 

ney, 
Who  to  Madrid  on  purpose  made  a  journey. 

cxc. 
But  Donna  Inez,  to  divert  the  train 

Of  one  of  the  most  circulating  scandals 
That  had  for  centuries  been  known  in  Spain, 

At  least  since  the  retirement  of  the  Vandals, 
First  vowed(and  never  had  she  vowed  in  vain) 

To  Virgin  Mary  several  pounds  of  candles ; 
And  then,  by  the  advice  of  some  old  ladies, 
She  sent  her  son  to  be  shipped  off  from  Cadiz. 

***** 


CANTO   THE   SECOND. 


OH  ye !  who  teach   the  ingenuous  youth  of 
nations, 
Holland,    France,    England,    Germany   or 
Spain, 
I  prav  ye  flog  them  upon  all  occasions, 

It    mends    their    morals,    never   mind   the 
pain : 
The  best  of  mothers  and  of  educations 

In  Juan's  case  were  but  employed  in  vain, 
Since",  in  a  way  that's  rather  of  the  oddest, 

he 
Became  divested  of  his  native  modesty. 


Had  he  but  been  placed  at  a  public  school, 
In  the  third  form,  or  even  in  the  fourth, 

His  daily  task  had  kept  his  fancy  cool, 
At  least,  had  he  been  nurtured  in  the  north; 

Spain  may  prove  an  exception  to  the  rule, 
But  then  exceptions  always  prove  its  worth— 

A  lad  of  sixteen  causing  a  divorce 

Puzzled  his  tutors  very  much,  of  course. 

III. 
I  can't  sav  that  it  puzzles  me  at  all, 

If  all  things  be  considered  :  first,  there  was 


DON  JUAN. 


777 


His  lady-mother,  mathematical, 

A never  mind  ;  —  his  tutor,  an  old  ass  ; 

A  pretty  woman —  (that's  quite  natural, 

Or  else  the  thing  had  hardly  come  to  pass) 
A  husband  rather  old,  not  much  in  unity 
With  his  young  wife  —  a  time,  and  opportunity. 

IV. 

Well  —  well,  the  world   must   turn  upon   its 
axis, 
And  all  mankind  turn  with  it,  heads  or  tails, 
And  live  and  die,  make  love,  and  pay  our 
taxes, 
And  as  the  veering  wind  shifts,  shift  our 
sails ; 
The    king    commands   us,   and    the    doctor 
quacks  us, 
The  priest  instructs,  and  so  our  life  exhales, 
\  little  breath,  love,  wine,  ambition,  fame, 
Fighting,  devotion,  dust,  —  perhaps  a  name. 


!  said  that  Juan  had  been  sent  to  Cadiz  — 

A  pretty  town,  I  recollect  it  well  — 
Tis  there  the  mart  of  the  colonial  trade  is 

(Or  was,  before  Peru  learned  to  rebel), 
Vnd  such  sweet  girls —  I  mean,  such  graceful 
ladies, 

Their  very  walk  would  make  your  bosom 
swell ; 

can't  describe  it,  though  so  much  it  strike, 
^or  liken  it —  I  never  saw  the  like : 

VI. 

\.n  Arab  horse,  a  stately  stag,  a  barb 

New  broke,  a  camelopard,  a  gazelle, 
"•Jo —  none  of  these  will  do; — and  then  their 
garb ! 
Their  veil  and  petticoat  —  Alas  !  to  dwell 
Jpon  such  things  would  very  near  absorb 
A    canto  —  then    their  feet   and    ankles, — 
well, 
Thank  Heaven   I've  got  no  metaphor  quite 

ready, 
-And   so,  my  sober   Muse  —  come,  let's   be 
steady  — 

VII. 

Chaste  Muse! — well,  if  you  must,  you  must) 
—  the  veil 
Thrown  back  a  moment  with  the  glancing 
hand, 
Vhile  the  o'erpowering  eye,  that  turns  you 
pale, 
Flashes  into  the  heart :  — all  sunny  land 
)f  love !  when  I  forget  you,  may  I  fail 

To say   my   prayers  —  but    never  was 

there  planned 
■  dress  through  which  the  eyes  give  such  a 

volley, 
;xcepting  the  Venetian  Fazzioli 


VIII. 

But  to  our  tale  :  the  Donna  Inez  sent 
Her  son  to  Cadiz  only  to  embark; 

To  stay  there  had  not  answered  her  intent, 
But   why?  —  we    leave   the   reader   in   the 
dark  — 

'Twas  for  a  voyage  that  the  young  man  was 
meant, 
As  if  a  Spanish  ship  were  Noah's  ark, 

To  wean  him  from  the  wickedness  of  earth, 

And  send  him  like  a  dove  of  promise  forth. 

IX. 
Don  Juan  bade  his  valet  pack  his  things 

According  to  direction,  then  received 
A  lecture  and  some  money  :  for  four  springs 

He  was  to  travel;  and  though  Inez  grieved 
(As  every  kind  of  parting  has  its  stings), 

She   hoped   he  would   improve  —  perhaps 
believed 
A  letter,  too,  she  gave  (he  never  read  it) 
Of  good  advice  —  and  two  or  three  of  credit. 


In  the  mean  time,  to  pass  her  hours  away, 
Brave  Inez  now  set  up  a  Sunday  school 

For  naughty  children,  who  would  rather  play 
(Like  truant  rogues)  the  devil,  or  the  fool; 

Infants  of  three  years  old  were  taught  that  day, 
Dunces  were  whipt,  or  set  upon  a  stool : 

The  great  success  of  Juan's  education, 

Spurred  her  to  teach  another  generation. 


Juan  embarked  —  the  ship  got  under  way, 
The  wind  was  fair,  the  water  passing  rough  ; 

A  devil  of  a  sea  rolls  in  that  bay, 

As     I,   who've   crossed   it   oft,   know   well 
enough ; 

And,  standing  upon  deck,  the  dashing  spray 
Flies  in  one's  face,  and  makes  it  weather- 
tough  ; 

And  there  he  stood  to  take,  and  take  again, 

H  is  first  —  perhaps  his  last  —  farewell  of  Spain. 


I  can't  but  say  it  is  an  awkward  sight 
To  see  one's  native  land  receding  through. 

The  growing  waters  ;  it  unmans  one  quite, 
Especially  when  life  is  rather  new  : 

I  recollect  Great  Britain's  coast  looks  v/hite, 
But  almost  every  other  country's  blue, 

When  gazing  on  them,  mystified  by  distance, 

We  enter  on  our  nautical  existence. 

XIII. 

So  Juan  stood,  bewildered  on  the  deck: 
The  wind  sung,  cordage  strained,  and  sail- 
ors swore, 

And  the  ship  creaked,  the    town  became  a 
speck, 


778 


DON  JUAN. 


From  which  away  so  fair  and  fast  they  bore. 
The  best  of  remedies  is  a  beef-steak 

Against  sea-sickness  :  try  it,  sir,  before 
You  sneer,  and  I  assure  you  this  is  true, 
For  I  have  found  it  answer  —  so  may  you. 


Don  Juan  stood,  and,  gazing  from  the  stern, 
Beheld  his  native  Spain  receding  far  : 

First  partings  form  a  lesson  hard  to  learn, 
Even  nations  feel  this  when  they  go  to  war ; 

There  is  a  sort  of  unexprest  concern, 

A  kind  of  shock  that  sets  one's  heart  ajar: 

At  leaving  even  the  most  unpleasant  people 

And  places,  one  keeps  looking  at  the  steeple. 


But  Juan  had  got  many  things  to  leave, 
His  mother,  and  a  mistress,  and  no  wife. 

So  that  he  had  much  better  cause  to  grieve 
Than  many  persons  more  advanced  in  life  ; 

And  if  we  now  and  then  a  sigh  must  heave 
At  quitting  even  those  we  quit  in  strife, 

No  doubt  we  weep  for  those  the  heart  en- 
dears — 

That  is,  till  deeper  griefs  congeal  our  tears. 

XVI. 

So  Juan  wept,  as  wept  the  captive  Jews 
By  Babel's  waters,  still  remembering  Sion  : 

I'd  weep,  —  but  mine  is  not  a  weeping  Muse, 
And  such   light  griefs  are  not  a  thing  to 
die  on ; 

Young  men  should  travel,  if  but  to  amuse 
Themselves ;    and  the  next  time  their  ser- 
vants tie  on 

Behind  their  carriages  their  new  portmanteau, 

Perhaps  it  may  be  lined  with  this  my  canto. 


And   Juan   wept,  and   much  he  sighed   and 
thought, 
While  his  salt  tears  dropped  into  the  salt 
sea, 
"  Sweets  to  the  sweet ;  "    (I  like  so  much  to 
quote ; 
You  mustexcuse  this  extract, — 'tis  where  she, 
The  Queen  of  Denmark,  for  Ophelia  brought 
Flowers  to  the  grave;)  and,  sobbing  often, 
he 
Reflected  on  his  present  situation, 
And  seriously  resolved  on  reformation. 

XVIII. 
"  Farewell,  my  Spain !   a  long  farewell !  "  he 
cried, 
"  Perhaps  I  may  revisit  thee  no  more, 
But  die,  as  many  an  exiled  heart  hath  died, 

Of  its  own  thirst  to  see  again  thy  shore  : 
Farewell,  where  Guadalquivir's  waters  glide  ! 
Farewell,  my  mother !  and,  since  all  is  o'er. 


Farewell,  too,  dearest  Julia !  —  (here  he  dre* 
Her  letter  out  again,  and  read  it  through). 

XIX. 

"  And  oh  !  if  e'er  I  should  forget,  I  swear  — 

But  that's  impossible,  and  cannot  be — 
Sooner  shall  this  blue  ocean  melt  to  air, 

Sooner  shall  earth  resolve  itself  to  sea, 
Than  I  resign  thine  image,  oh,  my  lair! 

Or  think  of  any  thing  excepting  thee; 
A  mind  diseased  no  remedy  can  physic  — 
(Here  the  ship  gave  a  lurch  and  he  grew  sea 
sick). 

xx. 
"Sooner  shall  heaven  kiss  earth — (here  he 
fell  sicker) 

Oh,  Julia  !  what  is  every  other  woe  ?  — 
(For  God's  sake  let  me  have  a  glass  ofliquor 

Pedro,  Battista,  help  me  down  below). 
Julia,     my     love!  —  (you     rascal,      Pedro 
quicker)  — 

Oh,  Julia  !  —  (this  curst  vessel  pitches  so)  — 
Beloved  Julia,  hear  me  still  beseeching  !  " 
(Here  he  grew  inarticulate  with  retching). 

XXI. 
He  felt  that  chilling  heaviness  of  heart, 

Or  rather  stomach,  which,  alas!  attends, 
Beyond  the  best  apothecary's  art, 

The  loss  of  love,  the  treachery  of  friends, 
Or  death  of  those  we  dote  on,  when  a  part 

Of  us  dies  with  them  as  each  fond  hope  ends: 
No  doubt  he  would  have  been  much  more  pa 

thetic, 
But  the  sea  acted  as  a  strong  emetic. 


Love's  a  capricious  power:  I've  known  it  hold 
Out  through  a  fever  caused  by  its  own  heat, 

But  be  much  puzzled  by  a  cough  and  cold 
And  find  a  quinsy  very  hard  to  treat ; 

Against  all  noble  maladies  he's  bold, 
But  vulgar  illnesses  don't  like  to  meet, 

Nor  that  a  sneeze  should  interrupt  his  sigh 

Nor  inflammations  redden  his  blind  eye. 

XXIII. 
But  worst  of  all  is  nausea,  or  a  pain 

About  the  lower  region  of  the  bowels; 
Love,  who  heroically  breathes  a  vein, 

Shrinks  from  the  application  of  hot  towels, 
And  purgatives  are  dangerous  to  his  reign, 

Sea-sickness  death:    his  love  was  perfect; 
how  else 
Could  Juan's  passion,  while  the  billows  roar, 
Resist  his  stomach,  ne'er  at  sea  before  ? 

XXIV. 

The  ship,  calied  the  most  holy  "  Trinidada," 

Was  steering  duly  for  the  port  Leghorn ; 
For  there  the  Spanish  family  Moncada 


DON  JUAN. 


rn 


Were  settled  long  ere  Juan's  sire  was  born  : 
They  were  relations,  and  for  them  he  had  a 

Letter  of  introduction,  which  the  morn 
Of  his  departure  had  been  sent  him  by 
His  Spanish  friends  for  those  in  Italy. 

XXV. 

His  suite  consisted  of  three  servants  and 

A  tutor,  the  licentiate  Pednllo, 
Who  several  languages  did  understand, 
But  now  lay  sick  and  speechless  on  his  pil- 
low, 
-nd,  rocking  in  his  hammock,  longed  for  land, 
His  headache  being  increased  by  every  bil- 
low; 
»nd  the  waves  oozing  through  the  port-hole 
made 
i  His  berth  a  little  damp,  and  him  afraid. 


'  Twas  not  without  some  reason,  for  the  wind 

Increased  at  night,  until  it  blew  a  gale ; 
And  though  'twas  not  much  to  a  naval  mind, 
Some  landsmen  would  have  looked  a  little 
pale, 
I  For  sailors  are,  in  fact,  a  different  kind  : 

At  sunset  they  began  to  take  in  sail, 
.  For  the  sky  showed  it  would  come  on  to  blow, 
And  carry  away,  perhaps,  a  mast  or  so. 

XXVII. 
;  At  one  o'clock  the  wind  with  sudden  shift 
Threw  the  ship  right  into  the  trough  of  the 
sea, 
'  Which  struck  her  aft,  and  made  an  awkward 
rift, 
Started  the  stern-post,  also  shattered  the 
i  Whole  of  her  stern-frame,  and,  ere  she  could 

;     lift 

Herself  from  out  her  present  jeopardy, 
IThe  rudder  tore  away  :  'twas  time  to  sound 
IThe  pumps,  and  there  were  four  feet  water 
found. 

XXVIII. 

One  gang  of  people  instantly  was  put 

Upon  the  pumps,  and  the  remainder  set 
'To  get  up  part  of  the  cargo,  and  what  not ; 

But  they  could  not  come  at  the  leak  as  yet ; 
At  last  they  did  get  at  it  really,  but 

Still  their  salvation  was  an  even  bet : 
The   water   rushed   through   in  a  way   quite 

puzzling, 
]  While  they  thrust  sheets,  shirts,  jackets,  bales 
of  muslin, 

XXIX. 

Into  the  opening;  but  all  such  ingredients 
Would  have  been  vain,  and  they  must  have 
gone  down, 
Despite  of  all  their  efforts  and  expedients, 
But  for  the  pumps  :  I'm  glad  to  make  them 
known 


To  all  the  brother  tars  who  may  have  need 
hence, 
For  fifty  tons  of  water  were  upthrown 

By  them  per  hour,  and  they  had  all  been  un- 
done, 

But  for  the  maker,  Mr.  Mann,  of  London. 

XXX. 

As   day   advanced,  the   weather    seemed   to 
abate, 
And  then  the  leak  they  reckoned  to  reduce, 
And   keep  the  ship  afloat,  though  three  feet 
yet 
Kept  two  hand  and  one  chain-pump  still  in 
use. 
The  wind  blew  fresh  again  :  as  it  grew  late 
A  squall  came  on,  and  while   some  guns 
broke  loose, 
A   gust  —  which   all   descriptive   power  tran- 
scends — 
Laid  with   one  blast  the  ship  on  her  beam 
ends. 

XXXI. 

There  she  lay,  motionless,  and  seemed  upset ; 
The  water  left  the  hold,  and  washed  the 
decks, 
And  made  a  scene  men  do  not  soon  forget ; 
For    they    remember    battles,    fires,    and 
wrecks, 
Or  any  other  thing  that  brings  regret, 

Or  breaks  their  hopes,  or  hearts,  or  heads, 
or  necks : 
Thus  drownings  are  much  talked  of  by  the 

divers, 
And  swimmers,  wno  may  chance  to  be  sur- 
vivors. 

XXXII. 

immediately  the  masts  were  cut  away, 

Both  main   and   mizzen ;  first   the   mizzen 
went, 
The  main-mast  followed :   but  the  ship  still 
lay 
Like  a  mere  log,  and  baffled  our  intent. 
Foremast  and  bowsprit  were  cut  down,  and 
they 
Eased  her  at  last  (although  we  never  meant 
To  part  with  all  till  every  hope  was  blighted), 
And  then  with  violence  the  old  ship  righted. 


XXXVIII. 

But   now  there   came   a  flash  of  hope  once 
more; 
Day  broke  and  the  wind  lulled :  the  masts 
were  gone, 
The  leak  increased;  shoals  round   her,  but 
no  shore ; 
The  vessel  swam,  yet  still  she  held  her  own. 
They  tried  the  pumps  again,  and  though  be* 
fore 


DON  JUAN. 


Their  desperate  efforts  seemed  all  useless 
grown, 
A  glimpse   of  sunshine   set  some  hands   to 

bale  — 
The  stronger  pumped,  the  weaker  thrummed 
a  sail. 

XXXIX. 
Under  the  vessel's  keel  the  sail  was  past, 

And  for  the  moment  it  had  some  effect ; 
But  with  a  leak,  and  not  a  stick  of  mast, 
Nor  rag   of  canvas,  what   could   they  ex- 
pect ? 
But  still  'tis  best  to  struggle  to  the  last, 

'Tis  never  too  late  to  be  wholly  wrecked  : 
And  though  'tis  true  that  man  can  only  die 

once, 
'Tis  not  so  pleasant  in  the  Gulf  of  Lyons. 

XL. 

There  winds  and  waves  had  hurled  them,  and 
from  thence, 
Without  their  will,  they  carried  them  away  ; 
For   they  were   forced  with   steering   to   dis- 
pense, 
And  never  had  as  yet  a  quiet  day 
On  which  they  might  repose,  or  even   com- 
mence 
A  jurymast  or  rudder,  or  could  say 
The  ship  would  swim  an  hour,  which,  by  good 

luck, 
Still  swam  —  though  not  exactly  like  a  duck. 

XLI. 

The  wind,  in  fact,  perhaps,  was  rather  less, 
But  the  ship  labored  so,  they  scarce  could 
hope 
To  weather  out  much  longer ;  the  distress 
Was   also  great   with   which   they   had   to 
cope 
For  want  of  water,  and  their  solid  mess 

Was  scant  enough  :  in  vain  the  telescope 
Was  used  —  nor  sail  nor  shore  appeared  in 

sight, 
Nought  but  the  heavy  sea,  and  coming  night. 

XLII. 
Again  the  weather  threatened,  —  again  blew 

A  gale,  and  in  the  fore  and  after  hold 
Water  appeared ;  yet,  though  the  people  knew 
All  this,  the  most  were  patient,  and  some 
bold, 
Until    the    chains   and    leathers   were   worn 
through 
Of  all  our  pumps  :  —  a  wreck  complete  she 
rolled, 
At  mercy  of  the  waves,  whose  mercies  are 
Like  human  beings  during  civil  war. 

XLIII. 

Then  came  the  carpenter,  at  last,  with  tears 
in  his  rough  eyes,  and  told  the  captain,  he 


Could  do  no  more :  he  was  a  man  in  years. 
And   long   had  voyaged  through   many  a 
stormy  sea, 
And  if  he  wept  at  length,  they  were  not  fears 

That  made  his  eyelids  as  a  woman's  be, 
But  he,  poor  fellow,  had  a  wife  and  children, 
Two  things  for  dying  people  quite  bewildering 

XLIV. 

The  ship  was  evidently  settling  now 

Fast  by  the  head;  and,  all  distinction  gone. 
Some  went  to  prayers  again,  and  made  a  vow 
Of  candles  to  their  saints  —  but  there  were 
none 
To  pay  them  with  ;  and  some  looked  o'er  the 
bow, 
Some  hoisted  out  the  boats ;  and  there  was 
one 
That  begged  Pedrillo  for  an  absolution, 
Who  told  him  to  be  damned — in  his  confu- 
sion. 

XLV. 

Some  lashed  them  in  their  hammocks ;  some 
put  on 
Their  best  clothes,  as  if  going  to  a  fair ; 
Some  cursed  the  day  on  which  they  saw  the 
sun, 
And  gnashed  their  teeth,  and,  howling,  tore 
their  hair; 
And  others  went  on  as  they  had  begun, 

Getting  the  boats  out,  being  well  aware 
That  a  tight  boat  will  live  in  a  rough  sea, 
Unless  with  breakers  close  beneath  her  lee. 

XLVI. 

The  worst  of  all  was,  that  in  their  condition, 
Having  been  several  days  in  great  distress, 

'Twas  difficult  to  get  out  such  provision 
As  now  might  render  their  long  suffering  less: 

Men,  even  when  dying,  dislike  inanition  ; 
Their  stock  was  damaged  by  the  weather's 
stress : 

Two  casks  of  biscuit,  and  a  keg  of  butter, 

Were  all  that  could  be  thrown  into  the  cutter 

XLVII. 

But  in  the  long-boat  they  contrived  to  stow, 
Some  pounds  of  bread,  though  injured  bj 
the  wet ; 
Water,  a  twenty-gallon  cask  or  so ; 

Six  flasks  of  wine  ;  and  they  contrived  to  ge 
A  portion  of  their  beef  up  from  below, 

And  with  a  piece  of  pork,  moreover,  met 
But  scarce  enough  to  serve  them  for  a  lunch 

eor\ — 
Then    there  was    rum,   eight    gallons    in  a 
puncheon. 

XLVIII. 

The  other  boats,  the  yawl  and  pinnace,  had 
Been  stove  in  the  beginning  of  the  gale ; 


DON  JUAN. 


731 


And  the  long-boat's  condition  was  but  bad, 
As  there  were  but  two  blankets  for  a  sail, 

And  one  oar  for  a  mast,  which  a  young  lad 
Threw  in  by  good  luck  over  the  ship's  rail ; 

And  two  boats  could  not  hold,  far  less  be 
stored, 

To  save  one  half  the  people  then  on  board. 

XLIX. 

'Twas  twilight,  and  the  sunless  day  went  down 

Over  the  waste  of  waters ;  like  a  veil, 
Which,  if  withdrawn,  would  but  disclose  the 
frown, 
Of  one  whose  hate  is  masked  but  to  assail. 
Thus   to   their  hopeless  eyes  the   night  was 
shown, 
And  grimly  darkled  o'er  the  faces  pale, 
And  the  dim  desolate  deep:  twelve  days  had 

Fear 
Been  their  familiar,  and  now  Death  was  here. 

L. 

Some  trial  had  been  making  at  a  raft, 

With  little  hope  in  such  a  rolling  sea, 
I A  sort  of  thing  at  which   one  would  have 
laughed, 
If  any  laughter  at  such  times  could  be, 
I  Unless  with    people    who    too    much    have 
quaffed, 
And  have  a  kind  of  wild  and  horrid  glee, 
Half  epileptical,  and  half  hysterical:  — 
Their  preservation  would  have  been  a  miracle. 

LI. 

At  half-past  eight  o'clock,  booms,  hencoops, 
spars, 
And  all  things,  for  a  chance,  had  been  cast 
loose, 
That   still   could  keep  afloat   the   struggling 
tars, 
For  yet  they  strove,  although  of  no  great 
use: 
There  was   no   light  in  heaven    but  a  few 
stars, 
The  boats  put  off  o'ercrowded  with  their 
crews : 
She  gave  a  heel,  and  then  a  lurch  to  port, 
And,  going  down  head  foremost  —  sunk,  in 
short. 

LII. 

Then  rose  from  sea  to  sky  the  wild  farewell  — 
Then  shrieked  the  timid,  and  stood  still  the 
brave, — 

Then  some  leaped  overboard  with  dreadfulyell, 
As  eager  to  anticipate  their  grave ; 

And  the  sea  yawned  around  her  like  a  hell, 
And  down  she  sucked  with  her  the  whirl- 
ing wave, 

Like  one  who  grapples  with  his  enemy, 

And  strives  to  strangle  him  before  he  die. 


LIII. 

And  first  one  universal  shriek  there  rushed, 
Louder  than  the  loud  ocean,  like  a  crash 

Of  echoing  thunder  ;  and  then  all  was  hushed, 
Save  the  wild  wind  and  the  remorseless  dash 

Of  billows;  but  at  intervals  there  gushed, 
Accompanied  with  a  convulsive  splash, 

A  solitary  shriek,  the  bubbling  cry 

Of  some  strong  swimmer  in  his  agony. 


The  boats,  as  stated,  had  got  off  before, 
And  in  them  crowded  several  of  the  crew ; 

And  yet  their  present  hope  was  hardly  more 
Than  what  it  had  been,  for  so  strong  it  blew 

There   was   slight   chance   of   reaching   any 
shore ; 
And  then  they  were  too  many,  though  so 
few  — 

Nine  in  the  cutter,  thirty  in  the  boat, 

Were  counted  in  them  when  they  got  afloat. 


All  the  rest  perished  ;  near  two  hundred  souls 
Had  left  their  bodies;    and  what's  worse, 
alas  1 

When  over  Catholics  the  ocean  rolls, 

They  must  wait  several  weeks  before  a  mass 

Takes  off  one  peck  of  purgatorial  coals, 
Because,  till  people  know  what's  come  to 
pass, 

They  won't  lay  out  their  money  on  the  dead  — 

It  costs  three  francs  for  every  mass  that's  said. 


Juan  got  into  the  long-boat,  and  there 
Contrived  to  help  Pedrillo  to  a  place ; 

It  seemed  as  if  they  had  exchanged  their  care, 
For  Juan  wore  the  magisterial  face 

Which  courage  gives,  while  poor  Pedrillo's 
pair 
Of  eyes  were  crying  for  their  owner's  case  : 

Battista,  though  (a  name  called  shortly  Tita), 

Was  lost  by  getting  at  some  aqua-vita. 

LVII. 
Pedro,  his  valet,  too,  he  tried  to  save, 

But  the  same  cause,  conducive  to  his  loss, 
Left  him  so  drunk,  he  jumped  into  the  wave 
As  o'er  the  cutter's  edge  he  tried  to  cross, 
And  so  he  found  a  wine-and-watery  grave  ; 

They  could  not  rescue  him  although  so  close. 
Because  the  sea  ran  higher  every  minute, 
And  for  the  boat  —  the  crew  kept  crowding 
in  it. 

LVII  I. 
A  small  old  spaniel,  —  which  had  been  Don 
Jose's, 
His  father's,  whom  he  loved,  as  ye  may  think, 
For  on  such  things  the  memory  reposes 


782 


DON  JUAN. 


With   tenderness — stood  howling   on  the 
brink, 
Knowing,  (dogs  have  intellectual  noses!) 

No  doubt,  the  vessel  was  about  to  sink; 
And  Juan  caught  him  up,  and  e'er  he  stepped 
Off,  threw  him  in,  then  after  him  he  leaped. 


He  also  stuffed  his  money  where  he  could 
About  his  person,  and  Pedrillo's  too, 

Who  let  him  do,  in  fact,  whate'er  he  would, 
Not  knowing  what  himself  to  say,  or  do, 

As  every  rising  wave  his  dread  renewed ; 
But    Juan,  trusting    they   might    still    get 
through, 

And  deeming  there  were  remedies  for  any  ill, 

Thus  reembarked  his  tutor  and  his  spaniel. 

LX. 
'Twas  a  rough  night,  and  blew  so  stiffly  yet, 

That  the  sail  was  becalmed  between  the  seas, 
Though  on  the  wave's  high  top  too  much  to 
set, 
They  dared  not  take  it  in  for  all  the  breeze  : 
Each  sea  curled  o'er  the  stern,  and  kept  them 
wet, 
And  made  them  bale  without  a  moment's 
ease, 
So   that   themselves  as  well   as   hopes  were 

damped, 
And  the  poor  little  cutter  quickly  swamped. 

LXI. 
Nine  souls  more  went  in  her :  the  long-boat  still 

Kept  above  water,  with  an  oar  for  mast, 
Two  blankets  stitched  together,  answering  ill 

Instead  of  sail,  were  to  the  oar  made  fast: 
Though  every  wave  rolled  menacing  to  fill, 

And  present  peril  all  before  surpassed, 
They  grieved  for  those  who  perished  with  the 

cutter 
And  also  for  the  biscuit-casks  and  butter. 

LXII. 
The  sun  rose  red  and  fiery,  a  sure  sign 

Of  the  continuance  of  the  gale  :  to  run 
Before  the  sea  until  it  should  gww  fine, 

Was  all  that  for  the  present  cquld  be  done: 
A  few  tea-spoonfuls  of  their  rum  and  wine 

Were  served  out  to  the  people,  who  begun 
To  faint,  and  damaged  bread  wet  through  the 

bags, 
And  most  of  them  had  little  clothes  but  rags. 

LXI  II. 
They  counted  thirty,  crowded  in  a  space 
Which  left  scarce  room  for  motion  or  ex- 
ertion ; 
They  did  their  best  to  modify  their  case, 
One  half  sate  up  though  numbed  with  the 
immersion 


While  t'other  half  were  laid  down  in  Iheit 

place, 
At  watch  and  watch;  thus,  shivering  like  the 

tertian 
Ague  in  its  cold  fit,  they  filled  their  boat, 
With  nothing  but  the  sky  for  a  great  coaL 

LXIV. 

'Tis  very  certain  the  desire  of  life 

Prolongs  it :  this  is  obvious  to  physician*, 

When  patients,  neither  plagued  with  friends 
nor  wife, 
Survive  through  very  desperate  conditions, 

Because  they  still  can  hope,  nor  shines  the  knife 
Nor  shears  of  Atropos  before  their  visions  : 

Despair  of  all  recovery  spoils  longevity, 

And  makes  men's  miseries  of  alarming  brevity, 


'Tis  said  that  persons  living  on  annuities 
Are  longer  lived  than  others, —  God  knows 
why, 

Unless  to  plague  the  granters,  —  yet  so  it  is, 
That  some,  I  really  think,  do  never  die; 

Of  any  creditors  the  worst  a  Jew  it  is, 

And  that's  their  mode  of  furnishing  supply: 

In  my  young"  days  they  lent  me  cash  that  way. 

Which  I  found  very  troublesome  to  pay. 

LXVI. 
'Tis  thus  with  people  in  an  open  boat, 

They  live  upon  the  love  of  life,  and  bear 
More  than  can  be  believed,  or  even  thought, 
And  stand  like  rocks  the  tempest's  wear  and 
tear; 
And  hardship  still  has  been  the  sailor's  lot, 
Since  Noah's  ark  went  cruising  here  and 
there ; 
She  had  a  curious  crew  as  well  as  cargo, 
Like  the  first  old  Greek  privateer,  the  Argo. 

LXVII. 

But  man  is  a  carnivorous  production, 
And  must  have  meals,  at  least  one  meal  a 
day; 
He  cannot  live,  like  woodcocks,  upon  suction, 
But,  like  the  shark  and  tiger,  must  have 
prey; 
Although  his  anatomical  construction 

Bears  vegetables,  in  a  grumbling  way, 
Your  laboring  people  think  beyond  all  ques- 
tion, 
Beef,  veal,  and  mutton,  better  for  digestion. 

LXVIII. 

And  thus  it  was  with  this  our  hapless  crew; 

For  on  the  third  day  there  came  on  a  caln\ 
And  though  at  first  their  strength  it  might  ie* 
new, 

And  lying  on  their  weariness  like  balm, 
Lulled  them  like  turtles  sleeping  on  the  bluet 


DON  JUAN. 


783 


Of  ocean,  when  they  woke  they  felt  a  qualm, 
ind  fell  all  rayenoxisly  on  their  provision, 
nstead  of  hoarding  it  with  due  precision. 

LXIX. 

.Tie  consequence  was  easily  foreseen  — 

i  They  ate  up  all  they  had,  and  drank  their 

wine, 
n  spite  of  all  remonstrances,  and  then 
On  what,  in  fact,  next  day  were  they  to  dine  ? 
'hey  hoped  the  wind  would  rise,  these  foolish 

men  I 
And  carry  them  to  shore  ;  these  hopes  were 

fine, 
.ut  as  they  had  but  one  oar,  and  that  brittle, 
:  would  hare  been  more  wise  to  save  their 
victual. 

LXX. 

'he  fourth  day  came,  but  not  a  breath  of  air, 
And  Ocean  slumbered  like  an  unweaned 

child : 
he  fifth  day,  and  their  boat  lay  floating  there, 
The  sea  and  sky  were  blue,  and  clear,  and 

mild  — 
/ith  their  one  oar  (I  wish  they  had  a  pair) 
What  could  they  do  ?    and  hunger's  rage 
grew  wild  : 

0  Juan's  spaniel,  spite  of  his  entreating, 
/as   killed,  and   portioned  out  for  present 

eating. 

LXXI. 

n  the  sixth  day  they  fed  upon  his  hide, 
.  And  Juan,  who  had  still  refused,  because 
he  creature  was  his  father's  dog  that  died, 

1  Now  feeling  all  the  vulture  in  his  jaws, 
'ith  some  remorse  received  (though  first  de- 
nied) 

As  a  great  favor  one  of  the  fore-paws, 
Finch  he  divided  with  Pedrillo,  who 
devoured  it,  longing  for  the  other  too. 


he  seventh  day,  and  no  wind  —  the  burning 

sun 
I  Blistered  and   scorched,  and,  stagnant  on 

the  sea, 
hey  lay  like  carcasses ;    and  hope  was  none, 
Save  in  the  breeze  that  came  not;  savagely 
hey  glared  upon  each  other  —  all  was  done, 
Water,  and  wine,  and  food,  —  and  you  might 

see 
he  longings  of  the  cannibal  arise 
Although  they  spoke  not)  in  their  wolfish  eyes. 

LXXIII. 

t  length  one  whispered  his  companion,  who 
Whispered  another,  and  thus  it  went  round, 
nd  then  into  a  hoarser  murmur  grew, 
An  ominous,  and  wild,  and  desperate  sound ; 


And  when  his  comrade's  thought  each  suf- 
ferer knew, 
'Twas  but  his  own,  suppressed  till  now,  he 
found : 
And  out  they  spoke  of  lots  for  flesh  and  blood, 
And  who  should  die  to  be  his  fellow's  food. 


The  lots  were  made,  and  marked,  and  mixed, 
and  handed, 

In  silent  horror,  and  their  distribution 
Lulled   even   the   savage   hunger  which   de- 
manded, 

Like  the  Promethean  vulture,  this  pollution  ; 
None  in  particular  had  sought  or  planned  it, 

'Twas  nature  gnawed  them  to  this  resolution, 
By  which  none  were  permitted  to  be  neuter  — 
And  the  lot  fell  on  Juan's  luckless  tutor. 


The  land  appeared  a  high  and  rocky  coast, 
And   higher  grew  the   mountains  as  they 
drew, 
Set  by  a  current,  toward  it:  they  were  lost 

In  various  conjectures,  for  none  knew 
To  what  part  of  the  earth  they  had  been  tost, 
So   changeable   had   been  the  winds   that 
blew ; 
Some  thought  it  was  Mount  ^Etna,  some  the 

highlands 
Of  Candia,  Cyprus,  Rhodes,  or  other  islands. 

CI. 

Meantime  the  current,  with  a  rising  gale, 

Still  set  them  onwards  to  the  welcome  shore, 
Like  Charon's  bark  of  spectres,  dull  and  pale  : 
Their   living  freight  was  now  reduced   to 
four, 
And  three  dead,  whom  their  strength  could 
not  avail 
To  heave  into  the  deep  with  those  before, 
Though   the  two  sharks  still   followed  them, 

and  dashed 
The  spray  into  their  faces  as  they  splashed. 


Famine,  despair,  cold,  thirst,  and  heat,  had 
done 
Their  work  on  them  by  turns,  and  thinned 
them  to 
Such  things  a  mother  had  not  known  her  son 

Amidst  the  skeletons  of  that  gaunt  crew ; 
By  night  chilled,  by  day  scorched,  thus  one 
by  one 
They  perished,  until  withered  to  these  few 
But  chiefly  by  a  species  of  self-slaughter, 
In  washing  down  Pedrillo  with  salt  water. 


784 


DON  JUAN. 


cm. 
As  they  drew  nigh  the  land,  which  now  was 
seen 
Unequal  in  its  aspect  here  and  there, 
They  felt  the  freshness  of  its  growing  green, 
That  waved  in  forest-tops,  and   smoothed 
the  air. 
And  fell  upon  their  glazed  eyes  like  a  screen 
From   glistening  waves,  and   skies   so  hot 
and  bare  — 
Lovely  seemed  any  object  that  should  sweep 
Away  the  vast,  salt,  dread,  eternal  deep. 


The  shore  looked  wild,  without  a  trace  of  man, 

And  girt  by  formidable  waves  ;  but  they 
Were  mad  for  land,  and  thus  their  course  they 
ran, 
Though  right  ahead  the  roaring  breakers 
lay : 
A  reef  between  them  also  now  began 

To  show  its  boiling  surf  and  bounding  spray, 
But  finding  no  place  for  their  landing  better, 
They  ran  the  boat  for  shore, —  and  overset 
her. 

cv. 

But  in  his  native  stream,  the  Guadalquivir, 
Juan  to  lave  his  youthful  limbs  was  wont; 

And  having  learnt  to  swim  in  that  sweet  river, 
Had  often  turned  the  art  to  some  account : 

A  better  swimmer  you  could  scarce  see  ever, 
He  could,  perhaps,  have  passed  the  Helles- 
pont, 

As  once  (a  feat  on  which  ourselves  we  prided) 

Leander,  Mr.  Ekenhead,  and  I  did. 

CVI. 
So  here,  though  faint,  emaciated,  and  stark, 
He  buoyed  his  boyish  limbs,  and  strove  to 

p'y  , 

With   the   quick  wave,  and  gain,  ere  it  was 
dark, 
The  beach  which  lay  before  him,  high  and 
dry : 
The  greatest  danger  here  was  from  a  shark, 

That  carried  off  his  neighbor  by  the  thigh ; 
As  for  the  other  two,  they  could  not  swim, 
So  nobody  arrived  on  shore  but  him. 

evil. 
Nor  yet  had  he  arrived  but  for  the  oar, 

Which,  providentially  for  him,  was  washed 
Just  as  his  feeble  arms  could  strike  no  more, 
And   the   hard  wave  o'erwhelmed   him  as 
'twas  dashed 
Within  his  grasp ;  he  clung  to  it,  and  sore 
The    waters    beat  while    he   thereto    was 
lashed ; 
At  last,  with  swimming,  wading,  scrambling,  he 
Rolled  on  the  beach,  half  senseless,  from  the 
sea: 


There,  breathless,  with  his   digging  nails  he 
clung 
Fast  to  the  sand,  lest  the  returning  wave, 
From  whose  reluctant  roar  his  life  he  wrung, 
Should   suck   him    back  to   her    insatiate 
grave : 
And  there  he  lay,  full  length,  where  he  was 
flung, 
Before  the  entrance  of  a  cliff-worn  cave, 
With  just  enough  of  life  to  feel  its  pain, 
And  deem  that  it  was  saved,  perhaps,  in  vain. 

CIX. 

With  slow  and  staggering  effort  he  arose, 
But  sunk  again  upon  his  bleeding  knee 
An3  quivering  hand ;  and  then  he  looked  for 
those 
Who  long  had  been  his  mates  upon  the  sea ; 
But  none  of  them  appeared  to  share  his  woes. 
Save  one,  a  corpse  from  out  the  famished 
three, 
Who   died  two    days  before,  and  now  had 

found 
An  unknowfi  barren  beach  for  burial  ground. 


And  as  he  gazed,  his  dizzy  brain  spun  fast, 
Ami  down  he  sunk;  and  as  he  sunk,  the 
sand 

Swam  round  and  round,  and  all  his  senses 
passed  : 
He  fell  upon  his  side,  and  his  stretched  hand 

Drooped  dripping  on  the  oar  (their  jury-mast), 
And,  like  a  withered  lily,  on  the  land 

His  slender  frame  and  pallid  aspect  lay, 

As  fair  a  thing  as  e'er  was  formed  of  clay. 


How  long  in  his  damp  trance  young  Juan  lay 

He  knew  not,  for  the  earth  was  gone  for  him, 

And  Time  had  nothing  more  of  night  nor  day 

For  his  congealing  blood,  and  senses  dim; 

And  how  this  heavy  faintness  passed  away 

He   knew  not,  till  each  painful  pulse  and 

limb, 

And  tingling  vein,  seemed  throbbing  back  to 

life, 
For  Death,  though  vanquished,  still  retired 
with  strife. 

CXII. 

His  eyes  he  opened,  shut,  again  unclosed, 
For  all  was  doubt  and  dizziness ;  he  thought 

He  still  was  in  the  boat,  and  had  but  dozed, 
And  felt  again  with  his  despair  o'erwrought, 

And  wished  it  death  in  which  he  had  reposed, 
And  then  once  more  his  feelings  back  wera 
brought, 

And  slowly  by  his  swimming  eyes  was  seen 

A  lovely  female  face  of  seventeen. 


DON  JUAN. 


735 


Twas  bending  close  o'er  his,  and  the  small 
mouth 

Seemed  almost  prying  into  his  for  breath ; 
And  chafing  him,  the  soft  warm  hand  of  youth 

Recalled  his  answering  spirits   back   from 
death ; 
And,  bathing  his  chill  temples,  tried  to  soothe 

Each  pulse  to  animation,  till  beneath 
Its  gentle  touch  and  trembling  care,  a  sigh 
To  these  kind  efforts  made  a  low  reply. 

CXIV. 

Then  was  the  cordial  poured,  and  mantle  flung 
Around  his  scarce-clad  limbs;  and  the  fair 
arm 
Raised  higher   the   faint  head  which  o'er  it 
hung; 
And  her   transparent   cheek,  all  pure  and 
warm, 
Pillowed   his  death-like  forehead;  then   she 
wrung 
His   dewy  curls,  long   drenched   by  every 
storm  ; 
And  watched  with  eagerness  each  throb  that 

drew 
h  sigh  from  his  heaved  bosom  —  and  hers,  too. 

CXV. 

\nd  lifting  him  with  care  into  the  cave, 

The  gentle  girl,  and  her  attendant,  —  one 
young,  yet  her  elder,  and  of  brow  less  grave, 

And  more  robust  of  figure,  —  then  begun 
fo  kindle  fire,  and  as  the  new  flames  gave 
Light  to  the  rocks  that  roofed  them,  which 
the  sun 
Bad  never  seen,  the  maid,  or  whatsoe'er 
'she  was,  appeared  distinct,  and  tall,  and  fair. 

CXVI. 

Her  brow  was  overhung  with  coins  of  gold, 

That  sparkled  o'er  the  auburn  of  her  hair, 
Irler  clustering  hair,  whose  longer  locks  were 
rolled 
In  braids  behind;  and  though  her  stature 
were 
Even  of  the  highest  for  a  female  mould, 

They  nearly  reached  her  heel ;  and  in  her  air 
i  There   was   something  which  bespoke  com- 
mand, 
As  one  who  was  a  lady  in  the  land. 

CXVII. 

Her  hair,  I  said,  was  auburn  ;  but  her  eyes 
Were  black  as  death,  their  lashes  the  same 
hue, 

Of  downcast  length,  in  whose  silk  shadow  lies 
Deepest  attraction  ;  for  when  to  the  view 

?orth  from  its  raven  fringe  the  full  glance  flies, 
Ne'er  with  such  force  the  swiftest  arrow  flew : 


'Tis  as  the  snake  late  coiled,  who  pours  his 

length, 
And  hurls  at  once  his  venom  and  his  strength 


Her  brow  was  white  and  low,  her  cheek's  pure 
dye 

Like  twilight  rosy  still  with  the  set  sun ; 
Short  upper  lip  —  sweet  lips !    that  make  us 
sigh 

Ever  to  have  seen  such ;  for  she  was  one 
Fit  for  the  model  of  a  statuary, 

(A  race  of  mere  imposters,  when  all's  done— 
I've  seen  much  finer  women,  ripe  and  real, 
Than  all  the  nonsense  of  their  stone  ideal). 

CXIX. 

I'll  tell  you  why  I  say  so,  for  'tis  just 

One  should  not  rail  without  a  decent  cause : 
There  was  an  Irish  lady,  to  whose  bust 

I  ne'er  saw  justice  done,  and  yet  she  was 
A  frequent  model ;  and  if  e'er  she  must 

Yield  to  stern  Time  and  Nature's  wrinkling 
laws 
They  will  destroy  a  face  which  mortal  thought 
Ne'er    compassed,   nor    less    mortal    chisel 
wrought. 

cxx. 
And  such  was  she,  the  lady  of  the  cave  : 
Her  dress  was  very  different  from  the  Span- 
ish, 
Simpler,  and  yet  of  colors  not  so  grave  ; 
For,  as  you  know,  the  Spanish  women  ban« 
ish 
Bright  hues  when  out  of  doors,  and  yet,  while 
wave 
Around  them  (what  I  hope  will  never  vanish) 
The  basquina  and  the  mantilla,  they 
Seem  at  the  same  time  mystical  and  gay. 

CXXI. 

But  with  our  damsel  this  was  not  the  case: 
Her  dress  was  many-colored,  finely  spun; 
Her  locks  curled  negligently  round  her  face, 
But  through  them  gold  and  gems  profusely 
shone : 
Her  girdle  sparkled,  and  the  richest  lace 
Flowed  in  her  veil,  and  many  a  precious 
stone 
Flashed   on   her  little  hand ;  but,  what  was 

shocking 
Her  small  snow  feet  had  slippers,  but  no  stocJv 
ing. 

CXXII. 
The  other  female's  dress  was  not  unlike, 

But  of  inferior  materials  :  she 
Had  not  so  many  ornaments  to  strike, 

Her  hair  had  silver  only,  bound  to  be 
Her  dowry;  and  her  veil,  in  form  alike, 
Was   coarser;    and   her  air,    hough  firm, 
less  free ; 


786 


DON  JUAN. 


Her  hair  was  thicker,  but  less  long ;  her  eyes 
As  black,  but  quicker,  and  of  smaller  size. 

CXXIII. 

And  these  two  tended  him,  and  cheered  him 
both 
With   food   and   raiment,   and    those  soft 
attentions, 
Which   are — (as  I   must  own) — of  female 
growth, 
And  have  ten  thousand  delicate  inventions  : 
They  made  a  most  superior  mess  of  broth, 

A  thing  which  poesy  but  seldom  mentions, 
But  the  best  dish  that  e'er  was  cooked  since 

Homer's 
Achilles  ordered  dinner  for  new  comers. 

cxxiv. 

I'll  tell  you  who  they  were,  this  female  pair, 
Lest  they  should  seem  princesses  in  dis- 
guise ; 

Besides,  I  hate  all  mystery,  and  that  air 
Of  clap-trap,  which  youi  recent  poets  prize  ; 

And  so,  in  short,  the  girls  they  really  were 
They  shall  appear  before  your  curious  eyes, 

Mistress  and  maid  ;  the  first  was  only  daughter 

Of  an  old  man,  who  lived  upon  the  water. 


A  fisherman  he  had  been  in  his  youth, 
And  still  a  sort  of  fisherman  was  he ; 

But  other  speculations  were,  in  sooth. 
Added  to  his  connection  with  the  sea, 

Perhaps  not  so  respectable,  in  truth  : 
A  little  smuggling,  and  some  piracy, 

Left  him,  at  last,  the  sole  of  many  masters 

Of  an  ill-gotten  million  of  piastres. 

cxxvi. 

A  fisher,  therefore,  was  he,  —  though  of  men, 

Like  Peter  the  Apostle,  —  and  he  fished 
For   wandering    merchant-vessels,  now  and 
then, 
And    sometimes    caught    as    many   as    he 
wished ; 
The  cargoes  he  confiscated,  and  gain 

He  sought  in   the   slave-market   too,  and 
dished 
Full  many  a  morsel  for  that  Turkish  trade, 
By  which,  no  doubt,  a  good  deal  may  be  made. 

CXXVII. 

He  was  a  Greek,  and  on  his  isle  had  built 
(One  of  the  wild  and  smaller  Cyclades) 

A  very  handsome  house  from  out  his  guilt, 
And  there  he  lived  exceedingly  at  ease ; 

Heaven  knows,  what  cash  he  got  or  blood  he 
spilt, 
A  sad  old  fellow  was  he,  if  you  please ; 

But  this  I  know,  it  was  a  spacious  building, 

Full  of  barbaric  carving,  paint,  and  gilding. 


CXXVIII. 
He  had  an  only  daughter,  called  Haidee, 

The  great  heiress  of  the  Eastern  Isles ; 
Besides,  so  very  beautiful  was  she, 

Her  dowry  was  as  nothing  to  her  smiles  : 
Still  in  her  teens,  and  like  a  lovely  tree 

She    grew  to  womanhood,    and    between 
whiles 
Rejected  several  suitors,  just  to  learn 
How  to  accept  a  better  in  his  turn. 

cxxix. 

And  walking  out  upon  the  beach,  below 
The  cliff,  towards  sunset,  on  that  day  s^  = 
found, 

Insensible,  —  not  dead,  but  nearly  so, — 
Don    Juan,    almost    famished,    and    half 
drowned ; 

But  being  naked,  she  was  shocked,  you  know, 
Yet  deemed  herself  in  common  pity  bound, 

As  far  as  in  her  lay,  "  to  take  him  in, 

A  stranger  "  dying,  with  so  white  a  skin. 

cxxx. 
But  taking  him  into  her  father's  house 

Was  not  Exactly  the  best  way  to  save, 
But  like  conveying  to  the  cat  the  mouse, 

Or  people  in  a  trance  into  their  grave ; 
Because   the  good   old   man  had   so   much 

"  fOU?," 

Unlike  the  honest  Arab  thieves  so  brave. 
He  would  have  hospitably  cured  the  stranger, 
And  sold  him  instantly  when  out  of  danger. 

cxxxi. 
And  therefore,  with  her  maid,  she  thought  it 
best 
(A  virgin  always  on  her  maid  relies) 
To  place  him  in  the  cave  for  present  rest : 

And  when,  at  last,  he  opened  his  black  eyes, 
Their  charity  increased  about  their  guest ; 

And  their  compassion  grew  to  such  a  size, 
It  opened  half  the  turnpike-gates  to  heaven  — 
(St.  Paul  says,  'tis  the  toll  which  much  must 
be  given). 

cxxxu. 
They  made  a  fire,  —  but  such  a  fire  as  they 

Upon  the  moment  could  contrive  with  such 
Materials  as  were  cast  up  round  the  bay, — 
Some  broken  planks,  and  oars,  that  to  the 
touch 
Were  nearly  tinder,  since  so  long  they  lay, 

A  mast  was  almost  crumbled  to  a  crutch ; 
But,  by  God's  grace,  here  wrecks  were  in  such 

plenty, 
That  there  was  fuel  to  have  furnished  twenty. 


He  had  a  bed  of  furs,  and  a  pelisse, 

For  Haidee  stripped  her  sables  off  to  mato" 
His  couch  ;  and,  that  he  might  be  more  at  eas<; 


DON  JUAN. 


787 


And  warm,  in  case  by  chance  he  should 
awake, 
They  also  gave  a  petticoat  apiece, 
She  and  her  maid,  — and  promised  by  day- 
break 
To  pay  him  a  fresh  visit,  with  a  dish 
For  breakfast,  of  eggs,  coffee,  bread,  and  fish. 

CXXXIV. 

And  thus  they  left  him  to  his  lone  repose : 
Juan  slept  like  a  top,  or  like  the  dead, 

Who  sleep  at  last,  perhaps  (God  only  knows), 
Just  for  the  present;  and  in  his  lulled  head 

Not  even  a  vision  of  his  former  woes 
Throbbed  in  accursed  dreams,  which  some- 
times spread 

Unwelcome  visions  of  our  former  years, 

Till  the  eye,  cheated,  opens  thick  with  tears. 

cxxxv. 
Young  Juan  slept  all  dreamless:  —  but   the 
maid, 
Who  smoothed  his  pillow,  as  she  left  the 
den 
Looked  back  upon  him,  and  a  moment  stayed, 
And  turned,  believing  that  he  called  again. 
He  slumbered ;  yet  she  thought,  at  least  she 
said 
(The  heart  will  slip,  even  as  the  tongue  and 
pen), 
He  had  pronounced  her  name  —  but  she  forgot 
That  at  this  moment  Juan  knew  it  not. 

CXXXVI. 

And  pensive  to  her  father's  house  she  went, 
Enjoining  silence  strict  to  Zoe,  who 

Better  than  she  knew  what,  in  fact,  she  meant, 
She  being  wiser  by  a  year  or  two  : 

A  year  or  two's  an  age  when  rightly  spent, 
And  Zoe  spent  hers,  as  most  women  do, 

In  gaining  all  that  useful  sort  of  knowledge 

Which  is  acquired  in  Nature's  good  old  col- 
lege. 

CXXXVII. 

The  morn  broke,  and  found  Juan  slumbering 

Fast  in  his  cave,  and  nothing  clashed  upon 

His  rest;  the  rushing  of  the  neighboring  rill, 

And  the  young  beams  of  the  excluded  sun, 

Troubled  him  not,  and  he  might  sleep  his  fill ; 

And  need  he  had  of  slumber  yet,  for  none 
Had  suffered  more  —  his  hardships  were  com- 
parative 
To  those  related  in  my  grand-dad's  "  Narra- 
tive." 


CXLI. 
And  Haid6e  met  the  morning  face  to  face; 
Her  own  was  freshest,  though   a  feverish 
flush 


Had  dyed  it  with  the  headlong  blood,  whose 
race 

From  heart  to  cheek  is  curbed  into  a  blush, 
Like  to  a  torrent  which  a  mountain's  base, 

That  overpowers  some  Alpine  river's  rush, 
Checks  to  a  lake,  whose  waves  in  circles  spread, 
Or  the  Red  Sea  —  but  the  sea  is  not  red. 

CXLII. 
And  down  the  cliff  the  island  virgin  came, 
And  near  the  cave  her  quick  light  footsteps 
drew, 
While   the  sun  smiled  on  her  with  his  first 
flame, 
And  young  Aurora  kissed  her  lips  with  dew, 
Taking  her  for  a  sister ;  just  the  same 

Mistake  you  would  have  made  on  seeing 
the  two, 
Although  the  mortal,  quite  as  fresh  and  fair, 
Had  all  the  advantage,  too,  of  not  being  air. 

CXLIII. 

And  when  into  the  cavern  Haidee  stepped 

All  timidly,  yet  rapidly,  she  saw 
That  like  an  infant  Juan  sweetly  slept ; 
And  then  she  stopped,  and  stood  as  if  in 
awe 
(For  sleep  is  awful),  and  on  tiptoe  crept 

And  wrapt  him  closer,  lest  the  air,  too  raw; 
Should  reach  his  blood,  then  o'er  him  still  as 

death 
Bent,  with  hushed  lips,  that  drank  his  scarce- 
drawn  breath. 


CXLIX. 

He  woke  and  gazed,  and  would   have  slept 
again, 

But  the  fair  face  which  met  his  eyes  forbade 
Those  eyes  to  close,  though  weariness  and  pain 

Had  further  sleep  a  further  pleasure  made ; 
For  woman's  face  was  never  formed  in  vain 

For  Juan,  so  that  even  when  he  prayed 
He   turned   from   grisly  saints,  and   martyrs 

hairy, 
To  the  sweet  portraits  of  the  Virgin  Mary. 


And  thus  upon  his  elbow  he  arose, 
And  looked  upon  the  lady,  in  whose  cheek 

The  pale  contended  with  the  purple  rose, 
As  with  an  effort  she  began  to  speak  ; 

Her  eyes  were  eloquent,  her  words  would  pose 
Although   she   told   him,  in  good  modern 
Greek, 

With  an  Ionian  accent,  low  and  sweet, 

That  he  was  faint,  and  must  not  talk,  but  eat. 


Now  Juan  could  not  understood  a  word, 
Being  no  Grecian  ;  but  he  had  an  eat, 


788 


DON  JUAN. 


And  her  voice  was  the  warble  of  a  bird, 
So  soft,  so  sweet,  so  delicately  clear, 

That  finer,  simpler  music  ne'er  was  heard ; 
The  sort  of  sound  we  echo  with  a  tear, 

Without    knowing    why  —  an    overpowering 
tone, 

Whence  Melody  descends  as  from  a  throne, 

CLII. 
i  And  Juan  gazed  as  one  who  is  awoke 
By  a  distant  organ,  doubting  if  he  be 
Not  yet  a  dreamer,  till  the  spell  is  broke 

By  the  watchman,  or  some  such  reality, 
Or  by  one's  early  valet's  cursed  knock ; 

At  least  it  is  a  heavy  sound  to  me, 
Who  like  a  morning  slumber  —  for  the  night 
Shows  stars  and  women  in  a  better  light. 


CLVII, 

But  to  resume.    The  languid  Juan  raised 
His  head  upon  his  elbow,  and  he  saw 

A  sight  on  which  he  had  not  lately  gazed. 
As  all  his  latter  meals  had  been  quite  raw, 

Three  or  four  things,  for  which  the  Lord  he 
praised, 
And,  feeling  still  the  famished  vulture  gnaw, 

He  fell  upon  whate'er  was  offered,  like 

A  priest,  a  shark,  an  alderman,  or  pike. 

CLVIII. 

He  ate,  and  he  was  well  supplied :  and  she, 
Who  watched  him  like  a  mother,  would 
have  fed 

Him  past  all  bounds,  because  she  smiled  to 
see 
Such  appetite  in  one  she  had  deemed  dead  : 

But  Zoe,  being  older  than  Haidee, 
Knew  (by  tradition,  for  she  ne'er  had  read) 

That  famished  people  must  be  slowly  nurst, 

And  fed  by  spoonfuls,  else  they  always  burst. 


CLX. 
Next  they  —  he  being  naked,  save  a  tattered 
Pair  of  scarce   decent  trousers  —  went  to 
work, 
And  in  the  fire  his  recent  rags  they  scattered, 
And   dressed   him,  for  the  present,  like  a 
Turk, 
Or   Greek  —  that  is,   although   it   not   much 
mattered, 
Omitting  turban,  slippers,  pistols,  dirk, — 
They    furnished    him,    entire,    except    some 

stitches, 
With  a  clean  shirt,  and  very  spacious  breeches. 

CLXI. 

And   then  fair   Haidee  tried  her  tongue  at 
speaking, 
But  not  a  word  could  Juan  comprehend, 


Although  he  listened  so  that  the  young  Greek 
in 
Her  earnestness  would  ne'er  have  made  an 
end ; 
And,  as  he  interrupted  not,  went  eking 

Her  speech  out  to  her  protege  and  friend. 
Till  pausing  at  the  last  her  breath  to  take, 
She  saw  he  did  not  understand  Romaic. 

CLXII. 

And   then  she   had   recourse    to    nods,  and 
signs, 
And  smiles,  and  sparkles  of  the  speaking 
eye, 
And   read    (the  only  book  she    could)    the 
lines 
Of  his  fair  face,  and  found,  by  sympathy, 
The  answer  eloquent,  where  the  soul  shines 

And  darts  in  one  quick  glance  a  long  reply ; 
And  thus  in  every  look  she  saw  exprest 
A  world  of  words,  and  things  at  which  she 
guessed. 

CLXIII. 

And  now,  by  dint  of  fingers  and  of  eyes, 
And  words  repeated  after  her,  he  took 

A  lesson  in»her  tongue;  but  by  surmise, 
No   doubt,  less  of  her  language  than  her 
look : 

As  he  who  studies  fervently  the  skies 

Turns  oftener  to  the  stars  than  to  his  book, 

Thus  Juan  learned  his  alpha  beta  better 

From  Haider's  glance  than  any  graven  letter. 

CLXIV. 

'Tis  pleasing  to  be   schooled   in  a  strange 
tongue 
By  female  lips  and  eyes  —  that  is,  I  mean, 
When   both  the  teacher  and  the  taught  are 
young, 
As   was  the   case,  at  least,  where  I  have 
been; 
They  smile   so  when  one's  right,  and  when 
one's  wrong 
They  smile  still  more,  and  then  there  inter- 
vene 
Pressure   of  hands,  perhaps   even   a  chaste 

kiss ;  — 
I  learned  the  little  that  I  know  by  this : 

CLXV. 

That  is,  some  words  of  Spanish,  Turk,  and 
Greek, 

Italian  not  at  all,  having  no  teachers ; 
Much  English  I  cannot  pretend  to  speak, 

Learning    that   language   chiefly  from   its 
preachers, 
Barrow,  South,  Tillotson,  whom  every  week 

I  study,  also  Blair,  the  highest  reachers 
Of  eloquence  in  piety  and  prose  — 
I  hate  your  poets,  so  read  none  of  those 


DON  JUAN. 


789 


CLXVI. 

As  for  the  ladies,  I  have  nought  to  say, 
A   wanderer    from    the    British    world    of 
fashion, 
vVhere  I,  like  other  "  dogs,  have  had  my  day," 
Like   other   men,  too,  may   have   had  my 
passion  — 
3ut  that,  like  other  things,  has  passed  away, 
And  all  her  fools  whom  I  could  lay  the  lash 
on  : 
Toes,  friends,  men,  women,  now  are  nought 

to  me 
3ut  dreams  of  what  has  been,  no  more  to  be. 

CLXVII. 

Return  we  to  Don  Juan.     He  begun 
To  hear  new  words,  and  to  repeat  them  ; 
but 
Some  feelings,  universal  as  the  sun, 
Were  such  as  could  not  in  his  breast  be 
shut 
More  than  within  the  bosom  of  a  nun  : 
He  was   in   love,  —  as  you  would  be,  no 
doubt, 
With  a  young  benefactress,  —  so  was  she, 
[ust  in  the  way  we  very  often  see. 


\nd  thus  a  moon  rolled  on,  and  fair  Haidee 
Paid  daily  visits  to  her  boy,  and  took 

juch  plentiful  precautions,  that  still  he 
Remained  unknown  within  his  craggy  nook  ; 

At  last  her  father's  prows  put  out  to  sea, 
For  certain  merchantmen  upon  the  look, 

Not  as  of  yore  to  carry  off  an  Io, 

•3ut  three  Ragusan  vessels,  bound  for  Scio. 

CLXXV. 

Then   came  her   freedom,   for   she   had   no 
mother, 
So  that,  her  father  being  at  sea,  she  was 
?ree  as  a  married  woman,  or  such  other 
,    Female,  as  where  she  likes  may  freely  pass, 
Without  even  the  incumbrance  of  a  brother, 

The  freest  she  that  ever  gazed  on  glass: 
.  speak  of  Christian  lands  in  this  comparison, 
Where  wives,  at  least,  are  seldom  kept  in  gar- 
rison. 

CLXXVI. 

■Jow  she  prolonged  her  visits  and  her  talk 
(For  they  must  talk),  and  he  had  learnt  to 
say 
'  5o  much  as  to  propose  to  take  a  walk,  — 

For  little  had  he  wandered  since  the  day 
On  which,  like  a  young  flower  snapped  from 
the  stalk, 
Drooping  and  dewy  on  the  beach  he  lay, — 
Vnd  thus  they  walked  out  in  the  afternoon, 
ir.d  saw  the  sun  set  opposite  the  moon. 


CLXXVII. 

It  was  a  wild  and  breaker-beaten  coast 
With  cliffs  above,  and  a  broad  sandy  shore, 

Guarded  by  shoals  and  rocks  as  by  an  host, 
With  here  and  there  a  creek,  whose  aspect 
wore 

A  better  welcome  to  the  tempest-tost; 

And  rarely  ceased  the  haughty  billow's  roar, 

Save  on  the  dead  long  summer  days,  which 
make 

The  outstretched  ocean  glitter  like  a  lake. 


CLXXXI. 

The  coast —  I  think  it  was  the  coast  that  I 
Was    just    describing  —  Yes,    it    was    the 
coast  — 

Lay  at  this  period  quiet  as  the  sky, 
The  sands  untumbled,  the  blue  waves  nntost, 

And  all  was  stillness,  save  the  sea-bird's  cry, 
And  dolphin's  leap,  and  little  biliow  crost 

By  some  low  rock  or  shelve,  that  made  it  fret 

Against  the  boundary  it  scarcely  wet. 

CLXXXII. 

And  forth  they  wandered,  her  sire  being  gone, 
As  I  have  said,  upon  an  expedition; 

And  mother,  brother,  guardian,  she  had  none, 
Save  Zoe,  who,  although  with  due  precision 

She  waited  on  her  lady  with  the  sun, 

Thought  daily  service  was  her  only  mission, 

Bringing    warm    water,   wreathing    her    long 
tresses, 

And  asking  now  and  then  for  cast-off  dresses. 

CLXXXIII. 

It  was  the  cooling  hour,  just  when  the  rounded 

Red  sun  sinks  down  behind  the  azure  hill, 
Which  then  seems  as  if  the  whole   earth   it 
bounded, 
Circling  all  nature,  hushed,  and  dim,  and 
still, 
With  the  far  mountain-crescent  half  surround- 
ed 
On  one  side,  and  the  deep  sea  calm  and  chill 
Upon  the  other,  and  the  rosy  sky, 
With  one  star  sparkling  through  it  like  an  eye. 

CLXXXIV. 

And  thus  they  wandered  forth,  and  hand  in 
hand, 
Over  the  shining  pebbles  and  the  shells, 
Glided  along  the  smooth  and  hardened  sand, 

And  in  the  worn  and  wild  receptacles 
Worked  by  the  storms,  yet  worked  as  it  were 
planned, 
In  "hollow  halls,  with  sparry  roof  and  cells, 
They  turned  to  rest;  and,  each  clasped  by  an 

arm, 
Yielded  to  the  deep  twilight's  purple  charm. 


790 


DON  JUAN. 


CLXXXV. 

They  looked  up  to  the  sky,  whose  floating  glow 
Spread  like  a  rosy  ocean,  vast  and  bright ; 

They  gazed  upon  the  glittering  sea  below, 
Whence  the  broad  moon  rose  circling  into 
sight ; 

They  heard  the  waves  splash,  and  the  wind  so 
low, 
And  saw  each  other's  dark  eyes  darting  light 

Into  each  other — and,  beholding  this, 

Their  lips  drew  near,  and  clung  into  a  kiss ; 


cxcix. 

A\as!  the  love  of  women  !  it  is  known 
To  be  a  lovely  and  a  fearful  thing; 

For  all  of  theirs  upon  that  die  is  thrown, 
And  if  'tis  lost,  life  hath  no  more  to  bring 


To  them  but  mockeries  of  the  past  alone, 

And  their  revenge  is  as  the  tiger's  spring, 
Deadly,  and  quick,  and  crushing ;  yet,  as  teal 
Torture  is  theirs,  what  they  inflict  they  feel. 

CC. 
They  are  right;  for  man,  to  man  so  oft  un- 
just, 
Is  always  so  to  women;  one  sole  bound 
Awaits  them,  treachery  is  all  their  trust ; 
Taught  to  conceal,  their  bursting  hearts  de- 
spond 
Over  their  idol,  till  some  wealthier  lust 

Buys  them  in  marriage  —  and  what  rests  be- 
yond ? 
A  thankless  husband,  next  a  faithless  lover, 
Then  dressing,  nursing,  praying,  and  all's  over. 


CANTO  THE  THIRD. 


VI. 


Hail,  Muse !  et  cetera.  —  We  left  Juan  sleep- 
ing, 
Pillowed  upon  a  fair  and  happy  breast, 
And  watched  by   eyes   that  never  yet   knew 
weeping, 
And  loved  by  a  young  heart,  too  deeply  blest 
To  feel  the  poison  through  her  spirit  creeping, 

Or  know  who  rested  there,  a  foe  to  rest, 
Had  soiled  the  current  of  her  sinless  years, 
And  turned  her  pure  heart's  purest  blood  to 
tears ! 

II. 
Oh,  Love !  what  is  it  in  this  world  of  ours 

Which  makes  it  fatal  to  be  loved  ?  Ah  why 
With  cypress  branches  hast   thou   wreathed 
thy  bowers, 
And  made  thy  best  interpreter  a  sigh  ? 
As  those  who  dote  on  odors  pluck  the  flowers, 
And  place  them  on  their  breast  —  but  place 
to  die  — 
Thus  the  frail  beings  we  would  fondly  cherish 
Are  laid  within  our  bosoms  but  to  perish. 


Omitting  turban,  slippers,  pistols,  dirk, — 
They    furnished    him,    entire,    except    some 

stitches, 
With  a  clean  shirt,  and  very  spacious  breeches. 

CLXI. 
And   then   fair   Haidee  tried  her  tongue  at 
speaking, 
But  not  a  word  could  Juan  comprehend, 


No   doubt,  less  of  her  language  than  het 
look: 
As  he  who  studies  fervently  the  skies 

Turns  oftener  to  the  stars  than  to  his  book, 
Thus  Juan  learned  his  alpha  beta  better 
From  Haidee's  glance  than  any  graven  letter. 

CLXIV. 

'Tis  pleasing  to  be   schooled   in  a  strange 
tongue 
Bv  female  lips  and  eyes  —  that  is,  I  mean, 
When  both  the  teacher  and  the  taught  are 
young, 
As  was   the   case,  at  least,  where  I  have 
been; 
They  smile  so   when  one's  right,  and  when 
one's  wrong 
They  smile  still  more,  and  then  there  inter- 
vene 
Pressure   of  hands,  perhaps   even  a  chaste 

kiss ;  — 
I  learned  the  little  that  I  know  by  this : 

CLXV. 

That  is,  some  words  of  Spanish,  Turk,  and  jfc- 
Greek, 

Italian  not  at  all,  having  no  teachers; 
Much  English  I  cannot  pretend  to  speak, 

Learning    that   language   chiefly   from   its 
preachers, 
Barrow,  South,  Tillotson,  whom  every  week 

I  study,  also  Blair,  the  highest  reachers 
Of  eloquence  in  piety  and  prose  — 
I  hate  your  poets,  so  read  none  of  those 


DON  JUAN. 


791 


The  future  states  of  both  are  left  to  faith, 

For  authors  fear  description  might  disparage 
The  worlds  to  come  of  both,  or  fall  beneath, 
And  then  both  worlds  would  punish  their 
miscarriage ; 
So  leaving  each  their  priest  and  prayer-book 

ready, 
They  say  no  more  of  Death  or  of  the  Lady. 


The  only  two  that  in  my  recollection 

Have  sung  of  heaven  and  hell,  or  marriage, 
are 
Dante  and  Milton,  and  of  both  the  affection 

Was  hapless  in  their  nuptials,  for  some  bar 
Of  fault  or  temper  ruined  the  connection 
(Such  things,  in  fact,  it  don't  ask  much  to 
mar)  ; 
But  Dante's  Beatrice  and  Milton's  Eve 
Were  not  drawn  from  their  spouses,  you  con- 
ceive. 

XI. 

■Some  persons  say  that  Dante  meant  theology 
By  Beatrice,  and  not  a  mistress  —  I, 

Although  my  opinion  may  require  apology, 
Deem  this  a  commentator's  phantasy, 

Unless  indeed  it  was  from  his  own  knowledge 
he 
Decided  thus,  and  showed  good  reason 
why ; 

I  think  that  Dante's  more  abtruse  ecstatics 

Meant  to  personify  the  mathematics. 


XV. 

The  good  old  gentleman  had  been  detained 
By  winds  and  waves,  and  some  important 
captures ; 
And,  in  the  hope  of  more,  at  sea  remained, 

Although  a  squall  or  two  had  damped  his 
I        raptures, 

By  swamping  one  of  the   prizes;    he   had 
chained 
His  prisoners,  dividing  them  like  chapters 
[n  numbered  lots ;  they  ail  had  cuffs  and  col- 
lars, 
\nd  averaged  each  from  ten  to  a  hundred 
dollars. 

XVI. 

i3ome  he  disposed  of  off  Cape  Matapan, 
Among  his  friends  the  Mainots ;  some  he 
sold 
To  his  Tunis  correspondents,  save  one  man 
Tossed  overboard  unsalable  (being  old)  ; 
The  rest  —  save  here  and  there  some  richer 
one, 
Reserved  for  future  ransom  in  the  hold, 
JVere  linked  alike,  as  for  the  common  people 

he 
lad  a  large  order  from  the  Dey  of  Tripoli. 


XVII. 
The  merchandise  was   served  in  the  same 
way, 
Pieced  out  for  different  marts  in  the  Levant, 
Except  some  certain  portions  of  the  prey, 

Light  classic  articles  of  female  want, 
French  stuffs,  lace,  tweezers,  toothpicks,  tea 
pot,  tray, 
Guitars  and  castanets  from  Ali6ant, 
All  which  selected  from  the  spoil  he  gathers, 
Robbed  for  his  daughter  by  the  best  of  fathers,, 

XVIII. 

A  monkey,  a  Dutch  mastiff,  a  mackaw, 
Two  parrots,  with  a  Persian  cat  and  kittens, 

He  chose  from  several  animals  he  saw  — 
A  terrier,  too,  which  once  had  been  a  Bri- 
ton's, 

Who  dying  on  the  coast  of  Ithaca, 
The  peasants  gave  the  poor  dumb  thing  a 
pittance ; 

These  to  secure  in  this  strong  blowing  weather, 

He  caged  in  one  huge  hamper  altogether. 

XIX. 

Then  having  settled  his  marine  affairs, 

Despatching  single  cruisers  here  and  there, 
His  vessel  having  need  of  some  repairs, 
He  shaped  his  course  to  where  his  daugh- 
ter fair 
Continued  still  her  hospitable  cares ; 
But  that  part  of  the  coast  being  shoal  and 
bare, 
And  rough  with  reefs  which  ran  out  many  a 

mile, 
His  port  lay  on  the  other  side  o'  the  isle. 

xx. 

And  there  he  went  ashore  without  delay, 

Having  no  custom-house  nor  quarantine 
To  ask  him  awkward  questions  on  the  way 
About  the  time  and  place  where  he  had 
been : 
He  left  his  ship  to  be  hove  down  next  day, 

With  orders  to  the  people  to  careen  ; 
So  that  all  hands  were  busy  beyond  measure, 
In  getting  out  goods,  ballast,  guns,  and  treas- 
ure. 

XXI. 
Arriving  at  the  summit  of  a  hill 

Which  overlooked  the  white  walls  of  his 
home, 
He  stopped.  —  What  singular  emotions  fill 
Their  bosoms  who  have  been  induced  to 
roam ! 
With  fluttering  doubts  if  all  be  well  or  ill  — 

With  love  for  many,  and  with  fears  for  some ; 
All  feelings  which  o'erleap  the  years  long  lost, 
And  bring  our  hearts  back  to  their  starting- 
post. 


792 


DON  JUAN. 


XXVII. 


He  saw  his  white  wails  shining  in  the  sun, 
His  garden  trees  all  shadowy  and  green; 

He  heard  his  rivulet's  light  bubbling  run, 
The  distant  dog-bark;    and  perceived  be- 
tween 

f  he  umbrage  of  the  wood  so  cool  and  dun 
The  moving  figures,  and  the  sparkling  sheen 

Of  arms  (in  the  East  all  arm)  —  and  various 
dyes 

Of  colored  garbs,  as  bright  as  butterflies. 

XXVIII. 

And  as  the  spot  where  they  appear  he  nears, 
Surprised  at  these  unwonted  signs  of  idling, 

He  hears  —  alas  !  no  music  of  the  spheres, 
But  an  unhallowed,  earthly  sound  of  fid- 
dling! 

A  melody  which  made  him  doubt  his  ears, 
The  cause  being  past  his  guessing  or  un- 
riddling ; 

A  pine,  too,  and  a  drum,  and  shortly  after, 

A  most  unoriental  roar  of  laughter. 


And  still  more  nearly  to  the  place  advancing, 
Descending  rather  quickly  the  declivity, 

Through  the  waved  branches,  o'er  the  green- 
sward glancing, 
'Midst  other  indications  of  festivity, 

Seeing  a  troop  of  his  domestics  dancing 
Like  dervises,  who  turn  as  on  a  pivot,  he 

Perceived  it  was  the  Pyrrhic  dance  so  martial, 

To  which  the  Levantines  are  very  partial. 


And  further  on  a  group  of  Grecian  girls, 
The  first  and  tallest  her  white  kerchief  wav- 
ing, 
Were  strung  together  like  a  row  of  pearls, 
Linked  hand  in  hand,  and  dancing;    each 
too  having 
Down  her  white  neck  long  floating  auburn 
curls  — 
(The  least  of  which  would  set  ten  poets 
raving)  ; 
Their  leader  sang  —  and  bounded  to  her  song. 
With  choral  step  and  voice,  the  virgin  throng. 


And  here,  assembled  cross-legged  round  their 
trays, 

Small  social  parties  just  begun  to  dine  ; 
Pilaus  and  meats  of  all  sorts  met  the  gaze, 

And  flasks  of  Samian  and  of  Chian  wine, 
And  sherbet  cooling  in  the  porous  vase ; 

Above  them  their  dessert  grew  on  its  vine, 
The  orange  and  pomegranate  nodding  o'er 
Dropped  in  their  laps,  scarce  plucked,  their 
mellow  store. 


XXXII. 


A  band  of  children,  round  a  snow-white  ram, 
There   wreathe   his   venerable    horns   with 
flowers ; 

While  peaceful  as  if  still  an  unweaned  lamb, 
The  patriarch  of  the  flock  all  gently  cowers 

His  sober  head,  majestically  tame, 

Or  eats  from  out  the  palm,  or  playful  lowers 

His  brow,  as  if  in  act  to  butt,  and  then 

Yielding  to  their  small  hands,  draws  back 
again. 

XXXIII. 

Their  classical  profiles,  and  glittering  dresses, 
Their  large  black  eyes,  and  soft  seraphic 
cheeks, 
Crimson   as   cleft  pomegranates,  their  long 
tresses, 
The  gesture  which  enchants,  the  eye  that 
speaks 
The     innocence    which     happy    childhood 
blesses, 
Made  quite  a  picture  of  these  little  Greeks; 
So  that  the  philosophical  beholder 
Sighed,  for  their  sakes  —  that  they  should  e'er 
grow  older. 

XXXIV. 

Afar,  a  dwarf  buffoon  stood  telling  tales 
To  a  sedafe  gray  circle  of  old  smokers 
Of  secret  treasures  found  in  hidden  vales, 
Of  wonderful  replies  from  Arab  jokers, 
Of  charms  to  make  good  gold  end  cure  bad 
ails, 
Of  rocks  bewitched  that  open  to  the  knock- 
ers, 
Of  magic  ladies  who,  by  one  sole  act, 
Transformed  their  lords  to  beasts  (but  that's 
a  fact) . 

xxxv. 

Here  was  no  lack  of  innocent  diversion 
For  the  imagination  or  the  senses, 

Song,  dance,  wine,  music,  stories   from   the 
Persian, 
All  pretty  pastimes  in  which  no  offence  is ; 

But  Lambro  saw  all  these  things  with  aver- 
sion, 
Perceiving  in  his  absence  such  expenses, 

Dreading  that  climax  of  all  human  ills, 

The  inflammation  of  his  weekly  bills. 


Ah  !  what  is  man  ?  what  perils  still  environ 
The  happiest  mortals  even  after  dinner  — 

A  day  of  gold  from  out  an  age  of  iron 
Is  all  that  life  allows  the  luckiest  sinner ; 

Pleasure  (whene'er  she  sings,  at  least)  's  a 
siren, 
That  lures,  to  flay  alive,  the  young  beginner ; 

Lambro's  reception  at  his  people's  banquet 

Was  such  as  fire  accords  to  a  wet  blanket. 


DON  JUAN. 


793 


XXXVII. 

He  —  being  a  man  who  seldom  used  a  word 
Too  much,  and  wishing  gladly  to  surprise 

(In  general  he  surprised  men  with  the  sword) 
His  daughter  —  had  not  sent  before  to  ad- 
vise 

Of  his  arrival,  so  that  no  one  stirred; 
And  long  he  paused  to  re-assure  his  eyes, 

In  fact  much  more  astonished  than  delighted, 

To  find  so  much  good  company  invited. 

XXXVIII. 

He  did  not  know  (alas  !  how  men  will  lie) 
That  a  report  (especially  the  Greeks) 

Avouched  his  death  (such  people  never  die), 
And   put  his   house   in   mourning  several 
weeks, — 

But  now  their  eyes  and  also  lips  were  dry; 
The  bloom,  too,  had  returned  to  Haidee's 
cheeks. 

Her  tears,  too,  being  returned  into  their  fount, 

She  now  kept  house  upon  her  own  account. 

XXXIX. 

Hence  all  this  rice,  meat,  dancing,  wine,  and 
fiddling, 
Which  turned  the  isle  into  a  place  of  plea- 
sure, 
The    servants    all    were    getting    drunk    or 
idling, 
A   life   which   made   them   happy   beyond 
measure. 
Her  father's  hospitality  seemed  middling, 
Compared  with  what  Haidee  did  with  his 
treasure ; 
'Twas  wonderful  how  things  went  on  improv- 
ing. 
While  she  had  not  one  hour  to  spare  from 
loving. 

XL. 

Perhaps  you  think  in  stumbling  on  this  feast 
He  flew  into  a  passion,  and  in  fact 

There  was  no  mighty  reason  to  be  pleased; 
Perhaps  you  prophesy  some  sudden  act, 

The  whip,  the  rack,  or  dungeon  at  the  least, 
To  teach  his  people  to  be  more  exact, 

And  that,  proceeding  at  a  very  high  rate, 

He  showed  the  royal  penchants  of  a  pirate. 

XLI. 

You're  wrong.  —  He  was   the  mildest    man- 
nered man 

That  ever  scuttled  ship  or  cut  a  throat ; 
With  such  true  breeding  of  a  gentleman, 

You  never  could  divine  his  real  thought; 
No  courtier  could,  and  scarcely  woman  can 

Gird  more  deceit  within  a  petticoat ; 
Pity  he  loved  adventurous  life's  variety, 
He  was  so  great  a  loss  to  good  society. 


XLII. 

Advancing  to  the  nearest  dinner  tray, 

Tapping  the  shoulder  of  the  nighest  guest. 

With  a  peculiar  smile,  which,  by  the  way. 
Boded  no  good,  whatever  it  expressed, 

He  asked  the  meaning  of  this  holiday; 
The  vinous  Greek  to  whom  he  had  ad- 
dressed 

His  question,  much  too  merry  to  divine 

The  questioner,  filled  up  a  glass  of  wine, 

XLIII. 

And  without  turning  his  facetious  head, 
Over  his  shoulder,  with  a  Bacchant  air, 

Presented  the  o'erflowing  cup,  and  said, 
"  Talking's  dry  work,  I  have    no    time  to 
spare." 

A  second  hiccuped,  "  Our  old  master's  dead, 
You'd  better  ask  our  mistress  who's  his  heir." 

"  Our  mistress  !  "  quoth  a  third  :  "  Our  mis- 
tress ! —  pooh  !  — 

You  mean  our  master  —  not  the  old,  but  new." 

XLIV. 

These  rascals,  being  new  comers,  knew  not 
whom 
They  thus  addressed  —  and  Lambro's  vis- 
age fell  — 
And  o'er  his  eye  a  momentary  gloom 

Passed,  but  he  strove  quite  courteously  to 
quell 
The  expression,  and  endeavoring  to  resume 

His  smile,  requested  one  of  them  to  tell 
The  name  and  quality  of  his  new  patron, 
Who  seemed  to  have  turned  Haidee  into  a 
matron. 

XLV. 

"  I  know  not,"  quoth  the  fellow,  "  who  or  what 
He  is,  nor  whence  he  came  —  and  little  care  ; 
But  this  I  know,  that  this  roast  capon's  fat, 
And  that  good   wine   ne'er  washed   down 
better  fare ; 
And  if  you  are  not  satisfied  with  that, 

Direct    your    questions    to    my    neighbor 
there; 
He'll  answer  all  for  better  or  for  worse, 
For  none  likes  more  to   hear  himself  con- 
verse." 

XLVI. 

I  said  that  Lambro  was  a  man  of  patience, 
And  certainly  he  showed  the  best  of  breed- 
ing, 

Which  scarce  even  France,  the  paragon  of 
nations, 
E'er  saw  her  most  polite  of  sons  exceeding ; 

He  bore  these  sneers  against  his  near  relations, 
His  own  anxiety,  his  heart,  too,  bleeding, 

The  insults,  too,  of  every  servile  glutton, 

Who  all  the  time  was  eating  up  his  mutton. 


/94 


DOJV  JUAN. 


He  asked  no  further  questions,  and  proceeded 
On  to  the  house,  but  by  a  private  way, 

So  that  the  few  who  met  him  hardly  heeded, 
So  little  they  expected  him  that  day; 

If  love  paternal  in  his  bosom  pleaded 

For  Haidee's  sake,  is  more  than  I  can  say, 

But  certainly  to  one  deemed  dead  returning, 

This  revel  seemed  a  curious  mode  of  mourn- 
ing. 


LII. 

He  entered  in  the  house  —  his  home  no  more, 
For  without  hearts  there  is  no  home ;  — and 
felt 
The  solitude  of  passing  his  own  door 
Without  a  welcome :   there   he    long   had 
dwelt, 
There  his  few  peaceful  days  Time  had  swept 
o'er, 
There  his  worn  bosom  and  keen  eye  would 
melt 
Over  the  innocence  of  that  sweet  child, 
His  only  shrine  of  feelings  undefiled. 


LXI. 
Old  Lambro  passed  unseen  a  private  gate, 

And  stood  within  his  hall  at  eventide; 
Meantime  the  lady  and  her  lover  sate 

At  wassail  in  their  beauty  and  their  pride  : 
An  ivory  inlaid  table  spread  with  state 

Before  them,  and  fair  slaves  on  every  side; 
Gems,  gold,  and  silver,  formed  the  service 

mostly, 
Mother  of  pearl  and  coral  the  less  costly. 

LXII. 

The  dinner  made  about  a  hundred  dishes ; 
Lamb   and   pistachio   nuts  —  in   short,   all 
meats, 
And  saffron  soups,  and  sweetbreads ;  and  the 
fishes 
Were  of  the  finest  that  e'er  flounced  in  nets, 
Drest  to  a  Sybarite's  most  pampered  wishes ; 

The  beverage  was  various  sherbets 
Of  raisin,  orange,  and  pomegranate  juice, 
Squeezed  through  the  rind,  which  makes  it 
best  for  use. 

LXI  1 1. 
These  were  ranged  round,  each  in  its  crystal 
ewer, 
And  fruits,  and  date-bread  loaves  closed  the 
repast, 
<\nd  Mocha's  berry,  from  Arabia  pure, 

In  small  fine  China  cups,  came  in  at  last ; 
Gold  cups  of  filigree  made  to  secure 
The  hand  from  burning  underneath  them 
placed, 


Cloves,   cinnamon,    and    saffron    too    were 

boiled 
Up  with   the   coffee,   which   (I   think)    they 

spoiled. 

LXIV. 

The   hangings   of   the   room  were  tapestry, 
made 

Of  velvet  panels,  each  of  different  hue, 
And  thick  with  damask  flowers  of  silk  inlaid; 

And  round  them  ran  a  yellow  border  too ; 
The  upper  border,  richly  wrought,  displayed, 

Embroidered  delicately  o'er  with  blue, 
Soft  Persian  sentences,  in  lilac  letters, 
From  poets,  or  the  moralists  their  betters. 


LXVII. 

Haidee  and  Juan  carpeted  their  feet 

On  crimson  satin,  bordered  with  pale  blue ; 
Their  sofa  occupied  three  parts  complete 
Of   the   apartment  —  and  appeared    quite 
new ; 
The    velvet    cushions    (for  a   throne    more 
meet)  — 
Were  scarlet,  from  whose  glowing   centre 
grew 
A  sun  embossed  in  gold,  whose  rays  of  tissue, 
Meridian-like,  were  seen  all  light  to  issue. 

LXVIII. 

Crystal  and  marble,  plate  and  porcelain, 
Had  done  their  work  of  splendor;  Indian 
mats 
And  Persian  tarpets,  which  the  heart  bled  to 
stain, 
Over  the  floors  were  spread ;  gazelles  and 
cats, 
And  dwarfs  and  blacks,  and  such  like  things, 
that  gain 
Their  bread  as  ministers  and  favorites - 
(that's 
To  say,  by  degradation)  —  mingled  there 
As  plentiful  as  in  a  court,  or  fair. 

LXIX. 

There  was  no  want  of  lofty  mirrors,  and 
The  tables,  most  of  ebony  inlaid 

With  mother  of  pear!  or  ivory,  stood  at  hand, 
Or    were   of  tortoise-shell  or  rare  woods 
made, 

Fretted  with  gold  or  silver:  —  by  command, 
The  greater  part  of  these  were  ready  spread 

With  viands  and  sherbets  in  ice  —  and  wine  — 

Kept  for  all  comers,  at  all  hours  to  dine. 

LXX. 

Of  all  the  dresses  I  select  Haidee's: 
She  wore  two  jelicks  —  one  was  of  pale  ye* 
low; 
<">f  azure,  pink,  and  white  was  her  chemise  - 


DON  JUAN. 


795 


'Neath  which  her  breast  heaved  like  a  little 
billow ; 
sVith  buttons  formed  of  pearls  as  large  as  peas, 
All  gold  and  crimson  shone  her  jelick's  fel- 
low, 
And  the   striped  white  gauze  baracan   that 

bound  her, 
Like  fleecy  clouds  about  the  moon,  flowed 
round  her. 

LXXI. 

One  large  gold  bracelet  clasped  each  lovely 
arm, 

Lockless  —  so  pliable  from  the  pure  gold 
That  the  hand  stretched  and  shut  it  without 
harm, 

The  limb  which  it  adorned  its  only  mould  ; 
So  beautiful  —  its  very  shape  would  charm, 

And  clinging  as  if  loath  to  lose  its  hold, 
The  purest  ore  inclosed  the  whitest  skin 
That  e'er  by  precious  metal  was  held  in. 


Around,  as  princess  of  her  father's  land, 

A  like  gold  bar  above  her  instep  rolled, 
Announced  her  rank ;   twelve  rings  were  on 
her  hand ; 
Her  hair  was  starred  with  gems ;  her  veil's 
fine  fold 
Below  her  breast  was  fastened  with  a  band 
Of  lavish  pearls,  whose  worth  could  scarce 
be  told ; 
Her  orange  silk  full  Turkish  trowsers  furled 
About  the  prettiest  ankle  in  the  world. 

LXXIII. 

Her  hair's  long  auburn  waves  down  to  her  heel 
Flowed  like  an  Alpine  torrent  which  the  sun 

Dyes  with  his  morning  light,  —  and  would  con- 
ceal 
Her  person  if  allowed  at  large  to  run, 

And  still  they  seem  resentfully  to  feel 

The  silken  fillet's  curb,  and  sought  to  shun 

Their  bonds  whene'er  some  Zephyr  caught 
began 

To  offer  his  young  pinion  as  her  fan. 


I  Round  her  she  made  an  atmosphere  of  life, 
The  very  air  seemed  lighter  fiom  her  eyes, 

They  were  so  soft  and  beautiful,  and  rife 
With  all  we  can  imagine  of  the  skies, 

And  pure  as  Psyche  e'er  she  grew  a  wife — 
Too  pure  even  for  the  purest  human  ties ; 

Her  overpowering  presence  made  you  feel 

It  would  not  be  idolatry  to  kneel. 

LXXV. 

Her  eyelashes,  though   dark  as  night,  were 
tinged 
(  It  is  the  country's  custom),  but  in  vain  ; 


For  those  large  black  eyes  were  so  blackly 
fringed, 
The  glossy  rebels  mocked  the  jetty  stain, 
And  in  their  native  beauty  stood  avenged  : 
Her  nails  were   touched  with  henna;   but 
again 
The  power  of  art  was  turned  to  nothing,  for 
They  could  not  look  more  rosy  than  before. 

LXXVI. 
The  henna  should  be  deeply  dyed  to  make 

The  skin  relieved  appear  more  fairly  fair ; 
She  had  no  need  of  this,  day  ne'er  will  break 

On  mountain  tops  more  heavenly  white  than 
her. 
The  eye  might  doubt  if  it  were  well  awake, 

She  was  so  like  a  vision  ;   I  might  err, 
But  Shakspeare  also  says  'tis  very  silly 
"  To  gild  refined  gold,  or  paint  the  lily." 

LXXVI  I. 

Juan  had  on  a  shawl  of  black  and  gold, 
But  a  white  baracan,  and  so  transparent 

The  sparkling  gems  beneath  you  might  behold, 
Like  small  stars  through  the  milky  way  ap- 
parent : 

His  turban,  furled  in  many  a  graceful  fold, 
An  emerald  aigrette  with  Haidee's  hair  in't 

Surmounted,  as  its  clasp,  a  glowing  crescent, 

Whose  rays  shone  ever  trembling,  but  inces- 
sant. 

LXXVIII. 
And  now  they  were  diverted  by  their  suite, 
Dwarfs,  dancing  girls,  black  eunuchs,  and  a 
poet, 
Which  made  their  new  establishment   com- 
plete ; 
The  last  was  of  great  fame,  and  liked  to  show 
it; 
His  verses  rarely  wanted  their  due  feet  ■ — 
And  for  his  theme  —  he  seldom  sung  below 

it. 
He  being  paid  to  satirize  or  flatter, 
As  the  psalm  says,  "  inditing  a  good  matter." 

LXXIX. 
He  praised  the  present,  and  abused  the  past, 

Reversing  the  good  custom  of  old  days, 
An  Eastern  anti-jacobin  at  last 

He  turned,  preferring  pudding  to  no  praise— 
For  some  few  years  his  lot  had  been  o'ercast 

By  his  seeming  independent  in  his  lays, 
But  now  he  sung  the  Sultan  and  the  Pacha 
With  truth  like  Southey,  and  with  verse  like 
Crashaw. 

LXXX. 

He  was  a  man  who  had  seen  many  changes, 
And  always  changed  as  true  as  any  needle ; 

His  polar  star  being  one  which  rather  ranges, 
And  not  the   fixed  —  he  knew  the  way  to 
wheedle: 


796 


DON  JUAN. 


So  vile  he  'scaped  the  doom  which  oft  avenges : 
And  being  fluent  (save  indeed  when  fee'd 

ill), 
He  lied  with  such  a  fervor  of  intention  — 
There  was  no  doubt  he  earned  his  laureate 

pension. 

LXXXI. 

But  he  had  genius,  —  when  a  turncoat  has  it, 

The  "  Vates  irritabilis  "  takes  care 
That  without  notice  few  full  moons  shall  pass  it ; 
Even   good   men  like  to  make  the  public 
stare :  — 
But  to  mv  subject  —  let  me  see  —  what  was 
it?  — 
Oh  !  —  the   third    canto  —  and    the    pretty 
pair  — 
Their  loves,  and  feasts,  and  house,  and  dress, 

and  mode 
Of  living  in  their  insular  abode. 

LXXXI  I. 

Their  poet,  a  sad  trimmer,  but  no  less 
In  company  a  very  pleasant  fellow, 
Had  been  the  favorite  of  full  many  a  mess 
Of  men,  and  made  them  speeches  when  half 
mellow; 
And  though  his  meaning  they  could   rarely 
guess, 
Yet  still  they  deigned  to  hiccup  or  to  bellow 
The  glorious  meed  of  popular  applause, 
Of  which   the    first  ne'er  knows  the  second 
cause. 

LXXXIII. 
But  now  being  lifted  into  high  society, 

And  having  picked  up  several  odds  and  ends 
Of  free  thoughts  in  his  travels  for  variety, 
He  deemed,  being   in   a  lone  isle,  among 
friends, 
That  without  any  danger  of  a  riot,  he 

Might  for  long  lying  make  himself  amends  ; 
And  singing  as  he  sung  in  his  warm  youth, 
Agree  to  a  short  armistice  with  truth. 

LXXXIV. 

He  had  travelled  'mongst  the  Arabs,  Turks, 
and  Franks, 
And  knew  the  self-loves  of  the  different  na- 
tions ; 
And  having  lived  with  people  of  all  ranks, 
Had   something  ready  upon    most    occa- 
sions— 
Which  got  him   a  few  presents   and   some 
thanks. 
He  varied  with  some  skill  his  adulations ; 
To  "  do  at  Rome  as  Romans  do,"  a  piece 
Of  conduct  was  which  he  observed  in  Greece. 

LXXXV. 

Thus,  usually,  when  he  was  asked  to  sing, 
He  gave  the  different  nations   something 
national ; 


'Twas  all  the  same  to  him  —  "God  save  th« 
king," 
Or  "  (.'«  ira,"  according  to  the  fashion  all: 
His  muse  made  increment  of  any  thing, 
From    the    high    lyric    down    to    the   lovj 
rational : 
If  Pindar  sanghorse-races,  what  should  hinder 
Himself  from  being  as  pliable  as  Pindar  ? 

LXXXV  I. 

In   France,  for   instance,   he  would  wrte   a 
chanson ; 
In  England  a  six  canto  quarto  tale ; 
In  Spain,  he'd  make  a  ballad  or  romance  on 
The  last  war  —  much  the  same  in  Portugal; 
In  Germany,  the  Pegasus  he'd  prance  on 
Would  be  old  Goethe's —  (Sec  what  savs 
de  Stael)  ; 
In  Italy,  he'd  ape  the  "  Trecentisti ;  " 
In  Greece,  he'd  sing  some  sort  of  hymn  like 
this  t'ye : 

i. 
The  isles  of  Greece,  the  isles  of  Greece ! 

Where  burning  Sappho  loved  and  sung, 
Where  grew  the  arts  of  war  and  peace,  — 

Where  Delos  rose,  and  Phoebus  sprung! 
Eternal  summer  gilds  them  yet, 
But  all,  except  their  sun,  is  set. 


The  Scian  and  the  Teian  muse, 
The  hero's  harp,  the  lover's  lute, 

Have  found  the  fame  your  shores  refuse ; 
Their  place  of  birth  alone  is  mute 

To  sounds  which  echo  further  west 

Than  your  sires'  "  Islands  of  the  Blest." 


The  mountains  look  on  Marathon  — 
And  Marathon  looks  on  the  sea; 

And  musing  there  an  hour  alone, 

I  dreamed  that  Greece  might  still  be  free 

For  standing  on  the  Persians'  grave, 

I  could  not  deem  myself  a  slave. 


A  king  sate  on  the  rocky  brow 

Which  looks  o'er  sea-born  Salamis; 

And  ships,  by  thousands,  lay  below, 
And  men  in  nations  ;  —  all  were  his ! 

He  counted  them  at  break  of  day  — 

And  when  the  sun  set  where  were  they  ? 

5- 
And  where  are  they  ?  and  where  art  thou. 

My  country  ?     On  thy  voiceless  shore 
The  heroic  lay  is  tuneless  now  — 

The  heroic  bosom  beats  no  more! 
And  must  thy  lyre,  so  long  divine, 
Degenerate  into  hands  like  mine  ? 


PON  JUAN. 


797 


Tis  something,  in  the  dearth  of  fame, 
Though  linked  among  a  fettered  race, 

To  feel  at  least  a  patriot's  shame, 
Even  as  I  sing,  suffuse  my  face; 

For  what  is  left  the  poet  here  ? 

For  Greeks  a  blush  —  for  Greece  a  tear. 


Must  we  but  weep  o'er  days  more  blest  ? 

Must  we  but  blush  ?  —  Our  fathers  bled. 
Earth  !  render  back  from  out  thy  breast 

A  remnant  of  our  Spartan  dead  ! 
Of  the  three  hundred  grant  but  three. 
To  make  a  new  Thermopylae ! 


What,  silent  still  ?  and  silent  all  ? 

Ah  !  no  ;  —  the  voices  of  the  dead 
Sound  like  a  distant  torrent's  fall, 

And  answer,  "  Let  one  living  head, 
But  one  arise,  — we  come,  we  come!" 
Tis  but  the  living  who  are  dumb. 


In  vain  —  in  vain  :  strike  other  chords; 

Fill  high  the  cup  with  Samian  wine ! 
Leave  battles  to  the  Turkish  hordes, 

And  shed  the  blood  of  Scio's  vine  I 
Hark  !  rising  to  the  ignoble  call  — 
How  answers  each  bold  Bacchanal ! 


You  have  the  Pyrrhic  dance  as  yet, 
Where  is  the  Pyrrhic  phalanx  gone  ? 

Of  two  such  lessons,  why  forget 
The  nobler  and  the  manlier  one? 

You  have  the  letters  Cadmus  gave  — 

Think  ye  he  meant  them  for  a  slave  ? 


Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine ! 

We  will  not  think  of  themes  like  these! 
It  made  Anacreon's  song  divine  : 

He  served  —  but  served  Polycrates  — 
A  tyrant ;  but  our  masters  then 
Were  still,  at  least,  our  countrymen. 


The  tyrant  of  the  Chersonese 

Was  freedom's  Lest  and  bravest  friend ; 
That  tyrant  was  Miltiades  ! 

Oh  !  that  the  present  hour  would  lend 
Another  despot  of  the  kind ! 
Such  chains  as  his  were  sure  to  bind. 

13- 

Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine! 

On  Suli's  rock,  and  Parga's  shore, 
Exists  the  remnant  of  a  line 

Such  as  the  Doric  mothers  bore ; 


And  there,  perhaps,  some  seed  is  sown, 
The  Heracleidan  blood  might  own. 

14. 
Trust  not  for  freedom  to  the  Franks— - 

They  have  a  king  who  buys  and  sells ; 
In  native  swords,  and  native  ranks,  ■ 

The  only  hope  of  courage  dwells ; 
But  Turkish  force,  and  Latin  fraud. 
Would  break  your  shield,  however  broad. 

IS- 
Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine ! 

Our  virgins  dance  beneath  the  shade  — 
I  see  their  glorious  black  eyes  shine ; 

But  gazing  on  each  glowing  maid, 
My  own  the  burning  tear-drop  laves, 
To  think  such  breasts  must  suckle  slaves. 

16. 
Place  me  on  Sunium's  marbled  steep, 

Where  nothing,  save  the  waves  and  I, 
May  hear  our  mutual  murmurs  sweep; 

There,  swan-like,  let  me  sing  and  die: 
A  land  of  slaves  shall  ne'er  be  mine  — 
Dash  down  yon  cup  of  Samian  wine ! 


CI. 
T'our  tale.  —  The  feast  was   over,  the  slaves 
gone, 
The  dwarfs  and   dancing  girls  had  all  re- 
tired ; 
The  Arab  lore  and  poet's  song  were  done, 

And  every  sound  of  revelry  expired ; 
The  lady  and  her  lover,  left  alone, 

The  rosy  flood  of  twilight's  sky  admired ;  — 
Ave  Maria !  o'er  the  earth  and  sea, 
That  heavenliest  hour  of  Heaven  is  worthiest 
thee! 

CII. 
Ave  Maria !  blessed  be  the  hour ! 
The  time,  the  clime,  the  spot,  where  I  so 
oft 
Have  felt  that  moment  in  its  fullest  power 
Sink  o'er  the  earth  so  beautiful  and  soft, 
While  swung  the   deep   bell   in   the   distant 
tower, 
Or  the  faint  dying  day-hymn  stole  aloft, 
And  not  a  breath  crept  through  the  rosy  air, 
And  yet  the  forest  leaves  seemed  stirred  with 
prayer. 

era. 

Ave  Maria !  'tis  the  hour  of  prayer ! 

Ave  Maria  !  'tis  the  hour  of  love ! 
Ave  Maria !  may  our  spirits  dare 

Look  up  to  thine  and  to  thy  Son's  above ! 
Ave  Maria  !  oh  that  face  so  fair  ! 

Those  downcast  eyes  beneath  the  Almighty 
dove  — 


?9$ 


DON  JUAN. 


What  though  'tis  but  a  pictured   image  ?  — 

strike  — 
That  painting  is  no  idol,  —  'tis  too  like. 

CIV. 

Some  kinder  casuists  are  pleased  to  say, 
In  nameless  print  —  that  I  have  no  devo- 
tion ; 
But  set  those  persons  down  with  me  to  pray, 
And  you  shall  see  who  has  the  properest 
notion 
Of  getting  into  heaven  the  shortest  way; 

My  altars  are  the  mountains  and  the  ocean, 
Earth,  air,  stars,  —  all  that  springs  from  the 

great  Whole, 
Who   hath  produced,   and  will   receive  the 
soul. 

cv. 
Sweet  hour  of  twilight !  —  in  the  solitude 
Of  the  pine  forest,  and  the  silent  shore 
Which  bounds  Ravenna's  immemorial  wood, 
Rooted  where  once  the  Adrian  wave  flowed 
o'er, 
To  where  the  last  Cesarean  fortress  stood, 
Evergreen  forest !  which  Boccaccio's  lore 
And  Dryden's  lay  made  haunted  ground  to 

me, 
How   have   I   loved   the  twilight    hour  and 
thee! 

CVI. 

The  shrill  cicalas,  people  of  the  pine, 

Making  their  summer   lives  one  ceaseless 
song, 
Were  the  sole  echoes,  save  my  steed's  and 
mine, 
And    vesper  bell's  that  rose   the   boughs 
along; 
The  spectre  huntsman  of  Onesti's  line, 

His  hell-dogs,  and  their  chase,  and  the  fair 
throng 
Which  learned  from  this  example  not  to  fly 
From  a  true  lover,  —  shadowed  my  mind's 
eye. 

CVII. 
Oh,  Hesperus!  thou  bringest  all  good  things  — 

Home  to  the  weary,  to  the  hungry  cheer, 
To  the  young  bird  the  parent's  brooding  wings, 
The  welcome  stall  to  the  o'erlabored  steer ; 
Whate'er  of  peace   about  our    hearthstone 
clings, 


Whate'er  our  household  gods   protect    <3 
dear, 
Are  gathered  round  us  by  thy  look  of  rest ; 
Thou  bring'st  the  child,  too,  to  the  mother's 

breast. 

CVIII. 

Soft  hour!  which  wakes  the  wish  and  melts 
the  heart 
Of  those  who  sail  the  seas,  on  the  first  day 
When  they  from  their  sweet  friends  are  tort 
apart ; 
Or  fills  with  love  the  pilgrim  on  his  way 
As  the  far  bell  of  vesper  makes  him  start, 

Seeming  to  weep  the  dying  day's  decay ; 
Is  this  a  fancy  which  our  reason  scorns  ? 
Ah!    surely    nothing     dies    but     something 
mourns  1 

CIX. 
When  Nero  perished  by  the  justest  doom 
Which  ever  the  destroyer  yet  destroyed, 
Amidst  the  roar  of  liberated  Rome, 

Of  nations  freed,  and  the  world  overjoyed, 

Some  hands  unseen  strewed  flowers  upon  his 

tomb; 

Perhaps  the  weakness  of  a  heart  not  void 

Of  feeling  for  some  kindness  done,  when  power 

Had  left  the  wretch  an  uncorrupted  hour. 

ex. 

But  I'm  digressing;  what  on  earth  has  Nero, 

Or  any  such  like  sovereign  buffoons, 
To  do  with  the  transactions  of  my  hero, 
More  than  such  madmen's   fellow  man  — 
the  moon's  ? 
Sure  my  inventfbn  must  be  down  at  zero, 
And    I    grown    one    of    many   "  wooden 
spoons  " 
Of  verse  (the  name  with  which  we  Cantabs 

please 
To  dub  the  last  of  honors  in  degrees). 

CXI. 
I  feel  this  tediousness  will  never  do  — 

'Tis  being  too  epic,  and  I  must  cut  down 
(In  copying)  this  long  canto  into  two ; 

They'll  never  find  it  out,  unless  I  own 
The  fact,  excepting  some  experienced  few ; 

And  then  as  an  inprovement  'twill  be  show* 
I'll  prove  that  such  the  opinion  of  the  critic  \\ 
From  Aristotle  passim.  —  See  Uoitjtiktjs. 


CANTO  THE   FOURTH. 


I. 

NOTHING  so  difficult  as  a  beginning 
In  poesy,  unless  perhaps  the  end ; 
Foi  oftentimes  when  Pegasus  seems  winning 


The  race,  he  sprains  a  wing,  and  down  we 
tend, 
Like  Lucifer  when  hurled  from  heaven   foi 
sinning ; 


DON  JUAN. 


799 


Our  sin  the  same,  and  hard  as  his  to  mend, 
Being  pride,  which  leads  the  mind  to  soar  too 

far, 
Till  our  own  weakness  shows  us  what  we  are. 


But  Time,  which  brings  all   beings  to   their 
level, 
And  sharp  Adversity,  will  teach  at  last 
Man,  —  and,  as  we  hope, — -perhaps  the  devil, 

That  neither  of  their  intellects  are  vast : 
While  youth's  hot  wishes    in  our   red  veins 
revel, 
We  know  not  this  —  the  blood  flows  on  too 
fast; 
But  as  the  torrent  widens  towards  the  ocean, 
We  ponder  deeply  on  each  past  emotion. 


As  boy,  I  thought  myself  a  clever  fellow, 
And  wished   that   others    held    the   same 
opinion; 
They  took  it  up  when  my  days  grew  more 
mellow, 
And  other  minds  acknowledged  my  domin- 
ion : 
Now  my  sere  fancy  "  falls  into  the  yellow 

Leaf,"  and  Imagination  droops  her  pinion, 
And  the  sad  truth  which  hovers  o'er  my  desk 
Turns  what  was  once  romantic  to  burlesque. 

IV. 
And  if  I  laugh  at  any  mortal  thing, 

'Tis  that  I  may  not  weep ;  and  if  I  weep, 
'Tis  that  our  nature  cannot  always  bring 
Itself  to  apathy,  for  we  must  steep 
1  Our  hearts  first  in  the  depths  of  Lethe's  spring, 
Ere  what  we  least  wish  to  behold  will  sleep  : 
Thetis  baptized  her  mortal  son  in  Styx ; 
A  mortal  mother  would  on  Lethe  fix. 


Some  have  accused  me  of  a  strange  design 
Against  the  creed  and  morals  of  the  land, 

And  trace  it  in  this  poem  every  line  : 
I  don't  pretend  that  I  quite  understand 

My  own  meaning  when  I  would  be  very  fine; 
But  the  fact  is  that  I  have  nothing  planned, 

Unless  it  were  to  be  a  moment  merry, 

A  novel  word  in  my  vocabulary. 


^To  the  kind  reader  of  our  sober  clime 

This  way  of  writing  will  appear  exotic; 
Pulci  was  sire  of  the  half-serious  rhyme, 
Who  sang  when  chivalry  was  more  Quix- 
otic, 
And  revelled  in  the  fancies  of  the  time, 
True  knights,  chaste  dames,  huge  giants, 
kings  despotic ; 
But  all  these,  save  the  last,  being  obsolete, 
I  choose  a  modern  subject  as  more  meet. 


VII. 
How  I  have  treated  it,  I  do  not  know; 

Perhaps  no  better  than  they  have  treated  me 
Who  have  imputed  such  designs  as  show 

Not  what  they  saw,  but  what  they  wished  to 
see; 
But  if  it  gives  them  pleasure,  be  it  so ; 

This  is  a  liberal  age,  and  thoughts  are  fre«. 
Meantime  Apollo  plucks  me  by  the  ear, 
And  tells  me  to  resume  my  story  here. 


Young  Juan  and  his  lady-love  were  left 
To  their  own  hearts'  most  sweet  society ; 

Even  Time  the  pitiless  in  sorrow  cleft 

With  his  rude  scythe  such  gentle  bosoms; 
he 

Sighed  to  behold  them  of  their  hours  bereft 
Though  foe  to  love ;  and  yet  they  could  not 
be 

Meant  to  grow  old,  but  die  in  happy  spring, 

Before  one  charm  or  hope  had  taken  wing. 

IX. 

Their  faces  were  not  made  for  wrinkles,  their 
Pure  blood  to  stagnate,  their  great  hearts  to 
fail; 
The  blank  gray  was  not  made  to  blast  their 
hair, 
But  like  the  climes  that  know  nor  snow  nor 
hail 
They  were  all  summer:  lightning  might  as- 
sail 
And  shiver  them  to  ashes,  but  to  trail 
A  long  and  snake-like  life  of  dull  decay 
Was  not  for  them  —  they  had  too  little  clay. 


They  were  alone  once  more ;  for  them  to  be 
Thus  was  another  Eden  ;  they  were  never 

Weary,  unless  when  separate  :  the  tree 

Cut  from  its  forest  root  of  years  — the  river 

Dammed  from  its  fountain  —  the  child  from 
the  knee 
And  breast  maternal  weaned  at  once  for 
ever,  — 

Would  wither  less  than  these  two  torn  apart; 

Alas !  there  is  no  instinct  like  the  heart  — 

XI. 
The   heart  —  which   may  be  broken:  happy 
they! 
Thrice  fortunate  !  who  of  that  fragile  mould, 
The  precious  porcelain  of  human  clay, 

Break  with  the  first  fall:  they  can  ne'er  be 
hold 
The  long  year  linked  with  heavy  day  on  day, 
And  all  which  must  be  borne,  and  never 
told; 
While  life's  strange  principle  will  often  lie 
Deepest  in  those  who  long  the  most  to  die. 


800 


DON  JUAN. 


"  Whom  the  gods  love  die  young,"  was  said 
of  yore, 
And  many  deaths  do  they  escape  by  this : 
The  death  of  friends,  and   that  which  slays 
even  more  — 
The   death   of  friendship,  love,  youth,  all 
that  is, 
Except  mere  breath  ;  and  since  the  silent  shore 
j      Awaits  at  last  even  those  who  longest  miss 
I  The    old   archer's   shafts,  perhaps   the   early 
grave 
Which  men  weep  over  may  be  meant  to  save. 

XIII. 

Haidee  and  Juan  thought  not  of  the  dead. 
The  heavens,  and  earth,  and  air,  seemed 
made  for  them : 
They  found  no  fault  with  Time,  save  that  he 
fled. 
They  saw  not  in  themselves  aught  to  con- 
demn. 
Each  was  the  other's  mirror,  and  but  read 

Joy  sparkling  in  their  dark  eyes  like  a  gem, 
And   knew   such  brightness  was  but  the  re- 
flection 
Of  their  exchanging  glances  of  affection. 

XIV. 

The  gentle  pressure,  and  the  thrilling  touch, 
The  least  glance   better   understood   than 
words, 
Which  still  said  all,  and  ne'er  could  say  too 
much ; 
A  language,  too,  but  like  to  that  of  birds, 
Known  but  to  them,  at  least  appearing  such 

As  but  to  lovers  a  true  sense  affords ; 
Sweet    playful    phrases,  which   would   seem 

absurd 
To  those  who  have  ceased  to  hear  such,  or 
ne'er  heard. 

XV. 

All  these  were  theirs,  for  they  were  children 
still, 

And   children   still   they  should  have  ever 
been; 
They  were  not  made  in  the  real  world  to  fill 

A  busy  character  in  the  dull  scene, 
But  like  two  beings  born  from  out  a  rill, 

A  nymph  and  her  beloved,  all  unseen 
To  pass  their  lives  in  fountains  and  on  flowers, 
And  never  know  the  weight  of  human  hours. 


XXVIII. 
They  should   have    lived   together  deep  in 
woods, 
Unseen  as  sings  the  nightingale ;  they  were 
Unfit  to  mix  in  these  thick  solitudes 
Called  social,  haunts  of  Hate,  and  Vice, 
and  Care : 


How  lonely  every  freeborn  creature  broods! 

The  sweetest  song-birds  nestle  in  a  pair ; 
The  eagle  soars  alone  ;  the  gull  and  crow 
Flock  o'er  their  carrion,  just  like  men  below. 


Or  as  the  stirring  of  a  deep  clear  stream 
Within  an  Alpine  hollow,  when  the  wind 

Walks  o'er  it,  was  she  shaken  by  the  dream, 
The  mystical  usurper  of  the  mind  — 

O'erpowering  us  to  be  whate'er  may  seem 
Good  to  the  soul  which  we  no  more  can 
bind; 

Strange  state  of  being!   (for  'tis  still  to  be) 

Senseless  to  feel,  and  with  sealed  eyes  to  see. 

XXXI. 

She  dreamed  of  being  alone  on  the  sea-shore, 
Chained  to  a  rock ;  she  knew  not  how,  but 
stir 
She  could  not  from  the  spot,  and  the  loud  roar 
Grew,  and  each  wave  rose  roughly,  threat- 
ening her; 
And  o'er  her  upper  lip  they  seemed  to  pour, 
Until  she  sobbed  for  breath,  and  soon  they 
were 
Foaming  o'er  her  lone  head,  so  fierce  and 

high  — 
Each  broke  to  drown  her,  yet  she  could  not 
die. 

XXXII. 
Anon — she  was  released,  and  then  she  strayed 
O'er  the  sharp  shingles  with  her  bleeding  feet, 
And  stumbled  almost  every  step  she  made ; 

And  something  rolled  before  her  in  a  sheet, 
Which  she  must  still  pursue  howe'er  afraid  : 
'  I'was  white  and  indistinct,  nor  stopped  to 
meet 
Her  glance  nor  grasp,  for  still  she  gazed  and 

grasped, 
And  ran,  but  it  escaped  her  as  she  clasped. 

XXXIII. 

The  dream  changed  :  —  in  a  cave  she  stood. 
its  walls 
Were  hung  with  marble  icicles ;  the  work 
Of  ages  on  its  water-fretted  halls, 

Where  waves  might  wash,  and  seals  might 
breed  and  lurk ; 
Her  hair  was  dripping,  and  the  very  balls 
Of  her  black  eyes  seemed  turned  to  tears, 
and  mirk 
The   sharp  rocks   looked  below  each   drop 

they  caught, 
Which  froze  to  marble  as  it  fell,  —  she  thought. 

XXXIV. 

And  wet,  and  cold,  and  lifeless  at  her  feet, 
Pale  as  the  foam  that  frothed  on  his  dead 
brow 


DON  7UAN. 


801 


Which  she  essayed  in  vain  to  clear,   (how 
sweet 
Were  once  her  cares,  how  idle  seemed  they 
now !) 
lay  Juan,  nor  could  aught  renew  the  beat 
Of  his  quenched  heart ;  and  the  sea  dirges 
low 
Rang  in  her  sad  ears  like  a  mermaid's  song, 
And  that  brief  dream  appeared  a  life  too  long. 

XXXV. 

And  gazing  on  the  dead,  she  thought  his  face 

Faded,  or  altered  into  something  new  — 
Like  to  her  father's  features,  till  each  trace 
More   like   and   like   to   Lambro's   aspect 
grew  — 
With  all  his  keen  worn   look   and  Grecian 
grace ; 
And  starting,  she  awoke,  and  what  to  view  ? 
Oh!  Powers  of  Heaven  !  what  dark  eye  meets 

she  there  ? 
'Tis  —  'tis  her  father's  —  fixed  upon  the  pair ! 

XXXVI. 

Then  shrieking,  she  arose,  and  shrieking  fell, 
With  joy  and  sorrow,  hope  and  fear,  to  see 

Him   whom   she  deemed   a   habitant  where 
dwell 
The  ocean-buried,  risen  from  death,  to  be 

Perchance  the  death  of  one  she  loved  too 
well: 
Dear  as  her  father  had  been  to  Haidee, 

It  was  a  moment  of  that  awful  kind 

I  have  seen  such  —  but  must  not  call  to  mind. 

XXXVII. 
Up  Juan  sprung  to  Haidee's  bitter  shriek, 

And  caught  her  falling,  and  from  off  the  wall 
Snatched  down  his  sabre,  in  hot  haste  to  wreak 

Vengeance  on  him  who  was  the  cause  of  all : 
Then  Lambro,  who  till  now  forbore  to  speak, 

Smiled  scornfully,  and  said,  "  Within  my 
call, 
A  thousand  scimitars  await  the  word  ; 
Put  up,  young  man,  put  up  your  silly  sword." 

XXXVIII. 

'And  Haidee  clung  around  him ;  "  Juan,  'tis  — 
'Tis  Lambro  —  'tis  my  father!    Kneel  with 
me  — 

He  will  forgive  us  —  yes  —  it  must  be  —  yes. 
Oh  !  dearest  father,  in  this  agony 

Of  pleasure  and  of  pain  —  even  while  I  kiss 
Thy  garment's  hem  with  transport,  can  it  be 

That  doubt  should  mingle  with  my  filial  joy  ? 

Deal  with  me  as  thou  wilt,  but  spare  this  boy." 

XXXIX. 
High  and  inscrutable  the  old  man  stood, 

Calm  in  his  voice,  and  calm  within  his  eye  — 
Not  always  signs  with  him  of  calmest  mood  : 

He  looked  upon  her,  but  gave  no  reply ; 


Then  turned  to  Juan,  in  whose   cheek  the 

blood 
Oft  came  and  went,  as  there  resolved  to  die ; 
In  arms,  at  least,  he  stood,  in  act  to  spring 
On  the  first  foe  whom  Lambro's  call  might 

bring. 

XL. 

"  Young  man,  your  sword ;  "  so  Lambro  once 
more  said : 
Juan  replied,  "  Not  while  this  arm  is  free." 
The  old  man's  cheek  grew  pale,  but  not  with 
dread, 
And  drawing  from  his  belt  a  pistol,  he 
Replied,  "  Your  blood  be  then  on  your  own 
head." 
Then  looked  close  to  the  flint,  as  if  to  see 
'Twas  fresh — for  he  had  lately  used  the  lock — ■ 
And  next  proceeded  quietly  to  cock. 

XLI. 

It  has  a  strange  quick  jar  upon  the  ear, 
That  cocking  of  a  pistol,  when  you  know 

A  moment  more  will  bring  the  sight  to  bear 
Upon  your  person,  twelve  yards  off,  or  so  ; 

A  gentlemanly  distance,  not  too  near, 
If  you  have  got  a  former  friend  or  foe ; 

But  after  being  fired  at  once  or  twice, 

The  ear  becomes  more  Irish,  and  less  nice. 


Lambro  presented,  and  one  instant  more 
Had  stopped  this  Canto,  and  Don  Juan's 
breath, 
When  Haidee  threw  herself  her  boy  before  ; 
Stern  as  her  sire :  "  On  me,"  she  cried,  "  let 
death 
Descend  —  the  fault  is  mine;  this  fatal  shore 
He  found  —  but  sought  not.    I  have  pledged 
my  faith ; 
I  love  him —  I  will  die  with  him  :  I  knew 
Your  nature's  firmness — know  your  daughter'* 
too." 

XLIII. 
A  minute  past,  and  she  had  been  all  tears, 

And  tenderness,  and  infancy ;  but  now 
She  stood  as   one  who  championed  humat 
fears  — 
Pale,  statue-like,  and  stern,  she  wooed  tha 
blow ; 
And  tall  beyond  her  sex,  and  their  compeers, 

She  drew  up  to  her  height,  as  if  to  show 
A  fairer  mark ;  and  with  a  fixed  eye  scanned 
Her  father's  face — but  never  stopped  his  hand, 

XLIV. 
He  gazed  on  her,  and  she  on  him  ;  'twas  strange 
How  like  they  looked !  the  expression  was 
the  same ; 
Serenely  savage,  with  a  little  change 

In  the  large  dark  eye's  mutual-darted  flame' 
For  she.  too,  was  as  one  who  could  avenge, 


802 


DON  JUAN. 


If  cause  should  be —  a  lioness,  though  tame, 
Her  father's  blood  before  her  father's  face 
Boiled  up,  and  proved  her  truly  of  his  race. 

XLV. 

I  said  they  were  alike,  their  features  and 
Their  stature,  differing  but  in  sex  and  years ; 

Even  to  the  delicacy  of  their  hand 

There  was  resemblance,  such  as  true  blood 
wears ; 

And  now  to  see  them,  thus  divided,  stand 
In  fixed  ferocity,  when  joyous  tears, 

And  sweet  sensations,  should  have  welcomed 
both, 

Show  what  the  passions  are  in  their  full  growth. 

XLVI. 

The  father  paused  a  moment,  then  withdrew 
His  weapon,  and  replaced  it;  but  stood  still, 

And  looking  on  her,  as  to  look  her  through, 
"  Not  /,"  he  said, "  have  sought  this  stranger's 
ill; 

Not  /  have  made  this  desolation  :  few 
Would  bear  such  outrage,  and  forbear  to 
kill; 

But  I  must  do  my  duty —  how  thou  hast 

Done  thine,  the  present  vouches  for  the  past. 


"  Let  him  disarm  ;  or,  by  my  father's  head, 
His  own  shall  roll  before  you  like  a  ball !  " 

He  raised  his  whistle,  as  the  word  he  said, 
And  blew,  another  answered  to  the  call, 

And  rushing  in  disorderly,  though  led, 

And  armed  from  boot  to  turban,  one  and  all, 

Some  twenty  of  his  train  came,  rank  on  rank  ; 

He  gave  the  word,  — "  Arrest  or    slay  the 
Frank." 

XLVIII. 

Then,  with  a  sudden  movement,  he  withdrew 
His  daughter;  while  compressed  within  his 
clasp, 

'Twixt  her  and  Juan  interposed  the  crew; 
In  vain  she  struggled  in  her  father's  grasp  — 

His  arms  were  like  a  serpent's  coil :  then  flew 
Upon  their  prey,  as  darts  an  angry  asp, 

The  file  of  pirates  ;  save  the  foremost,  who 

Had  fallen,  with  his  right  shoulder  half  cut 
through. 

XLIX. 

The  second  had  his  cheek  laid  open  ;  but 
The  third,  awary,  cool  old  sworder,  took 

The  blows  upon  his  cutlass,  and  then  put 
His  own  well  in;   so  welL,  ere  you  could 
look, 

His   man  was   floored,  and  helpless  at  his 
foot, 
With  the  blood  running  like  a  little  brook 

From  two  smart  sabre  gashes,  deep  and  red  — 

One  on  the  arm,  the  other  on  the  head. 


L. 

And  then  they  bound  him  where  he  fell,  and 
bore 
Juan  from  the  apartment :  with  a  sign 
Old  Lambrobade  them  take  him  to  the  shore, 
Where  lay  some  ships  which  were  to  sail  at 
nine. 
They  laid  him  in  a  boat,  and  plied  the  oar 
Until  they  reached  some  galliots,  placed  in 
line ; 
On  board  of  one  of  these,  and  under  hatches, 
They  stowed  him,  with  strict  orders  to  the 
watches. 

LI. 

The  world  is  full  of  strange  vicissitudes, 
And  here  was  one  exceedingly  unpleasant-. 

A  gentleman  so  rich  in  the  world's  goods, 
Handsome   and    young,  enjoying    all  the 
present, 

Just  at  the  very  time  when  he  least  broods 
On  such  a  thing  is  suddenly  to  sea  sent, 

Wounded   and   chained  so  that   he  cannot 
move, 

And  all  because  a  lady  fell  in  love. 

LII. 

Here  I  must  leave  him,  for  I  grow  pathetic, 
Moved  by   the   Chinese   nymph   of  tears, 
green  tea ! 

Than  whom  Cassandra  was  not   more  pro- 
phetic ; 
For  if  my  pure  libations  exceed  three, 

I  feel  my  heart  become  so  sympathetic, 
That  I  must  have  recourse  to  black  Bohea : 

'Tis  pity  wine  should  be  so  deleterious, 

For  tea  and  coffee  leave  us  much  more  serious, 


Unless  when  qualified  with  thee,  Cogniac ! 

Sweet  Naiad  of  the  Phlegethontic  rill! 
Ah  !  why  the  liver  wilt  thou  thus  attack, 

And  make,  like  other  nymphs,  thy  lovers  ill  £ 
I  would  take  refuge  in  weak  punch,  but  rack 

(In  each  sense  of  the  word),  whene'er  I  fill 
My  mild  and  midnight  beakers  to  the  brim, 
Wakes  me  next  morning  with  its  synonym. 


I  leave  Don  Juan  for  the  present,  safe  — 
Not    sound,    poor     fellow,   but     severely 
wounded ; 
Yet  could  his  corporal  pangs  amount  to  half 
Of  those  with  which  his  Haidee's  bosom 
bounded ! 
She  was  not  one  to  weep,  and  rave,   and 
chafe, 
And  then  give  way,  subdued  because  sur- 
rounded ; 
Her  mother  was  a  Moorish  maid,  from  Fes. 
Where  all  is  Eden,  or  a  wilderness. 


DON  JUAN. 


803 


LV. 

There  the  large  olive  rains  its  amber  store 
In   marble  fonts ;  there  grain,  and  flower, 
and  fruit, 

Gush  from  the  earth  until  the  land  runs  o'er ; 
But  there,  too,  many  a  poison-tree  has  root, 

And  midnight  listens  to  the  lion's  roar, 

And  long,  long  deserts  scorch  the  camel's 
foot, 

Or  heaving  whelm  the  helpless  caravan ; 

And  as  the  soil  is,  so  the  heart  of  man. 

LVI. 

Afric  is  all  the  sun's,  and  as  her  earth 

Her  human  clay  is  kindled ;  full  of  power 
For  good  or  evil,  burning  from  its  birth, 
The  Moorish  blood  partakes  the  planet's 
hour, 
And  like  the  soil  beneath  it  will  bring  forth  : 
Beauty  and  love  were   Haidee's  mother's 
dower ; 
But  her  large  dark  eye  showed  deep  Passion's 

force, 
Though  sleeping  like  a  lion  near  a  source. 


Her  daughter,  tempered  with  a  milder  ray, 
Like  summer  clouds  all  silvery,  smooth,  and 
fair, 

Till  slowly  charged  with  thunder  they  display 
Terror  to  earth,  and  tempest  to  the  air, 

Had  held  till  now  her  soft  and  milky  way ; 
But  overwrought  with  passion  and  despair, 

The  fire  burst  forth  from  her  Numidian  veins, 

Even  as  the  simoom  sweeps  the  blasted  plains. 

LVIII. 
The  last  sight  which  she  saw  was  Juan's  gore, 
And  he  himself  o'ermastered  and  cut  down  ; 
His  blood  was  running  on  the  very  floor 

Where  late  he  trod,  her  beautiful,  her  own; 
Thus   much   she  viewed  an  instant  and  no 
more, — 
Her  struggles  ceased  with  one  convulsive 
groan ; 
On  her  sire's  arm,  which  until  now  scarce  held 
Her  writhing,  fell  she  like  a  cedar  felled. 

LIX. 

A  vein  had  burst,  and  her  sweet  lips'  pure  dyes 
Were  dabbled  with  the  deep  blood  which 
ran  o'er; 
And  her  head  drooped  as  when  the  lily  lies 
O'ercharged    with    rain :    her    summoned 
handmaids  bore 
Their  lady  to  her  couch  with  gushing  eyes ; 
!    Of  herbs  and  cordials  they  produced  their 

store, 
Jut  she  defied  all  means  they  could  employ, 
-,ike  one  life  could  not  hold,  nor  death  destroy. 


Days  lay  she  in  that  state  unchanged,  though 
chill  — 
With  nothing  livid,  still  her  lips  were  red ; 
She  had  no  pulse,  but  death  seemed  absent 
still ; 
No   hideous   sign   proclaimed   her    surely 
dead; 
Corruption  came  not  in  each  mind  to  kill 

All  hope;  to  look  upon  her  sweet  face  bred 
New  thoughts   of   life,  for  it  seemed  full  of 

soul  — 
She  had  so  much,  earth  could  nor  claim  the 
whole. 

LXI. 

The  ruling  passion,  such  as  marble  shows 
When  exquisitely  chiselled,  still  lay  there, 

But  fixed  as  marble's  unchanged  aspect  throws 
O'er  the  fair  Venus,  but  for  ever  fair ; 

O'er  the  Laocoon's  all  eternal  throes, 
And  ever-dying  Gladiator's  air, 

Their  energy  like  life  forms  all  their  fame, 

Yet  looks  not  life,  for  they  are  still  the  same. 

LXII. 

She  woke  at  length,  but  not  as  sleepers  wake, 
Rather  the  dead,  for  life  seemed  something 
new, 
A  strange  sensation  which  she  must  partake 

Perforce,  since  whatsoever  met  her  view 
Struck  not  on  memory,  though  a  heavy  ache 
Lay  at  her  heart,  whose  earliest  beat  still 
true 
Brought  back  the  sense  of  pain  without  the 

cause, 
For,  for  a  while,  the  furies  made  a  pause. 

LXIII. 

She  looked  on  many  a  face  with  vacant  eye, 
On  many  a  token  without  knowing  what ; 
She  saw  them  watch  her  without  asking  why, 
And   recked   not   who   around  her  pillow 
sat; 
Not  speechless,  though  she  spoke  not ;  not  a 
sigh 
Relieved  her   thoughts;    dull  silence  and 
quick  chat 
Were  tried  in  vain  by  those  who  served ;  she 

gave 
No  sign,  save  breath,  of  having  left  the  grave. 

LXIV. 

Her  handmaids  tended,  but  she  heeded  not; 
Her  father  watched,  she  turned  her  eyes 
away ; 
She  recognized  no  being,  and  no  spot 

However  dear  or  cherished  in  their  day; 
They  changed  from  room  to  room,  but   ah 
forgot, 
Gentle,  but  without  memory  she  lay; 


804 


DON  JUAN. 


At  length  those  eyes,  which  they  would  fain 

be  weaning 
Back  to  old  thoughts,  waxed  full  of  fearful 

meaning. 

LXV. 

And  then  a  slave  bethought  her  of  a  harp; 

The  harper  came,  and  tuned   his   instru- 
ment; 
At  the  first  notes,  irregular  and  sharp, 

On  him  her  flashing  eyes  a  moment  bent, 
Then  to  the  wall  she  turned  as  if  to  warp 

Her  thoughts  from  sorrow  through  her  heart 
re-sent ; 
vn  1  he  begun  a  long  low  island  song 
Of  ancient  days,  ere  tyranny  grew  strong. 

LXVI. 

Anon  her  thin  wan  fingers  beat  the  wall 
In  time  to  his  old  tune;  he  changed  the 
theme, 
And  sung  of  love;    the  fierce  name  struck 
through  all 
Her  recollection  ;  on  her  flashed  the  dream 
Of  what  she  was,  and  is,  if  ye  could  call 
To  be  so  being;  in  a  gushing  stream 
The  tears  rushed  forth  from  her  o'erclouded 

brain, 
Like  mountain  mists  at  length  dissolved  in 
rain. 

LXVII. 
Short  solace,  vain  relief!  — thought  came  too 
quick, 
And  whirled  her  brain  to  madness;   she 
arose 
As  one  who  ne'er  had  dwelt  among  the  sick, 

And  flew  at  all  she  met,  as  on  her  foes ; 
But  no  one  ever  heard  her  speak  or  shriek, 
Although  her  paroxysm  drew  towards  its 
close ;  — 
Hers  was  a  phrensy  which  disdained  to  rave, 
Even  when  they  smote  her,  in  the  hope  to  save. 

LXVIII. 
Yet  she  betrayed  at  times  a  gleam  of  sense ; 
Nothing  could  make  her  meet  her  father's 
face, 
Though  on  all  other  things  with  looks  intense 
She  gazed,  but  none  she  ever  could  retrace ; 
Food  she  refused,  and  raiment ;  no  pretence 
Availed  for  either;  neither  change  of  place, 
Nor  time,  nor  skill,  nor  remedy,  could  give  her 
Senses  to  sleep  —  the  power  seemed  gone  for 
ever. 

LXIX. 

Twelve  days  and  nights  she  withered  thus ;  at 
last, 
Without  a  groan,  or  sigh,  or  glance,  to  show 
A  parting  pang,  the  spirit  from  her  past : 
And  they  who  watched  her  nearest  could 
not  know 
The  very  instant,  till  the  change  that  cast 


Her   sweet    face    into    shadow,    dull    and 

slow, 
Glazed    o'er    her    eyes  —  the    beautiful,   the 

black  — 
Oh!  to  possess  such  lustre  —  and  then  lack! 

LXX. 

She  died, but  not  alone;   she  held  within 
A  second  principle  of  life,  which  might 

Have  dawned  a  fair  and  sinless  child  of  sin  ; 
But  closed  its  little  being  without  light, 

And  went  down  to  the  grave  unborn,  wherein 
Blossom  and  bough  lie  withered  with  one 
blight ; 

In  vain  the  dews  of  heaven  descend  above 

The  bleeding  flower  and  blasted  fruit  of  love. 


Thus  lived  —  thus  died  she;  never  more  on 
her 
Shall  sorrow  light,  or  shame.    She  was  not 
made 
Through  years  or  moons  the  inner  weight  to 
bear, 
Which  colder  hearts  endure  till  they  are  laid 
By  age  in  earth  :  her  days  and  pleasures  were 
Brief,  but  delightful  —  such  as  had  not  staid 
Long  with  her  destiny ;  but  she  sleeps  well 
By  the  sea-shore,  whereon  she  loved  to  dwell. 

LXXII. 

That  isle  is  now  all  desolate  and  bare, 

Its  dwellings  down,  its  tenants  passed  away  , 

None  but  her  own  and  father's  grave  is  there,     I 
And  nothing  outward  tells  of  human  clay ; 

Ye  could  not  krtow  where  lies  a  thing  so  fair 
No  stone  is  there  to  show,  no  tongue  to  say 

What  was ;  no  dirge,  except  the  hollow  sea's,      \ 

Mourns  o'er  the  beauty  of  the  Cyclades. 

LXXIII. 

But  many  a  Greek  maid  in  a  loving  song 

Sighs  o'er  her  name  ;  and  many  an  islander     V 

With  her  sire's  story  makes  the  night  less  long ;     j 
Valor  was  his,  and  beauty  dwelt  with  her  : 

If  she  loved  rashly,  her  life  paid  for  wrong  — 
A  heavy  price  must  all  pay  who  thus  err, 

In  some  shape ;  let  none  think  to  fly  the  dan- 
ger, 

For  soon  or  late  Love  is  his  own  avenger. 

LXXIV. 

But  let  me  change  this  theme,  which  grows    L 
too  sad, 

And  lay  this  sheet  of  sorrows  on  the  shelf;    | 
I  don't  much  like  describing  people  mad,  L 

For  fear  of  seeming  rather  touched  myself —    r 
Besides,  I've  no  more  on  this  head  to  add ; 

And  as  my  Muse  is  a  capricious  elf, 
We'll  put  about,  and  try  another  tack 
With  Juan,  left  half-killed  some  stanzas  back,    I 


DON  JUAN. 


80.- 


LXXV. 

Wounded  and  fettered,  "  cabined,  cribbed, 
confined," 

Some  days  and  nights  elapsed  before  that  he 
Could  altogether  call  the  past  to  mind ; 

And  when  he  did,  he  found  himself  at  sea, 
Sailing  six  knots  an  hour  before  the  wind ; 

The  shores  of  I  lion  lay  beneath  their  lee  — 
Another  time  he  might  have  liked  to  see  'em, 
But  now  was  not  much  pleased  with  Cape 
Sigaeum. 


There,  on  the  green  and  village-cotted  hill,  is 
(Flanked  by  the  Hellespont,  and  by  the  sea) 

Entombed  the  bravest  of  the  brave,  Achilles ; 
They  say  so —  (Bryant  says  the  contrary)  : 

And  further  downward,  tall  and  towering  still, 
is 
The  tumulus  —  of  whom  ?  Heaven  knows  ; 
't  may  be 

Patroclus,  Ajax,  or  Protesilaus  ; 

All  heroes,  who  if  living  still  would  slay  us. 


High  barrows,  without  marble,  or  a  name, 
Avast,  untilled,  and  mountain-skirted  plain, 

And  Ida  in  the  distance,  still  the  same, 
And  old  Scamander,  (if  'tis  he)  remain ; 

The  situation  seems  still  formed  for  fame  — 
A  hundred  thousand  men  might  fight  again 

With  ease;    but  where  I  sought  for  Ilion's 
walls, 

The  quiet  sheep  feeds,  and  the  tortoise  crawls  ; 


Troops  of  untended  horses ;  here  and  there 
Some  little  hamlets,  with   new  names  un- 
couth ; 
Some  shepherds,  (unlike  Paris,)  led  to  stare 

A  moment  at  the  European  youth 
Whom  to  the  spot  their  school-boy  feelings 
bear; 
A  Turk,  with   beads   in  hand,  a  pipe  in 
mouth, 
Extremely  taken  with  his  own  religion, 
Are  what  I  found  there  —  but  the   devil   a 
Phrygian. 

LXXIX. 

Don  Juan,  here  permitted  to  emerge 

From  his  dull  cabin,  found  himself  a  slave  ; 
rorlorn,  and  gazing  on  the  deep  blue  surge, 
O'ershadowed    there    by   many    a    hero's 
grave ; 
Veak   still  with    loss   of  blood,  he   scarce 
could  urge 
A  few  brief  questions ;    and   the  answers 

gave 
Jo  very  satisfactory  information 
.bout  his  past  or  present  situation. 


LXXX. 

He  saw  some  fellow  captives,  who  appeared 
To  be  Italians,  as  they  were  in  fact; 

From  them,  at  least,  their  destiny  he  heard, 
Which  was  an  odd  one  ;  a  troop  going  to  act 

In  Sicily — all  singers,  duly  reared 

In  their  vocation ;   had  not  been  attacked 

In  sailing  from  Livorno  by  the  pirate, 

But  sold  by  the  impresario  at  no  high  rate. 


By  one  of  these,  the  buffo  of  the  party, 
Juan  was  told  about  their  curious  case ; 

For  although  destined  to  the  Turkish  mart,  he 
Still  kept  his  spirits  up  —  at  least  his  face  ; 

The  little  fellow  really  looked  quite  hearty, 
And  bore  him  with  some  gaiety  and  grace, 

Showing  a  much  more  reconciled  demeanor 

Than  did  the  prima  donna  and  the  tenor. 


In  a  few  words  he  told  their  hapless  story, 
Saying,  "  Our  Machiavelian  impresario, 

Making  a  signal  off  some  promontory, 

Hailed    a    strange    brig;    Corpo   di  Caio 
Mario ! 

We  were  transferred  on  board  her  in  a  hurry, 
Without  a  single  scudo  of  salario ; 

But  if  the  Sultan  has  a  taste  for  song, 

We  will  revive  our  fortunes  before  long." 


xc. 

Here  Raucocanti's  eloquent  recital 
Was  interrupted  by  the  pirate  crew, 

Who  came  at  stated  moments  to  invite  all 
The  captives  back  to  their  sad  berths ;  each 
threw 

A  rueful  glance  upon  the  waves,  (which  bright 
all 
From  the  blue  skies  derived  a  double  blue, 

Dancing  all  free  and  happy  in  the  sun,) 

And  then  went  down  the  hatchway  one  by  one. 

XCI. 

They  heard  next  day — that   in   the   Darda- 
nelles, 

Waiting  for  his  Sublimity's  firman, 
The  most  imperative  of  sovereign  spells, 

Which  everybody  does  without  who  can, 
More  to  secure  them  in  their  naval  cells, 

Lady  to  lady,  well  as  man  to  man, 
Were  to  be  chained  and  lotted  out  per  couple. 
For  the  slave  market  of  Constantinople. 


XCIV. 

Juan's  companion  was  a  Romagnole, 

But  bred  within  the  March  of  old  Ancona 
With  eyes  that  looked  into  the  very  soul 


806 


DON  JUAN. 


(And  other  chief  points  of  a  "  bella  donna  ") , 
Bright  —  and  as  black  and  burning  as  a  coat ; 

And  through  her  clear  brunette  complexion 
shone  a 
Great  wish  to  please  —  a  most  attractive  dower, 
Especially  when  added  to  the  power. 

xcv. 

But  all  that  power  was  wasted  upon  him, 
For  sorrow  o'er  each  sense  held  stern  com- 
mand ; 
Her  eye  might  flash  on  his,  but  found  it  dim  ; 
And  though  thus  chained,  as  natural  her 
hand 
Touched  his,  nor  that  —  nor  any  handsome 
limb 
(And  she  had  some  not  easy  to  withstand) 
Could  stir  his  pulse,  or  make  his  faith  feel 

brittle ; 
Perhaps  his  recent  wounds  might  help  a  little. 

XCVI. 

No  matter;  we  should  ne'er  too  much  inquire, 
But  facts  are  facts  :  no  knight  could  be  more 
true, 

And  firmer  faith  no  ladye-love  desire ; 
We  will  omit  the  proofs,  save  one  or  two: 

'Tis  said  no  one  in  hand  "  can  hold  a  fire 
By  thought  of  frosty  Caucasus ;  "  but  few, 

I  really  think  ;  yet  Juan's  then  ordeal 

Was  more  triumphant,  and  not  much  less  real. 


Here  I  might  enter  on  a  chaste  description, 
Having  withstood  temptation  in  my  youth, 

But  hear  that  several  people  take  exception 
At  the  first  two  books  having  too  much  truth  ; 

Therefore  I'll  make  Don  Juan  leave  the  ship 
soon, 
Because  the  publisher  declares,  in  sooth, 

Through  needles'  eyes  it  easier  for  the  camel 
is 

To  pass,  than  those  two  cantos  into  families. 

XCVIII. 

'Tis  all  the  same  to  me;  I'm  fond  of  yielding, 
And  therefore  leave  them  to  the  purer  page 

Of  Smollett,  Prior,  Aiiosto,  Fielding, 
Who  say  strange  things  for  so  correct  an 
age; 

I  once  had  great  alacrity  in  wielding 
My  pen,  and  liked  poetic  war  to  wage, 

And  recollect  the  time  when  all  this  cant 

Wou'.'J  have  provoked  remarks  which  now  it 
shan't. 


CXIII. 

But  to  the  narrative: — The  vessel  bound 
With  slaves  to  sell  off  in  the  capital, 

After  the  usual  process,  might  be  found 
At  anchor  under  the  seraglio  wall ; 

Her  cargo,  from  the  plague  being  safe  and 
sound, 
Were  landed  in  the  market,  one  and  all, 

And  there  with  Georgians,  Russians,  and  Cir- 
cassians, 

Bought  up  for  different  purposes  and  passions. 


Some  went  off  dearly ;  fifteen  hundred  dollars 
For  one  Circassian,  a  sweet  girl,  were  given, 
Warranted  virgin  ;  beauty's  brightest  colors 
Had  decked   her  out  in   all   the   hues  ol 
heaven: 
Her    sale    sent    home    some    disappointed 
bawlers, 
Who  bade  on  till   the  hundreds  reached 
eleven ; 
But  when  the  offer  went  beyond,  they  knew 
'Twas  for  the  Sultan,  and  at  once  withdrew. 

cxv. 

Twelve  negresses from  Nubia  brought  a  price 
Which  the   West    Indian    market    scarce 
would  bring; 

Though  Wilberforce,  at  last  has  made  it  twice 
What 'twas  ere  Abolition  ;  and  the  thing 

Need  not  seem  very  wonderful,  for  vice 
Is  always  much  more  splendid  than  a  king : 

The  virtues,  even  the  most  exalted,  Charity, 

Are  saving  —  vice  spares  nothing  for  a  rarity. 

CXVI. 

But  for  the  destiny  of  this  young  troop, 
How  some  were  bought  by  pachas,  some  by 
Jews, 

How  some  to  burdens  were  obliged  to  stoop, 
And  others  rose  to  the  command  of  crews 

As  renegadoes ;  while  in  hapless  group, 
Hoping  no  very  old  vizier  might  choose, 

The  females  stood,  as  one  by  one  they  picked 
'em, 

To  make  a  mistress,  or  fourth  wife,  or  victim: 

CXVII. 

AH  this  must  be  reserved  for  further  son?; 

Also  our  hero's  lot,  howe'er  unpleasant 
(Because  this  Canto  has  become  too  long), 

Must  be  postponed  discreetly  for  the  present ; 
I'm  sensible  redundancy  is  wrong, 

Butcould  not  forthe  muse  of  me  put  less  in't 
And  now  delav  the  progress  of  Don  Juan, 
Till  what  is  called  in  Ossian  the  fifth  Duan. 


DON  JUAN. 


807 


CANTO  THE  FIFTH. 


I. 

WHEN  amatory  poets  sing  their  loves 
In  liquid  lines  mellifluously  bland, 

And  pair  their  rhymes  as  Venus  yokes  her 
doves, 
They  little  think  what  mischief  is  in  hand; 

The  greater  their  success  the  worse  it  proves, 
As  Ovid's  verse  may  give  to  understand ; 

Even    Petrarch's    self,    if  judged    with   due 
severity, 

Is  the  Platonic  pimp  of  all  posterity. 


I  therefore  do  denounce  all  amorous  writing, 
Except  in  such  a  way  as  not  to  attract ; 

Plain  — simple  —  short,  and  by  no  means  in- 
viting, 
But  with  a  moral  to  each  error  tacked, 

Formed  rather  for  instructing  than  delighting, 
And  with  all  passions  in  their  turn  attacked  : 

Now,  if  my  Pegasus  should  not  be  shod  ill, 

This  poem  will  become  a  moral  model. 

III. 
The  European  with  the  Asian  shore 

Sprinkled  with  palaces ;  the  ocean  stream 
Here  and  there  studded  with  a  seventy-four ; 

Sophia's  cupola  with  golden  gleam  ; 
The  cypress  groves  ;  Olympus  high  and  hoar ; 

The  twelve  isles,  and  the  more  than  I  could 
dream, 
Far  less  describe,  present  the  very  view 
Which  charmed  the  charming  Mary  Montagu. 

IV. 
I  have  a  passion  for  the  name  of  "  Mary," 

For  once  it  was  a  magic  sound  to  me ; 
And  still  it  half  calls  up  the  realms  of  fairy, 

Where  I  beheld  what  never  was  to  be ; 
All  feelings  changed,  but  this  was  last  to  vary, 

A  spell  from  which  even  yet  I'm  not  quite 
free : 
But  I  grow  sad  —  and  let  a  tale  grow  cold, 
Which  must  not  be  pathetically  told. 

V. 
The  wind  swept  down  the  Euxine.and  the  wave 
Broke  foaming  o'er  the  blue  Symplegades  ; 
Tis  a  grand   sight   from    off   "  the    Giant's 
Grave  " 
To  watch  the  progress  of  those  rolling  seas 
Between  the  Bosphorus,  as  they  lash  and  lave 
Europe  and  Asia,  you  being  quite  at  ease ; 
There's  not  a  sea  the  passenger  e'er  pukes  in, 
Turns  up  more  dangerous  breakers  than  the 
Euxine, 


VI. 

'Twas  a  raw  day  of  Autumn's  bleak  beginning 
When  nights  are  equal,  but  not  so  the  days ; 
The  Parcas  then  cut  short  the  further  spin- 
ning 
Of  seamen's  fates,  and  the  loud  tempest? 
raise 
The  waters,  and  repentance  for  past  sinning 
In  all,  who  o'er  the  great   deep  take  their 
ways : 
They  vow  to  amend  their  lives,  and  yet  they 

don't; 
Because  if  drowned,  they  can't  —  if  spared, 
they  won't. 

VII. 

A  crowd  of  shivering  slaves  of  every  nation, 
And   age,  and    sex,  were   in    the  market 
ranged : 
Each  bevy  with  the  merchant  in  his  station : 
Poor  creatures  !  their  good  looks  were  sadly 
changed. 
All  save  the  blacks  seemed  jaded  with  vexa- 
tion, 
From  friends,  and  home,  and  freedom  far 
estranged ; 
The  negroes  more  philosophy  displayed, — 
Used  to  it,  no  doubt,  as  eels  are  to  be  flayed. 


Juan  was  juvenile,  and  thus  was  full, 

As  most  at  his  age  are,  of  hope,  and  health ; 

Yet  I  must  own,  he  looked  a  little  dull, 
And   now  and   then  a  tear  stole  down  by 
stealth ; 

Perhaps  his  recent  loss  of  blood  might  pull 
His   spirit  down ;    and    then    the    loss   ol 
wealth, 

A  mistress,  and  such  comfortable  quarters, 

To  be  put  up  for  auction  amongst  Tartars, 

IX. 

Were  things  to  shake  a  stoic ;  ne'ertheless, 
Upon  the  whole  his  carriage  was  serene : 

His  figure,  and  the  splendor  of  his  dress, 
Of  which  some  gilded  remnants  still  wen» 
seen, 

Drew  all  eyes  on  him,  giving  them  to  guess 
He  was  above  the  vulgar  by  his  mien ; 

And  then,  though  pale,  he  was  so  very  hand- 
some; 

And  then  —  they  calculated  on  his  ransom. 

X. 

Like  a   backgammon  board   the  place  was 
dotted 
With  whites  and  blacks,  in  groups  on  shew 
for  sale. 


DON  JUAN. 


Though  rather  more  irregularly  spotted : 
Some  bought  the  jet,  while  others  chose  the 
pale. 
It  chanced  amongst  the  other  people  lotted, 

A  man  of  thirty,  rather  stout  and  hale, 
With  resolution  in  his  dark  gray  eye, 
Next  Juan  stood,  till  some  might  choose  to 
buy. 

XI. 

He  had  an  English  look ;  that  is,  was  square 
In  make,  ot  a  complexion  white  and  ruddy, 
Good  teeth,  with  curling  rather  dark  brown 
hair, 
And,  it  might  be  from  thought,  or  toil,  or 
study, 
An  open  brow  a  little  marked  with  care : 

One  arm  had  on  a  bandage  rather  bloody ; 
And  there  he  stood  with  such  sang-froid,  that 

greater 
Could  scarce  be  shown  even  by  a  mere  spec- 
tator. 

XII. 

But  seeing  at  his  elbow  a  mere  lad, 
Of  a  high  spirit  evidently,  though 
At  present  weighed  down  by  a  doom  which 
had 
O'erthrown  even  men,  he  soon  began  to 
show 
A  kind  of  blunt  compassion  for  the  sad 
Lot  of  so  young  a  partner  in  the  woe, 
Which  for   himself  he  seemed   to  deem  no 

worse 
Than  any  other  scrape,  a  thing  of  course. 

XIII. 

"My  boy!"  —  said  he,  "amidst   this  motley 
crew 
Of  Georgians,  Russians,  Nubians,  and  what 
not, 
All  ragamuffins  differing  but  in  hue, 

With  whom  it  is  our  luck  to  cast  our  lot, 
The  only  gentlemen  seem  I  and  you; 

So  let  us  be  acquainted  as  we  ought: 
If  I  could  yield  you  any  consolation, 
'Twould   give  me   pleasure. —  Pray,  what  is 
your  nation  ?  " 

XIV. 
When    Juan   answered — "  Spanish !"  he  re- 
plied, 
"  I  thought,  in   fact,  you  could   not  be  a 
Greek ; 
Those  servile  dogs  are  not  so  proudly  eyed: 

Fortune  has  played  you  here  a  pretty  freak, 

But  that's  her  way  with  all  men,  till  they're 

tried ; 

But  never  mind,  —  she'll  turn,  perhaps,  next 

week ; 

She  has  served  me  also  much  the  same  as 

you, 
Except  that  I  have  found  it  nothing  new." 


xv. 
"  Pray,  sir,"  said  Juan,  "  if  I  may  presume, 
What  brought  you  here  ?  "  —  "  Oh  !  nothing 
very  rare  — 

Six  Tartars  and  a  drag-chain "  —  "  Tc 

this  doom 
But  what  conducted,  if  the  question's  fair, 
Is  that  which  I  would  learn."  —  "  I  served  foi 
some 
Months  with  the  Russian  army  here  and 
there, 
And  taking  lately,  by  Suwarrow's  bidding, 
A  town,  was  ta'en  myself  instead  of  Widdin." 

XVI. 
"  Have  you  no  friends  ?"  —  "I  had  —  but,  bl 
God's  blessing, 
Have  not  been  troubled  with  them  lately. 
Now 
I  have  answered  all  your  questions  withou\ 
pressing, 
And  you  an  equal  courtesy  should  show." 
"  Alas  !  "  said  Juan,  "  'twere  a  tale  distressing, 
And  long  besides."  —  "  Oh !   if  'tis  really  so , 
You're  right  on  both  accounts  to  hold  yom 

tongue ; 
A  sad  tale  saddens  doubly,  when  'tis  long. 

XVII. 

"  But  droop  not :  Fortune  at  your  time  of  life, 
Although  a  female  moderately  fickle, 

Will  hardly  leave  you  (as  she's  not  your  wife  i 
For  any  length  of  days  in  such  a  pickle. 

To  strive,  too,  with  our  fate  were  such  a  strif't 
As  if  the  cq/n-sheaf  should  oppose  th*. 
sickle : 

Men  are  the  sport  of  circumstances,  when 

The  circumstances  seem  the  sport  of  men." 


"  But  after  all,  what  is  our  present  state  ? 

'Tis  bad,  and  may  be  better  —  all  men's  lot: 
Most  men  are  slaves,  none  more  so  than  the 
great, 

To  their  own  whims  and  passions,  and  what 
not; 
Society  itself,  which  should  create 

Kindness,  destroys  what  little  we  have  got 
To  feel  for  none  is  the  true  social  art 
Of  the  world's  stoics  —  men  without  a  heart." 

XXVI. 

Just  now  a  black  old  neutral  personage 
Of  the  third  sex  stept  up,  and  peering  over 

The  captives  seemed  to  mark  their  looks  and 
age, 
And  capabilities,  as  to  discover 

If  they  were  fitted  for  the  purposed  cage: 
No  lady  e'er  is  ogled  by  a  lover, 

Horse  by  a  blackleg,  broadcloth  by  a  tailor, 

Fee  by  a  counsel,  felon  by  a  jailor 


DON  JUAN. 


809 


iis  is  a  slave  by  his  intended  bidder. 

Tis  pleasant   purchasing   our  fellow-crea- 
tures ; 
And  all  are  to  be  sold,  if  you  consider 

Their  passions,  and  are   dext'rous ;    some 
by  features 
Are  bought  up,  others  by  a  warlike  leader, 
Some  by  a  place  —  as  tend  their  years  or 
natures ; 
The  most  by  ready  cash  — but  all  have  prices. 
From  crowns  to  kicks,  according  to  their  vices. 

xxvm. 
The  eunuch  having  eyed  them  o'er  with  care, 

Turned  to  the  merchant,  and  begun  to  bid 
First  but  for  one,  and  after  for  the  pair ; 

They  haggled,  wrangled,  swore,    too  —  so 
they  did ! 
As  though  they  were  in  a  mere'Christian  fair 

Cheapening  an  ox,  an  ass,  a  lamb,  or  kid  ; 
So  that  their  bargain  sounded  like  a  battle 
For  this  superior  yoke  of  human  cattle. 

XXIX. 

At  last  they  settled  into  simple  grumbling, 
And  pulling  out  reluctant  purses,  and 

Turning  each  piece  of  silver  o'er,  and  tumbling 
Some  down,  and  weighing  others  in  their 
hand, 

And  by  mistake  sequins  with  paras  jumbling, 
Until  the  sum  was  accurately  scanned, 

And  then  the  merchant  giving  change,  and 
signing 

Receipts  in  full,  began  to  think  of  dining. 


The  purchaser  of  Juan  and  acquaintance 

Bore  off  his  bargains  to  a  gilded  boat, 
;  Embarked  himself  and  them,  and   off  they 
weni  thence 
As  fast  as  oars  could  pull  and  water  float ; 
They  looked  like  persons  being  led  to  sentence, 
Wondering  what  next,  till  the  cal'que  was 
brought 
Up  in  a  little  creek  below  a  wall 
O'ertopped  with  cypresses,  dark-green  and  tall. 

XLI. 

Here  their  conductor  tapping  on -the  wicket 

Of  a  small  iron  door,  'twas  opened,  and 
•He  led  them  onward,  first    through    a    low 
thicket 
Flanked  by  large  groves,  which  towered  on 
either  hand: 
Thev  almost  lost  their  way,  and  had  to  pick 
'it  — 
For  night  was  closing  ere  they  came  to  land. 
1i*he  eunuch  made  a  sign  to  those  on  board, 
IVho  rowed  off,  leaving  them  without  a  word. 


LIV. 
As  the  black  eunuch  entered  with  his  brace 

Of  purchased  Infidels,  some  raised  their  eyes 
A  moment  without  slackening  from  their  pace; 

But  those  who  sate,  ne'er  stirred  in  anywise  : 
One  or  two  stared  the  captives  in  the  face, 

Just  as  one  views  a  horse  to  guess  his  price  ; 
Some  nodded  to  the  negro  from  their  station, 
But  no  one  troubled  him  with  conversation. 


He  leads  them  through  the  hall,  and,  without 
stopping, 
On  through  a  further  range  of  goodly  rooms, 
Splendid  but  silent,  save  in  one,  where  drop- 
ping. 
A    marble    fountain  echoes    through    the 
glooms 
Of  night,  which  robe  the  chamber,  or  where 
popping 
Some  female  head  most  curiously  presumes 
To  thrust  its  black  eyes  through  the  door  or 

lattice, 
As  wondering  what  the  devil  noise  that  is. 


LXIV. 

At  last  they  reached  a  quarter  most  retired, 

Where  echo  woke  as  if  from  a  long  slumber; 
Though  full  of  all  things  which  could  be  de- 
sired, 
One   wondered  what   to    do  with   such    a 
number 
Of  articles  which  nobody  required  ; 

Here  wealth  had   done  its  utmost  to  en- 
cumber 
With  furniture  an  exquisite  apartment, 
Which  puzzled  Nature  much  to  know  what 
Art  meant. 

LXV. 

It  seemed,  however,  but  to  open  on 
A  range  or  suite  of  further  chambers,  which 

Might  lead  to  heaven  knows  where ;  but  in 
this  one 
The  movables  were  prodigally  rich  : 

Sofas  'twas  half  a  sin  to  sit  upon, 

So  costly  were  they ;  carpets  every  stitch 

Of  workmanship  so  rare,  they  made  you  wish 

You  could  glide  o'er  them  like  a  golden  fish. 

LXVI. 

The  black,  however,  without  hardly  deigning 
A  glance  at  that  which  wrapt  the  slaves  in 
wonder, 
Trampled  what  they  scarce  trod  for   fear  of 
staining, 
As  if  the  milky  way  their  feet  was  under 
With  all  its  stars ;  and  with  a  stretch  attaining 
A  certain  press  or  cupboard  niched  in  yon- 
der— 


810 


DON  JUAN. 


In  that  remote  recess  which  you  may  see  — 
Or  if  you  don't  the  fault  is  not  in  me, — 

LXVII. 
I  wish  to  be  perspicuous ;  and  the  black, 

I  say,  unlocking  the  recess,  pulled  forth 
A  quantity  of  clothes  fit  for  the  back 

Of  any  Mussulman,  whate'er  his  worth  ; 
/^nd  of  variety  there  was  no  lack  — 

And  yet,  though  I  have  said  there  was  no 
dearth ,  — 
He  chose  himself  to  point  out  what  he  thought 
Most  proper  for  the  Christians  he  had  bought. 

LXVIII. 

The  suit  he  thought  most  suitable  to  each 
Was,  for  the  elder  and  the  stouter,  first 
A  Candiote  cloak,  which  to  the  knee  might 
reach, 
And  trousers  not  so  tight  that  they  would 
burst, 
But  such  as  fit  an  Asiatic  breech ; 

A  shawl,  whose  folds  in  Cashmere  had  been 
nurst, 
Slippers  of  saffron,  dagger  rich  and  handy; 
In  short,  all   things   which   form   a  Turkish 
Dandy. 

*  *  *  *  * 

LXXIII. 

Baba  eyed  Juan,  and  said,  "  Be  so  good 
As  dress  yourself —  "  and  pointed  out  a  suit 

In  which  a  Princess  with  great  pleasure  would 
Array  her  limbs ;  but  Juan  standing  mute, 

As  not  being  in  a  masquerading  mood, 

Gave  it  a  slight  kick  with  his  Christian  foot ; 

And  when  the  old  negro  told  him  to  "  Get 
ready," 

Replied,  "  Old  gentleman,  I'm  not  a  lady." 

LXXIV. 

"  What  you  may  be,  I  neither  know  nor  care," 
Said  Baba;  "  but  pray  do  as  I  desire: 

I  have  no  more  time  nor  many  words  to  spare." 
"  At  least,"  said  Juan,  "  sure  I  may  inquire 

The  cause  of  this  odd  travesty  ?  " —  "  Forbear," 
Said  Baba,  "  to  be  curious;  'twill  transpire, 

No  doubt,  in  proper  place,  and  time,  and  sea- 
son : 

I  have  no  authority  to  tell  the  reason." 
***** 

LXXX. 

And  now  being  femininely  all  arrayed, 

With  some  small  aid  from  scissors,  paint, 
and  tweezers, 
He  looked  in  almost  all  respects  a  maid, 
And  Baba  smilingly  exclaimed,  "  You  see, 
sirs, 
A  perfect  transformation  here  displayed ; 
And  now,  then,  you  must  come  along  with 
me,  sirs, 


That  is  —  *he   Lady:"    clapping  his  hands 

twice, 
Four  blacks  were  at  his  elbow  in  a  trice. 

LXXXI. 

"  You,  sir,"  said  Baba,  nodding  to  the  one, 
"  Will  please  to  accompany  those  gentlemen 

To  supper ;  but  you,  worthy  Christian  nun, 
Will  follow  me  :  no  trifling,  sir ;  for  when 

I  say  a  thing,  it  must  at  once  be  done. 

What  fear  you  ?  think  you  this  a  lion's  den? 

Why,  'tis  a  palace;  where  the  truly  wise 

Anticipate  the  Prophet's  paradise. 


xcv. 
In  this  imperial  hall,  at  distance  lay 

Under  a  canopy,  and  there  reclined 
Quite  in  a  confidential  queenly  way, 

A  lady  ;  Baba  stopped,  and  kneeling  signed 

To  Juan,  who  though  not  much  used  to  pray. 

Knelt  down  by  instinct,  wondering  in  his 

mind 

What  all  this  meant :  while  Baba  bowed  and 

bended 
His  head,  until  the  ceremony  ended. 


The  lady  rising  up  with  such  an  air 

As  Venus  rose  with  from  the  wave,  on  them 

Bent  like  an  antelope  a  Paphian  pair 
Of  eyes,  which  put  out  each  surrounding 
gem; 

And  raising  up  an  arm  as  moonlight  fair, 
She  signed  to>Baba,  who  first  kissed  the  hem 

Of  her  deep  purple  robe,  and  speaking  low, 

Pointed  to  Juan,  who  remained  below. 


CVII. 

The  lady  eyed  him  o'er  and  o'er,  and  bade 
Baba  retire,  which  he  obeyed  in  style, 

As  if  well-used  to  the  retreating  trade; 

And  taking  hints  in  good  part  all  the  while, 

He  whispered  Juan  not  to  be  afraid, 
And  looking  on  him  with  a  sort  of  smile, 

Took  leave  with  such  a  face  of  satisfaction, 

As  good  men  wear  who  have  done  a  virtuous 
action. 

CVIII. 

When   he  was    gone,   there   was  a  sudden 
change : 
I  know  not  what  might  be  the  lady's  thought; 
But   o'er   her   bright   brow  flashed  a  tumult 
strange, 
And  into  her  clear  cheek   the  blood  was 
brought, 
Blood-red  as  sunset   summer  clouds  which 
range 
The  verge  of  Heaven;    and  in  her  large 
eyes  wrought 


DON  JUAN. 


811 


A  mixture  of  sensations,  might  be  scanned, 
Of  half-voluptuousness  and  half  command. 

CIX. 

Her  form  had  all  the  softness  of  her  sex, 

Her  features  all  the  sweetness  of  the  devil, 
When  he  put  on  the  cherub  to  perplex 

Eve,  and  paved  (God  knows  how)  the  road 
to  evil ; 
The  sun  himself  was  scarce  more  free  from 
specks 
Than  she  from  aught  at  which  the  eye  could 
cavil ; 
Yet,  somehow,  there  was   something   some- 
where wanting, 
As  if  she  rather  ordered  than  was  granting . — 

ex. 

Something  imperial,  or  imperious,  threw 
A  chain  o'er  all  she  did ;  that  is,  a  chain 

Was  thrown  as  'twere  about  the  neck  of  you,  — 
And  rapture's  self  will  seem  almost  a  pain 

With   aught  which   looks  like  despotism  in 
view : 
Our  souls  at  least  are  free,  and  'tis  in  vain 

We  would  against  them  make  the  flesh  obey  — 

The  spirit  in  the  end  will  have  its  way. 

CXI. 

Her  very  smile  was  haughty,  though  so  sweet ; 

Her  very  nod  was  not  an  inclination ; 
There  was  a  self-will  in  her  smali  feet, 
As  though  they  were  quite  conscious  of  her 
station  — 
They  trod  as  upon  necks;  and  to  complete 
Her  state  (it  is  the  custom  of  her  nation), 
A  poniard  decked  her  girdle,  as  the  sign 
She  was  a  sultan's  bride  (thank  Heaven  not 
mine !). 

CXII. 

"  To  hear  and  to  obey  "  had  been  from  birth 

The  law  of  all  around  her;  to  fulfil 
All  phantasies  which  yielded  joy  or  mirth, 
Had  been  her  slave's  chief  pleasure,  as  her 
will ; 
Her  blood  was  high,  herbeauty  scarce  of  earth  : 
Judge,  then,  if  her  caprices  e'er  stood  still; 
Had  she  but  been  a  Christian,  I've  a  notion 
We  should  have  found  out  the  "perpetual 
motion." 

CXIII. 

Whate'er  she  saw  and  coveted  was  brought ; 
Whate'er  she  did  not  see,  if  she  supposed 
It  might  be  seen,  with  diligence  was  sought, 
And  when  'twas  found  straightway  the  bar- 
gain closed : 
There  was  no  end  unto  the  things  she  bought, 
Nor  to  the  trouble  which  her  fancies  caused  ; 
i  Yet  even  her  tyranny  had  such  a  grace, 
The  women  pardoned  all  except  her  face. 


cxiv. 

Juan,  the  latest  of  her  whims,  had  caught 
Her  eye  in  passing  on  his  way  to  sale ; 

She  ordered  him  directly  to  be  bought, 

And  Baba,  who  had  ne'er  been  known  to  faM 

In  any  kind  of  mischief  to  be  wrought, 
At  all  such  auctions  knew  how  to  prevail : 

She  had  no  prudence,  but  he  had  ;  and  this 

Explains  the  garb  which  Juan  took  amiss. 

cxv. 
His  youth  and  features  favored  the  disguise, 
And,  should  you  ask  how  she,  a  sultan's 
bride, 
Could  risk  or  compass  such  strange  phanta- 
sies, 
This  I  must  leave  sultanas  to  decide : 
Emperors  are  only  husbands  in  wives'  eyes, 
And  kings  and  consorts  oft  are  mystified, 
As  we  may  ascertain  with  due  precision, 
Some  by  experience,  others  by  tradition. 

CXVI. 

But  to  the  main  point,  where  we  have  been 
tending:  — 
She  now  conceived  all  difficulties  past, 
And  deemed  herself  extremely  condescending 

When,  being  made  her  property  at  last, 
Without  more  preface,  in  her  blue  eyes  blend- 
ing 
Passion  and  power,  a  glance  on  him  she 
cast, 
And   merely  saying,   "  Christian,  canst   thou 

love  ?  " 
Conceived  that  phrase  was  quite  enough  to 
move. 


CXXVII. 
"  Thou  ask'st,  if  I  can  love  ?  be  this  the  proof 
How  much  I  have  loved  —  that  I  love  not 
thee! 
In  this  vile  garb,  the  distaff,  web,  and  woof, 
Were  fitter  for  me  :  Love  is  for  the  tree ! 
I  am  not  dazzled  by  this  splendid  roof; 
Whate'er  thy  power,  and  great  it  seems  to 
be, 
Heads  bow,  knees  bend,  eyes  watch  around  a 

throne, 
And   hands   obey — our  hearts   are  still   our 
own." 


CXXXIV. 

If  I  said  fire  flashed  from  Gulbeyaz'  eyes, 
"Twere     nothing  —  for    her     eyes     flashed 
always  fire ; 
Or  said  her  cheeks  assumed  the  deepest  dyes, 
I  should  but  bring  disgrace  upon  the  dyer, 
So  supernatural  was  her  passion's  rise  ; 
For   ne'er   till  now  she   knew  a   checked 
desire  : 


812 


DON  JUAN. 


Even  ye  who  know  what  a  checked  woman 

is 
(Enough,  God  knows!)  would  fall  short  of 

this. 

cxxxv. 

Her  rage  was  but  a  minute's,  and  'twas  well  — 
A  moment's  more  had  slain  her;  but  the 
while 

It  lasted  'twas  like  a  short  glimpse  of  hell : 
Nought's  more  sublime  than  energetic  bile, 

Though  horrible  to  see  yet  grand  to  tell, 
Like  ocean  warring  'gainst  a  rocky  isle ; 

And  the  deep  passions  flashing  though  her 
form 

Made  her  a  beautiful  embodied  storm. 


A  vulgar  tempest  'twere  to  a  typhoon 

To  match  a  common  fury  with  her  rage, 
And  yet  she  did  not  want  to  reach  the  moon, 
Like  moderate  Hotspur  on  the  immortal 
page, 
Her  anger  pitched  into  a  lower  tune, 

Perhaps  the  fault  of  her  soft  sex  and  age  — 
Her   wish   was   but   to  "  kill,   kill,  kill,"   like 

Lear's, 
And  then  her  thirst  for  blood  was  quenched 
in  tears. 


His  Highness  cast  around  his  great  black  eyes, 
And   looking,   as   he   always   looked,   per- 
ceived 
Juan  amongst  the  damsels  in  disguise, 
At  which  he  seemed  no  whit  surprised  nor 
grieved, 
But  just  remarked  with  air  sedate  and  wise, 
While    still     a    fluttering    sigh     Gulbeyaz 
heaved, 
"  I  see  you've  bought  another  girl ;  'tis  pity 
That  a  mere  Christian  should  be  half  so  pretty." 


This  compliment,  which  drew  all  eyes  upon 
The  new-bought  virgin,  made  her  blush  and 
shake ; 


Her  comrades,  also,  thought  themselves  uiv 

done : 
Oh  !    Mahomet !   that  his   Majesty  should 

take 
Such   notice   of   a   giaour,  while    scarce   to 

one 
Of  them  his  lips  imperial  ever  spake! 
There    was    a    general    whisper,   toss,    and 

wriggle, 
But  etiquette  forbade  them  all  to  giggle. 

CLVII. 

The  Turks  do  well  to  shut  —  at  least,  some- 
times — 
The  women  up — because,  in  sad  reality. 
Their  chastity  in  these  unhappy  climes 

Is  not  a  thing  of  that  astringent  quality 
Which    in   the   North    prevents  precocious 
crimes, 
And  makes  our  snow  less  pure  than   our 
morality. 
The  sun,  which  yearly  melts  the  polar  ice, 
Has  quite  the  contrary  effect  on  vice. 

CLVIII. 

Thus  in  the  East  they  are  extremely  strict, 
A  nd  Wedlock  and  a  Padlock  mean  the  same ; 

Excepting  only  when  the  former's  picked 
It  ne'er  can  be  replaced  in  proper  frame ; 

Spoilt,  as  a  pipe  of  claret  is  when  pricked  : 
But  then  their  own  Polygamy's  to  blame ; 

Whv  don't  they  knead  two  virtuous  souls  foi 
'life 

Into  that  moral  pentaur,  man  and  wife  ? 

CLIX. 
Thus  far  our  chronicle ;  and  now  we  pause 
Though  not   for  want   of  matter;  but    'tis 
time, 
According  to  the  ancient  epic  laws, 

To  slacken  sail,  and  anchor  with  our  rhyme. 
Let  this  fifth  canto  meet  with  due  applause, 
The  sixth  shall  have  a  touch  of  the  sub- 
lime ; 
Meanwhile,   as    Homer    sometimes    sleeps, 

perhaps 
V'ou'll  pardon  to  my  muse  a  few  short  naps. 


CANTO  THE  SIXTH. 


"  There  is  a  tide  in  the  affairs  of  men 
Which,  taken  at  the  flood,"  —  you  know  th« 
rest, 
And  most  of  us  have  found  it  now  and  then  ; 
At  least  we  think  so,  though  but  few  have 
guessed 


The  moment,  till  too  late  to  come  again. 
But    no    doubt    every    thing    is    for    the 

best  — 
Of    which     the     surest     sign     is     in     the 

end : 
When  things  are  at  the  worst  they  sometimes 

mend. 


DON  JUAN. 


813 


ii. 

There  is  a  tide  in  the  affairs  of  women 
Which,   taken  at   the   flood,  leads  —  God 
knows  where  : 
Those  navigators  must  be  able  seamen 

Whose  charts  lay  down  its  current  to  a  hair ; 
Not  all  the  reveries  of  Jacob  Behmen 
With    its   strange   whirls   and    eddies   can 
compare ; 
I  Men  with  their  heads  reflect  on  this  and  that  — 
i  But  women  with  their  hearts  on  heaven  knows 
what. 

III. 
And  yet  a  headlong,  headstrong,  downright 
she, 
Young,  beautiful,  and  daring  —  who  would 
risk 
A  throne,  the  world,  the  universe,  to  be 

Beloved  in  her  own  way,  and  rather  whisk 
'The  stars  from  out  the  sky,  than  not  be  free 
As   are  the   billows  when    the   breeze    is 
brisk  — 
Though  such  a  she's  a  devil  (if  that  there  be 

one) 
Yet  she  would  make  full  many  a  Manichean. 

IV. 
-Thrones,  worlds,  et  cetera,  are  so  oft  upset 

By  commonest  ambition,  that  when  passion 
O'enhrows  the  same,  we  readily  forget. 

Or  at  the  least  forgive,  the  loving  rash  one. 
If  Anthony  be  well  remembered  yet, 

'Tis  not  his  conquests  keep  his  name  in 
fashion, 
But  Actium,  lost  for  Cleopatra's  eyes, 
Outbalances  all  Caesar's  victories. 


■  He  died  at  fifty  for  a  queen  of  forty ; 

I  wish  their  years   had  been   fifteen  and 
twenty, 
For  then  wealth,  kingdoms,  worlds  are  but  a 
sport —  I 
Remember  when,  though  I  had  no  great 
plenty 
Of  worlds  to  lose,  yet  still,  to  pay  my  court,  I 
Gave  what  I  had  —  a  heart :   as  the  world 
went,  I 
Gave  what  was  worth  a  world;    for  worlds 

could  never 
Restore  me  those  pure  feelings,  gone  for  ever. 


'Twas  the  boy's  "  mite,"  and, like  the  "  widow's," 
may 
Perhaps  be  weighed  hereafter,  if  not  now ; 
But  whether  such  things  do  or  do  not  weigh, 
All  who  have  loved,  or  love,  will  still  allow 
Life  has  nought  like  it.      God  is  love,  they 
say, 
And  Love's  a  God,  or  was  before  the  brow 


Of  earth  was  wrinkled  by  the  sins  and  tears 
Of — but  Chronology  best  knows  the  years. 

VII. 

We  left  our  hero  and  third  heroine  in 
A  kind  of  state  more  awkward  than  uncom- 
mon, 

For  gentlemen  must  sometimes  risk  their  skin 
For  that  sad  tempter,  a  forbidden  woman  : 

Sultans  too  much  abhor  this  sort  of  sin, 
And  don't  agree  at  all  with  the  wise  Roman, 

Heroic,  stoic  Cato,  the  sententious, 

Who  lent  his  lady  to  his  friend  Hortensius. 

VIII. 
I  know  Gulbeyaz  was  extremely  wrong; 

I  own  it,  I  deplore  it,  I  condemn  it; 
But  I  detest  all  fiction  even  in  song, 
And  so  must  tell  the   truth,  howe'er  you 
blame  it. 
Her  reason  being  weak,  her  passions  strong, 
She   thought   that   her  lord's   heart    (even 
could  she  claim  it) 
Was  scarce  enough  ;  for  he  had  fifty-nine 
Years,  and  a  fifteen-hundredth  concubine. 


Meantime  Gulbeyaz,  when  her  king  was  gone, 
Retired  into  her  boudoir,  a  sweet  place 

For  love  or  breakfast ;  private,  pleasing,  lone, 
And  rich  with  all  contrivances  which  grace 

Those  gay  recesses:  —  many  a  precious  stone 
Sparkled  along  its  roof,  and  many  a  vase 

Of  porcelain  held  in  the  fettered  flowers, 

Those  captive  soothers  of  a  captive's  hours. 

XCVIII. 
Mother  of  pearl,  and  porphyry,  and  marble, 
Vied  with  each  other  on  this  costly  spot ; 
And  singing  birds   without  were    heard  to 
warble ; 
And  the  stained  glass  which  lighted  this  fair 
grot 
Varied  each  ray ;  —  but  all  descriptions  garble 

The  true  effect,  and  so  we  had  better  not 
Be  too  minute;  an  outline  is  the  best, — 
A  lively  reader's  fancy  does  the  rest. 

xcix. 

And  here  she  summoned  Baba,  and  required 

Don  Juan  at  his  hands,  and  information 
Of  what  had  passed  since  all  the  slaves  retired, 

And  whether  he  had  occupied  their  station  ; 
If  matters  had  been  managed  as  desired, 

And  his  disguise  with  due  consideration 
Kept  up ;  and  above  all,  the  where  and  how 
He  had  passed  the  night,  was  what  she  wished 
to  know. 

C. 
Baba,  with  some  embarrassment,  replied 

To  this  long  catechism  of  questions,  asked 


814 


DON  JUAN. 


More  easily  than  answered,  —  that  he  had  tried 
His  best  to  obey  in  what  he  had  been  tasked ; 
But  there  seemed  something  that  he  wished 
to  hide, 
Which     hesitation    more    betrayed    than 
masked ; 
He  scratched  his  ear,  the  infallible  resource 
To  which  embarrassed  people  have  recourse. 

CI. 

Gulbeyaz  was  no  model  of  true  patience, 

Nor  much  disposed  to  wait  in  word  or  deed  ; 
She  liked  quick  answers  in  all  conversations; 
And  when  she  saw  him  stumbling  like  a 
steed 
In  his  replies,  she  puzzled  him  for  fresh  ones  ; 
And  as  his  speech  grew  still  more  broken- 
kneed, 
Her  cheek  began  to  flush,  her  eyes  to  sparkle, 
And  her  proud  brow's  blue  veins  to  swell  and 
darkle. 

CII. 

When  Baba  saw  these  symptoms,  which  he 
knew 
To  bode  him  no  great  good,  he  deprecated 
Her  anger,  and  beseeched   she'd  hear  him 
through  — 
He  could  not  help  the  thing  which  he  re- 
lated : 
Then  out  it  came  at  length,  that  to  Dudu 
Juan  was  given  in  charge,  as  hath  been 
stated ; 
But  not  by  Baba's  fault,  he  said,  and  swore  on 
The  holy  camel's  hump,  besides  the  Koran. 


The  chief  dame  of  the  Oda,  upon  whom 
The  discipline  of  the  whole  haram  bore 

As  soon  as  they  reentered  their  own  room, 
For  Baba's  function  stopt  short  at  the  door, 

Had  settled  all ;  nor  could  he  then  presume 
(The  aforesaid  Baba)  just  then  to  do  more, 

Without  exciting  such  suspicion  as 

Might  make  the  matter  still  worse  than  it  was. 


He  hoped,  indeed  he  thought,  he  could  be  sure 
Juan  had  not  betrayed  himself;  in  fact 

'Twas  certain  that  his  conduct  had  been  pure, 
Because  a  foolish  or  imprudent  act 

Would  not  alone  have  made  him  insecure, 
But  ended  in  his  being  found  out  and  sacked. 

And  thrown  into  the  sea.  —  Thus  Baba  spoke 

Of  all  save  Dudu's  dream,  which  was  no  joke. 


This  he  discreetly  kept  in  the  back  ground, 
And  talked  away  —  and  might  have  talked 
till  now 

For  any  further  answer  that  he  found, 
So  deep  an  anguish  wrung  Gulbeyaz'  brow ; 


Her  cheek  turned  ashes,   ears   rung,  brain 

whirled  round, 
As  if  she  had  received  a  sudden  blow, 
And  the  heart's  dew  of  pain  sprang  fast  and 

chilly 
O'er  her  fair  front,  like  Morning's  on  a  lily. 

CVI. 

Although  she  was  not  of  the  fainting  sort, 
Baba  thought  she  would  faint,  but  there  hi 
erred  — 
It  was  but  a  convulsion,  which  though  short 

Can  never  be  described  ;  we  all  have  heard. 
And  some  of  us  have  felt  thus  "  all  amort" 
When  things  beyond  the  common  have  oc- 
curred ;  — 
Gulbeyaz  proved  in  that  deep  agony 
What  she   could  ne'er  express — then  how 
should  I  ? 

CVII. 
She  stood  a  moment  as  a  Pythoness 

Stands  on  her  tripod,  agonized,  and  full 
Of  inspiration  gathered  from  distress, 

When  all  the  heart-strings  like  wild  horses 
pull 
The  heart  asunder; — then,  as  more  or  less 
Their  speed  abated  or  their  strength  grew 
dull, 
She  sunk  down  on  her  seat  by  slow  degrees, 
And  bowed  her   throbbing  head  o'er  trem- 
bling knees. 

CVIII. 
Her  face  declined  and  was  unseen ;  her  hair 

Fell  in  long  tresses  like  the  weeping  willow. 
Sweeping  the  marble  underneath  her  chair, 

Or  rather  sofa,  (  for  it  was  all  pillow, 
A  low  soft  ottoman,)  and  black  despair 
Stirred  up  and  down  her  bosom  like  a  bil- 
low, 
Which  rushes  to  some  shore  whose  shingles 

check 
Its  further  course,  but  must  receive  its  wreck. 


Her  head  hung  down,  and  her  long  hair  in 
stooping 

Concealed  her  features  better  than  a  veil ; 
And  one  hand  o'er  the  ottoman  lay  drooping. 

White,  waxen,  and  as  alabaster  pale  : 
Would  that  I  were  a  painter!  to  be  grouping 

All  that  a  poet  drags  into  detail ! 
Oh  that  my  words  were  colors  !  but  their  tints 
May  serve' perhaps  as  outlines  or  slight  hints. 


Baba,  who  knew  by  experience  when  to  talk 
And  when  to  hold  his  tongue,  now  held  it  till 

This  passion  might  blow  o'er,  nor  dared  to  balk 
Gulbeyaz'  taciturn  or  speaking  will. 

At  length  she  rose  up,  and  began  to  walk 
Slowly  along  the  room,  but  silent  still, 


DON  JUAN. 


815 


And  her  brow  cleared,  but  not  her  troubled  eye  ; 
The  wind  was  down,  but  still  the  sea  ran  high. 

CXI. 

5he  stopped,  and  raised  her  head  to  speak 
—  but  paused, 
And  then  moved  on  again  with  rapid  pace  ; 
Then  slackened  it,  which  is  the  march  most 
caused 
By   deep  emotion  :  —  you  may  sometimes 
trace 
\  feeling  in  each  footstep,  as  disclosed 

By  Sallust  in  his  Catiline,  who,  chased 
3y  all  the  demons  of  all  passions,  showed 
Their  work  even  by  the  way  in  which  he  trode. 

CXII. 

julbeyaz  stopped   and    beckoned  Baba :  — 
"  Slave! 
Bring  the  two  slaves  !  "  she  said  in  a  low  tone, 
3ut  one  which  Baba  did  not  like  to  brave, 
And  yet  he  shuddered,  and  seemed  rather 
prone 
To  prove  reluctant,  and  begged  leave  to  crave 
(Though  he  well  knew  the  meaning)  to  be 
shown 
What  slaves  her  highness  wished  to  indicate, 
?or  fear  of  any  error,  like  the  late. 

CXIII. 

'  The  Georgian  and  her  paramour,"  replied 
The  imperial  bride —  and  added,  "  Let  the 
boat 
3e  ready  by  the  secret  portal's  side  : 
You  know  the  rest."  The  words  stuck  in  her 
throat, 
Despite  her  injured  love  and  fiery  pride ; 

And  of  this  Baba  willingly  took  note, 
And    begged    by   every  hair   of   Mahomet's 

beard 
She  would  revoke  the  order  he  had  heard. 

CXIV. 

'To  hear  is  to  obey,"  he  said;  "but  still, 
Sultana,  think  upon  the  consequence  : 

t  is  not  that  I  shall  not  all  fulfil 
Your  orders,  even  in  their  severest  sense  ; 

3ut  such  precipitation  may  end  ill, 
Even  at  your  own  imperative  expense : 
do  not  mean  destruction  and  exposure, 

..n  case  of  any  premature  disclosure ; 


But  your  own  feelings.    Even  should  all  the 
rest 

Be  hidden  by  the  rolling  waves,  which  hide 
Already  many  a  once  love-beaten  breast 

Deep  in  the  caverns  of  the  deadly  tide  — 
fou  love  this  boyish,  new,  seraglio  guest, 

And  if  this  violent  remedy  be  tried  — 


Excuse  my  freedom,  when  I  here  assure  you, 
That  killing  him  is  not  the  way  to  cure  you." 

cxvi. 

"  What  dost  thou  know  of  love  or  feeling  ?  — 
Wretch ! 
Begone!  "  she  cried,  with  kindling  eyes — - 
"  and  do 
My  bidding !  "  Baba  vanished,  for  to  stretch 

His  own  remonstrance  further  he  well  knew 

Might  end  in  acting  as  his  own  "  Jack  Ketch  ;  " 

And   though   he   wished  extremely  to   get 

through 

Thisawkward  business  without  harm  to  others, 

He  still  preferred  his  own  neck  to  another's. 

CXVII. 

Away  he  went  then  upon  his  commission, 
Growling  and  grumbling  in  good  Turkish 
phrase 
Against  all  women  of  whate'er  condition, 

Especially  sultanas  and  their  ways; 
Their  obstinacy,  pride,  and  indecision, 

Their  never  knowing  their  own  mind  two 
days, 
The  trouble  that  they  gave,  their  immorality, 
Which  made  him  daily  bless  his  own  neu- 
trality. 

CXVIII. 

And  then  he  called  his  brethren  to  his  aid, 
And  sent  one  on  a  summons  to  the  pair, 

That  they  must  instantly  be  well  arrayed, 
And  above  all  be  combed  even  to  a  hair, 

And  brought  before  the  empress,  who  had 
made 
Inquiries  after  them  with  kindest  care  : 

At  which  Dudu  looked  strange,  and  yuan  silly  ; 

But  go  they  must  at  once,  and  will  I  —  nill  I. 

CXIX. 

And  here  I  leave  them  at  their  preparation 
For  the  imperial  presence,  wherein  whether 

Gulbeyaz  showed  them  both  commiseration, 
Or  got  rid  of  the  parties  altogether, 

Like  other  angry  ladies  of  her  nation, — 
Are  things  the  turning  of  a  hair  or  feather 

May  settle ;  but  far  be't  from  me  to  anticipate 

In  what  way  feminine  caprice  may  dissipate. 


I  leave  them  for  the  present  with  good  wishes, 
Though  doubts  of  their  well  doing,  to  ar- 
range 

Another  part  of  history  ;  for  the  dishes 

Of  this  our  banquet  we  must   sometimes 
change ; 

And  trusting  Juan  may  escape  the  fishes, 
Although  his  situation  now  seems  strange, 

And  scarce  secure,  as  such  digressions  are  fair, 

The  Muse  will  take  a  little  touch  at  warfare. 


816 


DON  JUAN. 


CANTO  THE   SEVENTH. 


I. 

O  Love  !  O  Glory !  what  are  ye  who  fly 
Around  us  ever,  rarely  to  alight  ? 

There's  not  a  meteor  in  the  polar  sky 
Of  such   transcendent  and   more   fleeting 
flight. 

Chill,  and  chained  to  cold  earth,  we  lift  on  high 
Our  eves  in  search  of  either  lovely  light; 

A  thousand  and  a  thousand  colors  they 

Assume,  then  leave  us  on  our  freezing  way. 

II. 

And  such  as  they  are,  such  my  present  tale  is, 
A  non-descript  and  ever-varying  rhyme, 

A  versified  Aurora  Borealis, 

Which  flashes  o'er  a  waste  and  icy  clime. 

When  we  know  what  all  are,  we  must  bewail 
us, 
But  ne'ertheless  I  hope  it  is  no  crime 

To  laugh  at  all  things  —  for  I  wish  to  know 

What,  after  all,  arc  all  things  —  but  a  show? 


HI. 


the  present  writer  of 
-  of —  I     know    not 


They  accuse  me  —  Me  - 

The     present     poem 
what  — 
A  tendency  to  under-rate  and  scoff 

At  human  power  and  virtue,  and  all  that; 
And  this  they  say  in  language  rather  rough. 

Good  God!     I  wonder  what  they  would  be 
at! 
I  say  no  more  than  has  been  said  in  Dante's 
Verse,  and  by  Solomon  and  Cervantes  ; 

IV. 

By  Swift,  by  Machiavel,  by  Rochefoucault, 
By  Fenelon,  by  Luther,  and  by  Plato; 

By  Tillotson,  and  Wesley,  and  Rousseau, 
Who  knew  this  life  was  not  worth  a  potato. 

'Tis  not  their  fault,  nor  mine,  if  this  be  so  — 
For  my  part,  I  pretend  not  to  be  Cato, 

Nor  even  Diogenes.  —  We  live  and  die, 

But  which  is  best,  you  know  no  more  than  I. 


Socrates  said,  our  only  knowledge  was 

"To  know  that  nothing  could  be  known ;  " 
a  pleasant 

Science  enough,  which  levels  to  an  ass 

Each  man  of  wisdom,  future,  past,  orpresent. 

Newton  (that  proverb  of  the  mind),  alas! 
Declared,  with  all  his  grand  discoveries  re- 
cent, 

That  he  himself  felt  only  "  like  a  youth 

Picking  up  shells  by  the  great  ocean  —  Truth." 


VI. 

Ecclesiastes  said,  "  that  all  is  vanity"  — 
Most  modern  preachers  say  the  same,  or 
show  it 

By  their  examples  of  true  Christianity  : 

In  short,  all  know,  or  very  soon  may  know 
it; 

And  in  this  scene  of  all-confessed  inanity, 
By  saint,  by  sage  by  preacher,  and  by  poet, 

Must  I  restrain  me,  through  the  fear  of  strife, 

From  holding  up  the  nothingness  of  life  ? 


Dogs,  or  men !  — for  I  flatter  you  in  saying 
That  ye  are  dogs  —  your  betters  far — ye 
may 
Read,  or  read  not,  what  I  am  now  essaying 

To  show  ye  what  ye  are  in  every  way. 
As  little  as  the  moon  stops  for  the  baying 
Of  wolves,  will  the  bright  muse  withdraw 
one  ray 
From  out  her  skies  —  then   howl  your  idle 

wrath ! 
While  she  still  silvers  o'er  your  gloomy  path. 


VIII. 


I  am  not 


"  Fierce  loves  and  faithless  wars  ' 
sure 
If  this  be  the  right  reading— 'tis  no  matter; 
The  fact's  abou^the  same,  I  am  secure; 

I  sing  them  both,  and  am  about  to  batter 
A  town  which  did  a  famous  siege  endure, 
And  was   beleaguered  both  by  land   and 
water 
By  Souvaroff,  or  Anglice  Suwarrow, 
Who  loved  blood  as  an  alderman  loves  mar- 
row. 

IX. 

The  fortress  is  called  Ismail,  and  is  placed 
Upon  the  Danube's    left   branch   and   left 
bank, 
With  buildings  in  the  Oriental  taste, 

But  still  a  fortress  of  the  foremost  rank, 
Or  was  at  least,  unless  'tis  since  defaced, 
Which  with  your  conquerors  is  a  common 
prank . 
It  stands  some   eighty  versts  from  the  high 

sea, 
And  measures  round  of  toises  thousands  three 


Within  the  extent  of  this  fortification 
A  borough  is  comprised  along  the  height 

Upon  the  left,  which  from  its  loftier  station 
Commands  the  city,  and  upon  its  site 

A  Greek  had  raised  around  this  elevation 


DON  JUAN. 


8;:- 


A  quantity  of  palisades  upright, 
V  .  placed  as  to  impede  the  fire  of  those 
Who  held  the  place,  and  to  assist  the  foe's. 

XI. 

This  circumstance  may  serve  to  give  a  notion 
Of  the  high  talents  of  this  new  Vauban  : 

But  the  town  ditch  below  was  deep  as  ocean, 
The  rampart  higher  than  you'd  wish  to 
hang : 

But  then  there  was  a  great  want  of  precaution 
(Prithee,  excuse  this  engineering  slang), 

Nor  work  advanced,  nor  covered  way  was 
there, 

To  hint  at  least  "  Here  is  no  thoroughfare." 

XII. 

!  But  a  stone  bastion,  with  a  narrow  gorge, 
And  walls  as  thick  as  most  skulls  born  as 
yet : 
Two  batteries,  cap-a-pie,  as  our  St.  George, 
Case-mated  one,  and  t'other  "  a  barbette," 
[  Of  Danube's  bank  took  formidable  charge  ; 

While  two  and  twenty  cannon  duly  set 
(Rose  over  the  town's  right  side,  in  bristling 

tier, 
Forty  feet  high,  upon  a  cavalier 

XIII. 

But  from  the  river  the  town's  open  quite, 
Because  the  Turks  could  never  be  persuaded 

A  Russian  vessel  e'er  would  heave  in  sight ; 
And  such  their  creed  was,  till  they  were  in- 
vaded, 

.When  it  grew  rather  late  to  set  things  right. 
But  as  the  Danube  could  not  well  be  waded, 

They  looked  upon  the  Muscovite  flotilla, 

And  only  shouted,  "Allah!"  and  "  Bis  Mil- 
lah ! " 

XIV. 

The  Russians  now  were  ready  to  attack ; 
But  oh,  ye  goddesses  of  war  and  glory! 
Tow  shall  I  spell  the  name  of  each  Cos»ncque 
Who  were  immortal,  could   one  tell  their 
story  ? 
Uas  !  what  to  their  memory  can  lack  ? 
Achilles'  self  was  not  more  grim  and  gory 
lian  thousands  of  this  new  and  polished  na- 
tion, 
.  Vhose  names  want  nothing  but  —  pronuncia- 
tion. 


fhile  things  were  in  abeyance,  Ribas  sent 
A  courier  to  the  prince,  and  he  succeeded 

1  ordering  matters  after  his  own  bent ; 
I  cannot  tell  the  way  in  which  he  pleaded, 

ut  shortly  he  had  cause  to  be  content. 
In  the  mean  time,  the  batteries  proceeded, 


And    fourscore    cannon    on    the    Danube's 

border 
Were  briskly  fired  and  answered  in  due  order. 

xxxix. 

But  on  the  thirteenth,  when  already  part 
Of  the  troops  were  embarked,  the  siege  to 
raise, 
A  courier  on  the  spur  inspired  new  heart 

Into  all  panters  for  newspaper  praise, 
As  well  as  dilettanti  in  war's  art, 

By  his  despatches  couched  in  pithy  phrase; 
Announcing  the  appointment  of  that  lover  of 
Battles  to  the  command,  Field-Marshal  Sou* 
varoff. 

XL. 

The  letter  of  the  prince  to  the  same  marshal 
Was  worthy  of  a  Spartan,  had  the  cause 

Been   one  to  which  a  good  heart  could  be 
partial  — 
Defence  of  freedom,  country,  or  of  laws ; 

But  as  it  was  mere  lust  of  power  to  o'er-arch  all 
With  its  proud  brow,  it  merits  slight   ap- 
plause, 

Save  for  its  style,  which  said,  all  in  a  trice, 

"  You  will  take  Ismail  at  whatever  price." 


The  whole  camp  rung  with  joy;    you  would 
have  thought 

That  they  were  going  to  a  marriage  feast 
(This  metaphor,  I  think,  holds  good  as  aught, 

Since  there  is  discord  after  both  at  least)  : 
There  was  not  now  a  luggage  boy  but  sought 

Danger    and    spoil    with    ardor   much    in- 
creased ; 
And  why?  because  a  little  —  odd  —  old  man, 
Stript  to  his  shirt,  was  come  to  lead  the  van. 

L. 

But  so  it  was ;   and  every  preparation 
Was  made  with  all  alacrity :  the  first 

Detachment  of  three  columns  took  its  station, 
And  waited  but  the  signal's  voice  to  burst 

Upon  the  foe  :  the  second's  ordination 
Was  also  in  three  columns,  with  a  thirst 

For  glory  gaping  o'er  a  sea  of  slaughter  : 

The  third,  in  columns  two,  attacked  by  water. 


LVI. 

The  day  before  the  assault,  while  upon  drill-- 
For  this  great  conqueror  played   the   cor- 
poral — 
Some  Cossacques,  hovering  like  hawks  round 
a  hill, 
Had  met  a  party  towards  the  twilight's  fall, 
One  of  whom  spoke  their  tongue — or  well  or  ill, 
'Twas  much  that  he  was  understood  at  ali  * 


818 


DON  JUAN. 


But  whether  from  his  voice,  or  speech,  or  man- 
ner, 

They  found  that  he  had  fought  beneath  their 
banner. 

LVII. 

Whereon  immediately  at  his  request 

They  brought  him   and   his   comrades   to 
headquarters ; 
Their  dress  was  Moslem,  but  you  might  have 
guessed 
That  these  were  merely  masquerading  Tar- 
tars, 
And  that  beneath  each  Turkish-fashioned  vest 
Lurked  Christianity  ;  which  sometimes  bar- 
ters 
Her  inward  grace  for  outward  show,  and  makes 
It  difficult  to  shun  some  strange  mistakes. 

LVIII. 

Suwarrow,  who  was  standing  in  his  shirt 
Before  a  company  of  Calmucks,  drilling, 

Exclaiming,  fooling,  swearing  at  the  inert, 
And  lecturing  on  the  noble  art  of  killing, — 

For  deeming  human  clay  but  common  dirt, 
This  great  philosopher  was  thus  instilling 

His  maxims,  which  to  martial  comprehension 

Proved  death  in  battle  equal  to  a  pension  ;  — 


Suwarrow,  when  he  saw  this  company 

Of  Cossacques  and  their  prey,  turned  round 
and  cast 
Upon  them  his  slow  brow  and  piercing  eye  :  — 
"Whence  come  ye?"  —  "From  Constanti- 
nople last, 
Captives  just  now  escaped,"  was  the  reply. 
"What  are   ye?"  —  "What  you  see  us." 
Briefly  passed 
This  dialogue  ;  for  he  who  answered  knew 
Towhomhe  spoke, and  made  hiswordsbut  few. 


"Your  names?  "  —  "  Mine's  Johnson,  and  my 
comrade's  Juan ; 
The  other  two  are  women,  and  the  third 
Is  neither  man  norwoman."  The  chief  threw  on 
The  party  a  slight  glance,  then  said,  "I  have 
heard 
Your  name  before,  the  second  is  a  new  one  : 
To  bring  the  other  three  here  was  absurd  : 
But  let  that  pass  :  —  I  think  I  have  heard  your 

name 
In  the  Nikolaiew  regiment  ?  "  —  "  The  same." 

LXI. 
"  You  served  at  Widdin  ?  "  —  "  Yes."  —  "  You 
led  the  attack?  " 
"  I  did." — "  What  next?"  —  "I  really  hardly 
know." 
"You  were  the  first  i'  the  breach?  "  —  "I  was 
not  slack 


At  least  to  follow  those  who  might  be  so. 
"  What  followed?  "  —  "A  shot  laid  me  on  my 
back, 
And  I  became  a  prisoner  to  the  foe." 
"  You  shall  have  vengeance,  for  the  town  sur- 
rounded 
Is  twice  as  strong  as  that  where  you  were 
wounded." 

LXII. 

"Where  will  you  serve?"  —  "Where'er  you 
please."  —  "  I  know 
You  like  to  be  the  hope  of  the  forlorn, 
And  doubtless  would  be  foremost  on  the  foe 
After  the  hardships  you've  already  borne. 
And  this  young  fellow  —  say  what  can  he  do? 
He  with  the  beardless  chin  and  garments 
torn  ?  " 
"  Why,  general,  if  he  hath  no  greater  fault 
In  war  than   love,   he   had  better   lead  the 
assault." 

I.XIII. 

"  He  shall  if  ihat  he  dare."    Here  Juan  bowed 
Low  as  the  compliment  deserved.  Suwarrow 

Continued:  "Your  old  regiment's  allowed, 
By  special  providence,  to  lead  to-morrow, 

Or  it  may  be  to-night,  the   assault :    I   have 
vowed 
To   several   saints,  that  shortly  plough  or 
harrow 

Shall  pass  o'er  what  was  Ismail,  and  its  tusk 

Be  unimpeded  by  the  proudest  mosque. 

LXIV. 

"  So   now,  my  lads,  for  glory !  "  —  Here  he 
turned  * 

And  drilled  away  in  the  most  classic  Russian,     I 
Until  each  high,  heroic  bosom  burned 

For  cash  and  conquest,  as  if  from  a  cushion     j 
A  preacher  had  held  forth  (who  nobly  spurned     I 
All   earthly  goods   save  tithes)    and   bade     I 
them  push  on 
To  slay  the  Pagans  who  resisted,  battering 
The  armies  of  the  Christian  Empress  Cathe- 
rine. 

LXV. 

Johnson,  who  knew  by  this  long  colloquy 
Himself  a  favorite,  ventured  to  address 

Suwarrow,  though  engaged  with  accents  high 
In  his  resumed  amusement.     "  I  confess 

My  debt  in  being  thus  allowed  to  die 
Among  the  foremost ;  but  if  you'd  express 

Explicitly  our  several  posts,  my  friend 

And  self  would  know  what  duty  to  attend." 

LXVI. 

"  Right !  I  was  busy,  and  forgot.     Why,  yoa 
Will    join    your    former   regiment,  which 

should  be 
Now  under  arms.    Ho!  Katskoff,  take  hiro       ' 

to  — 


DON  JUAN. 


819 


(Here  he  called  up  a  Polish  orderly) 
His  post,  I  mean  the  regiment  Nikolaiew: 

The  .stranger  stripling  may  remain  with  me  ; 
He's  a  fine  boy.     The  women  mav  be  sent 
To  the  other  baggage,  or  to  the  sick  tent." 


LXX. 

He  said,  —  and  in  the  kindest  Calmuck  tone,  — 
"  Why,   Johnson,  what   the    devil   do   you 
mean 
3y   bringing  women   here  ?     They  shall  be 
shown 
All  the  attention  possible,  and  seen 
In  safety  to  the  wagons,  where  alone 

In  fact  they  can  be  safe.     You  should  have 
been 
Aware  this  kind  of  baggage  never  thrives  : 
Save  wed  a  year,  I  hate  recruits  with  wives." 

LXXI. 
"  May  it  please  your  excellency,"  thus  replied 
Our  British  friend,  "  these  are  the  wives  of 
others, 
And  not  our  own.     I  am  too  qualified 
By  service  with  my  military  brothers 
To   break  the  rules   by  bringing   one's  own 
bride 
Into  a  camp  :  I  know  that  nought  so  bothers 
The  hearts  of  the  heroic  on  a  charge, 
As  leaving  a  small  family  at  large. 

LXXII. 

"  But  these  are  but  two  Turkish  ladies,  who 
With  their  attendant  aided  our  escape, 

And  afterwards  accompanied  us  through 
A  thousand  perils  in  this  dubious  shape. 

To  me  this  kind  of  life  is  not  so  new ; 

To  them,  poor  things,   it   is  an   awkward 
scrape. 

I  therefore,  if  you  wish  me  to  fight  freely, 

Request  that  they  may  both  be  used  genteelly." 


LXXVI. 

And   then  with   tears,  and  sighs,  and  some 
slight  kisses, 

They  parted  for  the  present  —  these  to  await, 
According  to  the  artillery's  hits  or  misses, 

What   sages   call   Chance,  Providence    or 
Fate  — 
{Uncertainty  is  one  of  many  blisses, 

A  mortgage  on  Humanity's  estate)  — 
While  their  beloved  friends'  began  to  arm, 
To  burn  a  town  which  never  did  them  harm. 


LXXX. 
Oh,  thou  eternal  Homer !  I  have  now 

To  paint  a  siege,  wherein  more  men  were 
slain 


With  deadlier  engines  and  a  speedier  blow, 
Than  in  my  Greek  gazette  of  that  campaign ; 

And  yet,  like  all  men  else,  I  must  allow, 
To  vie  with  thee  would  be  about  as  vain 

As  for  a  brook  to  cope  with  ocean's  flood ; 

But  still  we  moderns  equal  you  in  blood ; 

LXXXI. 
If  not  in  poetry,  at  least  in  fact ; 

And  fact  is  truth,  the  grand  desideratum! 
Of  which,  howe'er  the  Muse  describes  each 
act, 
There  should  be  ne'ertheless  a  slight  sub- 
stratum. 
But  now  the  town  is  going  to  be  attacked ; 
Great  deeds  are  doing  —  how  shall  I  relate 
'em  ? 
Souls  of  immortal  generals  !  Phcebus  watches 
To  color  up  his  rays  from  your  despatches. 

LXXXII. 

Oh,  ye  great  bulletins  of  Bonaparte  ! 

Oh,  ye  less  grand  iong  lists  of  killed  and 
wounded ! 
Shade  of  Leonidas,  who  fought  so  hearty, 

When  my  poor  Greece  was  once,  as  now, 
surrounded ! 
Oh,  Caesar's  Commentaries!  now  impart,  ye 

Shadows  <-f  glory  !   (lest  I  be  confounded) 
A  portion  of  your  fading  twilight  hues, 
So  beautiful,  so  fleeting,  to  the  Muse. 


When  I  call  "fading"  martial  immortality 
I  mean,  that  every  age  and  every  year, 

And  almost  every  day  in  sad  reality, 

Some  sucking  hero  is  compelled  to  rear, 

Who,  when  we  come  to  sum  up  the  totality 
Of  deeds  to  human  happiness  most  dear, 

Turns  out  to  be  a  butcher  in  great  business, 

Afflicting  young  folks  with  a  sort  of  dizziness, 

LXXXIV. 

Medals,    rank,    ribands,    lace,    embroidery, 
scarlet, 

Are  things  immortal  to  immortal  man, 
As  purple  to  the  Babylonian  harlot : 

An  uniform  to  boys  is  like  a  fan 
To  women  ;  there  is  scarce  a  crimson  varlet 

But  deems  himself  the  first  in  Glory's  van. 
But  Glory's  glory  ;  and  if  you  would  find 
What  that  is  —  ask  the  pig  who  sees  the  wind? 

LXXXV. 

At  least  he  feels  it,  and  some  say  he  sees, 
Because  he  runs  before  it  like  a  pig ; 

Or,  if  that  simple  sentence  should  displease, 
Say,  that  he  scuds  before  it  like  a  brig, 

A  schooner,  or  —  but  it  is  time  to  ease 

This  Canto,  ere  my  Muse  perceives  fatigue. 

The  next  shall  ring  a  peal  to  shake  all  people. 

Like  a  bob-major  from  a  village  steeple. 


820 


DON  JUAN. 


Hark!    through  the  silence  of  the  cold,  dull 
night, 
The  hum  of  armies  gathering  rank  on  rank  ! 
Lo !  dusky  masses  steal  in  dubious  sight 

Along  the  leaguered  wall  and  bristling  bank 
Of  the  armed  river,  while  with  straggling  light 
The  stars  peep  through  the  vapors  dim  and 
dank, 
,  Which  curl  in  curious  wreaths  :  — how  soon 
the  smoke 
Of  Hell  shall  pall  them  in  a  deeper  cloak ! 


LXXXVII. 

Here  pause  we  for  the  present  —  as  even  then 
That  awful  pause,  dividing  life  from  death, 
Struck  for  an  instant  on  the  hearts  of  men, 
Thousands  of  whom  were   drawing   their 
last  breath ! 
A  moment  —  and  all  will  be  life  again  ! 

The    march !    the   charge !    the   shouts   of 
either  faith  ! 
Hurra!    and    Allah!     and  —  one    moment 

more  — 
The  death-cry  drowning  in  the  battle's  roar. 


CANTO  THE   EIGHTH. 


I. 

Oh  blood  and  thunder !  and  oh  blood  and 
wounds ! 
These  are  but  vulgar  oaths,  as  you  may 
deem, 
Too  gentle  reader !  and  most  shocking  sounds  : 
And  so  they  are ;  yet  thus  is  Glory's  dream 
Unriddled,  and  as  my  true  Muse  expounds 
At  present  such  things,  since  they  are  her 
theme, 
So  be  they  her  inspirers !     Call  them  Mars, 
Bellona,  what  you  will  —  they  mean  but  wars. 

II. 

All  was  prepared  —  the  fire,  the  sword,  the  men 
To  wield  them  in  their  terrible  array. 

The  army,  like  a  lion  from  his  den, 

Marched  forth  with  nerve  and  sinews  bent 
to  slay,  — 

A  human  Hydra,  issuing  from  its  fen 

To  breathe  destruction  on  its  winding  way, 

Whose  heads  were  heroes,  which  cut  off  in 
vain 

Immediately  in  others  grew  again. 

III. 
History  can  only  take  things  in  the  gross; 

But  could  we  know  them  in  detail,  perchance 
In  balancing  the  profit  and  the  loss, 

War's  merit  it  by  no  means  might  enhance, 
To  waste  so  much  gold  for  a  little  dross, 

As  hath  been  done,  mere  conquest  to  ad- 
vance. 
The  drying  up  a  single  tear  has  more 
Of  honest  fame,  than  shedding  seas  of  gore. 


And  why  ?  —  because  it  brings  self-approba- 
tion ; 
Whereas  the  other,  after  all  its  glare, 

Shouts,  b'idges,  arches,  pensions  from  a  na- 
tion. 


Which  (it   may  be)  has  not  much  left  tr* 
spare, 
A  higher  title,  or  a  loftier  station, 

Though  they  may  make  Corruption  gaps 
or  stare, 
Yet,  in  the  end,  except  in  Freedom's  battles, 
Are  nothing  but  a  child  of  Murder's  rattles. 


And  such  they  are  —  and  such  they  will  be 
found ; 

Not  so  Leonidas  and  Washington, 
Whose  every  battle-field  is  holy  ground, 

Which  breathes  of  nations  saved,  not  worlds 
undone. 
How  sweetly  on  the  ear  such  echoes  sound ! 

While  the  mere  victor's  may  appal  or  stun 
The  servile  and  the  vain,  such  names  will  be 
A  watchword  till  the  future  shall  be  free. 

VI. 

The  night  was  dark,  and  the  thick  mist  allowed 
Nought  to  be  seen  save  the  artillery's  flame, 
Which  arched  the  horizon  like  a  fiery  cloud, 
And    in   the   Danube's   waters   shone   the 
same  — 
A  mirrored  hell !  the  volleying  roar,  and  loud 
Long  booming  of  each  peal  on  peal,  o'er- 
came 
The  ear  far  more  than  thunder;  for  heaven's 

flashes, 
Spare,  or  smite  rarely  —  man's  make  millions 
ashes ! 

VII. 

The  column   ordered  on  the  assault  scarce 
passed 
Beyond  the  Russian  batteries  a  few  toises, 
When  up  the  bristling  Moslem  rose  at  last, 
Answering  the  Christian  thunders  with  like 
voices : 
Then  one  vast  fire,  air,  earth,  and  stream  err* 
braced, 


don  juan: 


821 


Which  rocked  as  'twere  beneath  the  mighty 

noises ; 
While   the  whole  rampart  blazed  like  Etna, 

when 
The  restless  Titan  hiccups  in  his  den. 

VIII. 

And  one  enormous  shout  of  "Allah  !  "  rose 
In  the  same  moment,  loud  as  even  the  roar 

Of  war's  most  mortal  engines,  to  their  foes 
Hurling  defiance  :  city,  stream,  and  shore 

Resounded  "  Allah  !  "  and  the  clouds  which 
close 
With  thick'ning  canopy  the  conflict  o'er, 

Vibrate  to  the  Eternal  name.     Hark  !  through 

All  sounds  it  pierceth  "  Allah  !   Allah  !    Hu !  " 


XIX. 

!Juan  and  Johnson  joined  a  certain  corps, 
And  fought  away  with  might  and  main,  not 
knowing 
'The  way  which  they  had  never  trod  before, 
And  still  less  guessing  where  they  might  be 
going; 
But  on  they  marched,  dead  bodies  trampling 
o'er, 
Firing,   and  thrusting,   slashing,   sweating, 
glowing, 
But  fighting  thoughtlessly  enough  to  win, 
To  their  two  selves,  one  whole  bright  bulletin. 

XX. 

Thus  on  they  wallowed  in  the  bloody  mire 
Of  dead  and  dying  thousands,  —  sometimes 
gaining 
A  yard  or  two  of  ground,  which  brought  them 
nigher 
To  some  odd  angle  for  which  all  were  strain- 
ing; 
At  other  times,  repulsed  by  the  close  fire, 

Whichreallvpouredasif  all  hell  were  raining 
Instead  of  heaven,  they  stumbled  backwards 

o'er 
\  wounded  comrade,  sprawling  in  his  gore. 

XXI. 

Though  'twas  Don  Juan's  first  of  fields,  and 
though 
The  night'y  muster  and  the  silent  march 
n  the  chill  dark,  when  courage  does  not  glow 

So  much  as  under  a  triumphal  arch, 
5erhaps   might  make  him   shiver,   yawn,  or 
throw 
A  glance  on  the  dull  clouds  (as  thick  as 
starch, 
Vhich  stiffened  heaven)  as  if  he  wished  for 

day ;  — 
'et  for  all  this  he  did  not  run  away. 


XXVII. 

Juan, by  some  strange  chance,  which  oft  divides 
Warrior  from  warrior  in  their  grim  career, 

Like  chastest  wives  from  constant  husbands' 
sides 
Just  at  the  close  of  the  first  bridal  year, 

By  one  of  those  odd  turns  of  Fortune's  tides, 
Was  on  a  sudden  rather  puzzled  here, 

When,  after  a  good  deal  of  heavy  firing, 

He  found  himself  alone,  and  friends  retiring. 


XXXII. 

Perceiving  nor  commander  nor  commanded, 
And  left  at  large,  like  a  young  heir,  to  make 

His   way  to  —  where  he   knew  not  —  single 
handed 
As  travellers  follow  over  bog  and  brake 

An  "  ignis  fatuus  ;  "  or  as  sailors  stranded 
Unto  the  nearest  hut  themselves  betake  ; 

So  Juan,  following  honor  and  his  nose, 

Rushed  where   the   thickest   fire   announced 
most  foes. 


And  as  he  rushed  along,  it  came  to  pass  he 
Fell  in  with  what  was  late  the  second  column, 

Under  the  orders  of  the  General  Lascy, 
But  now  reduced,  as  is  a  bulky  volume 

Into  an  elegant  extract  (much  less  massy) 
Of  heroism,  and  took  his  place  with  solemn 

Air  'midst  the  rest,  who   kept  their  valiant 
faces 

And  levelled  weapons  still  against  the  glacis. 


Just  at  this  crisis  up  came  Johnson  too, 
Who  had  "  retreated,"  as  the  phrase  is  when 

Men  run  away  much  rather  than  go  through 
Destruction's  jaws  into  the  devil's  den ; 

But  Johnson  was  a  clever  fellow,  who 

Knew   when  and   how  "  to  cut  and  come 
again," 

And  never  ran  away,  except  when  running 

Was  nothing  but  a  valorous  kind  of  cunning. 


And  so,  when   all   his   corps  were  dead  01 
dying, 
Except  Don  Juan,  a  mere  novice,  whose 
More  virgin  valor  never  dreamt  of  flying, 

From  ignorance  of  danger,  which  indues 
Its  votaries,  like  innocence  relying 

On  its  own  strength,  with  careless  nerves  and 
thews,  — 
Johnson  retired  a  little,  just  to  rally 
Those  who  catch  cold  in"  shadows  ofDeatb's 
valley." 


822 


DON  yUAN. 


xxxvn. 
And  there,  a  little  sheltered  from  the  shot, 

Which  rained  from  bastion,  battery,  parapet, 
Rampart,  wall,  casement,  house  —  for   there 
was  not 
In  this  extensive  city,  sore  beset 
By  Christian  soldiery,  a  single  spot 

Which  did  not  combat  like  the  devil,  as 
yet, — 
He  found  a  number  of  Chasseurs,  all  scattered 
By  the  resistance  of  the  chase  they  battered. 

XXXVIII. 

And  these  he  called  on  ;  and,  what's  strange, 
they  came 

Unto  his  call,  unlike  "the  spirits  from 
The  vasty  deep,"  to  whom  you  may  exclaim, 

Says  Hotspur,  long  ere  they  will  leave  their 
home. 
Their  reasons  were  uncertainty,  or  shame 

At  shrinking  from  a  bullet  or  a  bomb. 
And  that  odd  impulse,  which  in  wars  or  creeds 
Makes  men,  like  cattle,  follow  him  who  leads. 


XLIII. 

They  fell  as  thick  as  harvests  beneath  hail, 
Grass   before  scythes,  or  corn  below  the 
sickle, 

Proving  that  trite  old  truth,  that  life's  as  frail 
As  any  other  boon  for  which  men  stickle. 

The  Turkish  batteries  thrashed  them  like  a  flail 
Or  a  good  boxer,  into  a  sad  pickle. 

Putting  the  very  bravest,  who  were  knocked 

Upon  the  head,  before  their  guns  were  cocked. 

XLIV. 

The  Turks  behind  the  traverses  and  flanks 

Of  the  next  bastion,  fired  away  like  devils, 
And  swept,  as  gales  sweep  foam  away,  whole 
ranks : 
However,  Heaven  knows  how,  the  Fate  who 
levels 
Towns,    nations,    worlds,   in    her    revolving 
pranks, 
So  ordered  it,  amidst  these  sulphury  revels, 
That  Johnson  and  some  few  who  had  not 

scampered, 
Reached  the  interior  talus  of  the  rampart. 

XLV. 
First  one  or  two,  then  five,  six,  and  a  dozen 

Came  mounting  quickly  up,  for  it  was  now 
All  neck  or  nothing,  as,  like  pitch  or  rosin, 
Flame  was  showered  forth  above,  as  well's 
below, 
So  that  you  scarce  could  say  who  best  had 
chosen, 
The  gentlemen  that  were  the  first  to  show 
Their  martial  faces  on  the  parapet, 
Or  those  who  thought  it  brave  to  wait  as  yet 


XLVI. 

But  those  who  scaled,  found  out  that  their  ad 
vance 

Was  favored  by  an  accident  or  blunder  : 
The  Greek  or  Turkish  Cohorn's  ignorance 

Had  pallisadoed  in  a  way  you'd  wonder 
To  see  in  forts  of  Netherlands  or  France  — 

(Though  these  to  our  Gibraltar  must  knock 
under)  — 
Right  in  the  middle  of  the  parapet 
Just  named,  these  palisades  were  primly  set. 


XLVIII. 

Among  the  first,  —  I  will  not  say  the  first. 
For  such  precedence  upon  such  occasions 

Will  oftentimes  make  deadly  quarrels  burst 
Out  between  friends  as  well  as  allied  nations: 

The  Briton  must  be  bold  who  really  durst 
Put  to  such  trial  John   Bull's  partial  pa- 
tience, 

As  say  that  Wellington  at  Waterloo 

Was  beaten,  —  though  the  Prussians  say  sc 
too. 


LII. 
But  to  continue  :  —  I  say  not  the  first, 

But  of  the  first,  our  little  friend  Don  Juan 
Walked  o'er  the  walls  of  Ismail,  as  if  nursed 
Amidst  such  scenes  —  though  this  was  quite 
a  new  one 
To  him,  and  I   should  hope  to  most.    The 
thirst  * 

Of  glory,  which  so  pierces  through   and 
through  one, 
Pervaded  him  —  although  a  generous  creature, 
As  warm  in  heart  as  feminine  in  feature. 


LVI. 
The   General   Lascy,   who   had    been    hard 
pressed, 
Seeing  arrive  an  aid  so  opportune 
As  were  some  hundred  youngsters  all  abreast, 
Who  came  as  if  just  dropped  down  from 
the  moon, 
To  Juan,  who  was  nearest  him,  addressed 

His  thanks,  and  hopes  to  take  the  city  soon. 
Not  reckoning  him  to  be  a  "  base  Bezonian," 
(As  Pistol  calls  it)  but  a  young  Livonian. 


The  town  was  entered.     Oh  eternity !  — 
"  God  made  the  country,  and  man  made 
the  town," 

So  Cowper  says —  and  I  begin  to  be 
Of  his  opinion,  when  I  see  cast  down 

Rome,  Babylon,  Tyre,  Carthage,  Nineveh, 
All  walls  men  know,  and  many  never  known; 


DON  JUAN. 


823 


And  pondering  on  the  present  and  the  past, 
To  deem  the  woods  shall  be  our  home  at 
last : — 

LXI. 
Of  all  men,  saving  Sylla  the  man-slayer, 
Who   passes   for   in   life   and   death   most 
lucky, 
Of  the  great  names  which  in  our  faces  stare, 
The    general    Boone,   back-woodsman   of 
Kentucky 
1  Was  happiest  amongst  mortals  anywhere ; 
For  killing  nothing  but  a  bear  or  buck,  he 
Enjoyed  the  lonely,  vigorous,  harmless  days 
Of  his  old  age  in  wilds  of  deepest  maze. 

LXII. 

Crime  came  not  near  him  —  she  is  not  the 
child 
Of  solitude  ;  Health  shrank  not  from  him  — 
for 
Her  home  is  in  the  rarely  trodden  wild, 
Where  if  men  seek  her  not,  and  death  be 
more 
Their  choice  than  life,  forgive  them,  as  be- 
guiled 
By  habit  to  what  their  own  hearts  abhor  — 
In  cities  caged.    The  present  case  in  point  I 
\  Cite  is,  that  Boone  lived  hunting  up  to  ninety ; 

LXIII. 
And  what's  still  stranger,  left  behind  a  name 

For  which  men  vainly  decimate  the  throng, 
Not  only  famous,  but  of  t\\a.t  good  fame, 
Without  which  glory's  but  a  tavern  song  — 
'  Simple,  serene,  the  antipodes  of  shame, 

Which  hate  nor  envy  e'er  could  tinge  with 
wrong. 
An  active  hermit,  even  in  age  the  child 
I  Of  Nature,  or  the  man  of  Ross  run  wild. 

LXIV. 

Tis  true  he  shrank  from  men  even  of  his 
nation, 
When  they  built  up  unto  his  darling  trees, — 
1  He    moved   some   hundred   miles  off,  for  a 
station 
Where  there  were  fewer  houses  and  more 
ease ; 
The  inconvenience  of  civilization 

Is,  that   you  neither   can   be  pleased  nor 
please ; 
But  where  he  met  the  individual  man, 
He  showed  himself  as  kind  as  mortal  can. 

LXV. 

He  was  not  all  alone  :  around  him  grew 
A  sylvan  tribe  of  children  of  the  chase, 

Whose   young,  unwakened  world  was  ever 
new, 
Nor  sword  nor  sorrow  yet  had  left  a  trace 

On  her  unwrinkled  brow,  nor  could  you  view 


A  frown  on  Nature's  or  on  human  face ;  — 
The  free-born  forest  found  and  kept  them  free, 
And  fresh  as  is  a  torrent  or  a  tree. 

LXVI. 

And  tall,  and  strong,  and  swift  of  foot  were 
they, 
Beyond  the  dwarfing  city's  pale  abortions, 
Because  their  thoughts  had  never  been  the 
prey 
Of  care  or  gain  :  the  green  woods  were  their 
portions ; 
No  sinking  spirits  told  them  they  grew  gray, 
No  fashion  made  them  apes  of  her   dis- 
tortions ; 
Simple  they  were,  not  savage ;  and  their  rifles, 
Though  very  true,  were  not  yet  used  for  trifles. 


Motion  was  in  their  days,  rest  in  their  slum- 
bers, 
And  cheerfulness  the  handmaid  of  their  toil ; 
Nor  yet  too  many  nor  too  few  their  numbers ; 
Corruption  could  not  make  their  hearts  her 
soil ; 
The  lust  which  stings,  the  splendor  which  en, 
cumbers, 
With  the  free  foresters  divide  no  spoil ; 
Serene,  not  sullen,  were  the  solitudes 
Of  this  unsighing  people  of  the  woods. 

LXVIII. 
So  much  for  Nature  :  — by  way  of  variety, 
Now  back  to  thy  great  joys,  Civilization! 
And  the  sweet  consequence  of  large  society, 

War,  pestilence,  the  despot's  desolation, 
The  kingly  scourge,  the  lust  of  notoriety, 
The  millions  slain  by  soldiers  for  their  ra- 
tion, 
The  scenes  like  Catherine's  boudoir  at  three- 
score, 
With  Ismail's  storm  to  soften  it  the  more. 

LXIX. 

The  town  was  entered  :  first  one  column  made 

Its  sanguinary  way  good  —  then  another; 
The  reeking  bayonet  and  the  flashing  blade 
Clashed  'gainst  the  scimitar,  and  babe  and 
mother 
With  distant  shrieks  were  heard  Heaven  to 
upbraid  :  — 
Still  closer  sulphury  clouds  began  to  smother 
The  breath  of  morn  and  man,  where  foot  by 

foot 
The  maddened  Turks  their  city  still  dispute. 


LXXXVII. 
The  city's  taken,  but  not  rendered  !  —  No  ! 
There's  not  a  Moslem   that  hath   yielded 
sword : 


824 


DON  JUAN. 


The  blood  may  gush  out,  as  the  Danube's  flow 
Rolls  by  the  city  wall;  but  deed  nor  word 

Acknowledge  aught  of  dread  of  death  or  foe  : 
In  vain  the  yell  of  victory  is  roared 

By  the  advancing  Muscovite  —  the  groan 

Of  the  last  foe  is  echoed  by  his  own. 

LXXXVIII. 

The  bayonet  pierces  and  the  sabre  cleaves, 

And  human  lives  are  lavished  everywhere, 
As  the  year  closing  whirls  the  scarlet  leaves 
When  the  stripped  forest  bows  to  the  bleak 
air, 
And  groans ;  and  thus  the  peopled  city  grieves, 
Shorn  of  its  best  and   loveliest,  and    left 
bare ; 
But  still  it  falls  with  vast  and  awful  splinters, 
As  oaks  blown  down  with  all  their  thousand 
winters. 

LXXXIX. 
It  is  an  awful  topic  —  but  'tis  not 

My  cue  for  any  time  to  be  terrific  : 
For  checkered  as  is  seen  our  human  lot 
With  good,  and  bad,  and  worse,  alike  pro- 
lific 
Of  melancholy  merriment,  to  quote 

Too  much  of  one  sort  would  be  soporific  ;  — 
Without,  or  with  offence  to  friends  or  foes, 
I  sketch  your  world  exactly  as  it  goes. 

XC. 
And  one  good  action  in  the  midst  of  crimes 

Is  "  quite  refreshing,"  in  the  affected  phrase 
Of  these  ambrosial,  Pharisaic  times, 

With  all  their  pretty  milk-and-water  ways, 
And   may   serve   therefore    to    bedew   these 
rhymes, 

A  little  scorched  at  present  with  the  blaze 
Of  conquest  and  its  consequences,  which 
Make  epic  poesy  so  rare  and  rich. 

xci. 
Upon  a  taken  bastion,  where  there  lay 

Thousands  of  slaughtered  men,  a  yet  warm 
group 
Of  murdered  women,  who  had  found   their 
way 
To  this  vain  refuge,  made  the  good  heart 
droop 
And  shudder;  —  while,  as  beautiful  as  May, 
A  female  child  of  ten  years  tried  to  stoop 
And  hide  her  little  palpitating  breast 
Amidst  the  bodies  lulled  in  bloody  rest. 

XCII. 

Two  villanous  Cossacques  pursued  the  child 
With  flashing  eyes  and  weapons  :  matched 
with  them, 

The  rudest  brute  that  roams  Siberia's  wild, 
Has  feelings  pure  and  polished  as  a  gem,— 

The  bear  is  civilized,  the  wolf  is  mild ; 


And  whom  for  this  at  last  must  we  con* 
demn  ? 

Their  natures  ?  or  their  sovereigns,  who  em- 
ploy 

All  arts  to  teach  their  subjects  to  destroy  ? 

XCIII. 
Their  sabres  glittered  o'er  her  little  head, 
Whence   her   fair  hair   rose   twining  with 
affright, 
Her  hidden  face  was  plunged  amidst  the  dead . 
When  Juan  caught  a  glimpse  of  this  sad 
sight, 
I  shall  not  say  exactly  what  he  said, 

Because  it  might  not  solace  "  ears  polite;  " 
But  what  he  did,  was  to  lay  on  their  backs, 
The   readiest  way   of  reasoning   with   Cos- 
sacques. 

XCIV. 

One's  hip  he  slashed,  and  split  the  other's 
shoulder, 
And  drove  them  with  their  brutal  yells  to 
seek 
If  there  might  be  chirurgeons  who  could  solder 
The  wounds  they  richly  merited,  and  shriek 
Their  baffled  rage  and  pain ;  while  waxing 
colder 
As  he  turned  o'er  each  pale  and  gory  cheek, 
Don  Juan  raised  his  little  captive  from 
The   heap   a  moment   more  had  made  her 
tomb. 

xcv. 

And  she  was  chill  as  they,  and  on  her  face 
A  slender  streak  of  blood  announced  how 
near 
Her  fate  had  been  to  that  of  all  her  race ; 
For  the  same  blow  which  laid  her  mother 
here 
Had  scarred  her  brow,  and  left  its  crimson 
trace 
As  the  last  link  which  all  she  had  held  dear; 
But  else  unhurt,  she  opened  her  large  eyes, 
And  gazed  on  Juan  with  a  wild  surprise. 

XCVI. 

Just  at  this  instant,  while  their  eyes  were  fixed 
Upon  each  other,  with  dilated  glance, 

In  Juan's   look,   pain,  pleasure,  hope,  fear, 
mixed 
With  joy  to  save,  and  dread  of  some  mis- 
chance 

Unto  his  protegee  ;  while  hers,  transfixed 
With  infant  terrors,  glared  as  from  a  trance: 

A  pure,  transparent,  pale,  yet  radiant  face, 

Like  to  a  lighted  alabaster  vase ;  — 

XCVII. 

Up    came    John    Johnson    (I   will   not   say 
"  Jack" 
For  that  were  vulgar,  cold,  and  common 
olace 


DON  JUAN. 


825 


On  great  occasions,  such  as  an  attack 
On  cities,  as  hath  been  the  present  case)  : 

Up  Johnson  came,  with  hundreds  at  his  back, 
Exclaiming: —  "Juan  !  Juan  !  On,  boy  !  brace 

Your  arm,  and  I'll  bet  Moscow  to  a  dollar 

That  you  and  I  will  win  St.  George's  collar. 

XCVIII. 

"  The  Seraskier  is  knocked  upon  the  head, 
But  the  stone  bastion  still  remains,  wherein 

The  old  Pacha  sits  among   some   hundreds 
dead, 
Smoking  his  pipe  quite  calmly  'midst  the  din 

Of  our  artillery  and  his  own  :  'tis  said 
Our  killed,  already  piled  up  to  the  chin, 

Lie  round  the  battery;  but  still  it  batters, 

And  grape  in  volleys,  like  a  vineyard,  scatters. 

xcix. 
"Then  up  with  me!" — but  Juan  answered, 
"  Look 
Upon  this  child — I  saved  her  —  must  not 
leave 
Her  life  to  chance;  but  point  me  out  some 
nook 
Of  safety,  where  she  less  may  shrink  and 
grieve, 
And  I  am  with  you."  —  Whereon   Johnson 
took 
A  glance   around  —  and   shrugged  —  and 
twitched  his  sleeve 
And    black     silk    neckcloth  —  and    replied, 

"  You're  right ; 
Poor  thing!  what's  to  be  done  ?  I'm  puzzled 
quite." 


But  Juan  was  immovable  ;  until 

Johnson,  who  really  loved  him  in  his  way, 
Picked  out  amongst  his  followers  with  some 
skill 

Such  as  he  thought  the  least  given  up  to 
prey; 
And  swearing  if  the  infant  came  to  ill 

That  they  should  all  be  shot  on  the  next  day ; 
But  if  she  were  delivered  safe  and  sound, 
They  should  at  least  have  fifty  rubles  round, 


And  all  allowances  besides  of  plunder 

In  fair  proportion  with  their  comrades  ;  — 
then 

Juan  consented  to  march  on  through  thunder, 
Which  thinned  at  every  step  their  ranks  of 
men  : 

And  yet  the  rest  rushed  eagerly  —  no  wonder, 
For  they  were  heated  by  the  hope  of  gain, 

A  thing  which  happens  everywhere  each  day — 

N"  hero  trusteth  wholly  to  half  pay. 


CXXVII. 
But  let  me  put  an  end  unto  my  theme ; 

There  was  an  end  of  Ismail  —  hapless  town ! 
Far  flashed  her  burning  towers  o'er  Danube's 
stream, 
And  redly  ran  his  blushing  waters  down. 
The  horrid  war-whoop  and  the  shriller  scream 
Rose  still ;    but  fainter  were   the   thunders 
grown 
Of  forty  thousand  who  had  manned  the  wall, 
Some  hundreds  breathed  —  the  rest  were  si- 
lent all ! 


CXXXVIII. 

Reader !  I  have  kept  my  word,  —  at  least  so 
far 

As  the  first  Canto  promised.    You  have  now 
Had  sketches  of  love,  tempest,  travel,  war  — 

All  very  accurate,  you  must  allow, 
And  epic,  if  plain  truth  should  prove  no  bar ; 

For  I  have  drawn  much  less  with  a  long  bow 
Than  my  forerunners.     Carelessly  I  sing, 
But  Phcebus  lends  me  now  and  then  a  string, 

CXXXIX. 

With  which  I  still  can  harp,  and  carp,  and  fid- 
dle. 

What  further  hath  befallen  or  may  befall 
The  hero  of  this  grand  poetic  riddle, 

I  by  and  by  may  tell  you,  if  at  all : 
But  now  I  choose  to  break  off  in  the  middle, 

Worn  out  with  battering  Ismail's  stubborn 
wall, 
While  Juan  is  sent  off  with  the  despatch, 
For  which  all  Petersburg!!  is  on  the  watch. 


This  special  honor  was  conferred,  because 
He  had  behaved  with  courage  and  human- 
ity— 
Which  last  men  like,  when  they  have  time  to 
pause 
From  their  ferocities  produced  by  vanity. 
His  little  captive  gained  him  some  applause 

For  saving  her  amidst  the  wild  insanity 
Of  carnage,  —  and  I  think  he  was  more  glad 

in  her 
Safety,  than  his  new  order  of  St.  Vladimir. 

CXLI. 

The  Moslem  orphan  went  with  her  protector, 
For  she  was  homeless,  houseless,  helpless  ; 
all 
Her  friends,  like  the  sad  family  of  Hector, 
Had  perished  in  the  field  or  by  the  wall: 
Her  very  place  of  birth  was  but  a  spectre 
Of  what  it  had  been ;  there  the  Muezzin's 
call 
To  prayer  was  heard  no  more !  —  and  Juan 

wept, 
And  made  a  vow  to  shield  her,  which  he  kept 


826 


DON  JUAN. 


CANTO   THE  NINTH. 


1= 

Oh,  Wellington !  (or  "  Vilainton  " —  for  Fame 

Sounds  the  heroic  syllables  both  ways ; 
France  could  not  even  conquer  your  great 
name, 
But    punned    it    down    to   this    facetious 
phrase  — 
Beating  or  beaten  she  will  laugh  the  same,) 
You    have   obtained    great    pensions  and 
much  praise  : 
Glory  like  yours  should  any  dare  gainsay, 
Humanity  would  rise,  and  thunder  "  Nay !  " 


I   don't  think  *hat  you  used  Kinnaird  quite 
well 
In  Marinet's  affair  —  in  fact,  'twas  shabby, 
And   like  some    other  things   won't    do    to 
tell 
Upon    your  tomb    in    Westminster's   old 
abbey. 
Upon  the  rest  'tis  not  worth  while  to  dwell, 
Such  tales  being  for  the  tea-hours  of  some 
tabby ; 
But  though  your  years  as  man  tend  fast  to 

zero, 
In  fact  your  grace  is  still  but  &  young  hero. 


Though  Britain  owes  (and  pays  you  too)  so 
much, 
Yet    Europe   doubtless   owes    you   greatly 
more  : 
You  have  repaired  Legitimacy's  crutch, 
A  prop  not  quite  so  certain  as  before : 
The   Spanish,   and    the    French,   as  well   as 
Dutch, 
Have    seen,  and    felt,   how   strongly    you 
restore  ; 
A.nd   Waterloo    has   made   the   world    your 

debtor 
(I  wish  your  bards  could  sing  it  rather  better). 


Vou  are  "  the  best  of  cut-throats:  "— do  not 
start ; 
The  phrase  is  Shakspeare's,  and  not  mis- 
applied ;  — 
War's    a    brain-spattering,    windpipe-slitting 
art, 
Unless  her  cause  by  right  be  sanctified. 
If  you  have  acted  once  a  generous  part, 
The  world,  not   the  world's   masters,  will 
decide, 
And  I  shall  be  delighted  to  learn  who, 
Save  you  and  yours,  have  gained  by  Waterloo  ? 


I  am  no  flatterer  —  you've  supped  full  of  fiat, 
tery ; 
They  say  you  like  it  too  —  'tis  no  great  won- 
der. 
He  whose  whole  life   has   been  assault  and 
battery, 
At  last  may  get  a  little  tired  of  thunder; 
And  swallowing  eulogy  much  more  than  sat- 
ire, he 
May    like   being   praised   for   every   lucky 
blunder. 
Called  "  Saviour  of  the  Nations  "  —  not  yet 

saved, 
And  "  Europe's  Liberator  "  —  still  enslaved. 

VI. 

I've  done.     Now  go  and   dine  from  off  the 
plate 
Presented  by  the  Prince  of  the  Brazils, 
And  send  the  sentinel  before  your  gate 

A  slice  or  two  from  your  luxurious  meals  : 
He  fought,  but  has  not  fed  so  well  of  late. 
Some     hunger,   too,  they  say  the     people 
feels :  — 
There  is   no   doubt   that  you   deserve  your 

ration, 
But  pray  give  back  a  little  to  the  nation. 

*     VII. 
I  don't  mean  to  reflect  —  a  man  so  great  as 

You,  my  lord  duke  !  is  far  above  reflection: 
The  high  Roman  fashion,  too,  of  Cincinnatus, 
With  modern  history  has  but  small  connec- 
tion : 
Though  as  an  Irishman  you  love  potatoes, 
You  need  not  take  them  under  your  direc- 
tion; 
And  half  a  million  for  your  Sabine  farm 
Is  rather  dear!  —  I'm  sure  I  mean  no  harm. 

VIII. 

Great  men  have  always  scorned  great  recom- 
penses : 
Epaminondas  saved  his  Thebes,  and  died, 
Not  leaving  even  his  funeral  expenses  : 
George  Washington  had  thanks  and  nought 
beside, 
Except    the    all-cloudless    glory  (which    few 
men's  is) 
To  free  his  country  :  Pitt  too  had  his  pride^ 
And  as  a  high-souled  minister  of  state  is 
Renowned  for  ruining  Great  Britain  gratis. 


Never  had  mortal  man  such  opportunity, 
Except  Napoleon,  or  abused  it  more  ■ 


DON  JUAN. 


827 


You  might  have  freed  fallen  Europe  from  the 
unity 
Of  tyrants,  and  been  blest  from  shore  to 
shore  : 
And  now —  what  is  your  fame?    Shall  the 
Muse  tune  it  ye  ? 
Noiu — that  the  rabble's  first  vain  shouts  are 
o'er? 
Go  !  hear  it  in  your  famished  country's  cries ! 
Behold  the  world  !  and  curse  your  victories  ! 


As  these  new  cantos  touch  on  warlike  feats, 

To  you   the   unflattering   Muse  deigns   to 

inscribe 

Truths,  that  you  will  not  read  in  the  Gazettes, 

But  which  'tis  time  to  teach  the  hireling  tribe 

Who  fatten  on  their  country's  gore,  and  debts, 

Must  be  recited,  and  —  without  a  bribe. 
I  You  did  great  things ;  but  not  being  great  in 

mind, 
(Have  left  undone  the  greatest — and  mankind. 

XI. 

Death  laughs  —  Go  ponder  o'er  the  skeleton 
With  which  men  image  out  the  unknown 
thing 
That  hides  the  past  world,  like  to  a  set  sun 
Which  still  elsewhere  may  rouse  a  brighter 
spring  — 
Death  laughs  at  all  you  weep  for  : — look  upon 
This  hourly  dread  of  all !  whose  threatened 
sting 
Turns  life  to  terror,  even  though  in  its  sheath  : 
Mark !    how  its  lipless  mouth  grins  without 
breath ! 

XII. 

iMark!    how  it  laughs  and  scorns  at  all  you 
are! 
And  yet  was  what  you  are  :  from  ear  to  ear 
It  laughs  not — there  is  now  no  fleshy  bar 
So  called ;    the  Antic  long  hath  ceased  to 
hear, 
But  still  he  smiles  ;  and  whether  near  or  far 
He  strips  from  man  that  mantle  (far  more 
dear 
Than  even  the  tailor's),  his  incarnate  skin, 
White,  black,  or   copper  —  the  dead  bones 
will  grin. 

XIII. 

Vnd  thus  Death  laughs,  —  it  is  sad  merriment, 
But  still  it  is  so ;  and  with  such  example 

Vhy  should  not  Life  be  equally  content 
With  his  superior,  in  a  smile  to  trample 

Jpon  the  nothings  which  are  daily  spent 
Like  bubbles  on  an  ocean  much  less  ample 

Than  the  eternal  deluge,  which  devours 

>uns  as  rays  —  worlds  like  atoms  —  years  like 
hours  ? 


XXII. 

'Tis  time  we  should  proceed  with  our  good 
poem, — 

For  I  maintain  that  it  is  really  good, 
Not  only  in  the  body  but  the  proem, 

However  little  both  are  understood. 
Just  now,  —  but  by  and  by  the  Truth  will  show 
'em 

Herself  in  her  sublimest  attitude: 
And  till  she  doth,  I  fain  must  be  content 
To  share  her  beauty  and  her  banishment. 

XXIII. 
Our  hero  (and,  I  trust,  kind  reader!  yours — ) 

Was  left  upon  his  way  to  the  chief  city 
Of  the  immortal  Peter's  polished  boors, 
Who   still    have    shown   themselves    more 
brave  than  witty. 
I  know  its  mighty  empire  now  allures 
Much  flattery  —  even  Voltaire's,  and  that's 
a  pity. 
For  me,  I  deem  an  absolute  autocrat 
Not  a  barbarian,  but  much  worse  than  that. 


Don  Juan,  who  had  shone  in  the  late  slaughter, 

Was  left  upon  his  way  with  the  despatch, 
Where  blood  was  talked  of  as  we  would  of 
water ; 
And  carcasses  that  lay  as  thick  as  thatch 
O'er  silenced  cities,  merely  served  to  flatter 
Fair  Catherine's  pastime — -who  looked  on 
the  match 
Between  these  nations  as  a  main  of  cocks, 
Wherein  she   liked   her  own   to   stand   like 
rocks. 

XXX. 

And  there  in  a  kibitka  he  rolled  on, 

(A  cursed  sort  of  carriage  without  springs, 

Which  on  rough  roads  leaves  scarcely  a  whole 
bone,) 
Pondering  on  glory,  chivalry,  and  kings. 

And  orders,  and  on  all  that  he  had  done  — 
And  wishing  that  post-horses  had  the  wings 

Of  Pegasus,  or  at  the  least  post-chaises 

Had  feathers,  when  a  traveller  on  deep  ways  is, 

XXXI. 

At  every  jolt  —  and  there  were  many  —  still 
He  turned  his  eyes  upon  his  little  charge, 

As  if  he  wished  that  she  should  fare  less  ill 
Than  he,  in  these  sad  highways  left  at  large 

To  ruts,  and  flints,  and  lovely  Nature's  skill, 
Who  is  no  pavior,  nor  admits  a  barge 

On  her  canals,  where  God  takes  sea  and  lan«^ 

Fishery  and  farm,  both  into  his  own  hand. 

XXXII. 

At  least  he  pays  no  rent,  and  has  best  right 
To  be  the  first  of  what  we  used  to  call 


828 


DON  JUAN. 


"  Gentlemen  farmers  "  —  a  race  worn  out  quite, 

Since  lately  there  have  been  no  rents  at  all, 

And  "  gentlemen  "  are  in  a  piteous  plight, 

And  "farmers"  can't  raise  Ceres  from  her 

fall : 

She    fell   with    Buonaparte  —  What    strange 

thoughts 
Arise,  when  we  see  emperors  fall  with  oats ! 


But  Juan  turned  his  eyes  on  the  sweet  child 
Whom  he  had  saved  from  slaughter  —  what 
a  trophy ! 
Oh!  ye  who  build  up  monuments,  defiled 
With  gore,  like   Nadir  Shah,  that  costive 
sophy, 
Who,  after  leaving  Hindostan  a  wild, 

And  scarce  to  the  Mogul  a  cup  of  coffee 
To  soothe  his  woes  withal,  was  slain,  the  sin- 
ner! 
Because  he  could  no  more  digest  his  dinner ;  — 

xxxiv. 
Oh  ye !  or  we !  or  he  !  or  she !  reflect, 

That  one  life  saved,  especially  if  young 
Or  pretty,  is  a  thing  to  recollect 

Far  sweeter  than  the  greenest  laurels  sprung 
From   the   manure   of  human   clay,   though 
decked 

With  all  the  praises  ever  said  or  sung : 
Though  hymned  by  every  harp,  unless  within 
Your  heart  joins  chorus,  Fame  is  but  a  din. 


XLII. 

So  on  I  ramble,  now  and  then  narrating, 
Now   pondering :  —  it  is   time   we   should 
narrate. 

I  left  Don  Juan  with  his  horses  baiting  — 
Now  we'll  get  o'er  the  ground  at  a  great 
rate. 

I  shall  not  be  particular  in  stating 

His  journey,  we've  so  many  tours  of  late: 

Suppose  him  then  at  Petersburgh  ;  suppose 

That  pleasant  capital  of  painted  snows ; 

XL1II. 

Suppose  him  in  a  handsome  uniform; 

A  scarlet  coat,  black  lacings,  a  long  plume, 
Waving,  like  sails  new  shivered  in  a  storm, 

Over  a  cocked  hat  in  a  crowded  room, 
And    brilliant  breeches,   bright    as  a   Cairn 
Gorme, 

Of  yellow  casimire  we  may  presume, 
White  stockings  drawn  uncurdledas  new  milk 
O'er  limbs  whose  symmetry  set  off  the  silk ; 

XLIV. 
Suppose  him  sword  by  side,  and  hat  in  hand, 
Made  up  by  youth,  fame,  and   an   army 
tailor  — 


That  great  enchanter,  at  whose  rod's  command 
Beauty  springs  forth,  and  Nature's  self  turns 
paler, 
Seeing  how  Art  can  make  her  work  more  grand 
(When  she  don't  pin  men's  limbs  in  like  a 
gaoler), — 
Behold  him  placed  as  if  upon  a  pillar!     He 
Seems  Love  turned  a  lieutenant  of  artillery  ! 


His  bandage  slipped  down  into  a  cravat ; 

His  wings  subdued  to  epaulettes  ;  his  quiver 
Shrunk  to  a  scabbard,  with  his  arrows  at 

His  side  as  a  small  sword,  but  sharp  as  ever ; 
His  bow  converted  into  a  cocked  hat ; 

But  still  so  like,  that  Psyche  were  more  clever 
Than  some  wives  (who  make  blunders  no  less 

stupid), 
If  she  had  not  mistaken  him  for  Cupid. 

XLVI. 
The  courtiers  stared,  the  ladies  whispered,  and 
The  empress  smiled  :  the  reigning  favorite 
frowned  — 
I  quite  forget  which  of  them  was  in  hand 
Just   then ;    as   they  are   rather   numerous 
found, 
Who  took  by  turns  that  difficult  command 

Since  first  her  majesty  was  singly  crowned: 
But  they  were  mostly  nervous  six-foot  fellows, 
All  fit  to  make  a  Patagonian  jealous. 

XLVII. 

Juan  was  none  9/  these,  but  slight  and  slim, 
Blushing  and  beardless  ;  and  yet  ne'ertheless 

There  was  a  something  in  his  turn  of  limb, 
And  still  more  in  his  eye,  which  seemed  to 
express, 

That  though  he  looked  one  of  the  seraphim^ 
There  lurked  a  man  beneath  the  spirit's  dress. 

Besides,  the  empress  sometimes  liked  a  boy, 

And  had  just  buried  the  fair-faced  Lanskoi. 


Juan,  I  said,  was  a  most  beauteous  boy, 

And  had  retained  his  boyish  look  beyond 
The  usual  hirsute  seasons  which  destroy, 
With  beards  and  whiskers,  and  the  like,  the 
fond 
Parisian  aspect  which  upset  old  Troy 
And  founded  Doctors'  Commons :  —  I  have 
conned 
The    history    of    divorces,    which,    though 

chequered, 
Calls  I  lion's  the  first  damages  on  record. 


And  Catherine,  who  loved  all  things,    (save 
her  lord, 
Who  was  gone  to  his  place,)  and  passed 
for  much, 


DON  JUAN. 


829 


Admiring  those  (by  dainty  dames  abhorred) 
Gigantic  gentlemen,  yet  had  a  touch 

Of  sentiment;  and  he  she  most  adored 
Was  the  lamented  Lanskoi,  who  was  such 

A  lover  as  had  cost  her  many  a  tear, 

And  yet  but  made  a  middling  grenadier. 


LVII. 

Catherine,  who  was  the  grand  epitome 
Of  that  great  cause  of  war,  or  peace,  or 
what 
You  please   (it  causes  all  the   things  which 
be, 
So   you  may  take  your  choice  of  this  or 
that)  — 
Catherine,  I  say,  was  very  glad  to  see 

The  handsome  herald,  on  whose  plumage 
sat 
Victory ;  and,  pausing  as  she  saw  him  kneel 
With  his  despatch,  forgot  to  break  the  seal. 

LVIII. 

Then  recollecting  the  whole  empress,  nor 
Forgetting  quite  the  woman  (which  com- 
posed 
At  least  three  parts  of  this  great  whole),  she 
tore 
The  letter  open  with  an  air  which  posed 
The  court,  that  watched  each  look  her  visage 
wore, 
Until  a  royal  smile  at  length  disclosed 
Fair  weather  for  the   day.     Though   rather 

spacious, 
Her  face  was  noble,  her  eyes  fine,  mouth  gra- 
cious. 

LIX. 

Great  joy  was  hers,  or  rather  joys  :  the  first 
Was  a  ta'en  city,  thirty  thousand  slain. 

Glory  and  triumph  o'er  her  aspect  burst, 
As  an  East  Indian  sunrise  on  the  main. 

These  quenched  a   moment   her  ambition's 
thirst  — 
So  Arab  deserts  drink  in  summer's  rain : 

In  vain! — As  falls  the  dews  on  quenchless 
sands, 

Blood  only  serves  to  wash  Ambition's  hands ! 

LX. 

Her  next  amusement  was  more  fanciful; 
She   smiled   at   mad   Suwarrow's   rhymes, 
who  threw 
Into  a  Russian  couplet  rather  dull 
The  whole  gazette  of  thousands  whom  he 
slew, 
Her  third  was  feminine  enough  to  annul 

The  shudder  which  runs  naturally  through 
Our  veins,  when  things  called  sovereigns  think 

it  best 
To  kill,  and  generals  turn  it  into  jest. 


The  two  first  feelings  ran  their  course  com- 
plete, 
And   lighted   first   her   eye,  and   then   her 
mouth  : 
The  whole  court   looked   immediately   most 
sweet, 
Like    flowers  well  watered    after  a    long 
drouth  :  — 
But  when  on  the  lieutenant  at  her  feet 

Her  majesty,  who  liked  to  gaze  on  youth 
Almost  as  much  as  on  a  new  despatch, 
Glanced  mildly,  all  the  world  was  on  the  watch. 


The  whole  court  melted  into  one  wide  whisper, 
And  all  lips  were  applied  unto  all  ears ! 

The  elder  ladies'  wrinkles  curled  much  crisper 
As  they  beheld  ;  the  younger  cast  some  leers 

On  one  another,  and  each  lovely  lisper 

Smiled  as  she  talked  the  matter  o'er;  but 
tears 

Of  rivalship  rose  in  each  clouded  eye 

Of  all  the  standing  army  who  stood  by. 

LXXIX. 

All  the  ambassadors  of  all  the  powers 

Inquired,  Who  was   this  very  new  young 
man, 
Who  promised  to  be  great  in  some  few  hours  ? 
Which  is  full  soon  (though  life   is   but    a 
span). 
Already  they  beheld  the  silver  showers 
Of  rubles  rain,  as  fast  as  specie  can, 
Upon  his  cabinet,  besides  the  presents 
Of  several  ribands,  and  some  thousand  peas- 
ants. 

LXXX. 

Catherine  was  generous,  —  all  such  ladies  are : 
Love,  that  great  opener  of  the  heart  and  all 

The  ways  that  lead  there,  be  they  near  or  far, 
Above,  below,  by  turnpikes  great  or  small, — 

Love  —  (though  she  had  a  cursed  taste  for  war, 
And  was  not  the  best  wife,  unless  we  call 

Such  Clytemnestra,  though  perhaps  'tis  better 

That  one  should  die,  than  two  drag  on  the 
fetter)  — 

LXXXI. 

Love  had  made  Catherine  make  eacl<  lover's 
fortune, 
Unlike  our  own  half-chaste  Elizabeth, 
Whose  avarice  all  disbursements  did  impor- 
tune, 
If  history,  the  grand  liar,  ever  saith 
The    truth ;    and   though   grief  her  old  age 
might  shorten, 
Because  she  put  a  favorite  to  death, 
Her  vile,  ambiguous  method  of  flirtation, 
And  stinginess,  disgrace  her  sex  and  station. 


$30 


DON  JUAN. 


LXXXII. 

But  when  the  levee  rose,  and  all  was  bustle 
In  the  dissolving  circle,  all  the  nations' 

Ambassadors  began  as  'twere  to  hustle 

Round  the  young  man  with  their  congratu- 
lations. 

Also  the  softer  silks  were  heard  to  rustle 
Of  gentle  dames,  among  whose  recreations 

It  is  to  speculate  on  handsome  faces, 

Especially  when  such  lead  to  high  places. 

LXXXIII. 

Juan,  who  found  himself,  he  knew  not  how, 
A  general  object  of  attention,  made 

His  answers  with  a  very  graceful  bow, 
As  if  born  for  the  ministerial  trade. 

Though  modest,  on  his  unembarrassed  brow 
Nature  had  written  "gentleman."     He  said 

Little,  but  to  the  purpose  ;  and  his  manner 

Flung  hovering  graces  o'er  him  like  a  banner. 


LXXXIV. 
An  order  from  her  majesty  consigned 

Our  young  lieutenant  to  the  genial  care 
Of  those  in  office :  all  the  world  looked  kind 

(As  it  will  look  sometimes  with  the  first  stare, 
Which  youth  would  not  act   ill   to  keep   in 
mind,) 

As  also  did  Miss  Protasoff  then  there, 
Named  from  her  mystic  office  "l'Eprouveuse," 
A  term  inexplicable  to  the  Muse. 

LXXXV. 

With  her  then,  as  in  humble  duty  bound, 
Juan  retired,  —  and  so  will  I,  until 

My  Pegasus  shall  tire  of  touching  ground. 
We  have  just  lit  on  a  "  heaven-kissing  hill," 

So  lofty  that  I  feel  my  brain  turn  round, 
And  all  my  fancies  whirling  like  a  mill ; 

Which  is  a  signal  to  my  nerves  and  brain, 

To  take  a  quiet  ride  in  some  green  lane. 


CANTO  THE  TENTH. 


I. 
WHEN  Newton  saw  an  apple  fall,  he  found 
in  that  slight  startle  from  his  contempla- 
tion — 
'Tis  said  (for  I'll  not  answer  above  ground 

For  any  sage's  creed  or  calculation)  — 
A   mode'  of   proving   that   the  earth  turned 
round 
In  a  most  natural  whirl,  called   "  gravita- 
tion ;  " 
And  this  is  the  sole  mortal  who  could  grapple, 
Since  Adam,  with  a  fall,  or  with  an  apple. 


Man  fell  with  apples,  and  with  apples  rose, 
Ii  iliis  be  true  ;  for  we  must  deem  the  mode 

In  which  Sir  Isaac  Newton  could  disclose 
Through  the  then  unpaved  stars  the  turn- 
pike road, 

A  thing  to  counterbalance  human  woes  : 
For  ever  since  immortal  man  hath  glowed 

With  all  kinds  of  mechanics,  and  full  soon 

Steam-engines  will  conduct  him  to  the  moon. 


And  wherefore  this  exordium? — Why,  just 
now, 

In  taking  up  this  paltry  sheet  of  paper, 
My  bosom  underwent  a  glorious  glow, 

And  my  internal  spirit  cut  a  caper: 
And  though  so  much  inferior,  as  I  know, 

To  those  who,  by  the  dint  of  glass  and  vapor, 
Discover  stars,  and  sail  in  the  wind's  eye, 
I  wish  to  do  as  much  by  poesy. 


IV. 
In  the  wind's  eye  I  have  sailed,  and  sail;  but 
for 
The  stars,  I  own  my  telescope  is  dim ; 
But  at  the  least  I  have  shunned  the  common 
shore, 
And  leaving  land  faiiout  of  sight,  would  skim 
The  ocean  of  eternity :  the  roar 

Of  breakers  has  not  daunted  my  slight,  trim, 
But  still  sea-worthy  skiff;  and  she  may  float 
Where  ships  have  foundered,  as  doth  many  a 
boat. 

V. 
We  left  our  hero,  Juan,  in  the  bloom 

Of  favoritism,  but  not  yet  in  the  blush;  — 
And  far  be  it  from  my  Muses  to  presume 

(For  I  have  more  than  one  Muse  at  a  push) 
To  follow  him  beyond  the  drawing-room  : 

It  is  enough  that  Fortune  found  him  flush 
Of  youth,  and  vigor,  beauty,  and  those  things 
Which  for  an  instant  clip  enjoyment's  wings. 


Don  Juan  grew  a  very  polished  Russian  — 
How  we  won't  mention,  why  we  need  not 
say  : 

Few  youthful  minds  can  stand  the  strong  con- 
cussion 
Of  any  slight  temptation  in  their  way ; 

But  his  just  now  were  spread  as  is  a  cushion 
Smoothed  for  a  monarch's  seat  of  honor  :  gay 

Damsels,  and  dances,  revels,  ready  money, 

Made  ice  seem  paradise,  and  winter  sunny 


DON  JUAN. 


831 


The  favor  of  the  empress  was  agreeable  ; 

And  though  the  duty  waxed  a  little  hard, 
Young  people  at  his  time  of  life  should  be  able 

To  come  off  handsomely  in  that  regard. 
He  was  now  growing  up  like  a  green  tree,  able 

For  love,  war,  or  ambition,  which  reward 
Their  luckier  votaries,  till  old  age's  tedium 
Make  some  prefer  the  circulating  medium. 

XXIII. 

About  this  time,  as  might  have  been  antici- 
pated, 

Seduced  by  youth  and  dangerous  examples, 
Don  Juan  grew,  I  fear,  a  little  dissipated ; 

Which  is  a  sad  thing,  and  not  only  tramples 
On  our  fresh  feelings,  but  —  as  being  partici- 
pated 

With  all  kinds  of  incorrigible  samples 
Of  frail  humanity —  must  make  us  selfish, 
And  shut  our  souls  up  in  us  like  a  shell-fish. 


The  gentle  Juan  flourished,  though  at  times 
He  felt  like  other  plants  called  sensitive, 

Which  shrink  from  touch,  as  monarchs  do 
from  rhymes, 
Save  such  as  Southey  can  afford  to  give. 

Perhaps  he  longed  in  bitter  frosts  for  climes 
In  which  the  Neva's  ice  would  cease  to  live 

Before  May-day  :  perhaps,  despite  his  duty, 

In  royalty's  vast  arms  he  sighed  for  beauty : 


Perhaps  —  but,  sans   perhaps,  we  need  not 
seek 

For  causes  young  or  old  :  the  canker-worm 
Will  feed  upon  the  fairest,  freshest  cheek, 

As  well  as  further  drain  the  withered  form  : 
Care,  like  a  housekeeper,  brings  every  week 

His  bills  in,  and  however  we  may  storm, 
They  must  be  paid  :  though  six  days  smoothly 

run, 
The  seventh  will  bring  blue  devils  or  a  dun. 


I  don't  know  how  it  was,  but  he  grew  sick : 
The  empress  was  alarmed,  and  her  physi- 
cian 
(The  same  who  physicked  Peter)  found  the 
tick 
Of  his  fierce  pulse  betoken  a  condition 
Which  augured  of  the  dead,  however  quick 
Itself,  and  showed  a  feverish  disposition  ; 
At  which    the   whole    court   was    extremely 

troubled, 
The  sovereign  shocked,  and  all  his  medicines 
doubled. 


XLIII. 

Juan  demurred  at  this  first  notice  to 

Quit ;  and  though  death  had  threatened  an 
ejection, 

His  youth  and  constitution  bore  him  through, 
And  sent  the  doctors  in  a  new  direction. 

But  still  his  state  was  delicate :  the  hue 

Of  health  but  flickered  with  a  faint  reflection 

Along  his  wasted  cheek,  and  seemed  to  gravel 

The  faculty  —  who  said  that  he  must  travel. 

XLIV. 

The  climate  was  too  cold,  they  said,  for  him, 
Meridian-born,  to  bloom  in.     This  opinion 

Made  the  chaste  Catherine  look  a  little  grim, 
Who  did  not  like  at  first  to  lose  her  minion: 

But  when  she  saw  his  dazzling  eye  wax  dim, 
And  drooping  like  an  eagle's  with  dipt  pin- 
ion, 

She  then  resolved  to  send  him  on  a  mission, 

But  in  a  style  becoming  his  condition. 

XLV. 

There  was  just  then  a  kind  of  a  discussion, 

A  sort  of  treaty  or  negotiation 
Between  the  British  cabinet  and  Russian, 

Maintained  with  all  the  due  prevarication 
With  which  great  states  such  things  are  apt  to 
push  on ; 

Something  about  the  Baltic's  navigation, 
Hides,  train-oil,  tallow,  and  the  rights  of  Thetis, 
Which  Britons  deem  their  "  uti  possidetis." 


So  Catherine,  who  had  a  handsome  way 
Of  fitting  out  her  favorites,  conferred 

This  secret  charge  on  Juan,  to  display 
At  once  her  royal  splendor,  and  reward 

His  services.      He  kissed  hands  the  next  day, 
Received  instructions  how  to  play  his  card, 

Was  laden  with  all  kinds  of  gifts  and  honors, 

Which  showed  what  great  discernment  was 
the  donor's. 


LVIII. 
They    journeyed    on    through    Poland    and 
through  Warsaw, 
Famous  for  mines  of  salt   and   yokes    ot 
iron : 
Through  Courland  also,  which   that  famous 
farce  saw 
Which  gave  her  dukes  the  graceless  name 
of  "  Biron." 
'Tis  the  same  landscape  which  the  modern 
Mars  saw, 
Who  marched  to  Moscow,  led  by  Fame,  the 
siren ! 
To  lose  by  one  month's  frost   some  twenty 

years 
Of  conquest,  and  his  guard  of  grenadiers. 


832 


DON  J  VAN. 


LIX. 

Let  this  not  seem  an  anti-climax :  — "  Oh  ! 
My  guard !  my  old  guard !  "  exclaimed  that 
god  of  clay. 
Think  of  the  Thunderer's  falling  down  below 

Carotid-artery-cutting  Castlereagh ! 
Alas !  that  glory  should  be  chilled  by  snow ! 

But  should  we  wish  to  warm  us  on  our  way 
Through  Poland,  there  is  Koscuisko's  name 
3  Might  scatter  fire  through  ice,  like   Hecla's 
j        flame. 

LX. 
From  Poland  they  came  on  through  Prussia 
Proper, 
And  Konigsberg  the  capital,  whose  vaunt, 
Besides  some  veins  of  iron,  lead,  or  copper, 
Has  lately  been  the  great  Professor  Kant. 
Juan,  who  cared  not  a  tobacco-stopper 
About  philosophy,  pursued  his  jaunt 
To  Germany,  whose  somewhat  tardy  millions 
Have  princes  who  spur  more  than  their  pos- 
tilions. 

LXI. 

And  thence  through  Berlin,  Dresden,  and  the 
like, 
Until  he  reached  the  castellated  Rhine  :  — 
Ye  glorious  Gothic  scenes !    how  much  ye 
strike 
All  phantasies,  not  even  excepting  mine; 
A  gray  wall,  a  green  ruin,  rusty  pike, 

Make  my  soul  pass  the  equinoctial  line 
Between   the  present   anc     jast  worlds,  and 

hover 
Upon  their  airy  confine,  half-seas-over. 


But  Juan  posted  on  through  Manheim,  Bonn, 
Which  Drachenfels  frowns  over  like  a  spec- 
tre 

Of  the  good  feudal  times  for  ever  gone. 
On  which  I  have  not  time  just  now  to  lec- 
ture. 

From  thence  he  was  drawn  onwards  toCologne, 
A  city  which  presents  to  the  inspector 

Eleven  thousand  maidenheads  of  bone, 

The  greatest  number  flesh  hath  ever  known. 

LXIII. 
From  thence  to  Holland's  Hague  and  Hel- 
voetsluys, 
That    water -land    of    Dutchmen    and    of 
ditches, 
Where  juniper  expresses  its  best  juice, 

The  poor   man's   sparkling   substitute   for 
riches. 
Senates  and  sages  have  condemned  its  use  — 

But  to  denv  the  mob  a  cordial,  which  is 
Too  often  all  the  clothing,  meat,  or  fuel, 
Good  government  has  left  them,  seems  but 
cruel.  ' 


LXIV. 

Here  he  embarked,  and  with  a  flowing  sail 
Went  bounding  for  the  island  of  the  free, 
Towards  which  the  impatient  wind  blew  half 
a  gale ; 
High  dashed  the  spray,  the  bows  dipped  in 
the  sea, 
And   sea-sick   passengers   turned    somewhat 
pale ; 
But  Juan,  seasoned,  as  he  well  might  be, 
By  former  voyages,  stood  to  watch  the  skiffs 
Which  passed,  or  catch  the  first  glimpse  of 
the  cliffs. 

LXV. 

At  length  they  rose,  like  a  white  wall  along 
The  blue  sea's  border  ;  and  Don  Juan  felt — . 

What  even  young  strangers  feel  a  little  strong 
At  the  first  sight  of  Albion's  chalky  belt  — 

A  kind  of  pride  that  he  should  be  among 
Those  haughty  shopkeepers,  who    sternlj 
v  dealt 

Their  goods   and  edicts   out  from   pole    to 
pole, 

And  made  the  very  billows  pay  them  toll. 


I've  no  great  cause  to  love  that  spot  of  earth, 
Which    holds   what   ?)iigkt  have   been    the 
noblest  nation ; 

But  though  I  owe  it  little  but  my  birth, 
I  feel  a  mixed  regret  and  veneration 

For  its  decaying  fame  and  former  worth. 
Seven  years  (the  usftal  term  of  transporta 
tion) 

Of  absence  lay  one's  old  resentments  level, 

When  a  man's  country's  going  to  the  devil. 


Alas  !  could  she  but  fully,  truly,  know 

How  her  great  name  is  now  throughout 
abhorred, 
How  eager  all  the  earth  is  for  the  blow 
Which   shall   lay  bare  her  bosom  to  the 
sword  ; 
How  all  the  nations  deem  her  their  worst  foe, 
That  worse  than  worst  of  foes,  the   once 
adored 
False  friend,  who  held  out  freedom  to  man- 
kind, 
And   now  would   chain    them,  to    the   very 
mind ;  — 

LXVIII. 

Would  she  be  proud,  or  boast  herself  the  free, 
Who  is  but  first  of  slaves  ?    The  nations  are 

In  prison,  ■ — but  the  gaoler,  what  is  he  ? 
No  less  a  victim  to  the  bolt  and  bar. 

Is  the  poor  privilege  to  turn  the  key 

Upon  the  captive,  freedom  ?     He's  as  far 

From  the  enjoyment  of  the  earth  and  air 

Who  watches  o'er  the  chain,  as  they  who  wear 


DON  J  VAN. 


S33 


LXIX. 
Don  Juan  now  saw  Albion's  earliest  beauties, 

Thy  cliffs,  dear  Dover !  harbor,  and  hotel ; 
Thy  custom-house,  with  all  its  delicate  du- 
ties; 
Thy  waiters  running  mucks  at  every  bell ; 


Thy  packets,  all  whose  passengers  are  booties 

To  those  who  upon  land  or  water  dwell ; 
And  last,  not  least,  to  strangers  uninstructed. 
Thy  long,  long  bills,  whence  nothing  is  de- 
ducted. 


CANTO  THE   ELEVENTH. 


When  Bishop  Berkeley  said  "there  was  no 
matter," 

And  proved  it  —  'twas  no  matter  what   he 
said : 
They  say  his  system  'tis  in  vain  to  batter, 

Too  subtle  for  the  airiest  human  head ; 
And  yet  who  can  believe  it  ?     I  would  shatter 

Gladly  all  matters  down  to  stone  or  lead, 
Or  adamant,  to  find  the  world  a  spirit, 
And  wear  my  head,  denying  that  I  wear  it. 


What  a  sublime  discovery  'twas  to  make  the 

Universe  universal  egotism, 
That  all's  ideal  —  all  ourselves  :  I'll  stake  the 
World  (be  it  what  you  will)  that  that's  no 
schism. 

Oh  Doubt !  —  if  thou  be'st  Doubt,  for  which 
some  take  thee, 
But  which  I  doubt  extremely  —  thou  sole 
prism 
Of  the  Truth's  rays,  spoil  not  my  draught  of 

spirit ! 

ieaven's  brandy,  though  our  brain  can  hardly 
bear  it. 

ill. 
or  ever  and  anon  comes  Indigestion, 
(Not  the  most  "dainty  Ariel")   and   pre- 
plexes 
»ur  soarings  with  another  sort  of  question  : 
And  that  which  after  all  my  spirit  vexes, 
,  that  I  find  no  spot  where  man  can  rest  eye 

on, 
'  Without  confusion  of  the  sorts  and  sexes, 
>f  beings,  stars,  and  this  unriddled  wonder, 
he  world,  which  at  the  worst's  a  glorious 
blunder  — 

IV. 
it  be  chance  ;  or  if  it  be  according 
To  the  old  text,  still  better  :  —  lest  it  should 
urn  out   so,  we'll  say   nothing  'gainst  the 

wording, 
As  several  people  think  such  hazards  rude, 
hey're  right ;  our  days  are  too  brief  for  af- 
fording 
Space  to  dispute  what  no  one  ever  could 


|  Decide,  and  everybody  one  day  will 
Know  very  clearly  —  or  at  least  lie  still. 


And  therefore  will  I  leave  off  metaphysical 
Discussion,  which  is  neither  here  nor  there: 

If  I  agree  that  what  is,  is  ;  then  this  I  call 
Being  quite  perspicuous  and  extremelv  fair; 

Thetruth  is,  I've  grown  lately  rather  phthisical  : 
I  don't  know  what  the  reason  is  —  the  air 

Perhaps  ;  but  as  I  suffer  from  the  shocks 

Of  illness,  I  grow  much  more  orthodox. 


The  first  attack  at  once  proved  the  Divinity 
(But  that  I  never  doubted,  nor  the  Devil)  ; 

The  next,  the  Virgin's  mystical  virginity  ; 
The  third,  the  usual  Origin  of  Evil ; 

The    fourth   at   once   established   the   whole 
Trinity 
On  so  uncontrovertible  a  level, 

That  I  devoutly  wished  the  three  were  four, 

On  purpose  to  believe  so  much  the  more. 

VII. 
To  our  theme.  —  The  man  who  has  stood  on 
the  Acropolis, 
And  looked  down  over  Attica ;  or  he 
Who  has  sailed  where  picturesque  Constan- 
tinople is, 
Or  seen  Timbuctoo,  or  hath  taken  tea 
In  small-eyed  China's  crockery-ware  metropo- 
lis, 
Or  sat  amidst  the  bricks  of  Nineveh, 
May  not  think  much  of  London's  first  appear- 
ance — 
But  ask  him  what  he  thinks  of  it  a  year  hence  ? 


XXIX. 

Over  the  stones  still  rattling,  up  Pall  Mall, 
Through  crowds  and  carriages,  but  waxing 
thinner 
As  thundered  knockers  broke  the  long  sealed 
spell 
Of  doors  'gainst  duns,  and  to  an  early  din* 
ner 


834 


DON  JUAN. 


Admitted  a  small  party  as  night  fell, — 

Don  Juan,  our  young  diplomatic  sinner, 
Pursued  his  path,  and  drove  past  some  hotels, 
St.  James's  Palace  and  St.  James's  "  Hells." 

XXX. 

They  reached  the  hotel :  forth  streamed  from 
the  front  door 

A  tide  of  well-clad  waiters,  and  around 
The  mob  stood,  and  as  usual  several  score 

Of  those  pedestrian  Paphians  who  abound 
In  decent  London  when  the  daylight's  o'er; 

Commodious  but  immoral,  they  are  found 
Useful,  like  Malthus,  in  promoting  marriage. — 
But  Juan  now  is  stepping  from  his  carriage 

XXXI. 

Into  one  of  the  sweetest  of  hotels, 
Especially  for  foreigners  —  and  mostly 

For  those  whom  favor  or  whom  fortune  swells, 
And  cannot  find  a  bill's  small  items  costly. 

There  many  an  envoy  either  dwelt  or  dwells 
(The  den  of  many  a  diplomatic  lost  lie), 

Until  to  some  conspicuous  square  they  pass, 

And  blazon  o'er  the  door  their  names  in  brass. 


(uan,  whose  was  a  delicate  commission, 
Private,  though  publicly  important,  bore 

No  title  to  point  out  with  due  precision 
The  exact  affair  on  which  he  was  sent  o'er. 

"Twas  merely  known  that  on  a  secret  mission, 
A  foreigner  of  rank  had  graced  our  shore, 

Young,  handsome,   and   accomplished,   who 
was  said 

(In  whispers)  to  have  turned  his  sovereign's 
head. 

XXXIII. 

Some  rumor  also  of  some  strange  adventures 
Had  gone  before  him,  and  his  wars  and 
loves ; 

And  as  romantic  heads  are  pretty  painters, 
And,  above  all,  an  Englishwoman's  roves 

Into  the  excursive,  breaking  the  indentures 
Of  sober  reason,  wheresoe'er  it  moves, 

He  found  himself  extremely  in  the  fashion, 

Which  serves  our  thinking  people  for  a  pas- 
sion. 

XXXIV. 

I  don'tmean  that  they  are  passionless,  but  quite 
The  contrary ;  but  then  'tis  in  the  head ; 

Yet  as  the  consequences  are  as  bright 
As  if  they  acted  with  the  heart  instead, 

What  after  all  can  signify  the  site 

Of  ladies'  lucubrations  ?     So  they  lead 

T.n  safety  to  the  place  from  which  you  start, 

What  matters  if  the  road  be  head  or  heart  ? 


]uan  presented  in  the  proper  place, 
To  proper  placemen,  every  Russ  credential ; 


And  was  received  with  all  the  due  grimace, 

By  those  who  govern  in  the  mood  potential, 
Who,    seeing    a    handsome    stripling    with 
smooth  face, 
Thought  (what  in  state  affairs  is  most  es- 
sential) 
That  they  as  easily  might  do  the  youngster, 
As  hawks  may  pounce  upon  a  woodland  song- 
ster. 


XLVIII. 

Fair  virgins    blushed    upon    him ;    wedded 
dames 

Bloomed  also  in  less  transitory  hues ; 
For  both  commodities  dwell  by  the  Thames, 

The  paintingand  the  painted  ;  youth,  ceruse, 
Against  his  heart  preferred  their  usual  claims, 

Such  as  no  gentleman  can  quite  refuse  : 
Daughters    admired    his    dress,    and    pious 

mothers 
Inquired  his  income,  and  if  he  had  brothers. 


My  Juan,  whom  I  left  in  deadly  peril 

Amongst  live  poets  and  blue  ladies,  past 
With  some  small  profit  through  that  field  so 
sterile. 
Being  tired  in  time,  and  neither  least  nor 
last 
Left  it  before  he  had  been  treated  very  ill; 
And  henceforth  found  himself  more  gaily 
classed 
Amongst  the  higher  spirits  of  the  day, 
The  sun's  true  son,  no  vapor,  but  a  ray. 


His   morns  he  passed   in  business  —  which 
dissected, 
Was  like  all  business,  a  laborious  nothing 
That  leads  to  lassitude,  the  most  infected 

And  Centaur  Nessus  garb  of  mortal  clothing, 
And  on  our  sofas  makes  us  lie  dejected, 

And  talk  in  tender  horrors  of  our  loathing 
All  kinds  of  toil,  save  for  our  country's  good  — 
Which  grows  no  better,  though  'tis   time   it 
should. 

LXV. 

His  afternoons  he  passed  in  visits,  luncheons, 
Lounging, and  boxing  ;  and  the  twilight  hour 

In  riding  round  those  vegetable  puncheons 
Called  "Parks,"  where  there  is  neither  fruit 
nor  flower 

Enough  to  gratify  a  bee's  slight  munchings ; 
But  after  all  it  is  the  only  "  bower," 

(In  Moore's  phrase)  where  the  fashionable 
fair 

Can  form  a  slight  acquaintance  with  fresh  f>il 


DON  JUAN. 


83! 


LXVI. 
Then  dress,  then  dinner,  then  awakes  the  world! 
Then  glare  the  lamps,  then  whirl  the  wheels, 
then  roar 
Through    street    and    square    fast     flashing 
chariots  hurled 
Like  harnessed  meteors  ;  then  along  the  floor 
Chalk   mimics   painting;    then   festoons   are 
twirled ; 
Then  roll  the  brazen  thunders  of  the  door, 
Which  opens  to  the  thousand  happy  few 
\n  earthly  Paradise  of  "  Or  Molu." 


LXXXVI. 

,Jnt  how  shall  I  relate  in  other  cantos 
Of  what  befell  our  hero  in  the  land, 

Which  'tis  the  common  cry  and  lie  to  vaunt  as 
A  moral  country  ?     But  I  hold  my  hand  — 
I  For  I  disdain  to  write  an  Atalantis  ; 
But  'tis  as  well  at  once  to  understand 

You  are  net  a  moral  people,  and  you  know  it 

Without  the  aid  of  too  sincere  a  poet. 

LXXXVII. 

What  Juan  saw  and  underwent  shall  be 
My  topic,  with  of  course  the  due  restriction 

Which  is  required  by  proper  courtesy ; 
And  recollect  the  work  is  only  fiction, 


And  that  I  sing  of  neither  mine  nor  me. 
Though  every  scribe,  in  some  slight  turn  of 
diction, 
Will  hint  allusions  never  meant.     Ne'er  doubt 
This  —  when  I  speak,  I  don't  hint,  but  speak 
out. 

LXXXVIII. 

Whether  he  married  with  the  third  or  fourth 
Offspring  of  some  sage    husband-hunting 
countess, 

Or  whether  with  some  virgin  of  more  worth 
(I  mean  in  Fortune's  matrimonial  bounties) 

He  took  to  regularly  peopling  Earth, 

Of  which  your  lawful  awful  wedlock  fount 
is, — 

Or  whether  he  was  taken  in  for  damages, 

For  being  too  excursive  in  his  homages,— 


Is  yet  within  the  unread  events  of  time 
Thus  far,  go  forth,  thou  lay,  which  I  will 
back 

Against  the  same  given  quantity  of  rhyme, 
For  being  as  much  the  subject  of  attack 

As  ever  yet  was  any  work  sublime, 

By  those  who  love  to  say  that  white  is  black. 

So  much  the  better !  —  I  may  stand  alone, 

But  would  not  change  my  free  thoughts  for  a 
throne. 


CANTO  THE  TWELFTH. 


I. 

Of  all  the  barbarous  middln  ages,  that 

Which  is  most  barbarous  is  the  middle  age 
'  Of  man  ;  it  is  —  I  really  scarce  know  what ; 

But  when  we  hover  between  fool  and  sage, 
And  don't  know  justly  what  we  would  be  at  — 

A  period  something  like  a  printed  page, 
Black  letter  upon  foolscap,  while  our  hair 
Grows  grizzled,   and  we  are   not  what    we 

were ;  — 
j  II. 

Too  old  for  youth,  —  too  young,  at  thirty-five, 
To   herd  with   boys,  or  hoard   with  good 
three-score,  — 
,1  wonder  people  should  be  left  alive; 
:     But  since  they  are,  that  epoch  is  a  bore : 
Love  lingers  still,  although  'twere  late  to  wive  ; 
!     And  as  for  other  love,  the  illusion's  o'er; 
And  money,  that  most  pure  imagination, 
Gleams  only  through  the  dawn  of  its  creation. 

3  III. 

O  Gold !     Why  call  we  misers  miserable  ? 
i     Theirs  is  the  pleasure  that  can  never  pall ; 


Theirs  is  the  best  bower  anchor,  the   chain 

cable 
Which  holds  fast  other  pleasures  great.and 

small. 
Ye  who  but  see  the  saving  man  at  table. 
And  scorn  his  temperate  board,  as  none  at 

all, 
And  wonder  how  the  wealthy  can  be  sparing, 
Know    not  what   visions   spring  from   each 

cheese-paring. 

IV. 

Love  or  lust  makes  man  sick,  and  wine  much 
sicker ; 
Ambition  rends,  and  gaming  gains  a  loss ; 
But  making  money,  slowly  first,  then  quicker, 
And    adding    still    a    little    through    each 
cross 
(Which  will  come  over  things),  beats  love  ot 
liquor, 
The  gamester's  counter,  or  the  statesman's 
dross. 
O  Gold  !  I  still  prefer  thee  unto  paper 
Which   makes  bank  credit    like   a   bark  of 
vapor. 


836 


DON  JUAN. 


Who  hold  the  balance  of  the  world  ?     Who 
reign 
O'er  congress,  whether  royalist  or  liberal  ? 
Who  rouse  the  shirtless  patriots  of  Spain  ? 
(That  make  old  Europe's  journals  squeak 
and  gibber  all.) 
Who  keep  the  'world,  both  old  and  new,  in 
pain 
Or   pleasure  ?     Who    *nake    politics    run 
glibber  all  ? 
The  shade  of  Buonaparte's  noble  daring?  — 
lew  Rothschild,  and  his  fellow-Christian,  Bar- 
ing. 


XIII. 

"  Love  rules  the  camp,  the  court,  the  grove,"  — 
"  for  love 
Is  heaven,  and  heaven  is  love  :  "  —  so  sings 
the  bard; 
Which  it  were  rather  difficult  to  prove 

(A  thing  with  poetry  in  general  hard). 
Perhaps   there    may   be   something   in   "  the 
grove," 
At  least  it  rhymes  to  "  love  :  "  but  I'm  pre- 
pared 
To   doubt    (no   less  than  landlords  of  their 

rental) 
If  "  courts"  and  "camps"  be  quite  so  senti- 
mental. 

XIV. 

But    if   Love    don't,   Cash   does,   and    Cash 
alone : 
Cash   rules  the  grove,  and  fells  it  too  be- 
sides ; 
Without  cash,  camps  were  thin,  and  courts 
were  none ; 
Without  cash,  Malthus  tells  you  —  "  take  no 
brides." 
!so  Cash  rules  Love  the  ruler,  on  his  own 
High  ground,  as  virgin  Cynthia  sways  the 
tides : 
And  as  for  "  Heaven  being  Love,"  why  not 

say  honey 
Is  wax  ?  Heaven  is  not  Love,  'tis  Matrimony. 


XXIII. 

And  now  to  business.  —  O  my  gentle  Juan  ! 
Thou    art   in    London  —  in    that   pleasant 
place 
Where  every  kind  of  mischief's  daily  brew- 
ing, 
Which   can  await  warm  youth  in  its  wild 
race. 
Tis  true,  that  thy  career  is  not  a  new  one ; 

Thou  art  no  novice  in  the  headlong  chase 
Of  early  life ;  but  this  is  a  new  land, 
Which  foreigners  can  never  understand. 


XXIV. 

What  with  a  small  diversity  of  climate, 
Of  hot  or  cold,  mercurial  or  sedate, 

I  could  send  forth  my  mandate  like  a  primate 
Upon  the  rest  of  Europe's  social  stale ; 

But  thou  art  the  most  difficult  to  rhyme  at, 
Great  Britain,  which  the  Muse  may  pene- 
trate. 

All  countries  have  their  "  Lions,"  but  in  thee 

There  is  but  one  superb  menagerie. 


But  I  am  sick  of  politics.     Begin, 
"  Paulo  Majora."     Juan,  undecided 

Amongst  the  paths  of  "being  taken  in," 
Above  the  ice  had  like  a  skater  glided : 

When  tired  of  play,  he  flirted  without  sin 
With  some  of  those  fair  creatures  who  have 
prided 

Themselves  on  innocent  tantalization, 

And  hate  all  vice  except  its  reputation. 
***** 

XXVII. 

The  little  Leila,  with  her  orient  eyes, 
And  taciturn  Asiatic  disposition, 

(Which  saw  all  western  things  with  small  sur- 
prise 
To  the  surprise  of  people  of  condition, 

Who  think  that  novelties  are  butterflies 
To  be  pursued  as  food  for  inanition,) 

Her  charming  figure  and  romantic  history 

Became  a  kind  of  fashionable  mystery. 

XXVIII. 
The  women  much  divided  —  as  is  usual 

Amongst  the  sex  in  little  things  or  great. 
Think  not,  fair  creatures,  that  I  mean  to  abuse 
you  all  — 
I  have  always  liked  you  better  than  I  state  : 
Since  I've  grown  moral,  still  I  must  accusa 
you  all 
Of  being  apt  to  talk  at  a  great  rate ; 
And  now  there  was  a  general  sensation 
Amongst  you,  about  Leila's  education. 


So  first  there  was  a  generous  emulation, 
And  then  there  was  a  general  competition 

To  undertake  the  orphan's  education. 
As  Juan  was  a  person  of  condition, 

It  had  been  an  affront  on  this  occasion 
To  talk  of  a  subscription  or  petition; 

But  sixteen  dowagers,  ten  unwed  she  sages, 

Whose   tale   belongs   to   "  Hallam's    Middle 
Ages," 

XXXI. 

And  one  or  two  sad,  separate  wives,  without 

A   fruit   to    bloom    upon    their  withering 

bough  — 


DON  JUAN. 


837 


Begged  to  bring  up  the  little  girl,  and  "  out"  — 
For  that's  the  phrase  that  settles  all  things 
now, 
Meaning  a  virgin's  first  blush  at  a  rout, 
And   all  her  points   as   thorough-bred   to 
show  : 
And  I  assure  you,  that  like  virgin  honey 
Tastes  their  first  season  (mostly  if  they  have 
money). 


XLI. 

But  first  of  little  Leila  we'll  dispose ; 

For   like  a  day-dawn  she  was   young  and 
pure, 
Or  like  the  old  comparison  of  snows, 

Which  are  more  pure  than  pleasant  to  be 
sure. 
Like  many  people  everybody  knows, 

Don  Juan  was  delighted  to  secure 
A  goodly  guardian  for  his  infant  charge, 
Who  might  not  profit  much  by  being  at  large. 

XLII. 

Besides,  he  had  found  out  he  was  no  tutor 
(I   wish    that   others   would   find   out  the 
same)  ; 
And   rather  wished   in   such  things  to  stand 
neuter, 
For  silly  wards  will  bring  their  guardians 
blame : 
So  when  he  saw  each  ancient  dame  a  suitor 

To  make  his  little  wild  Asiatic  tame, 
Consulting  "  the  Society  for  Vice 
Suppression,"     Lady     Pinchbeck     was      his 
choice. 

XLIII. 
Olden  she  was  —  but  had  been  very  young; 

Virtuous  she  was  —  and  had  been,  I  believe  ; 
.  Although  the  world  has  such  an  evil  tongue 
That but  my  chaster  ear  will  not  re- 
ceive 
,  An  echo  of  a  syllable  that's  wrong : 

In  fact,  there's  nothing  makes  me  so  much 
grieve, 
'As  that  abominable  tittle-tattle, 
\  Which  is  the  cud  eschewed  by  human  cattle. 


XLVIII. 

High  in  high  circles,  gentle  in  her  own, 

She  was  the  mild  reprover  of  the  young 
Whenever —  which  means  every  day  —  they'd 
shown 
An  awkward  inclination  to  go  wrong. 
The  quantity  of  good  she  did's  unknown, 
Or   at   the   least  would    lengthen   out   my 
song: 
n  brief,  the  little  orphan  of  the  East 
iad   raised    an   interest    in   her,   which   in- 
creased. 


Juan,  ioo,  was  a  sort  of  favorite  with  her, 
Because  she  thought  him  a  good  heart  at 
bottom, 
A  little  spoiled,  but  not  so  altogether; 

Which  was  a  wonder,  if  you  think  who  got 
him, 
And  how  he  had  been  tossed,  he  scarce  knew 
whither, 
Though  this  might  ruin  others,  it  did  noi 
him, 
At  least  entirely — for  he  had  seen  too  many 
Changes  in  youth,  to  be  suprised  at  any. 


But  now  I  will  begin  my  poem.     'Tis 
Perhaps  a  little  strange,  if  not  quite  new, 

That  from  the  first  of  Cantos  up  to  this 

Fve  not  begun  what  we  have  to  go  through. 

These  first  twelve  books  are  merely  flourishes, 
Preludios,  trying  just  a  string  or  two 

Upon  my  lyre,  or  making  the  pegs  sure ; 

And  when  so,  you  shall  have  the  overture. 


My  Muses  do  not  care  a  pinch  of  rosin 
About  what's  called  success,  or  not  succeed- 
ing : 
Such  thoughts  are  quite  below  the  strain  they 
have  chosen  ; 
'Tis  a  "  great  moral  lesson"  they  are  reading. 
I  thought,  at  setting  off,  about  two  dozen 
Cantos  would  do ;  but  at  Apollo's    plead- 
ing, 
If  that  my  Pegasus  should  not  be  foundered, 
I  think  to  canter  gently  through  a  hundred. 

LVI. 

Don  Juan  saw  that  microcosm  on  stilts, 

Yclept  the  Great  World ;  for  it  is  the  least, 
Although  the   highest :   but   as  swords   have 
hilts 
By  which   their  power  of   mischief   is  in- 
creased, 
When  man  in  battle  or  in  quarrel  tilts, 

Thus  the  low  world,  north,  south,  or  west, 
or  east, 
Must   still    obey   the   high  —  which   is    their 

handle, 
Their  moon,  their  sun,  their  gas,  their   far- 
thing candle. 

LVI  I. 

He  had  many  friends  who  had  many  wives, 
and  was 
Well  looked  upon  by  both,  to  that  extent 
Of  friendship  which  you  may  accept  or  pass, 
It  does  nor  good  nor  harm  ;  being  merely 
meant 
To  keep  the  wheels  going  of  the  higher  class. 


838 


DON  JUAN. 


And   draw  them    nightly  when  a  ticket's 
sent: 
And  what  with  masquerades,  and  fStes,  and 

balls, 
For  the  first  season  such  a  life  scarce  palls. 
•  *  •  •  • 

LXXXII. 
He  also  had  been  busy  seeing  sights  — 

The  Parliament  and  all  the  other  houses ; 
Had  sat  beneath  the  gallery  at  nights, 
To  hear  debates  whose  thunder  roused  (not 
rouses) 
Die  world  to  gaze  upon  those  northern  lights 
Which  flashed  as  far  as  where  the  musk- 
bull  browses ; 
He    had    also  stood  at    times  behind    the 

throne  — 
But  Grey  was  not  arrived,  and  Chatham  gone. 

LXXXIII. 
He  saw,  however,  at  the  closing  session, 
That    noble   sight,   when    really  free   the 
nation, 
A  king  in  constitutional  possession 

Of  such  a  throne  as  is  the  proudest  station, 
Though  despots  know  it   not  —  till   the  pro- 
gression 
Of  freedom  shall  complete  their  education. 
"Tis    not   mere  splendor    makes    the  show 

august 
To  eye  or  heart  —  it  is  the  people's  trust. 

LXXXIV. 

There,  too,  he  saw  (whate'er  he  may  be  now) 
A  Prince,  the  prince,  of  princes  at  the  time, 

With  fascination  in  his  very  bow, 

And  full  of  promise,  as  the  spring  of  prime. 

Though  royalty  was  written  on  his  brow, 
He  had  then  the  grace,  too,  rare  in  every 
clime, 

Of  being,  without  alloy  of  fop  or  beau, 

A  finished  gentleman  from  top  to  toe. 

LXXXV. 

And  Juan  was  received,  as  hath  been  said, 

Into  the  best  society :  and  there 
Occurred  what  often  happens,  I'm  afraid, 

However  disciplined  and  debonnaire :  — 
The  talent  and  good  humor  he  displayed, 

Besides  the  marked  distinction  of  his  air, 


Exposed  him,  as  was  natural,  to  temptation. 
Even  though  himself  avoided  the  occasion. 

LXXXVI. 

But  what,  and  where,  with  whom,  and  when 
and  why, 

Is  not  to  be  put  hastily  together; 
And  as  my  object  is  morality 

(Whatever    people    say),    I   don't    know 
whether 
I'll  leave  a  single  reader's  eyelid  dry,  . 

But  harrow  up  his  feelings  till  they  wither,  J 
And  hew  out  a  huge  monument  of  pathos, 
As  Philip's  son  proposed  to  do  with  Athos. 

LXXXVII. 

Here  the  twelfth  Canto  of  our  introduction 

Ends.  When  the  body  of  the  book's  begun, 
You'll  find  it  of  a  different  construction 
From  what  some  people  say  'twill  be  when 
done : 
The  plan  at  present's  simply  in  concoction. 

I  can't  oblige  you,  reader,  to  read  on; 
That's  your  affair,  not  mine :  a  real  spirit 
Should  neither  court  neglect,  nor  dread  to 
bear  it. 

LXXXVIII. 

And  if  my  thunderbolt  not  always  rattles, 

Remember,  reader !  you  have  had  before 
The  worst  of  tempests  and  the  best  of  battles 
That  e'er  were  brewed  from  elements  or 
gore, 
Besides  the  most  sublime  of —  Heaven  knows 
what  else : 
An    usurer    could    scarce    expect    mucb 
more  — 
But  my  best  canto,  save  one  on  astronomy. 
Will  turn  upon  "  political  economy." 

LXXXIX. 

That  is  your  present  theme  for  popularity: 
Now  that  the  public  hedge  hath  scarce  a 
stake, 

It  grows  an  act  of  patriotic  charity, 
To  show  the  people  the  best  way  to  break. 

My  plan  (but  I,  if  but  for  singularity, 
Reserve  it)  will  be  very  sure  to  take. 

Meantime,  read  all  the  national  debt-sinkers, 

And   tell   me   what  you  think  of  our  great 
thinkers. 


CANTO  THE  THIRTEENTH. 


I. 

k  NOW  mean  to  be  serious ;  —  it  is  time, 
Since  laughter  now-a-days  is  deemed  too 
serious, 


A  jest  at  Vice  by  Virtue's  called  a  crime, 
And  critically  held  as  deleterious : 

Besides,  the  sad's  a  source  of  the  sublime. 
Although  when  long  a  little  apt  to  weary  us 


DON  JUAN. 


ai9 


And  therefore  shall  my  lay  soar  high   and 

solemn, 
As  an  old  temple  dwindled  to  a  column. 

II. 
The  Lady  Adeline  Amundeville 
(Tis   an   old   Norman   name,  and  to  be 
found 
[n  pedigrees  by  those  who  wander  still 

Along  the  last  fields  of  that  Gothic  ground) 
Was  high-born,  wealthy  by  her  father's  will, 
And  beauteous,  even  where  beauties  most 
abound, 
In  Britain  —  which  of  course  true  patriots  find 
The  goodliest  soil  of  body  and  of  mind. 

III. 
I'll  not  gainsay  them ;  it  is  not  my  cue ; 
I'll  leave  them  to  their  taste,  no  doubt  the 
best: 
An  eye's  an  eye,  and  whether  black  or  blue, 

Is  no  great  matter,  so  'tis  in  request, 
"Tis  nonsense  to  dispute  about  a  hue  — 

The  kindest  may  be  taken  as  a  test. 
The  fair  sex  should  be  always  fair;  and  no 

man, 
Till  thirty,  should  perceive   there's  a  plain 
woman. 

IV. 
And  after  that  serene  and  somewhat  dull 

Epoch,  that  awkward  corner  turned  for  days 
More  quiet,  when   our  moon's   no   more  at 
full, 
We  may  presume  to  criticise  or  praise ; 
Because  indifference  begins  to  lull 
Our  passions,  and  we  walk   in  wisdom's 
ways ; 
Also  because  the  figure  and  the  face 
Hint,  that  'tis  time  to  give  the  younger  place. 


i  know  that  some  would  fain  postpone  this 
era, 

Reluctant  as  all  placemen  to  resign 
Their  post ;  but  theirs  is  merely  a  chimera, 

For  they  have  passed  life's  equinoctial  line  : 
But  then  they  have  their  claret  and  Madeira 

To  irrigate  the  dryness  of  decline  ; 
And  county  meetings,  and  the  parliament, 
And  debt,  and  what  not,  for  their  solace  sent. 


And  is  there  not  religion,  and  reform, 
Peace,  war,  the  taxes,  and  what's   called 
the  "  Nation  ?  " 

The  struggle  to  be  pilots  in  a  storm  ? 
The  landed  and  the  moneyed  speculation  ? 

The  joys  of  mutual  hate  to  keep  them  warm, 
Instead  of  love,  that  mere  hallucination  ? 

Now  hatred  is  by  far  the  longest  pleasure  ; 

Men  love  in  haste,  but  they  detest  at  leisure. 


VII. 

Rough  Johnson,  the  great  moralist,  professed, 
Right     honestly,    "  he    liked    an    honest 
hater!  "  — 
The  only  truth  that  yet  has  been  confest 

Within  these  latest  thousand  years  or  later 
Perhaps  the  fine  old  fellow  spoke  in  jest :  — 

For  my  part,  I  am  but  a  mere  spectator, 
And  gaze  where'er  the  palace  or  the  hovel  is„ 
Much    in    the    mode    of   Goethe's    Mephis- 
topheles ; 

VIII. 

But  neither  love  nor  hate  in  much  excess; 

Though   'twas  not  once  so.      If  I   sneer 
sometimes, 
It  is  because  I  cannot  well  do  less, 

And  now  and  then  it  also  suits  my  rhymes. 
I  should  be  very  willing  to  redress 

Men's  wrongs,  and  rather  check  than  punish 
crimes, 
Had  not  Cervantes,  in  that  too  true  tale 
Of  Quixote,  shown  how  all  such  efforts  fail. 

IX. 

Of  all  tales  'tis  the  saddest  —  and  more  sad, 
Because  it  makes  us  smile  :  his  hero's  right, 

And  still  pursues  the  right ;  —  to  curb  the  bad 
His  only  object,  and  'gainst  odds  to  fight 

His  guerdon  :  'tis  his  virtue  makes  him  mad ! 
But  his  adventures  form  a  sorry  sight ;  — 

A  sorrier  still  is  the  great  moral  taught 

By  that  real  epic  unto  all  who  have  thought. 

X. 

Redressing  injury,  revenging  wrong. 
To  aid  the  damsel  and  destroy  the  caitiff; 

Opposing  singly  the  united  strong, 
From    foreign    yoke  to  free  the   helpless 
native :  — 

Alas!  must  noblest  views,  like  an  old  song, 
Be  for  mere  fancy's  sport  a  theme  creative, 

A  jest,  a  riddle,  Fame  through  thick  and  thin 
sought ! 

And  Socrates  himself  but  Wisdom's  Quixote  ? 

XI. 

Cervantes  smiled  Spain's  chivalry  away ; 

A  single  laugh  demolished  the  right  arm 
Of  his  own  country;  —  seldom  since  that  day 
Has  Spain  had  heroes.    While   Romance 
could  charm, 
The  world  gave   ground   before  her  bright 
array ; 
And  therefore  have  his  volumes  done  such 
harm, 
That  all  their  glory,  as  a  composition, 
Was  dearly  purchased  by  his  land's  perdition. 

XII. 
I'm    "at    my   old    lunes" — digression,   asx) 
forget 
The  Lady  Adeline  Amundeville  ■ 


540 


DON  JUAN. 


The  fair  most  fatal  Juan  ever  met, 
Although  she  was  not  evil  nor  meant  ill ; 

But  Destiny  and  Passion  spread  the  net 
(Fate  is  a  good  excuse  for  our  own  will), 

And  caught  them  ;  —  what  do  they  not  catch, 
methinks  ? 

But  I'm  not  QSdipus,  and  life's  a  Sphinx. 

XIII. 
I  tell  the  tale  as  it  is  told,  nor  dare 

To  venture  a  solution  :  "  Davus  sum !  " 
And  now  I  will  proceed  upon  the  pair. 

Sweet  Adeline,  amidst  the  gay  world's  hum, 

Was  the  Queen-Bee,  the  glass  of  all  that's  fair ; 

Whose  charms  made  all  men  speak,  and 

women  dumb. 

That  last's  a  miracle,  and  such  was  reckoned, 

And   since   that   time   there  has  not  been  a 

second. 

XIV. 

Chaste  was  she,  to  detraction's  desperation, 
And  wedded  unto  one  she  had  loved  well  — 

A  man  known  in  the  councils  of  the  nation, 
Cool,  and  quite  English,  imperturbable, 

Though  apt  to  act  with  fire  upon  occasion, 
Proud  of  himself  and  her  :  the  world  could 
tell 

Nought    against    either,   and    both    seemed 
secure  — 

She  in  her  virtue,  he  in  his  hauteur. 

XV. 

It  chanced  some  diplomatical  relations, 
Arising  out  of  business,  often  brought 

Himself  and  Juan  in  their  mutual  stations 
Into  close  contact.     Though  reserved,  nor 
caught 

By    specious    seeming,    Juan's    youth,    and 
patience, 
And  talent,  on  his  haughty  spirit  wrought, 

And  formed  a  basis  of  esteem,  which  ends 

In  making  men  what  courtesy  calls  friends. 

XVI. 

And  thus  Lord  Henry,  who  was  cautious  as 
Reserve  and  pride  could  make  him,  and  full 
slow 

In  judging  men  —  when  once  his  judgment 
was 
Determined,  right  or  wrong,  on  friend  or  foe, 

Had  all  the  pertinacity  pride  has, 
Which  knows  no  ebb  to  its  imperious  flow, 

And  loves  or  ha'es,  disdaining  to  be  guided, 

Because  its  own  good  pleasure  hath  decided. 


XXII. 

He  liked  the  gentle  Spaniard  for  his  gravity ; 

He  almost  honored  him  for  his  docility, 
Because,  though  young,  he  acquiesced  with 
suavity, 


Or  contradicted  but  with  proud  humility. 
He  knew  the  world,  and  would  not  see  de- 
pravity 
In  fault  which  sometimes  show  the   soil's 
fertility, 
If  that  the  weeds  o'erlive  not  the  first  crop  — 
For  then  they  are  very  difficult  to  stop. 

xxm. 
And  then  he  talked  with  him  about  Madrid, 
Constantinople,  and  such  distant  places ; 
Where  people  always  did  as  they  were  bid, 
Or  did  what  they  should  not  with  foreign 
graces. 
Of  coursers  also  spake  they  :  Henry  rid 
Well,  like  most  Englishmen,  and  loved  the 
races, 
And  Juan,  like  a  true-born  Andalusian, 
Could  back  a  horse,  as  despots  ride  a  Russian. 


And  thus  acquaintance  grew,  at  noble  routs, 
And  diplomatic  dinners,  or  at  other  — 

For  Juan  stood  well  both  with  Ins  and  Outs, 
As  in  freemasonry  a  higher  brother. 

Upon  his  talent  Henry  had  no  doubts; 

His   manner  showed   him   sprung  from  a 
high  mother; 

And  all  men  like  to  show  their  hospitality 

To   him   whose  breeding  matches  with   his 
quality. 


The  London  winter  and  the  country  summer 

Were  well  nigh  over.     'Tis  perhaps  a  pity, 
When  nature  wears  the  gown  that  doth  be- 
come her, 
To  lose  those  best  months  in  a  sweaty  city, 
And  wait  until  the  nightingale  grows  dumber, 

Listening  debates  not  very  wise  or  witty, 
Ere  patriots  their  true   country   can   remem- 
ber;  — 
But  there's  no  shooting  (save  grouse)  till  Sep- 
tember. 

XLIX. 
I've  done  my  tirade.    The  world  was  gone  : 
The  twice  two  thousand,  for  whom   earth 
was  made, 
Were  vanished  to  be  what  they  call  alone  — 

That  is,  with  thirty  servants  for  parade, 
As  many  guests,  or  more ;  before  whom  groan 

As  many  covers,  duly,  daily  laid. 
Let  none  accuse  old  England's  hospitality  — 
Its  quantity  is  but  condensed  to  quality. 


Lord  Henry  and  the  Lady  Adeline 

Departed  like  the  rest  of  their  compeers, 

The  peerage,  to  a  mansion  very  fine ; 
The  Gothic  Babe!  of  a  thousand  years. 


DON  JUAN. 


841 


I  None  then  tncmselves  could  boast  a  longer 
line, 
Where  time  through  heroes   and  through 
beauties  steers ; 
And  oaks  as  olden  as  their  pedigree 
Told  of  their  sires,  a  tomb  in  every  tree. 

LI. 

A  paragraph  in  every  paper  told 

Of  their  departure  :  such  is  modern  fame  : 
Tis  pity  that  it  takes  no  further  hold 

Than  an  advertisement,  or  much  the  same  ; 
When,  ere  the  ink  be  dry,  the  sound  grows 
cold, 

The  Morning  Post  was   foremost   to  pro- 
claim — 
:'  Departure,  for  his  country  seat,  to-day, 
Lord  K.  Amundeville  and  Lady  A. 

Lil. 
"  We  understand  the  splendid  host  intends 

To  entertain,  this  autumn,  a  select 
And  numerous  party  of  his  noble  friends  ; 
Midst  whom  we  have  heard,  from  sources 
quite  correct, 

The    Duke    of    D the    shooting  season 

spends, 
With    many   more   by   rank    and    fashion 
decked ; 
Also  a  foreigner  of  high  condition, 
The  envoy  of  the  secret  Russian  mission." 


LV. 

To  Norman  Abbey  whirled  the  noble  pair,- 
An  old,  old  monastery  once,  and  now 

Still  older  mansion,  —  of  a  rich  and  rare 
Mixed  Gothic,  such  as  artists  all  allow 

Few  specimens  yet  left  us  can  compare 
Withal :  it  lies  perhaps  a  little  low, 
.'Because  the  monks  preferred  a  hill  behind, 

To  shelter  their  devotions  from  the  wind. 


X  stood  embosomed  in  a  happy  valley, 
Crowned   by   high   woodlands,  where   the 
Druid  oak 
Stood  like  Caractacus  in  act  to  rally 
His  host,  with  broad  arms  'gainst  the  thun- 
der-stroke ; 
\nd  from  beneath  his  boughs  were  seen  to 
sally 
The  dappled  foresters  —  as  day  awoke, 
The  branching  stag  swept  down  with  all  his 

herd, 
To  quaff  a  brook  which  murmured  like  a  bird. 

LVII. 
Before  the  mansion  lay  a  lucid  lake, 

Broad  as  transparent,  deep,  and  freshly  fed 
)v  a  river,  which  its  softened  way  did  take 


In  currents  through  the  calmer  water  spread 
Around  :  the  wildfowl  nestled  in  the  brake 

And  sedges,  brooding  in  their  liquid  bed: 
The  woods  sloped  downwards  to  its   brink, 

and  stood 
With  their  green  faees  fixed  upon  the  flood. 

LVIII. 

Its  outlet  dashed  into  a  deep  cascade, 
Sparkling  with  foam,  until  again  subsiding, 

Its  shriller  echoes  —  like  an  infant  made 
Quiet  —  sank  into  softer  ripples,  gliding 

Into  a  rivulet ;  and  thus  allayed, 

Pursued  its  course,  now  gleaming,  and  now 
hiding 

Its  windings  through  the  woods;  now  clear, 
now  blue, 

According  as  the  skies  their  shadows  threw. 


A  glorious  remnant  of  the  Gothic  pile 

(While  yet  the  church  was  Rome's)  stood 
half  apart 
In  a  grand  arch,  which  once  screened  many 
an  aisle. 
These  last  had  disappeared —  a  loss  to  art : 
The  first  yet  frowned  superbly  o'er  the  soil, 

And  kindled  feelings  in  the  roughest  heart, 
Which  mourned  the  power  of  time's  or  tem- 
pest's march 
In  gazing  on  that  venerable  arch. 

LX. 

Within  a  niche,  nigh  to  its  pinnacle, 

Twelve  saints  had  once  stood  sanctified  in 
stone ; 

But  these  had  fallen,  not  when  the  friars  fell, 
But  in  the  war  which  struck  Charles  from 
his  throne, 

When  each  house  was  a  fortalice  —  as  tell 
The  annals  of  full  many  a  line  undone,  — 

The  gallant  cavaliers,  who  fought  in  vain 

For  those  who  knew  not  to  resign  or  reign. 


But  in  a  higher  niche,  alone,  but  crowned, 
The  Virgin  Mother  of  the  God-born  Child, 

With    her   Son  in  her  blessed  arms,  looked 
round, 
Spared  by  some   chance  when   all   beside 
was  spoiled ; 

She  made  the  earth  below  seem  holy  ground. 
This  may  be  superstition,  weak  or  wild, 

But  even  the  faintest  relics  of  a  shrine 

Of  any  worship  wake  some  thoughts  divine. 

LXII. 
A  mighty  window,  hollow  in  the  centre, 

Shorn  of  its  glass  of  thousand  colorings, 
Through  which   the   deepened  glories   onee 
could  enter, 


842 


DON  JUAN. 


Streaming  from,  off  the  sun  like  seraph's 
wings, 
Now    yawns   all   desolate:    now   loud,   now 
fainter, 
The  gale  sweeps  through  its  fretwork,  and 
oft  sings 
The  owl  his  anthem,  where  the  silenced  quire 
Lie  with  their  hallelujahs  quenched  like  fire. 

LXIII. 

But  in  the  noontide  of  the  moon,  and  when 
The   wind   is   winged  from   one   point    of 
heaven, 
There  moans  a  strange  unearthly  sound,  which 
then 
Is  musical  —  a  dying  accent  driven 
Through  the  huge  arch,  which  soars  and  sinks 
again. 
Some  deem  it  but  the  distant  echo  given 
Back  to  the  night  wind  by  the  waterfall, 
And  harmonized  by  the  old  choral  wall : 

LXIV. 

Others,  that  some  original  shape,  or  form 
Shaped  by  decay,  perchance,  hath  given  the 
power 
(Though  less  than  that  of  Memnon's  statue, 
warm 
In  Egypt's  rays,  to  harp  at  a  fixed  hour) 
To  this  gray  ruin,  with  a  voice  to  charm  ; 
Sad,   but    serene,    it    sweeps    o'er    tree  or 
tower ; 
The  cause  I  know  not,  nor  can  solve;    but 

such 
The  fact: —  I've  heard  it,  —  once  perhaps  too 
much. 

LXV. 

Amidst  the  court  a  Gothic  fountain  played, 
Symmetrical,    but    decked    with    carvings 
quaint  — 

Strange  faces,  like  to  men  in  masquerade, 
And  here  perhaps  a  monster,  there  a  saint : 

The  spring  gushed  through  grim  mouths  of 
granite  made, 
And  sparkled  into  basins,  where  it  spent 

Its  little  torrent  in  a  thousand  bubbles, 

Like  man's  vain  glory,  and  his  vainer  troubles. 


The  mansion's  self  was  vast  and  venerable, 

With  more  of  the  monastic  than  has  been 
Elsewhere  preserved :  the  cloisters  still  were 
stable, 
The  cells,  too,  and  refectory,  I  ween  : 
An  exquisite  small  chapel  had  been  able, 
Still  unimpaired,  to  decorate  the  scene ; 
The   rest  had  been   reformed,   replaced,  or 

sunk, 
And   spoke    more    of   the    baron    than    the 
monk. 


LXVII. 


Huge  halls,  long  galleries,  spacious  chambers, 
joined 
By  no  quite  lawful  marriage  of  the  arts, 
Might  shock  a  connoisseur ;  but  when  com- 
bined, 
Formed  a  whole  which,  irregular  in  parts, 
Yet  left  a  grand  impression  on  the  mind, 
At  least  of  those  whose  eyes  are  in  theii 
hearts. 
We  gaze  upon  a  giant  for  his  stature, 
Nor  judge  at  first  if  all  be  true  to  nature. 

i.xvm. 
Steel  barons,  molten  the  next  generation 

To  silken  rows  of  gay  and  gartered  earls,     . 
Glanced  from  the  walls  in  goodly  preservation  : 

And  Lady  Marys  blooming  into  girls, 
With  fair  long  locks,  had  also  kept  their  sta- 
tion : 
And  countesses  mature  in  robes  and  pearls : 
Also  some  beauties  of  Sir  Peter  Lelv, 
Whose  drapery  hints  we  may  admire  them 
freely. 

LXIX. 
Judges  in  very  formidable  ermine 

Were  there,  with  brows  that  did  not  much 
invite 
The  accused  to  think  their  lordships  would 
determine 
His  cause  by  leaning  much  from  might  to 
right : 
Bishops,  who  had  no,t  left  a  single  sermon : 

Attorney-generals,  awful  to  the  sight, 
As  hinting  more  (unless  our  judgments  warp 

us) 
Of  the  "Star  Chamber"   than   of  "Habeas 
Corpus." 

LXX. 

Generals,  some  all  in  armor,  of  the  old 

And  iron  time,  ere  lead  had  ta'en  the  lead; 

Others  in  wigs  of  Marlborough's  martial  fold, 
Huger  than  twelve  of  our  degenerate  breed: 

Lordlings,  with  staves  of  white  or  keys  of  gold : 
Nimrods,  whose   canvas  scarce  contained 
the  steed ; 

And  here  and  there  some  stern  high  patriot 
stood, 

Who  could  not  get  the  place  for  which  he  sued,, 

LXXI. 

But  ever  and  anon,  to  soothe  your  vision, 
Fatigued  with  these  hereditary  glories, 

There  rose  a  Carlo  Dolce  or  a  Titian, 
Or  wilder  group  of  savage  Salvatore's. 

Here  danced  Albano's  boys,  and  here  the  se* 
shone 
In  Vernet's  ocean  light;  and  there  the  sto 
ries 

Of  martyrs  awed,  as  Spagnoletto  tainted 

His  brush  with  all  the  blood  of  all  the  sainted 


DON  JUAN. 


m 


LXXII. 

Here  sweetly  spread  a  landscape  of  Lorraine  ; 
There  Rembrandt  made  his  darkness  equal 
light, 
0r  gloomy  Caravaggio's  gloomier  stain 
Bronzed  o'er  some  lean  and  stoic  ancho- 
rite :  — 
But,  lo  !  a  Teniers  woos,  and  not  in  vain, 

Your  eyes  to  revel  in  a  livelier  sight : 
His  bell-mouthed  goblet  makes  me  feel  quite 

Danish 
Or  Dutch  with  thirst  —  What,  ho!  a  flask  of 
Rhenish. 

LXXII  I. 

0  reader!  if  that  thou  canst  read,  —  and  know, 
'Tis  not  enough  to  spell,  or  even  to  read, 

To  constitute  a  reader ;  there  must  go 

Virtues  of  which  both  you  and  I  have  need. 
Firstly,  begin  with  the  beginning —  (though 
That  clause  is  hard)  ;  and  secondly,  pro- 
ceed; 
Thirdly,  commence   not  with  the   end  —  or, 

sinning 
In  this  sort,  end  at  least  with  the  beginning. 

LXXIV. 

But,  reader,  thou  hast  patient  been  of  late, 
While  I,  without  remorse  of  rhyme,  or  fear, 

Have  built  and  laid  out  ground  at  such  a  rate, 
Dan  Phoebus  takes  me  for  an  auctioneer. 

That  poets  were  so  from  the  earliest  date, 
By  Homer's  "  Catalogue  of  ships  "  is  clear; 

But  a  mere  modern  must  be  moderate  — 

1  spare  you  then  the  furniture  and  plate. 


LXXV. 

The  mellow  autumn  came,  and  with  it  came 
The  promised  party,  to  enjoy  its  sweets. 

The  corn  is  cut,  the  manor  full  of  game  ; 
The  pointer  ranges,  and  the  sportsman  beats 

In  russet  jacket :  —  lynx-like  is  his  aim ; 
Full  grows  his  bag,  and  wonderful  his  feats. 

Ah,  nutbrown  partridges  !   Ah,  brilliant  pheas* 
ants ! 

And  ah,   ye  poachers!  —  'Tis   no   sport  for 
peasants. 

LXXVI. 

An  English  autumn,  though  it  hath  no  vines, 
Blushing  with  Bacchant  coronals  along 

The  paths,  o'er  which  the  far  festoon  entwines 
The  red  grape  in  the  sunny  lands  of  song, 

Hath  yet  a  purchased  choice  of  choicest  wines  ; 
The  claret  light,  and  the  Madeira  strong. 

If  Britain  mourn  her  bleakness,  we  can  tell  her, 

The  very  best  of  vineyards  is  the  cellar. 

LXXVI  I. 

Then,  if  she  hath  not  that  serene  decline 
Which  makes  the  southern  autumn's  day 
appear 

As  if  'twould  to  a  second  spring  resign 
The  season,  rather  than  to  winter  drear,  — 

Of  indoor  comforts  still  she  hath  a  mine,  — 
The  sea-coal  fires,  the"  earliest  of  the  year;  " 

Without   doors,   too,  she    may   complete  in 
mellow, 

As  what  is  lost  in  green  is  gained  in  yellow. 


CANTO  THE   FOURTEENTH. 


If  from  great  nature's  or  our  own  abyss 
Of  thought  we  could  but  snatch  a  certainty, 

Perhaps  mankind  might  find  the  path  they 
miss  — 
Butthen'rwouldspoilmuchgoodphilosophy. 

One  system  eats  another  up,  and  this 
Much  as  old  Saturn  ate  his  progeny ; 

For  when  his  pious  consort  gave  him  stones 

In  lieu  of  sons,  of  these  he  made  no  bones. 

II. 

But  System  doth  reverse  the  Titan's  breakfast, 
And  eats  her  parents,  albeit  the  digestion 

,Ts  difficult.     Pray  tell  me,  can  you  make  fast, 
After  due  search,  your  faith  to  any  question  ? 

Look  back  o'er  ages,  ere  unto  the  stake  fast 
You  bind  yourself,  and  call  some  mode  the 
best  one. 


Nothing   more  true   than  not  to  trust  yom 

senses ; 
And  yet  what  are  your  other  evidences  ? 

in. 

For  me,  I  know  nought ;  nothing  I  deny, 
Admit,  reject,  contemn ;    and  what   know 
you. 

Except  perhaps  that  you  were  born  to  die  ? 
And  both  may  after  all  turn  out  untrue. 

An  age  may  come,  Font  of  Eternity, 

When  nothing  shall  be  either  old  or  new. 

Death,  so  called,  is  a  thing  which  makes  men 
weep, 

And  yet  a  third  of  life  is  passed  in  sleep. 


A  sleep  without  dreams,  after  a  rough  day 
Of  toil,  is  what  we  covet  most ;  ana  yet 


8<K 


DON  JUAN. 


How  clay  shrinks  back  from  more  quiescent 
clay ! 

The  very  Suicide  that  pays  his  debt 
At  once  without  instalments  (an  old  way 

Of  paving  debts,  which  creditors  regret) 
Lets  out  impatiently  his  rushing  breath, 
Less  from  disgust  of  life  than  dread  of  death. 

V. 
'Tis  round  him,  near  him,  here,  there,  every- 
where ; 
And  there's  a  courage  which  grows  out  of 
fear, 
Perhaps  of  all  most  desperate,  which  will  dare 
The  worst  to  know  it :  —  when  the   moun- 
tains rear 
Their  peaks  beneath  your  human  foot,  and 
there 
You  look  down  o'er  the  precipice,  and  drear 
The  gulf  of  rock  yawns, —  you  can't  gaze  a 

minute 
Without  an  awful  wish  to  plunge  within  it. 


'Tis  true,  you  don't  —  but,  pale  and  struck 
with  terror, 
Retire  :  but  look  into  your  past  impression  ! 
And  you  will  find,  though  shuddering  at  the 
mirror 
Of  your  own  thoughts,  in  all  their  self-con- 
fession, 
The  lurking  bias,  be  it  truth  or  error, 

To  the  unknown  ;  a  secret  prepossession, 
To  plunge  with  all  your  fears  —  but  where? 

You  know  not, 
And  that's  the  reason  why  you  do  —  or  do  not. 

VII. 

But  what's  this  to  the  purpose  ?  you  will  say. 

Gent,  reader,  nothing;  a  mere  speculation, 
For  which  my  sole  excuse  is  —  'tis  my  way, 

Sometimes  with  and  sometimes  without  oc- 
casion 
I  write  what's  uppermost,  without  delay ; 

This  narrative  is  not  meant  for  narration, 
But  a  mere  airy  and  fantastic  basis, 
To  build  up  common  things  with  common 
places. 

VIII. 
You  know,  or  don't  know,  that  great  Bacon 
saith, 
"  Fling  up  a  straw,  'twill  show  the  way  the 
wind  blows;  " 
And  such  a  straw,  borne  on  by  human  breath, 

Is  poesy,  according  as  the  mind  glows  ; 
A  paper  kite  which  flies  'twixt  life  and  death, 
A  shadow  which  the  onward  soul  behind 
throws, 
And    mine's    a   bubble,   not    blown    up    for 

praise, 
But  just  to  play  with,  as  an  infant  plays. 


The  world  is  all  before  me  —  or  behind; 

For  I  have  seen  a  portion  of  that  same, 
And  quite  enough  for  me  to  keep  in  mind ;  — 

Of  passions,  too,  I  have  proved  enough  to 
blame, 
To  the  great  pleasure  of  our  friends,  mankind, 

Who  like  to  mix  some  slight  alloy  with  fame ; 
For  I  was  rather  famous  in  my  time, 
Until  I  fairly  knocked  it  up  with  rhyme. 


I  have  brought  this  world  about  my  ears,  and 
eke 

The  other ;  that's  to  say,  the  clergy  —  who 
Upon  my  head  have  bid  their  thunders  break 

In  pious  libels  by  no  means  a  few. 
And  yet  I  can't  help  scribbling  once  a  week, 

Tiring  old  readers,  nor  discovering  new. 
In  youth  I  wrote  because  my  mind  was  full, 
And  now  because  I  feel  it  growing  dull. 
***** 

LXXXV. 

Our  gentle  Adeline  had  one  defect  — 

Her  heart  was  vacant,  though  a  splendid 
mansion ; 
Her  conduct  had  been  perfectly  correct, 
As  she  had  seen  nought  claiming  its  expan- 
sion. 
A  wavering  spirit  may  be  easier  wrecked, 
Because  'tis  frailer,  doubtless,  than  a  stanch 
one  ; 
But  when  the  latter  wo/ks  its  own  undoing, 
Its  inner  crash  is  like  an  earthquake's  ruin. 

LXXXVI. 

She  loved  her  lord,  or  thought  so ;  but  thai 
love 

Cost  her  an  effort,  which  is  a  sad  toil, 
The  stone  of  Sisyphus,  if  once  we  move 

Our  feelings  'gainst  the  nature  of  the  soil. 
She  had  nothing  to  complain  of,  or  reprove, 

No  bickerings,  no  connubial  turmoil  : 
Their  union  was  a  model  to  behold, 
Serene  and  noble,  —  conjugal,  but  cold. 

LXXXVII. 

There  was  no  great  disparity  of  years, 
Though  much  in  temper;  but  they  nevej 
clashed ; 

They  moved  like  stars  united  in  their  spheres, 
Or    like    the    Rhone    by   Leman's  waters 
washed, 

Where  mingled  and  yet  separate  appears 
The  river  from  the  lake,  all  bluely  dashed 

Through  the  serene  and  placid  glassy  deep, 

Which  fain  would  lull  its  river-child  to  sleep 

LXXXVIII. 
Now  when  she  once  had  ta'en  an  interest 
In  any  thing,  however  she  might  flatter 


DON  JUAN. 


845 


Herself  that  her  intentions  were  the  best, 

Intense  intentions  are  a  dangerous  matter: 
Impressions  were   much   stronger   than   she 
guessed, 
And    gathered   as   they  run   like   growing 
water 
Upon  her  mind ;  the  more  so,  as  her  breast 
Was  not  at  first  too  readily  impressed. 

LXXXIX. 

But  when  it  was,  she  had  that  lurking  demon 

Of  double  nature,  and  thus  doubly  named  — 

Firmness  yclept  in  heroes,  kings,  and  seamen, 

That   is,  when  they  succeed ;    but   greatly 

blamed 

As  obstinacy,  both  in  men  and  women, 

Whene'er   their  triumph   pales,  or  star  is 
tamed  :  — 
And  'twill  perplex  the  casuist  in  morality 
To  fix  the  due  bounds  of  this  dangerous  qual- 
ity. 

xc. 

Had  Buonaparte  won  at  Waterloo, 

It  had  been  firmness  ;  now  'tis  pertinacity  : 

Must  the  event  decide  between  the  two  ? 
I  leave  it  to  your  people  of  sagacity 

To  draw  the  line  between  the  false  and  true, 
If  such  can  e'er  be  drawn  by  man's  capacity. 

My  business  is  with  Lady  Adeline, 

Who  in  her  way  too  was  a  heroine. 

XCI. 

She   knew  not  her  own   heart ;     then   how 
should  I  ? 
I  think  not  she  was  then  in  love  with  Juan  : 
If  so,  she  would  have  had  the  strength  to  fly 

The  wild  sensation,  unto  her  a  new  one : 
She  merely  felt  a  common  sympathy 

( I  will  not  say  it  was  a  false  or  true  one) 
In  him,  because  she  thought  he  was  in  dan- 
ger,— 
:  Her  husband's  friend,  her  own,  young,  and  a 
stranger. 

XCII. 

She  was,  or  thought  she  was,  his  friend  —  and 
this 
Without    the    farce   of   friendship,  or  ro- 
mance ; 
Platonism,  which  leads  so  oft  amiss 

Ladies  who  have  studied  friendship  but  in 
France 
Or  Germany,  where  people  purely  kiss. 

To  thus  much  Adeline  would  not  advance ; 
.  But  of  such  friendship  as  man's  may  to  man 

be 
She  was  as  capable  as  woman  can  be. 

XCIII. 

No  doubt  the  secret  influence  of  the  sex 
Will  there,  as  also  in  the  ties  of  blood, 


An  innocent  predominance  annex, 
And  tune  the  concord  to  a  finer  mood. 

If  free   from    passion,  which   all  friendship 
checks, 
And  your  true  feelings  fully  understood, 

No  friend  like  to  a  woman  earth  discovers, 

So  that  you  have  not  been  nor  will  be  lovers. 

XCIV. 

Love  bears  within  its  breast  the  very  germ 
Of  change;  and  how  should  this  be  other- 
wise ? 
That  violent  things  more  quickly  find  a  term 
Is  shown  through  nature's  whole  analogies  ; 
And  how  should  the  most  fierce  of  all  be  firm  ? 
Would   you  have  endless  lightning  in  the 
skies  ? 
Methinks  Love's  very  title  says  enough  : 
How  should  "  the   tender  passion "   e'er  be 
tough  ? 

XCV. 

Alas !  by  aU  experience,  seldom  yet 

(I   merely  quote  what  I  have  heard  from 
many) 

Had  lovers  not  some  reason  to  regret 
The  passion  which  made  Solomon  a  zany. 

I've  also  seen  some  wives  (not  to  forget 
The  marriage   state,  the   best  or  worst  ol 
any) 

Who  were  the  very  paragons  of  wives, 

Yet  made  the  misery  of  at  least  two  lives. 

XCVI. 

I've  also  seen  some  female  friends  ('tis  odd, 

But  true  —  as,  if  expedient,  I  could  prove) 
That  faithful  were   through  thick   and   thin, 
abroad, 
At  home,  far    more    than    ever    yet  was 
Love  — 
Who  did  not  quit  me  when  Oppression  trod 
Upon   me ;    whom   no   scandal   could   re- 
move ; 
Who  fought,  and  fight,  in  absence,  too,  my 

battles, 
Despite  the  snake  Society's  loud  rattles. 

XCVII. 

Whether  Don  Juan  and  chaste  Adeline 
Grew  friends  in  this  or  any  other  sense 

Will  be  discussed  hereafter,  I  opine : 
At  present  I  am  glad  of  a  pretence 

To  leave  them  hovering,  as  the  effect  is  fine, 
And  keeps  the  atrocious  reader  in  suspense; 

The  surest  way  for  ladies  and  for  books 

To  bait  their  tender  or  their  tenter  hooks. 


Whether  they  rode,  or  walked,   or  studied 
Spanish 
To  read  Don  Quixote  in  the  original, 


846 


DON  JUAN. 


A  pleasure  before  which  all  others  vanish ; 

Whether  their  talk  was  of  the  kind  called 
"  small," 
Or  serious,  are  the  topics  I  must  banish 

To  the  next  Canto ;  where  perhaps  I  shall 
Say  something  to  the  purpose,  and  display 
Considerable  talent  in  my  way. 

XCIX. 
Above  all,  I  beg  all  men  to  forbear 

Anticipating  aught  about  the  matter: 
They'll  only  make  mistakes  about  the  fair, 

And  Juan  too,  especially  the  latter. 
And  I  shall  take  a  much  more  serious  air 

Than  I  have  yet  done,  in  this  epic  satire. 
It  is  not  clear  that  Adeline  and  Juan 
Will  fall ;  but  if  they  do,  'twill  be  their  ruin. 


But  great  things  spring  from  little  :  —  Would 
you  think, 
That  in  our  youth,  as  dangerous  a  passion 
As  e'er  brought    man    and  woman    to    the 
brink 
Of  ruin,  rose  from  such  a  slight  occasion, 
As  few  would   ever   dream    could  form   the 
link 
Of  such  a  sentimental  situation  ? 


You'll  never  guess,  I'll  bet  you  millions,  mil. 

liards  — 
It  all  sprungfrom  a  harmless  game  at  billiards. 


'Tis  strange,  —  but  true;    for  truth  is  always 
strange ; 
Stranger  than  fiction  :  if  it  could  be  told, 
How   much   would   novels   gain   by  the   ex- 
change ; 
How  differently  the  world  would  men  be- 
hold! 
How  oft  would  vice  and  virtue  places  change  \ 
The   new  world  would  be  nothing  to   the 
old, 
If  some  Columbus  of  the  moral  seas 
Would  show  mankind  their  souls'  antipodes. 

CII. 
What  "  antres  vast  and  deserts  idle  "  then 

Would  be  discovered  in  the  human  soul ! 
What  icebergs  in  the  hearts  of  mighty  men, 

With  self-love  in  the  centre  as  their  pole  1 
What  Anthropophagi  are  nine  often 

Of  those  who  hold  the  kingdoms  in  control  1 
Were   things   but  only  called   by  their  right 

name, 
Caesar  himself  would  be  ashamed  of  fame. 


CANTO  THE   FIFTEENTH. 


I. 

Ah!  —  What  should    follow  slips  from  my 
reflection ! 
Whatever  follows  ne'ertheless  may  be 
As  a-propos  of  hope  or  retrospection, 
As  though  the  lurking  thought  had  followed 
free. 
All  present  life  is  but  an  interjection, 

An  "Oh  !  "  or  "Ah  !  "  of  joy  or  misery, 
Or  a  "Ha!    ha!  "or  "Bah!"  —  a  yawn,   or 

"  Pooh ! " 
Of  which  perhaps  the  latter  is  most  true. 

II. 
But,  more  or  less,  the  whole's  a  syncope 

Or  a  singultus  —  emblems  of  emotion, 
The  grand  antithesis  to  great  ennui, 

Wherewith  we   break   our  bubbles  on  the 
ocean, 
That  watery  outline  of  eternity, 

Or  miniature  at  least,  as  is  my  notion, 
Which  ministers  unto  the  soul's  delight, 
In  seeing  matters  which  are  out  of  sight. 


But  all  are  better  than  the  sigh  supprest, 
Corroding  in  the  cavern  of  the  heart. 


Making  the  countenance  a  masque  of  rest, 
And  turning  human  nature  to  an  art. 

Few  men  dare  show  their  thoughts  of  worst 
or  best ; 
Dissimulation  always  sets  apart 

A  corner  for  herself;  and  therefore  fiction 

Is  that  which  passes  with  least  contradiction. 

IV. 

Ah  !  who  can  tell  ?     Or  rather,  who  can  not 
Remember,  without  telling,  passion's  errors  ? 

The  drainer  of  oblivion,  even  the  sot, 

Hath  got  blue  devils  for  his  morning  mir- 
rors : 

What  though  on  Lethe's  stream  he  seem  to 
float, 
He  cannot  sink  his  tremors  or  his  terrors; 

The  ruby  glass  that  shakes  within  his  hand 

Leaves  a  sad  sediment  of  Time's  worst  sand. 


V. 
■  O  love !  • 


We  will  pro 


And  as  for  love 
ceed. 

The  Lady  Adeline  Amundeville, 
A  pretty  name  as  one  would  wish  to  read, 

Must  perch  harmonious  on  my  tuneful  qufll 
There's  music  in  the  sighing  of  a  reed ; 


DON  JUAN. 


847 


There's  music  in  the  gushing  of  a  rill ; 
There's  music  in  all  things,  if  men  had  ears ; 
Their  earth  is  but  an  echo  of  the  spheres. 

I  VI- 

The  Lady  Adeline,  right  honorable, 

And  honored,  ran  a  risk  of  growing  less  so  ; 
For  few  of  the  soft  sex  are  very  stable 

In  their  resolves —  alas  !  that  I  shouldsayso  ! 
.They  differ  as  wine  differs  from  its  label, 
When  once  decanted  ;  —  I  presume  to  guess 
so, 
;But  will  not  swear:  yet  both  upon  occasion, 
Till  old,  may  undergo  adulteration. 


But  Adeline  was  of  the  purest  vintage, 
The  unmingled  essence  of  the  grape  ;  and 
yet 
Bright  as  a  now  Napoleon  from  its  mintage, 

Or  glorious  as  a  diamond  richly  set ; 
A  page  where  Time  should  hesitate  to  print 

age, 
->     And  for  which   Nature  might   forego   her 
(I         debt  — 

Sole  creditor  whose  process  doth  involve  in't 
The  luck  of  finding  everybody  solvent. 


O  Death  !  thou  dunnest  of  all  duns !  thou  daily 

Knockest  at  doors,  at  first  with  modest  tap, 

Like  a  meek   tradesman  when,  approaching 

palely, 

Some  splendid  debtor  he  would  take  by  sap  : 

But  oft  denied,  as  patience  'gins  to  fail,  he 

Advances  with  exasperated  rap, 
nAnd  (if  let  in)  insists,  in  terms  unhandsome, 
On  ready  money  or  "  a  draft  on  Ransom." 


Whate'er    thou  takest,   spare  a  while  poor 
Beauty ! 
She  is  so  rare,  and  thou  hast  so  much  prey. 
t  What  though  she  now  and  then  may  slip  from 
duty, 
The  more's  the  reason  why  you  ought  to 
stay. 
.Gaunt   Gourmand!   with   whole   nations  for 
your  booty, 
You  should  be  civil  in  a  modest  way  : 
Suppress,  then,  some  slight  feminine  diseases, 
And  take  as  many  heroes  as  Heaven  pleases. 


.Fair  Adeline,  the  more  ingenuous 

Where  she  was  interested  (as  was  said), 

Because  she  was  not  apt,  like  some  of  us, 
To  like  too  readily,  or  too  high  bred 

it©  show  it — (points  we  need  not  now  dis- 
cuss) — 
Would  give  up  artlessly  both  heart  and  head. 


Unto  such  feelings  as  seemed  innocent, 
For  objects  worthy  of  the  sentiment. 


Some  parts  of  Juan's  history,  which  Rumor, 
That  live  gazette,  had  scattered  to  disfigure. 
She  had  heard ;  but  women  hear  with  more 
good  humor 
Such  aberrations  than  we  men  of  rigor : 
Besides,  his  conduct,  since  in  England,  grew 
more 
Strict,  and  his   mind   assumed  a   manlier 
vigor ; 
Because  he  had,  like  Alcibiades, 
The  art  of  living  in  all  climes  with  ease. 

XII. 

His  manner  was  perhaps  the  more  seductive, 
Because  he  ne'er  seemed  anxious  to  seduce ; 

Nothing  affected,  studied,  or  constructive 
Of  coxcombry  or  conquest :  no  abuse 

Of  his  attractions  marred  the  fair  perspective, 
To  indicate  a  Cupidon  broke  loose, 

And  seemed  to  say,  "  Resist  us  if  you  can"  — 

Which  makes  a  dandy  while  it  spoils  a  man. 


They  are  wrong — that's  not   the  way  to  set 
about  it ; 
As,   if  they  told   the   truth,  could  well  be 
shown. 
But,  right  or  wrong,  Don  Juan  was  without  it ; 

In  fact,  his  manner  was  his  own  alone: 
Sincere  he  was  —  at  least  you  could  not  doubt 
it, 
In  listening  merely  to  his  voice's  tone. 
The  devil  hath  not  in  all  his  quiver's  choice 
An  arrow  for  the  heart  like  a  sweet  voice. 

XIV. 

By  nature  soft,  his  whole  address  held  off 
Suspicion  :  though  not  timid,  his  regard 
Was  such  as  rather  seemed  to  keep  aloof, 
To  shield   himself  than   put   you  on  your 
guard  : 
Perhaps  'twas  hardly  quite  assured  enough, 

But  modesty's  at  times  its  own  reward, 
Like  virtue  ;  and  the  absence  of  pretension 
Will  go  much  further  than  there's  need  to 
mention. 

XV. 

Serene,  accomplished,  cheerful  but  not  loud  ; 

Insinuating  without  insinuation ; 
Observant  of  the  foibles  of  the  crowd, 

Yet  ne'er  betraying  this  in  conversation  ■ 
Proud  with  the  proud,  yet  courteously  proud, 

So  as  to  make  them  feel  he  knew  his  sta- 
tion 
And  theirs  : — without  a  struggle  for  priority, 
He  neither  brooked  nor  claimed  superiority. 


<*48 


DON  JUAN. 


XVI. 
That  is,  with  men :  with  women  he  was  what 

They  pleased  to  make  or  take  him  for ;  and 
their 
Imagination's  quite  enough  for  that: 

So  that  the  outline's  tolerably  fair, 
They  fill  the  canvas  up — and  "  verbum  sat." 

If  once  their  phantasies  be  brought  to  bear 
Upon  an  object,  whether  sad  or  playful, 
They  can  transfigure  brighter  than  a  Raphael. 

XVII. 

Adeline,  no  deep  judge  of  character, 

Was  apt  to  add  a  coloring  from  her  own. 

Tis  thus  the  good  will  amiably  err, 
And  eke  the  wise,  as  has  been  often  shown. 

Experience  is  the  chief  philosopher, 

But  saddest  when  his  science  is  well  known  : 

And  persecuted  sages  teach  the  schools 

Their  folly  in  forgetting  there  are  fools. 

XVIII. 

Was  it   not  so,  great  Locke  ?    and  greater 
Bacon  ? 

Great  Socrates  ?    And  thou,  Diviner  still, 
Whose  lot  it  is  by  man  to  be  mistaken, 

And  thy  pure  creed  made  sanction  of  all  ill  ? 
Redeeming  worlds  to  be  by  bigots  shaken, 

How  was  thy  toil  rewarded  ?    We  might  fill 
Volumes  with  similar  sad  illustrations, 
But  leave  them  to  the  conscience  of  the  nations. 


I  perch  upon  an  humbler  promontory, 

Amidst  life's  infinite  variety  : 
With  no  great  care  for  what  is  nicknamed 
glory, 

But  speculating  as  I  cast  mine  eye 
On  what  may  suit  or  may  not  suit  my  story, 

And  never  straining  hard  to  versify, 
I  rattle  on  exactly  as  I'd  talk 
With  anybody  in  a  ride  or  walk. 


I  don't  know  that  there  maybe  much  ability 
Shown  in  this  sort  of  desultory  rhyme; 

But  there's  a  conversational  facility, 
Which  may  round  off  an  hour  upon  a  time. 

Of  this  I'm  sure  at  least,  there's  no  servility 
In  mine  irregularity  of  chime, 

Which  rings  what's  uppermost  of  new  or  hoary 

Just  as  I  feel  the  "  Improvvisatore." 


XXVIII. 

When  Adeline,  in  all  her  growing  sense 
Of  Juan's  merits  and  his  situation, 

Felt  on  the  whole  an  interest  intense, — 
Partly  perhaps  because  a  fresh  sensation, 

Or  that  he  had  an  air  of  innocent , 
Which  is  for  innocence  a  sad  temptation,  — 


As  women  hate  half  measures,  on  the  w1»<se, 
She  'gan  to  ponder  how  to  save  his  soul. 


She  had  a  good  opinion  of  advice, 

Like  all  who  give  and  eke  receive  it  gratis. 

For  which  small  thanks  are  still  the  market 
price, 
Even  where  the  article  at  highest  rate  is : 

She  thought  upon  the  subject  twice  or  thrice, 
And  morally  decided,  the  best  state  is 

For  morals,  marriage ;  and  this  quastion  car- 
ried, 

She  seriously  advised  him  to  get  married. 


Juan  replied,  vvith  all  becoming  deference, 
He  had  a  predilection  for  that  tie; 

But  that,  at  present,  with  immediate  reference 
To  his  own  circumstances,  there  might  lie 

Some  difficulties,  as  in  his  own  preference, 
Or  that  of  her  to  whom  he  might  apply  : 

That  still  he'd  wed  with  such  or  such  a  lady, 

If  that  they  were  not  married  all  already. 

XXXI. 

Next  to  the  making  matches  for  herself, 
And  daughters,  brothers,  sisters,  kith  or  kin, 

Arranging  them  like  books  on  the  same  shelf, 
There's  nothing  women  love  to  dabble  in 

More  (like  a  stockholder  in  growing  pelf) 
Than  match-making  in  general :  'tis  no  sin, 

Certes,  but  a  preventative,  and  therefore 

That  is,  no  doubt,  the  only  reason  wherefore. 


XL. 

But  Adeline  determined  Juan's  wedding 
In  her  own   mind,  and  that's  enough  for 
woman  : 
But  then,  with  whom?     There  was  the  sage 
Miss  Reading, 
Miss  Raw,  Miss  Flaw,  Miss  Showman,  and 
Miss  Knowman, 
And  the  two  fair  co-heiresses  Giltbedding. 
She  deemed  his  merits  something  more  than 
common : 
All  these  were  unobjectionable  matches, 
And   might  go   on,   if  well  wound   up,  like 
watches. 

XLI. 

There  was  Miss  Millpond,  smooth  as  sum- 
mer's sea, 

That  usual  paragon,  an  only  daughter, 
Who  seemed  the  cream  of  equanimity, 

Till  skimmed  —  and  then  there  was  some 
milk  and  water, 
With  a  slight  shade  of  blue  too,  it  might  be, 

Beneath  the  surface  ;  but  what  did  it  matter? 
Love's  riotous,  but  marriage  should  have  quiet 
And  being  consumptive,  live  on  a  milk  diet. 


DON  JUAN. 


849 


XLII. 
And  then  there  was  the  Miss  Audacia  Shoe- 
string, 
A  dashing  demoiselle  of  good  estate, 
Whose  heart  was  fixed  upon  a  star  or  blue 
string; 
But  whether  English  dukes  grew  rare  of  late, 
Or  that  she  had  not  harped  upon  the  true 
string, 
By  which  such  sirens  can  attract  our  great, 
She    took    up    with    some    foreign    younger 

brother, 
A  Russ  or  Turk — the  one's  as  good  as  t'other. 

XLIII. 
And  then  there  was  —  but  why  should  I  go  on, 

Unless  the  ladies  should  go  off?  —  there  was 
Indeed  a  certain  fair  and  fairy  one, 

Of  the  best  class,  and  better  than  her  class, — 
Aurora  Raby,  a  you'',(T  star  who  shone 

O'er  life,  too  swu.  an  image  for  such  glass, 
A  lovely  being,  scarcely  formed  or  moulded, 
A  rose  with  all  its  sweetest  leaves  yet  folded  ; 

XLIV. 
Rich,  noble,  but  an  orphan  ;  left  an  only 
Child  to  the  care  of  guardians  good  and 
kind ; 
But  stiil  her  aspect  had  an  air  so  lonely  i 

Blood  is  not  water ;  and  where  shall  we  find 
Feelings  of  youth  like  those  which  overthrown 
lie 
By  death,  when  we  are  left,  alas !  behind, 
'  To  feel,  in  friendless  palaces,  a  home 
Is  wanting,  and  our  best  ties  in  the  tomb  ? 

XLV. 
Early  in  years,  and  yet  more  infantine 

In  figure,  she  had  something  of  sublime 
In  eyes  which  sadly  shone,  as  seraphs'  shine. 
All  youth  —  but  with  an  aspect  beyond  time  ; 
!  Radiant  and  grave — -as  pitying  man's  decline  ; 
Mournful — but  mournful  of  another's  crime, 
She  looked  as  if  she  sat  by  Eden's  door, 
And  grieved  for  those  who  could  return  no 
more. 

XLVI. 
She  was  a  Catholic,  too,  sincere,  austere, 
As  far  as  her  own  gentle  heart  allowed, 
And  deemed  that  fallen  worship  far  more  dear 
Perhaps  because  'twas  fallen  :  her  sires  were 
proud 
Of  deeds  and  days  when  they  had  filled  the  ear 
Of  nations,  and  had  never  bent  or  bowed 
i  To  novel  power;  and  as  she  was  the  last, 
She  held  their  old  faith  and  old  feelings  fast. 

XLVII. 

She  gazed  upon  a  world  she  scarcely  knew 

As  seeking  not  to  know  it;  silent,  lone, 
As  grows  a  flower,  thus  quietly  she  grew, 


And  kept  her  heart  serene  within  its  zone. 

There  was  awe   in   the   homage  which    she 

drew ; 

Her  spirit  seemed  as  seated  on  a  throne 

Apart  from  the  surr  junding  world,  and  strong 

In  its  own  strength  — ■  most  strange  in  one  so 

young ! 

XLVIII. 

Now  it  so  happened,  in  the  catalogue 
Of  Adeline,  Aurora  was  omitted, 

Although  her  birth  and  wealth  had  given  her 
vogue 
Beyond  the  charmers  we  have  already  cited ; 

Her  beauty  also  seemed  to  form  no  clog 
Against  her  being  mentioned  as  well  fitted, 

By  many  virtues,  to  be  worth  the  trouble 

Of  single  gentlemen  who  would  be  double. 

XLIX. 

And  this  omission,  like  that  of  the  bust 
Of  Brutus  at  the  pageant  of  Tiberius, 

Made  Juan  wonder,  as  no  doubt  he  must. 
This   he   expressed   half  smiling  and  half 
serious ; 

When  Adeline  replied  with  some  disgust, 
And  with  an  air,  to  say   the  least,   impe- 
rious, 

She  marvelled  "  what  he  saw  in  such  a  baby 

As  that  prim,  silent,  cold  Aurora  Raby  ?  " 


Juan  rejoined  —  "  She  was  a  Catholic, 
And  therefore  fittest,  as  of  his  persuasion  ; 

Since  he  was  sure  his  mother  would  fall  sick, 
And  the  Pope  thunder  excommunication, 

If "     But  here  Adeline,  who  seemed  to 

pique 
Herself  extremely  on  the  inoculation 

Of  others  with  her  own  opinions,  stated  — 

As  usual  —  the  same  reason  which  she  late  did. 

LI. 
And  wherefore  not  ?    A  reasonable  reason, 

If  good,  is  none  the  worse  for  repetition  ; 
If  bad,  the  best  way's  certainly  to  teaze  on, 

And  amplify  :  you  lose  much  by  concision, 
Whereas  insisting  in  or  out  of  season 

Convinces  all  men,  even  a  politician  ; 
Or  —  what  is  just  the  same  —  it  wearies  out. 
So  the  end's  gained,  what  signifies  the  route  ! 

LII. 
Why  Adeline  had  this  slight  prejudice  — 

For  prejudice  it  was  —  against  a  creature 
As  pure  as  sanctity  itself  from  vice, 

With  all  the  added  charm  of  form  and  feat- 
ure, 
For  me  appears  a  question  far  too  nice, 

Since  Adeline  was  liberal  bv nature; 
But  nature's  nature,  and  has  more  caprices 
Than  I  have  time,  or  will,  to  take  to  pieces. 


850 


DON  yUAN. 


Perhaps  she  did  not  like  the  quiet  way 
With  which  Aurora  on  those  baubles  looked, 

Which  charm  most  people  in  their  earlier  day  : 
For  there  are  few  things  by  mankind  less 
brooked, 

And  womankind  too,  if  we  so  may  say, 
Than  finding  thus  their  genius  stand  re- 
buked, 

Like  "  Antony's  by  Caesar,"  by  the  few 

Who  look  upon  them  as  they  ought  to  do. 


It  was  not  envy  —  Adeline  had  none ; 

Her  place  was  far  beyond  it,  and  her  mind. 
It  was  not  scorn — which  could  not  light  on 
one 

Whose  greatest/a#//was  leaving  few  to  find. 
It  was  not  jealousy,  I  think:  but  shun 

Following  the  "  ignes  fatui  "  of  mankind. 

It  was  not but  'tis  easier  far,  alas  ! 

To  say  what  it  was  not  than  what  it  was. 

LV. 

Little  Aurora  deemed  she  was  the  theme 

Of  such  discussion.     She  was  there  a  guest ; 
A  beauteous  ripple  of  the  brilliant  stream 
Of  rank  and  youth,  though  purer  than  the 
rest, 
Which  flowed  on  for  a  moment  in  the  beam 
Time  sheds  a  moment  o'er  each  sparkling 
crest. 
Had  she  known  this,  she  would  have  calmly 

smiled  — 
She  had  so  much,  or  little,  of  the  child. 

LVI. 
The  dashing  and  proud  air  of  Adeline 

Imposed  not  upon  her:  she  saw  her  blaze 
Much  as  she  would  have  seen  a  glow-worm 
shine, 

Then  turned  unto  the  stars  for  loftier  rays. 
Juan  was  something  she  could  not  divine, 

Being  no  sibyl  in  the  new  world's  ways ; 
Yet  she  was  nothing  dazzled  by  the  meteor, 
Because  she  did  not  pin  her  faith  on  feature. 

LVII. 

His  fame  too,  — for  he  had  that  kind  of  fame 
Which  sometimes  plays  the    deuce    with 
womankind, 
A  heterogeneous  mass  of  glorious  blame, 
Hp-'f  virtues  and  whole  vices  being  com- 
bined ; 
Faults  which  attract  because  they  are  not  tame  ; 
Follies  tricked   out  so  brightly   that   they 
blind:- 


These  seals  upon  her  wax  made  no  impress 

sion, 
Such  was  her  coldness  or  her  self-possession. 

Lvm. 

Juan  knew  nought  of  such  a  character  — 
High,  yet  resembling  not  his  lost  Haidee; 

Yet  each  was  radiant  in  her  proper  sphere : 
The  island  girl,  bred  up  by  the  lone  sea, 

More  warm,  as  lovely,  and  not  less  sincere, 
Was  Nature's  all :  Aurora  could  not  be, 

Nor  would  be  thus  : — the  difference  in  them 

Was  such  as  lies  between  a  flower  and  gem. 

LIX. 

Having  wound  up  with  this  sublime  compari- 
son, 
Methinks  we  may  proceed  upon  our  narra- 
tive, 
And,  as  my  friend  Scoi.    ays,  "  I  sound  my 
warison ;  " 
Scott,  the  superlative  of  my  comparative  — 
Scott,  who  can  paint  your  Christian  knight  or 
Saracen, 
Serf,  lord,  man,  with  such  skill  as  none  would 
share  it,  if 
There  had  not  been  one  Shakspeare  and  Vol- 
taire, 
Of  one  or  both  of  whom  he  seems  the  heir. 

LX. 

I  say,  in  my  slight  way  I  may  proceed 

To  play  upon  the  surface  of  humanity. 
I   write    the  world,  nor  care    if    the   world 
read, 
At  least  for  this  I  cannot  spare  its  vanity. 
My  Muse  hath  bred,  and  still  perhaps   may 
breed 
More  foes  by  this  same  scroll :  when  I  be- 
gan it,  I 
Thought   that   it  might  turn  out  so  —  now  I 

know  it, 
But  still  I  am,  or  was,  a  pretty  poet. 


The  conference  or  congress  (for  it  ended 

As  congresses  of  late  do)  of  the  Lady 
Adeline  and  Don  Juan  rather  blended 

Some  acids  with  the  sweets  —  for  she  was 

heady ; 

But,  ere  the  matter  could  be  marred  or  mended, 

The  silverybell  rang,  not  for"  dinner  ready," 

But  for  that  hour,  called  half-hour,  given  to 

dress, 
Though  ladies'  robes  seem  scant  enough  for 
less. 


DON  J uAN. 


851 


CANTO  THE  SIXTEENTH. 


I. 

The  antique   Persians   taught   three    useful 
things, 

To  draw  the  bow,  to  ride,  and  speak  the 
truth. 
This  was  the  mode  of  Cyrus,  best  of  kings  — 

A  mode  adopted  since  by  modern  youth. 
3ows  have  they,  generally  with  two  strings ; 

Horses  they  ride  without  remorse  or  ruth  ; 
\X  speaking  truth  perhaps  they  are  less  clever, 
Jut  draw  the  long  bow  better  now  than  ever. 

II. 

'he  cause  of  this  effect,  or  this  defect, — 
"  For  this  effect  defective  comes  by  cause," — 

s  what  I  have  not  leisure  to  inspect; 
But  this  I  must  say  in  my  own  applause, 

)f  all  the  Muses  that  I  recollect, 
What'er  may  be  her  follies  or  her  flaws 

i  some  things,  mine's  beyond  all  contradic- 
tion 

he  most  sincere  that  ever  dealt  in  fiction. 

III. 

nd  as  she  treats  all  things,  and  ne'er  retreats 
From  any  thing,  this  epic  will  contain 
wilderness  of  the  most  rare  conceits, 
Which  you  might  elsewhere  hope  to  find  in 

vain. 
is    true    there    be   some  bitters   with  the 

sweets, 
Yet  mixed  so  slightly,  that  you  can't  com- 
plain, 
it  wonder  they  so  few  are,  since  my  tale  is 
)e  rebus  cunctis  et  quibusdam  aliis." 

IV. 
t  of  all  truths  which  she  has  told,  the  most 
True  is  that  which  she  is  about  to  tell, 
aid  it  was  a  story  of  a  ghost  — 
/Vhat  then  ?     I  only  know  it  so  befell, 
ve  you  explored  the  limits  of  the  coast, 
Vhere  all  the  dwellers  of  the  earth  must 

dwell  ? 
;  time  to  strike  such  puny  doubters  dumb  as 
i  sceptics  who  would  not  believe  Columbus. 


ne  people  would  impose  now  with  author- 
ity, 

urpin's  or  Monmouth  Geoffry's  Chronicle ; 
i  whose  historical  superiority 
;  always  greatest  at  a  miracle. 
Saint  Augustine  has  the  great  priority, 
''ho  bids  all  men  believe  the  impossible, 
mse  'tis  so.    Who  nibble,  scribble,  quibble, 
he 
us  at  once  with  "  quia  impossible." 


VI. 

And  therefore,  mortals,  cavil  not  at  all ; 

Believe :  —  if  'tis  improbable,  you  must ; 
And  if  it  is  impossible,  you  shall  : 

'Tis  always  best  to  take  things  upon  trust. 
I  do  not  speak  profanely,  to  recall 

Those  holier  mysteries  which  the  wise  and 
just 
Receive  as  gospel,   and  which   grow   more 

rooted, 
As  all  truths  must,  the  more  they  are  disputed : 

VII. 
I  merely  mean  to  say  what  Johnson  said, 
That  in  the  course  of  some  six  thousand 
years, 
All  nations  have  believed  that  from  the  dead 

A  visitant  at  intervals  appears ; 
And  what  is  strangest  upon  this  strange  head, 

Is,  that  whatever  bar  the  reason  rears 
'Gainst  such  belief,  there's  something  stronger 

still 
In  its  behalf,  let  those  deny  who  will. 

VIII. 
The  dinner  and  the  soiree  too  were  done, 
The  supper  too  discussed,  the  dames  ad- 
mired, 
The   banqueteers  had   dropped   off  one  by 
one  — - 
The  song  was  silent,  and  the  dance  expired  : 
The  last  thin  petticoats  were  vanished,  gone 

Like  fleecy  clouds  into  the  sky  retired, 
And  nothing  brighter   gleamed  through  the 

saloon 
Than  dying  tapers  —  and  the  peeping  moon. 


The  evaporation  of  a  joyous  day 

Is  like  the  last  glass  of  champagne,  without 
The  foam  which  made  its  virgin  bumper  gay; 

Or  like  a  system  coupled  with  a  doubt ; 
Or  like  a  soda  bottle  when  its  spray 

Has  sparkled  and  let  half  its  spirit  out; 
Or  like  a  billow  left  by  storms  behind, 
Without  the  animation  of  the  wind  ; 


Or   like  an    opiate,   which    brings    troubled 
rest. 

Or  none ;  or  like  —  like  nothing  that  I  know 
Except  itself;  — such  is  the  human  breast; 

A  thing:  of  which  similitudes  can  show 
No  real  likeness,  —  like  the  old  Tyrian  vest 

Dyed  purple,  none  at  present  can  tell  how, 
If  from  a  shell-fish  or  from  cochineal. 
So  perish  every  tyrant's  robe  piece-meal ! 


852 


isON   JUAN. 


But  next  to  dressing  for  a  rout  or  ball, 
Undressing  is  a  woe;  our  robe  de  chambre 

May  sit  like  that  of  Nessus,  and  recall 
Thoughts  quite  as  yellow,  but  less  clear  than 
amber. 

Titus  exclaimed,  "  I've  lost  a  day !  "    Of  all 
The  nights  and  days  most  people  can  re- 
member, 

(I  have  had  both,  some  not  to  be  disdained,) 

I  wish  they'd  state  how  many  they  have  gained. 


And  Juan,  on  retiring  for  the  night, 

Felt    restless,   and    perplexed    and    com- 
promised : 

He  thought  Aurora  Raby's  eyes  more  bright 
Than  Adeline  (such  is  advice)  advised; 

If  tie  had  known  exactly  his  own  plight, 
He  probably  would  have  philosophized; 

A  great  resource  to  all,  and  ne'er  denied 

Till  wanted ;  therefore  Juan  only  sighed. 


He   sighed ;  —  the  next  resource   is  the  full 
moon, 

Where  all  sighs  are  deposited;  and  now 
It  happened  luckily,  the  chaste  orb  shone 

As  clear  as  such  a  climate  will  allow; 
And  Juan's  mind  was  in  the  proper  tone 

To    hail    her    with  the    apostrophe  —  "O 
thou !  " 
Of  amatory  egotism  the  Tuism, 
Which  further  to  explain  would  be  a  truism. 


But  lover,  poet,  or  astronomer, 

Shepherd,  or  swain,  whoever  may  behold, 
Feel  some  abstraction  when  they  gaze  on  her  : 

Great  thoughts  we  catch  from  thence  (be- 
sides a  cold 
Sometimes,  unless  my  feelings  rather  err) ; 

Deep  secrets  to  her  rolling  light  are  told ; 
The   ocean's   tides  and   mortals'  brains  she 

sways, 
And  also  hearts,  if  there  be  truth  in  lays. 


Juan  felt  somewhat  pensive,  and  disposed 
For  contemplation  rather  than  his  pillow : 

The  Gothic  chamber,  where  he  was  inclosed, 
Let  in  the  rippling  sound  of  the  lake's  billow, 

With  all  the  mystery  by  midnigh.  caused: 
Below   his  window  waved   (of  course)   a 
willow ; 

and  he  stood  gazing  out  on  the  cascade 

That  flashed  and  after  darkened  in  the  shade. 


Upon  his  table  or  his  toilet,  —  which 

Of  these  is  not  exactly  ascertained, — 
{I  state  this,  for  I  am  cautious  to  a  pitch 


Of  nicety,  where  a  fact  is  to  be  gained,) 
A  lamp  burned  high,  while  he  leant  from  a 
niche, 

Where  many  a  Gothic  ornament  remained, 
In  chiselled  stone  and  painted  glass,  and  all 
That  time  has  left  our  fathers  of  their  hall. 

XVII. 
Then,  as  the  night  was  clear  though  cold,  he 
threw 
His  chamber  door  wide  open  —  and  went 
forth 
Into  a  gallery,  of  a  sombre  hue, 
Long,  furnished  with  old  pictures  of  great 
worth, 
Of  knights  and  dames  heroic  and  chaste  too, 

As  doubtless  should  be  people  of  high  birth. 
But  by  dim  lights  the  portraits  of  the  dead 
Have  something  ghastly,  desolate,  and  dread. 

xvm. 
The  forms  of  the  grim  knight  and  pictured 
saint 
Look  living  in  the  moon ;  and  as  you  turn 
Backward  and  forward  to  the  echoes  faint 

Of  your  own  footsteps  —  voices  from  the  urn 
Appear  to  wake,  and  shadows  wild  and  quaint 
Start  from  the  frames  which  fence  their  as- 
pects stern, 
As  if  to  ask  how  you  can  dare  to  keep 
A  vigil  there,  where  all  but  death  should  sleep. 

"*XIX. 

And  the  pale  smile  of  beauties  in  the  grave, 
The   charms   of   other    days,   in   starlight 
gleams, 

Glimmer  on  high  ;  their  buried  locks  still  wavtl 
Along  the  canvas;    their  eyes  glance  like] 
dreams 

On  ours,  or  spars  within  some  dusky  cave,     ; 
But  death  is  imaged  in  their  shadowy  beams  | 

A  picture  is  the  past ;  even  ere  its  frame 

Be  gilt,  who  sate  hath  ceased  to  be  the  same 


As  Juan  mused  on  mutability, 

Or  on  his  mistress  —  terms  synonymous  — 
No  sound  except  the  echo  of  his  sigh 

Or  step   ran   sadly   through   that    antiqu'! 
house ; 
When  suddenly  he  heard,  or  thought  so,  nigll 

A  supernatural  agent  —  or  a  mouse, 
Whose  little  nibbling  rustle  will  embarass 
Most  people  as  it  plays  along  the  arras. 


It  was  no  mouse,  but  lo !  a  monk,  arrayed 

In   cowl   and  beads,  and  dusky  garb,  ar. 

peared,  % 

Now  in   the   moonlight,  and  now  lapsed  iij 

shade,  it, 

With  steps  that  trod  as  heavy,  yet  unheard  j.- 


DOM  Ju«N. 


•353 


His  garments  only  a  slight  murmur  made ; 

He  moved  as  shadowy  as  the  sisters  weird, 
But  slowly ;  and  as  he  passed  Juan  by, 
Glanced,  without  pausing,  on  him  a  bright  eye. 


Juan  wis  petrified ;  he  had  heard  a  hint 
Of  such  a  spirit  in  these  halls  of  old, 

But  thought, like  most  men,  there  was  nothing 
in't 
Beyond  the  rumor  which  such  spots  unfold, 

Join'd  from  surviving  superstition's  mint, 
Which  passes  ghosts  in  cunency  like  gold, 

But  rarely  seen ,  like  gold  compared  with  paper. 

And  did  he  see  this  ?  or  was  it  a  vapor  ? 

XXIII. 

Once,  twice,   thrice   passed,   repassed — the 
thing  of  air, 
Or   earth   beneath,   or   heaven,   or  t'other 
place ; 
And  Juan  gazed  upon  it  with  a  stare, 

Yet  could  not  speak  or  move ;    but,  on  its 
base 
As  stands  a  statue,  stood :  he  felt  his  hair 

Twine  like  a  knot  of  snakes  around  his  face  ; 
He  taxed  his  tongue  for  words,  which  were 

not  granted, 
To  ask  the  reverend  person  what  he  wanted. 


■■%■- 


The  third  time,  after  a  still  longer  pause, 

The  shadow  passed  away  —  but  where  ?  the 
j         hall 

Was  long,  and  thus  far  there  was  no  great 
i         cause 

To  think  his  vanishing  unnatural  : 
Doors  there  were   many,  through  which,  by 
the  laws 
Of  physics,  bodies  whether  short  or  tall 
Might  come  or  go  ;  but  Juan  could  not  state 
Through  which  the  spectre  seemed  to  evapo- 
rate. 

XXV. 

He  stood  —  how  long  he   knew  not,  but  it 
seemed 

An  age  —  expectant,  powerless,  with  his  eyes 
rt,qit>trained  on  the   spot  where  first  the  figure 
gleamed ; 
Then  by  degrees  recalled  his  energies, 
ind  would  have  passed  the  whole  off  as  a 
dream, 
But  could  not  wake ;  he  was,  he  did  surmise, 
l/aking  already,  and  returned  at  length 
ack  to  his  chamber,  shorn  of  half  his  strength. 


-;t(d 


XXVI. 

11  there  was  as  he  left  it :  still  his  taper 
Burnt  and  not  blue,  as  modest  tapers  use, 
eceiving  sprites  with  sympathetic  vapor ; 
1  He  rubbed  his  eyes,  and  they  did  not  refuse 


Their  office ;  he  took  up  an  old  newspaper ; 

The  paper  was  right  easy  to  peruse ; 
He  read  an  article  the  king  attacking, 
And  a  long  eulogy  of  "  patent  blacking." 

XXVII. 

This   savored  of  this  world;    but  his  hand 
shook. 

He  shut  his  door,  and  after  having  read 
A  paragraph,  I  think  about  Home  Tooke, 

Undrest,  and  rather  slowly  went  to  bed. 
There,  couched  all  snugly  on  his  pillow's  nook, 

With  what  he  had  seen  his  phantasy  he  fed  ; 
Arid  though  it  was  no  opiate,  slumber  crept 
Upon  him  by  degrees,  and  so  he  slept. 

XXVIII. 

He  woke  betimes ;  and  as  may  be  supposed. 
Pondered  upon  his  visitant  or  vision, 

And  whether  it  ought  not  to  be  disclosed, 
At  risk  of  being  quizzed  for  superstition. 

The  more  he  thought,  the  more  his  mind  was 
posed : 
In  the  mean  time,  his  valet,  whose  precision 

Was  great,  because  his  master  brooked  no 
less, 

Knocked  to  inform  him  it  was  time  to  dress. 

XXIX. 

He  dressed;  and  like  young  people  he  was 
wont 
To  take  some  trouble  with  his  toilet,  but 
This  morning  rather  spent  less  time  upon't; 

Aside  his  very  mirror  soon  was  put; 
His  curls  fell  negligently  o'er  his  front, 

His  clothes  were  not  curbed  to  their  usua 
cut, 
His  very  neckcloth's  Gordian  knot  was  tied 
Almost  an  hair's  breadth  too  much  on  one 
side. 

XXX. 
And  when  he  walked  down  into  the  saloon, 

He  sate  him  pensive  o'er  a  dish  of  tea. 
Which  he  perhaps  had  not  discovered  soon, 

Had  it  not  happened  scalding  hot  to  be, 
Which   made   him   have  recourse   unto   hw 
spoon ; 
So  much  distrait  he  was,  that  all  could  se .'. 
That  something  was  the  matter  —  Adeline 
The  first  —  but  what  she  could  not  well  divine. 

XXXI. 

She  looked,  and  saw  him  pale,  and  turned  as 
pale 
Herself;  then  hastily  looked  down,  and  mut- 
tered 
Something,  but  what's  not  stated  in  my  tale. 
Lord  Henry  said,  his  muffin  was    ili  but- 
tered ; 
The  Duchess  of  Fitz-Fulke  played  with  her 
veil 


854 


z^v-.,    yuAN. 


And  looked  at  Juan  hard,  but  nothing  ut- 
tered. 
Aurora  Raby  with  her  large  dark  eyes 
Surveyed  him  with  a  kind  of  calm  surprise. 

XXXII. 

But  seeing  him  all  cold  and  silent  still, 

And  everybody  wondering  more  or  less, 
Fair  Adeline  inquired,  "  If  he  were  ill  ?  " 
He  started,  and  said,"  Yes  —  no  —  rather  — 
yes." 
The  family  physician  had  great  skill, 

And  being  present,  now  began  to  express 
His  readiness  to  feel  his  pulse  and  tell 
The  cause,  but  Juan   said,  "He   was  quite 
well." 

XXXIII. 

"Ouite   well;    yes,  —  no."  —  These    answers 
were  mysterious, 

And  yet  his  looks  appeared  to  sanction  both, 
However  they  might  savor  of  delirious  ; 

Something  like  illness  of  a  sudden  growth 
Weighed  on  his  spirit,  though  by  no  means 
serious ; 

But  for  the  rest,  as  he  himself  seemed  loth 
To  state  the  case,  it  might  be  ta'en  for  granted 
It  was  not  the  physician  that  he  wanted. 

XXXIV. 

Lord    Henry,   who   had   now   discussed   his 
chocolate, 
Also  the  muffin  whereof  he  complained, 
Said,  Juan  had  not  got  his  usual  look  elate, 
At   which  he  marvelled,  since   it  had  not 
rained ; 
Then  asked  her  Grace  what  news  were  of  the 
duke  of  late  ? 
Her  Grace  replied,  his  Grace   was   rather 
pained 
With  some  slight,  light,  hereditary  twinges 
Of  gout,  which  rusts  aristocratic  hinges. 

XXXV. 
Then  Henry  turned  to  Juan,  and  addressed 

A  few  words  of  condolence  on  his  state : 
"  You  look,"  quoth  he,  "  as  if  you  had  had 
your  rest 

Broke  in  upon  by  the  Black  Friar  of  late." 
"  What  friar  ?  "  said  Juan  ;  and  he  did  his  best 

To  put  the  question  with  an  air  sedate, 
Or  careless  ;  but  the  effort  was  not  valid 
To  hinder  him  from  growing  still  more  pallid. 

XXXVI. 

"  Oh !   have  you   never  heard  of  the   Black 
Friar  ? 
The   spirit   of   these  walls?" — "In   truth 
not  I." 
"Why  Fame  —  but  Fame  you  knows  some- 
times a  liar  — 
Tells  an  odd  story,  of  which  by  and  by . 


Whether  with  time   the  spectre   has  grown 
shyer, 
Or  that  our  sires  had  a  more  gifted  eye 
For  such  sights,  though  the  tale  is  half  be- 
lieved, 
The  friar  of  late  has  not  been  oft  perceived. 

XXXVII. 

"The   last  time  was " — "I  pray,"  said 

Adeline  — 
(Who  watched  the  changes  of  Don  Juan*s 
brow, 
And  from  its  context  thought  she  could  divine 
Connections  stronger  than  he  chose  to  avow 
With  this  same  legend)  — "if  you  but  design 
To  jest,  you'll  choose  some   other  theme 
just  now, 
Because  the  present  tale  has  oft  been  told, 
And  is  not  much  improved  by  growing  old." 

XXXVIII. 

"  Jest !  "    quoth  Milor ;    "  why,  Adeline,  you 
know 
That  we  ourselves  —  'twas   in   the  honey- 
moon- 
Saw  "  —  "  Well,  no  matter,  'twas  so  long 

ago; 
But,  come,  I'll  set  your  story  to  a  tune." 
Graceful  as  Dian,  when  she  draws  her  bow. 
She   seized   her   harp,  whose  strings  were 
kindled  soon 
As  touched,  and  plaintively  began  to  play 
The  air  of  "  'Twas  a  Friar  of  Orders  Gray." 


XXXIX. 

"  But  add  the  words,"  cried  Henry, "  which  you 
made; 
For  Adeline  is  half  a  poetess," 
Turning  round  to  the  rest,  he  smiling  said, 

Of  course  the  others  could  not  but  express 
In  courtesy  their  wish  to  see  displayed 
By  one   three  talents,  for  there  were 
less  — 
The  voice,  the  words,  the   harper's  skill 

once 
Could  hardly  be  united  by  a  dunce. 


I 


XL. 


rs,  who  seen 
tion, — 


After  some  fascinating  hesitation, — 
The  charming  of  these  charmers 
bound, 

I  can't  tell  why,  to  this  dissimulation 
Fair  Adeline,  with  eyes  fixed  on  the  groun 

At  first,  then  kindling  into  animation, 

Added  her  sweet  voice  to  the  lyric  sound, 

And  sang  with  much  simplicity,  —  a  merit 

Not  the  less  precious,  that  we  seldom  hear  i 


Beware !  beware !  of  the  Black  Friar, 
Who  sitteth  by  Norman  stone. 


DON  JUAN. 


85* 


For  he  mutters  his  prayer  in  the  midnight 
air, 

And  his  mass  of  the  days  that  are  gone. 
When  the  Lord  of  the  Hill,  Amundeville, 

Made  Norman  Church  his  prey, 
And  expelled  the  friars,  one  friar  still 

Would  not  be  driven  away. 


rhough  he   came   in   his   might,  with  King 
Henry's  right, 

To  turn  church  lands  to  lay, 
With  sword  in  hand,  and  torch  to  light 

Their  walls,  if  they  said  nay; 
A  monk  remained,  unchased,  unchained, 

And  he  did  not  seem  formed  of  clay, 
For  he's  seen  in  the  porch,  and  he's  seen  in 
the  church, 

Though  he  is  not  seen  by  day. 


And  whether  for  good,  or  whether  for  ill, 

It  is  not  mine  to  say ; 
But  still  with  the  house  of  Amundeville 

He  abideth  night  and  day. 
By    the    marriage-bed    of    their    lords,    'tis 
said, 

He  flits  on  the  bridal  eve ; 
And    'tis    held    as    faith,    to    their    bed    of 
death 

He  comes  —  but  not  to  grieve. 


When  an  heir  is  born,  he's  heard  to  mourn, 

And  when  aught  is  to  befall 
That  ancient  line,  in  the  pale  moonshine 

He  walks  from  hall  to  hall. 
His  form  you  may  trace,  but  not  his  face, 

'Tis  shadowed  by  his  cowl : 
But  his  eyes  may  be  seen  from  the  folds  be 
tween, 

And  they  seem  of  a  parted  soul. 


But  beware!  beware!   of  the  Black  Friar, 

He  still  retains  his  sway. 
For  he  is  yet  the  church's  heir 

Whoever  may  be  the  lay. 
Amundeville  is  lord  by  day, 

But  the  monk  is  lord  by  night; 
Nor  wine  nor  wassail  could  raise  a  vassal 

To  question  that  friar's  right. 

6. 
Say  nought  to  him  as  he  walks  the  hall, 

And  he'll  say  nought  to  you ; 
He  sweeps  along  in  his  dusky  pall, 

As  o'er  the  grass  the  dew. 
Then  grammercy !  for  the  Black  Friar 

Heaven  sain  him  !  fair  or  foul, 
And  whatsoe'er  may  be  his  prayer, 

Lp*  ours  be  for  his  soul. 


I  ■ 


.  ■'"  I 


